Mystic Summer

by Hannah McKinnon

  Lauren stiffens. “Oh, that’s okay.”

  But Cam repeats the offer. “It’s fine, really. As soon as she latches on to the bottle, it’s smooth sailing.” And before Lauren can object, he holds Emory out.

  Emory is not having it, however. She’s angry in the way only a hungry infant is, and she arches her back and cries. The nurse looks between them impatiently. “Let’s get her going,” she says, “before she tires.”

  All eyes rest on Lauren. “Here,” Cam says again, gently.

  “I said no.” Lauren steps abruptly aside, leaving Cam a clear path to the chair.

  “Okay, let’s sit her down, Dad,” the nurse says. Her efficiency saves them, and Cam does as he’s told. The focus becomes one of propping up Emory and positioning her tubes, and soon her plaintive fussing sounds are replaced with silence and the rhythmic thwack thwack thwack pull of the nipple.

  “I’ll be back in five to check on you,” the nurse says, keeping her eyes on Cam.

  But he is looking at Lauren, who has moved to the window. The farthest reach of the room.

  I follow the nurse out, feeling as if I’ve witnessed something too personal. Erika was wrong; it’s too late to settle any business with Cameron now. In fact, the only business Cameron has is the two other people, besides me, in this room. It’s time I stop inserting myself here. This time I don’t interrupt them with a goodbye.

  The elevators are slow to come up to the cardiac floor. When one finally does, I’m relieved to see the car is empty. Just as the doors closed someone calls, “Please wait.” Quickly, I punch the button to hold the doors. When they open I look up to see Lauren Peale.

  The car stops on the next floor and a doctor steps in, between us. As we ride down, I wonder where Lauren is going. Emory is still working on her feeding. The car stops again, on the next floor, and the doctor exits. It’s nearly agony standing side by side in silence.

  The cafeteria is one floor above the lobby. At the last second she reaches past me and hits the button. The elevator stops abruptly. When I turn, her cheeks are streaked with tears. During the labored pause as the elevator doors open, I hear her say it.

  “I’m not a monster.” And then she’s gone.

  Twenty-Six

  A wave of clapping erupts, and I join in, a beat too late. Erika and Trent have finished their toast to all the guests at the rehearsal dinner. We’re seated outside on the shaded upper decks of the Oyster Club, in what locals call the “Tree House,” overlooking the Mystic River. Trent’s parents have reserved all the Tree House for our party, and despite the lush leafy coverage and the salty breeze wafting across the decks, I’m flushed.

  “I need a drink of water,” I say, rising from the bridal party table. Dinner is over, but I’ve barely touched my plate. Evan has finally given up trying to get me to, and has helped himself to several of my oysters.

  I’m still troubled by the ride over. Evan had picked me up at my house. It was early, still, so I asked him if we could take a quick drive along the back roads. We drove past the library and my old elementary school, places I wanted to point out to him and he seemed grateful to see, but soon he worried that we’d be late to dinner and suggested we head back to town. On the way back, along River Road, I asked him to pull over.

  “Now?” he’d asked, glancing nervously at the clock.

  I pointed to the stately white house up ahead. “I want to show you someplace special,” I said.

  “But we’re going to be late.”

  “It won’t take a minute,” I said, feeling some of my excitement quelled. “See? Up ahead, on the right.”

  He sighed, but pulled over obligingly in front of the Edwin Bate house. I rolled down my window. “What do you think?”

  Evan leaned across me and peered up at the house. I watched the expression on his face. “What about it?”

  “This is the oldest house in town,” I explained. “It was my favorite house when I was a kid—Jane and I called it the Wedding Cake House. It was just renovated.”

  “How old is it?” he asked. I appreciated he was making an effort, even though I could sense that the house didn’t have quite the effect on him I’d hoped.

  “Over two hundred years old. It was a whaling captain’s home. Can you imagine all the changes this house has witnessed through Mystic’s history? I think that’s neat.”

  Evan cringed in his seat. “Can you imagine all the dust and dirt in those floorboards? God only knows what’s in the attic. Or down in the basement.”

  I shook my head. “But it’s all redone now. The builder kept the original plan, but gutted the walls and ceilings.” I pointed to the roofline of the house. “Look, he even made reproduction moldings to match the originals. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Evan looked at me curiously. “You sure seem to know a lot about it.”

  As we reversed out of the gravel drive quickly, Evan glanced at me. “That’s what I like about new construction. Sleek, modern, and new. No one’s ‘history’ to worry about, except my own.” He flicked his wrist to look at his watch. “Perfect. We’re still on time.”

  Now, Peyton is on my heels as I head across the Oyster Club deck to the small bar. “You feeling okay?”

  The server pours me a glass of champagne but I realize I’m not actually thirsty, or feeling terribly celebratory. Despite the jaunty red, white, and blue table settings and the nautical striped linens. Even the starfish set against the glass votive candles, which flickered in the breeze up here on the decks. “Just look at this place. It’s perfect.” I point out Erika, who is whispering something in Trent’s ear at their table. “She’s perfect, this night is perfect. How can some people be so . . .”

  “Perfect?” Peyton asks. “Knock it off. If you’re going to start using Erika as a measuring stick against perfect, you’re worse off than I thought.” I let her drag me over to an empty corner of the patio. Below us, the Mystic River is glasslike in its stillness. Unlike the currents in my head.

  “Look, we’ve all made it to the rehearsal dinner in one piece. Couples crisis averted. Cousins accounted for. Bridesmaids toasted. So, why are you in such a funk?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Cam.”

  Now she’s listening. “Go on.”

  “I let Cam walk out of my life almost ten years ago. So why can’t I leave him there?”

  Peyton lets out a long breath. I notice her glance over at our table, where Evan and Chad are finishing up dessert plates of chocolate framboise. “Maybe you guys aren’t done with each other.”

  “There’s no way. His life is messy. And mine was finally going well. I mean, just look at him.” I nod toward Evan. “He’s pretty much perfect.”

  She follows my gaze but looks unconvinced. “All right, listen. If you want to do this, let’s really do this.” She scoots closer. “I’ve got news for you. You don’t do perfect very well.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m serious. Remember when we all first moved to Boston and none of us could afford to eat out, but none of us could cook well?”

  I could barely boil pasta. “So?”

  “You insisted we come over for Friday-night dinners. You had all these big ideas, but you never had the right ingredients. Or utensils. The kitchen ended up a disaster, every time, and the fire alarm usually went off. But none of that mattered. Because somehow you took what you had and made it work.”

  I smile at the memory. “Olive and tuna melt nachos?”

  “Exactly. Just like when you started at Darby. Remember how nervous you were about teaching science? You almost didn’t take the job.”

  I cringe. “I was a literature major.” The thought of trying to teach the scientific method to a class of nine-year-olds paralyzed me.

  “So you convinced the dean to get you those crab-things.”

  “Crayfish.”

  “Whatever. They stunk like hell. But the kids liked it, right?”

  I nod.

  “And then one day the dean popped in
to do a surprise evaluation, and the kids had the crab-things crawling all over, and the floor was soaked.”

  I put my head in my hands. “This isn’t helping.”

  “It was another mess. But the dean loved the hands-on nature of your lesson. He ended up ordering those creatures for the rest of the grade.”

  “Yeah. My friend Sharon wanted to kill me.”

  Peyton reaches over and grabs both my arms. “That’s what I’m trying to get at. You don’t do perfect, Maggie. You excel at messy.” She points across the deck at Evan. “He’s not messy.”

  A cry catches in my throat. “He can get messy.”

  “No. No, he can’t, honey. He’s as squeaky clean as they come. For crying out loud, Maggie—he was an Ivory soap model.”

  We both burst out laughing, but just as quickly I’m crying.

  “God knows why, but you’re attracted to all things that need help. I used to think you wanted to fix things that weren’t yours to fix. But now I realize it’s just part of who you are.”

  I look at her. “So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, don’t be afraid of messy.”

  The tears are spilling down my cheeks now and Peyton hands me a napkin. She is one of the last people I would have expected to give me this little talking-to. But she’s got me.

  “Where have you two been?” Erika sweeps in behind us. “You’re missing dessert. Wait, why are we crying?”

  “I’m making a mess,” I tell her.

  Peyton grabs my hand. “Don’t worry. She knows how to clean this one up.”

  An hour later, Jane pulls up in front of the restaurant. “How’d it go?” she asks, as we pull away from the Oyster Club.

  “It was beautiful. Erika and Trent are going to have a great day tomorrow.”

  She glances over at me. “So, why aren’t you staying at the hotel with the girls tonight? Or Evan?”

  I roll down the window and tip my head back. “Did you ever want something so badly that you just pushed through whatever obstacles were in your way, until you had it, never slowing down to really ask yourself if it’s what you really needed?”

  She turns onto our old neighborhood street and slows the car. “You mean that once you get it, you’re disappointed? I guess so. Probably more when I was younger.” She smiles, ruefully. “These days I have so little time to think about anything I want, it’s all about needs. None of which are my own.”

  I look at Jane out of the corner of my eye. For all the teasing I do about her mom’s-uniform yoga attire, or her harried state, or her cluttered minivan, she has accomplished so many things. Beautiful things.

  She rolls to a stop in front of our parents’ house and puts the car in park, but neither of us makes a move to get out. “You’re unhappy with Evan.”

  I nod.

  “Then tell him, Maggie.”

  “But he’s such a great guy, Jane. He’s the guy I’ve been holding out for. He’s thoughtful and smart. He orders me my favorite drink before I even arrive at the restaurant. He doesn’t complain when I’m late. And he’s got this amazing job. My friends and family are crazy about him.”

  Jane nods, in agreement, her gaze level. “Yeah, but are you?”

  “I want to be. He fits all the boxes. I’m afraid that it’s me who’s the problem. And that if I let him go, I might regret it.”

  She sighs and looks past me through the window at our family’s cape. “When Toby and I were first married, I thought that we’d have smooth sailing because he checked all my boxes. We wanted kids, but first our careers. We both loved to travel, but hated to camp. We share the same politics and loved old movies. On the surface, it was sunshine all around.” She shakes her head. “But it’s the deep dark stuff that matters. Like, when you’re in the middle of a heated argument, he knows that all I really want is a hug. And despite the hideous thing I just called him, he still hugs me. Or when I’m up with a crying baby in the middle of the night, he can tell when I’m about to lose it and relieves me. Or when Grandma died, and I wouldn’t talk to anyone, for days, he didn’t try to make me. He gets me. It’s those unspoken understandings that save you.”

  I wonder if Evan and I have any understandings. Or if all we’ve really acquired are merely polite habits. He puts toothpaste on my toothbrush every night before bed. And he doesn’t mind my staying up late to read when he falls asleep. But when I told him about Darby, he quickly pointed out all the private schools in the area and narrowed down the ones with the closest commutes on a map. In red pen. Missing entirely how I felt about it. And not bothering to ask me, either.

  I open the car door.

  “Hang on a sec.” Jane nods toward our house. “When we were growing up here, remember how great this neighborhood was? You could throw a rock in any direction and hit a kid that you could play with.”

  “Nice, Jane.”

  “No, really. But when we got older, it didn’t matter as much that this was the best hill to sled down. Or that we could hit thirty houses on Halloween night. Remember how we used to get embarrassed, living in such a small house? We had to share a room. And so many of our friends were living in those new-construction neighborhoods on the southern end of town.”

  I nod, recalling with a pang how we complained as teenagers. Thinking our house was too small and plain, the yard too narrow. The furniture too old. And how we cringed over the big Chevy my mom drove around in, a model practically as old as we were.

  “But when we got off the bus every afternoon, Mom was home with snacks on the counter and pencils sharpened for homework.”

  I can see it now—a plate with two cookies, two glasses of milk, and a sliced apple on the side. “And dinner on the stove,” I add.

  Jane laughs. “Remember how Dad would walk into town with us on weekends and let us buy Vanilla Cokes at the diner? But he didn’t want us to tell Mom.”

  I look at Jane, with narrowed eyes. “Careful, this is bordering on sentimental for you.”

  Jane shrugs. “It was a no-frills childhood. But it was the best. And I think it’s funny that tonight, with all your Boston pals home for the wedding, and all the ritzy plans they’ve made, this is the place you most want to be.” She punches me lightly in the arm.

  Upstairs in my bedroom, I slip out of my dress. The night is warm and the old bedroom window creaks in protest as I tug it open.

  Evan is in the village at the Oyster House, probably having another drink. Later, he’ll spend the night across town at the Mystic Inn. I wonder if he’s angry that he’ll be stretched out across the king mattress alone. When I said good night to him at the rehearsal dinner, he didn’t protest. Instead, he walked me out, and while we stood solemnly on the sidewalk waiting for Jane, he loosened his tie. “I think you need to figure things out, Maggie,” he said finally. By the time her minivan pulled up to the curb, he’d already gone back upstairs to the party.

  Twenty-Seven

  The morning of the wedding began much the way the previous night ended: an unsettling swirl of pink and orange stretches across the horizon, this time in sunrise. Unable to sleep, I’d been up since five o’clock. There are three completed teaching applications on my laptop: two for positions in Boston, and one for a position in Mystic. Like my mother suggested, I’ve decided to leave all my options open. Who knows—the MFA graduate program flyer is still in my purse.

  Last night, before I went to bed, I climbed up the narrow ladder into the dark confines of our attic, the air rank with dust and the smell of hot shingles. It took me a while to find what I was looking for. When I finally carried it down, my father was standing at the bottom of the steps in his bathrobe, watching me curiously. “What are you doing up there at this hour?”

  I held up the crumpled art portfolio for him to see.

  “Ah. Traveling down memory lane.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t stay up too late. Those memories will still be here in the morning.”

  That’s the trouble with memories. Whe
ther they are painted in soft strokes by a watercolor brush across a canvas, or are written in the dreamy teenage scrawl of a best friend who holds a secret: they fade over time, but their imprint lasts. After reading through the letters that Erika and I had passed to each other in middle school, and having sifted through the collection of paintings my mother so painstakingly arranged by date and composition, one thing is sure. Some memories of the past, stored away all these years in my parents’ attic, are still very much alive in my mind.

  There is the memory of a first friend; the firm hand that grasped yours on the first day of school, and pulled you up the steep stairs of the playground slide. Then wrapped around your middle as the two of you slid down in one shrieking sweep, landing at the bottom in a heap of skirts and back-to-school buckled shoes. Those same hands are the ones you pass a bridal bouquet to in the church today. Despite the rifts that have been caused, or the secrets kept. They are the same hands whose pinky finger wraps securely around your own, before you walk down the aisle on her wedding day.

  Then there is the memory of color. The hazy blue that captured the river that ran through your childhood when you entered your first painting in the high school art show and came in second. There are the fiery reds of first loves, and family love, and the kind of love you spend your life wishing for. And there is the gold of a sun setting over a chapter in your life before a new one starts; the same golden hue of a baby’s downy hair.

  When Erika walks down the aisle on the July afternoon of her wedding day, my heart is full of these memories. Mr. and Mrs. Crane are watching their only child with tear-filled reverence, while beside me, Peyton dabs at her eyes. But mine are on my best friend: on the shimmering ivory skirt of her wedding dress, the tilt of her head as she kisses the man to whom she has just pledged her partnership, and on the congregation whose applause we turn to face, a smattering of all our shared loved ones gathered to celebrate her big day. This time, when Evan meets me in the aisle, I meet his gaze with a warm smile. I am grateful for him. For his love and his trust and his good intentions. He is not the man I will walk down the aisle with someday, myself. And I will gently tell him that before this weekend is over. But now, I take his hand, and we follow our friends down the center of the pews. Past my parents, who both wave a little too enthusiastically. Past Jane, and Toby, and their children, who have not quite sat still for the entire ceremony, but leap up and call out my name as I sweep by. Lastly, I rest my eyes on the blue sky overhead as we surge through the double doors of our small New England church. This summer day is ripe with possibilities. And tonight, as we dance the evening away at the country club along the Mystic River, as someone once said, the stars overhead will compete with the ones in our eyes.