Mystic Summer

by Hannah McKinnon

  There’s only one hour until the dinner cruise. But I simply cannot imagine putting on heels and tipping back cocktails as we set sail. Not after seeing Emory and Cam. And her.

  How can there be such celebration and also such suffering in the same town, on the same day, just mere streets away? I’ve lived through such contradictions before: the death of my grandfather in the same year as the birth of my first nephew. I thought my heart would break when one of my students lost her mother to breast cancer, just a week after Erika got engaged. But I’ve never experienced two so closely, or in the same space of time and place. Right now I am drained; I want to crawl into bed and sleep until tomorrow.

  Sometime later, my mother knocks on the door and pokes her head in. “Evan came by earlier.”

  I sit up. “He did?” I wonder if it was before or after I’d told him I was going to New Haven. “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t know where you were. We visited a little on the back porch. He was telling your father and me about sailing out to Fishers Island tonight. Sounds like fun.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple hours ago. When he left, your dad mentioned something about the Wilder baby being back in the hospital. Is that where you were?” I didn’t realize my father knew this. But I also didn’t realize my boyfriend spent the afternoon on my back deck with my parents. Mystic is a small town.

  I roll over and make room for her to sit on the bed. “I went to see her.”

  I’m grateful when she doesn’t question why, as Evan did. Instead she settles beside me. “What happened?”

  “She had some kind of complication from her catheterization. Cam said it was a thrombosis—a blood clot.” My voice cracks as I think back to Emory’s tiny figure in the hospital bed.

  My mom props herself up with one of my pink childhood pillows. “Is she all right now?”

  “They have her on blood thinners, and Cam said she’ll stay there for a few days for observation. But it sounds like they’ve gotten it under control.”

  My mother doesn’t say anything right away. “Control is a funny word when you’re a parent,” she says, finally. “Children change everything. And control is something you come to find you have very little of.”

  Which makes me think immediately of Lauren. “Emory’s mother showed up,” I tell my mom.

  “Is she back in the picture, then?” she asks.

  I can’t help it; a sigh escapes my chest. “I don’t know. I don’t think any of them know. Cam called her to tell her that Emory was going to have the catheterization, and she didn’t come then. I was shocked to see her.”

  My mom thinks about this a moment. “I’m sure they all were. But she’s here now.”

  “Yes,” I say, thinking of the gravity of her words. “I guess she is.”

  My mother is not exactly a judgmental person, but she has strong opinions. Being liberally minded, for her there are plenty of gray areas. And she has raised us girls to recognize that, especially in the broader context of social issues, like single parenting, women’s rights, and advocacy for children. But I have to wonder what her thoughts are about Lauren: a real-life woman who had the means and the ability to stay with her child, but chose not to. Until now, I’ve viewed her through the lens of someone in a fairly black-and-white situation. She could’ve chosen to stay. But since seeing her today, and on the whole drive home from Yale, I can’t stop wondering what her gray areas are.

  As if she’s reading my thoughts, “I wonder if this will change how she feels,” my mother muses. “Having a baby is not just a blessing, it’s an earth-shattering responsibility. And some women find it hard to adapt. I guess there are a few who just can’t. And maybe their children are better off not being raised by that kind of parent.”

  Then how does that explain the parents like Cam, a guy who’s proven to be more than cut out to be a father, despite all the surprises and upsets along the way? “What about all that stuff about falling madly in love when you lay eyes on your newborn baby?”

  “Well, I suppose that happens for some. It’s certainly a lovely thought. But I would be lying if I said that was how I felt when I had you and Jane.”

  I turn over. “What do you mean?” My mother has never been anything but a sometimes overbearing hands-on mom, to the point where we were constantly wriggling away from her for a breath of freedom. Begging her to stay in the car at school drop-off and let us walk to the door ourselves. Telling her we didn’t need her help when using the pair of big red scissors in the kitchen drawer. To this day, sometimes shunning her advice and insights, so sure of ourselves are we. This confession shatters the image I’ve always had of her bursting with pride in the nursery—a pink-faced Jane squalling in her firm embrace.

  “Oh, I fell in love with you girls. Head over heels, make no mistake about it! But not right away. I’ll never forget when that nurse handed me your sister, my firstborn. I looked at her plush red cheeks and her dark hair and I thought, ‘Who is this little stranger?’ ”

  “You did? Does Jane know this?”

  Mom shrugs and laughs. “I’m sure we’ve joked about it in some fashion over the years. She was my baby, and I knew I’d love her. But it was not love at first sight that I most remember feeling. It was fear. And I think that’s an honest reaction for many women. Perhaps this Lauren has come around. Maybe she’s ready to be a mother now.”

  It occurs to me that my mother has more in common with Cameron right now than I do—or at least more of an understanding of what it means to love a child. It makes me realize how much I’ve taken her for granted; and how grateful I should be for having felt so safe and loved all my life. That golden ticket that lets you go out into the world and try to do and be what you want to do and be.

  “Were either of us ever sick in a way that scared you?” I ask her now.

  “Oh, you both went through the usual checklist: chicken pox, pneumonia. One spring Jane got the flu so severely when we were on a trip to Rhode Island that we ended up at Providence Hospital. We all spent Easter in the pediatric wing. Remember that? When the Easter Bunny came to visit—you were probably only three at the time—he scared you to death. You screamed so loud the nurses came running in, thinking something was wrong with Jane.”

  I stare at her in wonder. “I don’t remember that at all. Are you sure it was me?”

  Mom smiles. “Of course it was. Just like you were the one who fell in the Ocean Beach parking lot the following summer, racing to the ice cream truck, and skinned your knee. Four stitches and a few hours later, all you would talk about was getting your Rocket Pop. I think Dad drove you all over New London until we found the truck on its last run of the day.” She chuckles fondly at the memory.

  I run my hand over my knee—the scar is faded but still bumpy. “I forgot the ice cream truck part,” I say. “How do you remember all this stuff?”

  Mom rests a hand on my arm. “I’m your mother. Couldn’t forget it if I tried.” She lifts herself slowly from the bed and stretches. “You spend your whole life worrying about your children. But you come to realize that you can’t put your kids in glass jars. We were lucky, I guess. You girls never had any serious medical hiccups. I’m just glad to hear that Cameron’s little one is doing better.” She pauses. “Now, what about you?”

  The sun outside my window is that warm golden late-day kind, and as it streams through my gingham curtains and across my bedroom, I can’t help but notice that it highlights the grays in my mother’s hair and the lines around her eyes. Standing in that light she suddenly looks much older to me.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “It’s just been a long week. I need to get cleaned up and get down to the pier before Erika and Evan have a fit. And I need to land a few interviews, so that I can secure a job for the fall. And the apartment—Evan said he found a great one . . .”

  The expression on my mother’s face stops me. This is not what she is asking.

  My mother and I talk about personal things all the
time—as long as it involves others. Like Erika’s misgivings when Trent first proposed to her and the fanfare of the ring had worn off. Or when my father retired and my mother’s worried that he’d drive her crazy puttering around the house. Or the concern she had about Jane, having had three kids so closely together. But we’ve never been good about talking about ourselves. Lying on my childhood bed as she stands in my bedroom doorway, I feel suddenly vulnerable.

  “I don’t know,” I say, finally, my voice cracking.

  “You’ve grown pretty attached to Emory and Cameron.”

  I nod. “It just sort of happened.”

  “Well, that’s who you are, honey. You’ve always wanted to take care of everyone. It’s why you’re such a good teacher. I remember, when you were just little, whenever you won a stuffed animal at the summer carnival, you always picked the one with the missing eyeball. Or the tattered paw. You’ve always had a soft spot for the underdogs.”

  I smile, in spite of myself.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks.

  “Please.”

  “You’re going to figure things out for yourself this summer. You may not know that now. But I do.”

  Later, as the Mystic Whaler pulls away from the docks and the sky overhead is strewn in pink and orange streaks, I whisper in Evan’s ear that I’ll be right back. The night is just starting out, and our friends are heady with anticipation as we set sail for Fishers Island. Mr. and Mrs. Crane have popped a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and Trent’s father is already handing out cigars to the groomsmen. Evan is endearingly rosy-cheeked from a day on the golf course, and when he tucks his arm around my waist, there is no ill will remaining about my sudden departure to Yale. “I’m glad your friend is okay. Now, can tonight please be ours?”

  I kiss him, to say yes. Tonight I will soak it all in. There will be lobster, toasts, and music. But for now, I steal away and find a spot on the rear deck away from the noisy celebration. When I lean out over the railing, I think of Mrs. Wilder alone in her living room, holding the untouched glass of iced tea. I think of Trent and the way he grabbed Erika’s hand and pulled her hard against him on the walkway this morning. And I think of Cam and Lauren, a little girl with a patched-up hole in her heart between them. My mother is right. There is so much beyond our control, and so much we fear we cannot figure out. But what a difference it makes when someone else believes—not only that you can—but that you will.

  Twenty-Three

  Saint Edward’s white steeple pops against the morning sky, a wedding beacon in its own right. We’re doing an early rehearsal. Which started ten minutes ago. Evan and I finally find a parking spot and fly up the steps of the church, me holding the skirt of my dress and both of us laughing, only to find everyone in various states of disarray in the nave.

  “Oh, good, you’re here.” Peyton is the sole picture of calm against the figures assembled. Her hair is pulled up into a sleek twist, as usual, and her suit dress is as crisp as the sky outside the heavy double doors. “Too much fun last night?” she asks coyly.

  “Sorry, we slept late.” I glance around. Erika’s parents are standing near the pulpit speaking to the reverend. Trent and the groomsmen are standing around chatting. The younger members of the wedding party, the ringbearer and flower girls, are in various states of high-speed chase among the aisles. The Chicago twins are slumped in the first pew.

  “So, let’s run through the checklist.”

  This time I try really hard not to roll my eyes. It’s the rehearsal, after all.

  “You’ve got Erika’s music for walking down the aisle?”

  I dig through my purse and pull out the DVD. “Pachelbel’s Canon in D.”

  “The vows?”

  “Right here.” I hand her an envelope containing printouts of their vows, just in case Erika or Trent forgets theirs.

  “And your speech for the rehearsal dinner?”

  I give her a look. “It’s not a speech,” I remind her. That’s for the best man. “But yes, I do have a few words.”

  “And they are where?”

  “In my head,” I tell her flatly.

  Peyton appraises me. “Well, look at you, Maid of Honor. You handled it. Well done.”

  For the most part she’s right, I did. But honestly, if it hadn’t been for her Norwegian calm and stealth sense of detail, I would never have pulled it off. “We handled it,” I correct her. “Besides, don’t tell me you weren’t worried that I’d forget some appointment or lose a grandparent or something.”

  She shrugs as if she has no idea what I’m referring to. But I know better.

  “Wait a minute. Give me your purse.”

  “What?” she says, feigning innocence.

  “Hand it over!”

  Begrudgingly, she does. I pull out a second copy of Erika’s DVD. And a neatly creased set of papers, which I know are copies of the vows. “You thought I was going to screw everything up?” I hand her back the bag. “Thanks for the faith.”

  Then I notice a bundle of shiny ribbons peeking out of a gift bag in the corner. I recognize it immediately. “Is that Erika’s bridal shower bouquet?”

  Peyton shrugs casually. “Oh, that? I saw it back at the Cranes’ house, and figured I’d bring it along. You know, in case Erika wants to carry it down the aisle for rehearsal.”

  I shake my head in wonder. That’s exactly what Erika wants to do, and Peyton knows that. As tacky as the handmade paper plate and gift bow bouquet is, Erika would’ve had a fit if I’d forgotten it for her rehearsal. Which I apparently did.

  “Peyton.”

  She waves me away. “It’s not a big deal.”

  But it is. “Thank you.”

  At that moment the double doors burst open, sunlight streaming in. Erika sails through, all business. “Sorry, Reverend Astor, I couldn’t find a spot.” Seeing Erika, he breaks into a relieved smile and motions for everyone to begin the rehearsal.

  Peyton hands me the gift bag. “Here. You give it to her,” she insists. Reverend Astor has already lined up the groomsmen and corralled the flower girls, who are on the verge of twirling out of place with their tiny baskets. He smiles broadly. “Welcome, everyone. Tomorrow we have a couple to unite.”

  When the organ begins, Evan squeezes my arm. “Makes you wonder,” he jokes quietly, as we take our places at the front of the line.

  I smile at him, touched that he’s the kind of guy who wonders about these things—unlike so many men who would rather chew glass than talk about the future of their relationship.

  Everyone is in his or her place. Everything is as it should be. Ahead, the families have taken their traditional places in the front pews and are turned anxiously in our direction. Mrs. Crane is already dabbing her eyes. I peek over my shoulder at Erika, in the rear. She looks serene beside her father, who looks like he’s about to take the last walk of his life. I blow Erika a kiss, and before I know it, Evan is guiding me down the aisle.

  “I have some news,” Evan whispers to me.

  “Oh?” One of Trent’s aunts smiles at me, and I wave. A teenager frowns as his mother snatches his smartphone away and tucks it in her purse.

  “That apartment I liked? I signed the lease. It’s ours.”

  I keep my eyes trained on the reverend, who is standing before us like a sentinel, assessing our procession. But I can see Evan clearly out of the corner of my eye. He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat. My heels wobble. “You what?”

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” We’ve reached the altar. Evan lets go of my arm and turns to the right, to stand beside Trent. But I halt, unsure of where to go.

  “Left,” the reverend whispers.

  Mrs. Crane is crying softly. Which I suddenly feel like doing, myself.

  The church is hot, despite the polished wooden fans whirring overhead. Before I know it, Peyton and the twins have joined me, and the flower girls are moving in zigzag trajectory, more or less toward us. One drops her basket. The altar feels crowded.

  I s
wipe a trail of sweat that is working its way down my temple. “You okay?” Peyton whispers behind me.

  I can’t even nod.

  Erika arrives and hands me her bridal shower bouquet. It prickles in my fingers. When Erika and Trent recite their vows, I try to focus. But I’m distracted by the wall of stained glass windows, the yellow and red panes as searing as my skin is beginning to feel. Overhead the useless fans whir louder.

  It’s then I notice the image in one of the stained glass windows: an angel, no more than a winged baby. Its cherubic body arched in flight, it extends its finger to a golden light above. And I can’t help but think of Emory.

  Suddenly everyone is clapping. The rehearsal is over. Trent and Erika are already holding hands, making their way victoriously down the aisle. Peyton nudges me. “Mags, go!”

  Evan takes my arm in the aisle, but I can’t meet his expectant gaze. It’s all I can do to make it to the end, to the set of heavy double doors, where I burst outside and gulp the air.

  Everyone spills out behind us onto the steps, thanking the reverend, issuing goodbyes and reminders to meet tonight for the rehearsal dinner. Aside from a final fitting, we have the rest of the day off, and everyone seems relieved to head off in separate directions. Erika and Trent pose for a couple of pictures and trot down the church stairs, seeming to float away from me. I linger on the top step, willing my breath in and out. Evan stands at the bottom and reaches for my hands. “So? What do you think about our big news?”

  I keep my voice low, cognizant of everyone milling about. “I think that I said I wanted to see the place myself first,” I tell him.

  He looks genuinely taken aback. “You’re mad?”

  I’m about to contradict him, in my usual haste to keep peace, but this time I don’t. “Yes, actually. How could you just go ahead and sign the lease without even asking me first? You know how I felt about it.”

  “All I know is that since you came home to Mystic you’ve been dragging your feet, Maggie.”

  I stare back at him, incredulous. “What does that mean? We agreed that I’d look at the apartment after the wedding.”