As he held me, my mind couldn’t help flashing to the fact that the baby was due in twenty-seven days.
* * *
I didn’t see Bryce that Saturday, as he’d let me know after I’d finished my driving lesson the day before that because his father was still out of town, he would be spending the weekend fishing with his grandfather. Instead, I went to the shop and spent some time alphabetizing the books and arranging the videocassettes by category. Afterward Gwen and I discussed my Braxton Hicks contractions again, which had recently started up after a period of relative quiet. She reminded me that it was a normal phenomenon, and also walked me through what I should expect once I went into labor.
That night, I played gin rummy with my aunt and Gwen. I thought I’d hold my own, but it turns out that these two former nuns were pretty much card sharks and after finally putting the deck away, I wondered what exactly went on in convents after the lights were out. I had visions of a casino-like atmosphere with nuns wearing gold bracelets and sunglasses as they sat at felt-lined tables.
Sunday, however, was different. Gwen came by with her blood pressure monitor and the stethoscope and asked the same questions Dr. Huge Hands normally did, but as soon as she left, I felt out of sorts. Not only wasn’t I in church, but aside from studying for tests, I was pretty much done with school, as I’d finished all of my assignments for the semester. Nor had Bryce left me with his camera, so photography was out as well. The batteries in my Walkman were dead—my aunt had told me she’d pick some up later—leaving me with nothing whatsoever to do. Though I suppose I could have gone for a walk, I didn’t want to leave the house. It was too bright, people were out and about, and my pregnancy was so noticeable that stepping outside was equivalent to having two giant neon arrows pointing toward my tummy, letting everyone know why I’d come to Ocracoke in the first place.
In the end, I finally called my parents. I’d had to wait until midmorning because of the time difference and though I don’t know what I was hoping to hear, my mom and dad didn’t make me feel much better. They didn’t ask about Bryce or my photography, and when I mentioned how far ahead I was in school, my mom barely waited a beat before telling me that Morgan had won yet another scholarship, this time from the Knights of Columbus. When they put my sister on the phone, she seemed tired, which left her quieter than usual. For the first time in a long time, it felt like an actual back-and-forth conversation, and unable to help myself, I told her a little about Bryce and my newfound love of the camera. She sounded almost dumbfounded and then asked when I was coming home, which left me reeling. How could she not have known anything about Bryce or that I’d been taking pictures, or that the baby was due on May 9? As I hung up the phone, I wondered whether my parents and Morgan ever spoke about me at all.
With nothing better to do, I also cleaned the house. Not just the kitchen and my room and my own laundry, but everything. I made the bathroom sparkle, I vacuumed and dusted, and I even scrubbed the oven, though that ended up making my back ache, so I probably didn’t do the greatest job on it. Still, because the house was small, I had hours remaining to kill before my aunt got home, so I went to sit on the porch.
The day was gorgeous, spring making its arrival felt. The sky was cloudless and the water shimmered like a tray of blue diamonds, but I didn’t really pay much attention. Instead, all I could think was that the day kind of felt like a waste, and I didn’t have enough days left in Ocracoke to ever waste one again.
* * *
Tutoring with Bryce now merely consisted of prepping for next week’s exams, the last big round before finals. Because I could do only so much studying, our sessions grew shorter; because we’d gone through pretty much every photograph in the file box, we worked our way through one photography book after another. I realized over time that while almost anyone could learn to frame and compose a photo if they practiced enough, at its best photography truly was an art. An excellent photographer somehow put their soul into their work, conveying a distinct sensibility and personal viewpoint through the picture. Two photographers shooting the same thing at the same time could produce startlingly different images, and I began to understand that the first step in taking an excellent photograph was the simple act of knowing oneself.
Despite the weekend fishing, or maybe because of it, our time together didn’t feel quite the same. Oh, we kissed and Bryce told me that he loved me, he still held my hand when we sat on the couch, but he wasn’t as…open as he’d seemed to be in the past, if that makes any sense. Occasionally I got the feeling that he was thinking of something else, something he didn’t want to share; there were even moments when he seemed to forget I was there at all. It didn’t happen often, and whenever he caught himself, he would apologize for his distraction, although he never explained what was preoccupying him. Yet after dinner, when we were on the porch saying goodbye, his demeanor was clingy, as though he was reluctant to let me go.
Despite my general aversion to leaving the house, we went for a walk on the beach on Friday afternoon. We were the only ones out, and we held hands as we strolled near the water’s edge. Waves rolled lazily toward the shore, pelicans skimmed the breakers, and though we brought the camera with us, we hadn’t yet taken any pictures. It made me realize that I wanted a photo of the two of us together, since we didn’t have a single one. But no one was around to take it, so I remained quiet and eventually we turned back toward the truck.
“What do you want to do this weekend?” I asked.
He took a few steps before answering.
“I’m not going to be around. I have to go fishing with my grandfather again.”
I felt my shoulders sink. Was he already pulling away from me, so things would be easier when the time came to say goodbye? But if that was the case, why did he continue to tell me that he loved me? Why were his embraces so prolonged? In my confusion, I was able to force out only a single syllable.
“Oh.”
Hearing my disappointment, he gently stopped me. “I’m sorry. It’s just something I have to do.”
I stared at him. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No,” he said. “There’s nothing at all.”
For the first time since we were together, I didn’t believe him.
* * *
On Saturday, bored again, I tried to study for my tests, thinking the better I did, the more protection I would have in case I bombed the finals. But because I’d done all the reading and assignments and I’d already studied all week, it felt like overkill. I knew I wasn’t going to have any problems and eventually drifted to the porch.
Feeling fully prepared with all my schoolwork behind me was an odd sensation, but it also made me realize why Bryce was so much farther ahead academically than I was. It wasn’t simply because he was intelligent; homeschooling meant cutting out all the nonacademic activities. At my school, there were breaks between classes, minutes for students to settle down at the beginning of every class, school announcements, club sign-ups, fire drills, and longish lunch breaks that were akin to social hours. In class, teachers often had to slow their lessons for the benefit of students who struggled even more than I did, and all those things added up to hours of wasted time.
Even so, I still preferred going to school. I liked seeing my friends, and frankly, the thought of spending day after day with my mom gave me the chills. Besides, social skills were important, too, and even through Bryce seemed perfectly normal, some people—like me, for instance—benefited from mixing with others. Or that’s what I wanted to believe, anyway.
I was pondering all of this while I waited on the porch for my aunt to get back from the shop. My mind wandered to Bryce and I tried to imagine what he was doing on the boat. Was he helping to drag in the net or did they have a machine for that? Or was there no net at all? Was he gutting fish or did they do that at the dock, or was someone else responsible? It was hard to picture, mainly because I’d never been fishing, never been on the boat, and had no idea what they w
ere trying to catch.
It was around that time that I heard crunching in the gravel drive. It was still too early for my aunt to be home, so I had no idea who it could be. To my surprise, I saw the Trickett family van and I heard the sound of the hydraulics being engaged. Grasping the rail, I slowly descended the steps, reaching the bottom when I saw Bryce’s mom rolling toward me.
“Mrs. Trickett?” I asked.
“Hi, Maggie. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Bryce is out fishing with his grandfather.”
“I know.”
“Is he all right? He didn’t fall off the boat or something like that?” I frowned, feeling a surge of anxiety.
“I doubt he fell overboard,” she assured me. “I’m expecting him back around five.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, coming to a stop at the foot of the steps. “I went by your aunt’s shop a little earlier and she said it would be all right if I came by. I wanted to speak with you.”
Because it felt funny towering over her, I took a seat on the steps. Up close, she was as pretty as ever, the sunlight illuminating her eyes like emerald prisms.
“What can I do for you?”
“Well…first off, I wanted to tell you that I’m really impressed with your camera work. You have wonderful instincts. It’s extraordinary how far you’ve come in such a short time. It took me years to get to where you are.”
“Thank you. I’ve had good teachers.” She moved her hands to her lap and I sensed her unease. I knew she hadn’t driven here to talk to me about photography. Clearing my throat, I went on. “When is your husband coming home?”
“Soon, I think. I’m not sure of the exact date, but it’ll be good to have him back. It’s not always easy raising three boys alone.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. At the same time, your kids are pretty extraordinary. You’ve done an incredible job.”
She glanced away before clearing her throat. “Did I ever tell you about Bryce after my accident?”
“No.”
“Obviously, it was a very hard time, but thankfully the army allowed Porter to work from home for the first six months, so he could take care of me and the kids while we got the house retrofitted for wheelchair access. Eventually, though, he had to go back to work. I was still in a lot of pain and I wasn’t moving nearly as well as I do now. Richard and Robert were four at the time, and they were a real handful. Tons of energy, picky eaters, messy. Bryce pretty much had to become the man of the house while his dad was at work, even though he was only nine years old. In addition to having to look after his brothers, he had to help take care of me, too. He read to them, entertained them, cooked for them, got them in the tub, put them to bed. All of it. But because of me, he also had to do things that a kid should never have to do, like helping me in the bathroom or even getting me dressed. He didn’t complain, but I still feel bad about that. Because he had to grow up more quickly than other kids his age.” When she sighed, I noticed her face seemed to be creased with lines of regret. “After that, he was never a kid again. I don’t know whether that’s been a good thing or a bad thing.”
I tried and failed to come up with an adequate response. Finally: “Bryce is one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met.”
She turned toward the water, but I had the sense she wasn’t really seeing it.
“Bryce has always believed that both of his brothers are…better than he is. And while they’re both brilliant, they’re not Bryce. You’ve met them. As smart as they are, they’re still kids. When Bryce was their age, he was already an adult. By the time he was six, he’d announced his intent to attend West Point. Even though we’re a military family, even though it’s Porter’s alma mater, we had nothing to do with that decision. If it were up to Porter and me, we’d send him to Harvard. He was accepted there, too. Did he ever tell you that?”
Still trying to process what she’d told me about Bryce, I shook my head.
“He said he didn’t want us to have to pay anything. It was a point of pride for him to be able to go to college without our assistance.”
“That sounds like him,” I admitted.
“Let me ask you something,” she said, finally turning toward me again. “Do you know why Bryce has been fishing with his grandfather these past couple of weekends?”
“Because his grandfather needed his help, I guess. Because his dad isn’t back yet.”
Mrs. Trickett’s mouth formed a sad smile. “My dad doesn’t need Bryce’s help. Usually he doesn’t need Porter’s help, either. Porter mainly helps with equipment and engine repairs, but on the water, my dad doesn’t need anyone aside from the deckhand who’s worked for him for decades. My dad’s been a fisherman for over sixty years. Porter goes out with them because he likes to keep busy and enjoys being outside, and because he and my dad get along very well. The point is, I don’t know why Bryce went out with him, but my dad mentioned that Bryce had brought up some things that concerned him.”
“Like what?”
Her eyes were steady on mine. “Among other things, that he’s rethinking his decision to go to West Point.”
At her words, I blinked. “But…that…doesn’t make any sense,” I finally stammered.
“It didn’t make any sense to my dad, either. Or to me. I haven’t mentioned it to Porter yet, but I doubt he’ll know what to make of it.”
“Of course he’s going to West Point,” I babbled. “We’ve talked about it plenty of times. And look at the way he’s been exercising, trying to get ready.”
“That’s another thing,” she said. “He stopped working out.”
I hadn’t expected that, either. “Is it because of Harvard? Because he wants to go there instead?”
“I don’t know. If he does, he probably has to get the paperwork in soon. For all I know, the deadline might have passed.” She lifted her eyes to the sky before bringing them back to me. “But my dad said he also asked a lot of questions about the fishing business, the cost of the boat, repair bills, things like that. He’s been pestering my dad relentlessly for details.”
All I could do was shake my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He hasn’t said anything to me about it. And you know how curious he is about everything.”
“How has he been lately? How has he been acting?”
“He’s been a little off ever since he gave away Daisy. I thought it was because he missed her.” I didn’t mention the moments when he’d seemed clingy; it felt too personal, somehow.
She scanned the water again, so blue today it almost hurt the eyes. “I don’t think this has to do with Daisy,” she concluded. Before I could dwell on what she’d just said, she put her hands on the wheels of her chair, clearly about to depart. “I just wanted to see if he’d mentioned anything to you, so thanks for talking to me. I’d better get home. Richard and Robert were doing some sort of science experiment and Lord only knows what might happen.”
“Of course,” I said.
She turned the wheelchair around, then stopped to face me again. “When is the baby due?”
“May ninth.”
“Will you come to the house to say goodbye?”
“Maybe. I’m kind of trying to keep a low profile. But I want to thank all of you for being so kind and welcoming to me.”
She nodded as though she’d expected the answer, but her expression remained troubled.
“Do you want me to try to talk to him?” I called out as she wheeled toward the van.
She merely waved and answered over her shoulder, “I have the sense that he’s going to be talking to you.”
* * *
I was still sitting on the steps when Aunt Linda returned from the shop an hour later. I watched her pull up, saw her studying me before finally getting out of the car.
“Are you okay?” she asked, coming to a stop before me.
When I shook my head, she helped me stand up. Back inside, she led me to the kitc
hen table and sat across from me. In time, she reached for my hand.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Taking a deep breath, I went through it all, and when I finished, her expression was soft.
“I could tell she was concerned about Bryce when I saw her earlier.”
“What should I say to him? Should I talk to him? Should I tell him that he has to go to West Point? Or at least tell him to speak to his parents about what he’s thinking?”
“Are you supposed to know any of it?”
I shook my head. Then, “I don’t know what’s going on with him.”
“I think you probably do.”
You, she meant. “But he knows I’m leaving,” I protested. “He’s known all along. We’ve talked about it lots of times.”
She seemed to consider her response. “Maybe,” she said, her voice soft, “he didn’t like what you said.”
* * *
I didn’t sleep well that night and on Sunday, I found myself wishing I could have done the twelve-hour church-marathon thing as a distraction from the churn of my thoughts. When Gwen came over to check on me, I could barely concentrate, and after she left, I felt even worse. No matter where I went in the house, my concerns followed, raising one question after another. Even the occasional Braxton Hicks contraction didn’t divert me for long, as inured as I was becoming to the spasms. I was exhausted with worry.
It was April 21. The baby was due in eighteen days.
* * *
When Bryce came to the house on Monday morning, he said little about his weekend. I asked him about it in a conversational way and he mentioned that they’d had to go farther offshore than they’d originally planned, but the season for yellowfin tuna had heated up, and on both days, they’d had a decent haul. He said nothing about his reasons for vanishing the previous two weekends, nor about his college plans, and unsure whether to go on, I let the topic pass.
The Wish Page 28
