Barefoot: A Novel

by Elin Hilderbrand

  More breathy-type noises from Brenda. She pul ed out her cel phone. “Here. Be my guest.”

  Melanie took the cel phone, set it in her lap, and stared at it.

  Vicki heard a shout. She looked down the beach. Someone was waving at her. No, not at her, thank God. She settled in the chair.

  “Wil someone keep an eye on Blaine?” Vicki asked. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.”

  “I’d like to try and write,” Brenda said.

  “I’l watch him,” Melanie said.

  “You’re not going to cal Peter?”

  “No,” Melanie said. “Yes. I don’t know. Not right now.”

  Vicki closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun. It felt wonderful—sun on her face, her feet buried in the Nantucket sand. It was just as her mother had promised. The sound of the waves lul ed Vicki into a sense of drowsy wel -being. Was this what it was like when you died? Or was it completely black, a big nothing, oblivion, the way it was before you were born? She wanted to know.

  “How long have you noticed this shortness of breath?” Dr. Garcia asked. They were in his office, which was bland and doctorish: medical books, diplomas, pictures of his family. Two children, Vicki noted. She liked Dr. Garcia more for the picture of his daughter dressed up as a dragonfly for Hal oween.

  “I’ve had tightness in my chest, a little pain for a week or two, since Easter, but I didn’t think anything of it. But now, I can’t get air in.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “God, no,” Vicki said. “Wel , I tried a cigarette when I was thirteen, outside the ice-skating rink. One puff. I smoked marijuana in col ege, three, maybe four hits altogether. And for two years I had a Cuban cigar once a week.”

  Dr. Garcia laughed. “Cuban cigar?”

  “It was a poker game,” Vicki said.

  “The MRI shows a mass in your lung.”

  “A mass?”

  “It looks suspicious to me, but we’re going to have to take a cel sample to figure out what it is. It could simply be a water-fil ed cyst. Or it could be something more serious.”

  Vicki felt her stomach rise up in revolt. She spotted a trash can next to Dr. Garcia’s desk. Something more serious? Do not, she implored herself, think about the children.

  “We’l do it now,” Dr. Garcia said. “When I saw your scan, I blocked off time.”

  It sounded like he expected Vicki to thank him, but it was al she could do not to spew her breakfast al over his desk.

  “It could just be a water-fil ed cyst?” she said. She held out hope for a juicy bubble of stagnant liquid that would just pop!—and dissolve.

  “Sure enough,” Dr. Garcia said. “Fol ow me.”

  “Vicki! Vicki Stowe!”

  Vicki looked up. A woman was waving at her. It was . . . oh dear God, Caroline Knox, an acquaintance from Darien. Caroline’s sister, Eve, had been in Vicki’s Lamaze class when Vicki was pregnant with Blaine. Eve had brought Caroline as her partner a few times, and somehow Nantucket had come up—that Vicki stayed with Aunt Liv, that Caroline owned a house and came for the summer with her husband and kids. A few weeks ago, Vicki bumped into Caroline Knox in the parking lot of Goodwives, and Caroline asked Vicki if Vicki was going to Nantucket, and Vicki, not wanting to discuss the only topic on her mind that day, which was her cancer, had, without thinking, said, Yes, we’ll be there on June tenth. To which Caroline had replied, Oh, us, too! We must get together! Vicki had agreed, though real y, if she and Caroline Knox didn’t get together in Darien, why would they get together on Nantucket?

  Vicki pushed herself up out of the chair. Porter had crawled off the blanket and was sitting in the sand chewing on the handle of a plastic shovel.

  “Hi!” she said, trying to muster enthusiasm at the sight of Caroline Knox, who, Vicki noted, looked very matronly in her black one-piece suit. And she’d cut her hair short. Not even forty and she looked like Barbara Bush. “Hi, Caroline!”

  “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” Caroline squealed. “Vicki, how are you? When did you get here?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “We’ve been here a week already. It’s heaven on earth, don’t you think?”

  Vicki smiled.

  “When is Ted coming?” Caroline asked.

  “Friday. He’s driving up with the car.”

  “Wel , we should have dinner while it’s just us girls. Are you free on Wednesday?”

  “I’m free . . . ,” Vicki said.

  “Oh, good!”

  “But I start chemo on Tuesday, so . . .”

  Caroline’s face stopped its smiling. “What?”

  “I have lung cancer,” Vicki said. She felt mean dropping it on Caroline this way, in front of Brenda, who had just scrawled two lines on her yel ow legal pad, and Melanie, who was stil staring at the phone in her lap. But Vicki enjoyed it, too, making Caroline Knox uncomfortable, watching her grope around for something to say.

  “I had no idea,” Caroline said. “Eve didn’t tel me.” She dug her toe in the sand and the flesh of her thigh wobbled. “You know that Kit Campbel ’s father had lung cancer last year, and . . .”

  “Yes,” Vicki said, though she had no idea who Kit Campbel was. “I heard al about it.”

  “So you’re getting chemo here? On the island?”

  “At the hospital,” Vicki said, in a voice that ended the topic. “Caroline, I’d like you to meet my sister, Brenda Lyndon, and my friend Melanie Patchen.”

  Caroline shook hands with Melanie. “Patchen, you say? Are you related to Peter?”

  “He’s my husband,” Melanie said. She squinted. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “He plays squash with my husband, Edgar, at the Y,” Caroline said. “I didn’t realize Peter was married. For some reason, I thought he was single.”

  It’s official, Vicki thought. I hate Caroline Knox.

  Brenda shifted on her towel, though she made no move to acknowledge Caroline’s presence. Despite their mother’s best efforts, Brenda had the manners of Attila the Hun. When Brenda spoke, she said, “Vick, where’s Blaine?”

  Vicki looked at the water. Blaine had been digging a hole just beyond where the waves broke so that the hole fil ed with water. That was what he’d been doing when she shut her eyes. But when she looked now, she saw the shovel, the pail, the truck, and the hole—but no Blaine.

  Okay, wait. Vicki checked the perimeter of where they were sitting. He was behind them—no. He was . . . where was he?

  “Mel?” Vicki asked. But Melanie looked even paler and more panicked than Vicki. You were watching him, right? Vicki thought. You said you’d keep an eye on him. Melanie stood up. Her left foot crushed her straw hat, and Brenda’s cel phone fel into the sand.

  “Oh, God,” Vicki said. She jogged to the shoreline. Her insides twisted up in preliminary panic, and she felt her lungs tighten. “Blaine!” she cal ed out. She looked to the left, to the right, and then al the way back to the dunes. Was he hiding in the dunes? Brenda grabbed her arm.

  “It’s okay. Do not panic. Don’t panic, Vick. He couldn’t have gone far.”

  “Did he go in?” Vicki said. The surface of the water was calm; smal waves broke at her feet. She waded in up to her knees, scanning the dappled surface of the water. The only thing she had to worry about was Blaine under water. “Blaine?” she cal ed out, looking for air bubbles.

  “Blaine?” Blaine could swim a little bit. If he were drowning, he would have splashed and made a fuss; Melanie certainly would have noticed. If there was an undertow here, and sometimes there was, he would have cal ed for Vicki. She would have heard him cal ing out.

  “Blaine!” Brenda shouted. She turned back toward the beach. “Blaine Stowe! Where are you? Are there footprints? He was right here a second ago, wasn’t he?”

  Was he? Now Vicki couldn’t remember if she’d seen him digging at al . But his toys were here. She’d had her eyes closed, she’d checked on the baby, she’d been thinking about Dr. Garcia, she’d assumed Melanie was watchi
ng Blaine. But then Caroline came.

  “He’s here somewhere,” Vicki said. “He has to be here.”

  “Of course,” Brenda said. “Obviously. We’l find him.”

  “I’l go to the left,” Vicki said, though there was no evidence of humanity to the left—no people, no footprints, nothing but five or six plovers pecking at the sand. “I’l go to the right, I mean. You check the dunes. He probably had to go to the bathroom. Mel can stay with the baby.”

  “Is everything al right?” Caroline cal ed out.

  “I lost my son!” Vicki said in a lighthearted way. She didn’t want to sound too frantic in front of Caroline. She didn’t want Caroline to think that she’d actually lost Blaine—because what kind of mother took her eyes off her child when that child was playing at the water’s edge? “He must have wandered away!” She waved at Caroline as if to say, You know how kids are, always putting the fear of God into you, as she speed walked down the beach. She couldn’t go as fast as she wanted; she was wheezing already, and her heart was gal oping at an unsafe speed. Do not panic, she thought. He’s here somewhere. She would find him any second, she would flood with relief. He’s okay, he’s right here . . . he just . . . but no, she didn’t see him anywhere. Not yet . She was approaching the main section of ’Sconset Beach, just thirty or forty yards away from the parking lot entrance. There were people here—families, couples, col ege girls lined up on a blanket. Vicki hurried to the lifeguard stand. As long as Blaine wasn’t in the water, he was safe. Why, oh why, hadn’t they sat between the two red flags? They were so far down that the lifeguard would never have noticed Blaine drowning.

  “Excuse me,” Vicki said.

  The lifeguard didn’t remove her eyes from the water. She was a chunky girl in a red tank suit; she had a sunburn on her cheeks that had peeled, revealing raw pink skin underneath . Skin cancer! Vicki thought.

  “My son is missing,” Vicki said. “He’s four years old. We’re sitting down there.” She pointed, but the lifeguard did not move her eyes. “He was wearing a green bathing suit with green frogs on it. He has blond hair. Have you seem him? Did he wander by, maybe?”

  “I haven’t seen him,” the lifeguard said.

  “No?” Vicki said. “Is there anything you can do to help me find him?”

  “You’re sitting beyond the flags?” the lifeguard asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I have to keep my eyes on the people who are in the water between the flags,” the lifeguard said. “Lots of times kids just walk away and get lost.

  Maybe you can ask some of the folks sitting nearby if they’ve seen him. I can’t leave my post to help. I’m sorry.”

  Vicki studied the other families, the other children, many of them Blaine’s age. The families reminded Vicki of herself and Brenda and her parents and Aunt Liv, sitting on the beach every single day, happy as larks, swimming, sunning, eating, sleeping in the sun. She had never gotten lost; Brenda had never gotten swept away by the undertow. They had been like the kids in front of Vicki now: whole, happy, in one piece. Blaine was someplace else, an unknown place. What if they couldn’t find him? Vicki would have to cal Ted—though there was no way she could tel him Blaine was gone; that was just not acceptable . Three grown women on the beach, one of them his own mother, Ted would say. How did he slip away?

  Why wasn’t anyone watching? I thought Melanie was watching! I asked her to watch! I closed my eyes for . . . three minutes. Maybe four. Vicki felt like col apsing in a pile on the sand . Okay, fine, she told God, or the Devil, or whoever listened to pleas from desperate mothers. Take me. Let me die. Just please, please let Blaine be okay.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Vick!”

  The voice was far away, but Vicki heard it over the roar of anxiety in her ears. She turned and saw a woman in a green bikini waving her arms.

  Brenda. Vicki al owed her hopes to rise a little bit. She saw a figure under the umbrel a—maybe a little boy wrapped in a towel? Vicki got closer, running, walking, stopping to control her breathing. Vicki saw Brenda on her cel phone. The “figure” under the umbrel a was just a towel hanging from the cooler. Vicki burst into tears. How many hundreds of hours in the past month had she spent wondering: What could be worse than lung cancer? What could be worse than chemotherapy? What could be worse than having my chest sliced open, my ribs spread, and my lung removed? Wel , here was the answer. This was worse. Blaine was missing. Where was he? Every molecule in Vicki’s body screamed in chorus, Find him, find him! Porter was crying. Melanie was rocking him, but he pitched forward toward Vicki.

  Brenda said, “I checked the dunes. He’s not there. Your friend left. She real y wanted to help us look, but she had a tennis lesson at the casino.

  She suggested I cal the police, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  “I am so sorry,” Melanie said. She was weepy, though not actual y crying. If it had been Brenda, Vicki would have lost her temper, but this was Melanie, her dear, sweet, heartbroken friend. Kid gloves! Vicki thought. Melanie had a lot on her mind; Melanie could not be held accountable.

  “It’s okay,” Vicki said.

  “It’s not okay,” Melanie said. “You asked me to watch him, and I was thinking about something else. I didn’t even see him leave.”

  “Did you see him go into the water?” Vicki asked. “Did you see him swimming?”

  “No,” Melanie said. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I was thinking about Peter, and . . .”

  Brenda held up a finger and gave the 911 operator the information: four-year-old boy, blond, green bathing suit, ’Sconset Beach north. Missing for . . . twelve minutes. Only twelve minutes? Vicki could easily dissolve, but no, she was going to be strong. Think! she urged herself. Think like Blaine. Porter was screaming. Vicki took him from Melanie. She recal ed the day before, Melanie fal ing from the steps of the plane. Melanie had been anxious, tired, sick, distressed, and wearing those ridiculous gardening clogs. She’d had her hands ful , and Blaine had knocked her over.

  Yesterday was not Melanie’s fault. Porter reached inside Vicki’s bikini top and pinched her nipple. Her milk came in. She hugged Porter and whispered, “We have to find your brother.”

  Brenda hung up with the police. “They’re sending a squad car,” she said. “And a guy on a Jet Ski.”

  “Do they think he’s in the water?” Vicki said.

  “I told the police the last place we saw him was at the water’s edge.” Brenda glared at Melanie. “Right?”

  Melanie made a retching noise. She bent in half and vomited into the sand. She staggered toward the dunes. Vicki fol owed her and gently touched her shoulder. “I’l be right back, okay?” Brenda had checked the dunes, but maybe not closely enough. Blaine might have found a nest of some kind, or maybe he had to go to the bathroom. She hobbled through the dunes, looking for a little boy crouched in the eelgrass. Porter held on tight, one hand locked on Vicki’s breast, which was leaking milk. Her bikini top was wet, and milk trickled down her bare stomach. The path through the dunes funneled her between two private homes and then back onto the street, where a squad car waited, lights flashing. Vicki pried Porter’s hand from her breast, and he started with fresh tears. Milk was leaking everywhere; Vicki needed a towel. She needed to wean the baby. She needed to find her child! Her exuberant, out-to-conquer-the-world firstborn. Would he have come this far by himself? Of course. Blaine was afraid of nothing; he was impossible to intimidate. Ted loved this about him, he encouraged Blaine’s fearlessness, his independence—he fostered it! This was Ted’s fault. It was Melanie’s fault. She said she would keep an eye on him! Ultimately, however, Vicki blamed herself.

  The policeman was a woman. Short, with a dark ponytail and eyebrows that met over her nose. When Vicki approached, she said, “You’re the one who cal ed?”

  “I’m the mother,” Vicki said. She tried to wipe the milk from her stomach, pul her bikini top so that it lined up evenly, and comfort her screaming baby
. Al this disarray, a missing child . . . and I have cancer!

  “Where did you last see your son?” the policewoman asked.

  “He was on the beach,” Vicki said. “But now I’m wondering if he didn’t try to walk home by himself. Or to the market. He knows there’s ice cream there. Could we get in your car and drive around to look for him?”

  “The fire department sent a Jet Ski,” the policewoman said. “To check the waters.”

  “I don’t think he’s in the water,” Vicki said. What she meant was: He can’t be in the water. If he’s in the water, he’s dead. “Could we just go in your car?”

  The policewoman murmured something into her crackling walkie-talkie and indicated with a tilt of her head that Vicki and Porter should climb into the back. As soon as Vicki was sitting down, she latched Porter onto her leaking breast. The policewoman caught a glimpse of this and her eyebrows wiggled like a caterpil ar.

  “Do you have children?” Vicki asked hopeful y.

  “No.”

  No, Vicki thought. The policewoman—Sergeant Lorie, her ID said—had no children, thus she had no earthly clue how Vicki teetered on the brink of insanity. Twelve minutes, thirteen minutes . . . surely by now Blaine had been missing for fifteen minutes. Sergeant Lorie cruised the streets of

  ’Sconset, which were only wide enough for one car. They were bordered on both sides by cottages, privet hedge, pocket gardens. Where would he have gone? Vicki thought of a fireman on a Jet Ski discovering Blaine’s body floating a hundred yards offshore—and then pushed the image away.

  Take me, she thought. Do not take my child.

  Sergeant Lorie pul ed up in front of the ’Sconset Market.

  “Do you want to run in?” she asked Vicki.

  “Yes.” Vicki unlatched Porter from her breast and threw him over her shoulder. He let out a belch. Sergeant Lorie murmured something else into her walkie-talkie. Vicki hurried into the market. She checked aisle by aisle—cereal, crackers, biscotti, chips, jasmine rice, toilet paper—she checked around the smal deli case and the soda coolers, behind the spinning book racks, and then, final y, the only place Blaine would logical y be