Barefoot: A Novel

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “Out?”

  “Out.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Would you like me to tel her you cal ed?” Vicki said.

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “Tel her I cal ed. Tel her I miss her.”

  Vicki rol ed her eyes. Yeah, you miss her now. Jerk! Coward! Stil , this was what Vicki wanted to see: Peter coming back on his hands and knees, groveling.

  “I’l tel her,” Vicki said.

  Later, when the Yukon pul ed up in front of the house, Vicki stepped out onto the flagstone path.

  “I know what’s going on,” she said as Melanie got out of the car.

  Melanie stared at Vicki; she had one hand resting on her bel y. Al the color drained from her face. “You do?”

  “I do,” Vicki said. “Peter cal ed.”

  Melanie looked at Vicki strangely. She undid the latch of the gate and stepped inside slowly and careful y, as though Vicki were holding a gun to her head. “He did?”

  “He said he misses you.”

  “He did? ” Now Melanie looked perplexed.

  “He did. He cal ed, I told him you were out, he said, ‘Out?’ I said, ‘Out.’ He said to tel you he cal ed. He said, ‘Tel her I miss her.’”

  Melanie shook her head. “Wow.”

  “‘Wow’?” Vicki said. “‘Wow’? Yeah, wow. That’s right, wow. This is exactly what I said was going to happen. Didn’t I tel you he’d come around?”

  “He only cares about the baby,” Melanie said.

  “Maybe,” Vicki said. “But maybe not. Are you going to cal him back?”

  “No,” Melanie said. “Not today.” She rubbed her bel y. “My hormones are al over the place, Vick. I don’t know what I want.”

  “Right,” Vicki said. “I can understand that. I’l tel you what, it was weird having him cal .”

  “Yeah, I’l bet.”

  “In fact, I got two weird phone cal s this afternoon.”

  “Who else?”

  “Some girl,” Vicki said. “Some crazy girl. A wrong number.”

  The longer Vicki felt good, the more frequently she wondered when the other shoe was going to drop. Could the worst be over? Vicki had three weeks of chemo left, then she would have another CT scan, the results of which would be sent to Dr. Garcia in Connecticut. If her lungs looked okay, if the tumor had shrunk, if it had receded from the chest wal , then Dr. Garcia would schedule the surgery. Now, because Vicki was feeling good, she al owed herself an occasional glimpse at herself after surgery: She pictured herself waking up in the recovery room, attached to an IV and five other machines. She imagined pain in her chest, soreness around the incision, she pictured herself bracing her body when she coughed or laughed or talked. Al this would be fine because she would have survived the surgery. She would be clean. Cancer-free.

  Vicki felt so good for so many days that one night at dinner she mentioned she was thinking of letting Josh go.

  “I can take care of the kids myself now,” she said. “I feel fine.”

  Brenda made a face. “I promised Josh work for the whole summer. He quit his job at the airport for us.”

  “And he has to go back to col ege,” Melanie said. “I’m sure he needs the money.”

  “It’s not fair to fire him at the beginning of August just because you feel better,” Brenda said.

  “I can’t real y imagine the rest of the summer without Josh,” Melanie said. She set down her ear of corn; her chin was shiny with butter. “And what about the kids? They’re attached.”

  “They’re attached,” Brenda said.

  “They’re attached,” Vicki conceded. “But would it devastate them if he stopped coming? Don’t you think they’d be happy to have me take them to the beach every day?”

  “I promised him a summer of work, Vick,” Brenda said.

  “I think the kids would be devastated,” Melanie said. “They love him.”

  “They love him,” Brenda said.

  “Do they love him, or do you guys love him?” Vicki said.

  Brenda glowered; Melanie stood up from the table.

  “Oh, who are we kidding?” Vicki said. “We al love him.”

  The next day Vicki invited herself to the beach with Josh and the kids. Josh seemed happy to have her come along, though he might have been pretending for her sake.

  “I can help out,” Vicki said.

  “That’s fine,” Josh said.

  “I know you guys have your own routine,” Vicki said. “I promise not to cramp your style.”

  “Boss,” Josh said, “it’s fine. We’re happy to have you come with us. Right, Chiefy?”

  Blaine locked his arms across his chest. “No girls al owed.”

  Vicki ruffled his hair. “I’m not a girl,” she said. “I’m your mother.”

  “This is where we usual y sit,” Josh said, dropping the umbrel a, the cooler, and the bag of toys in the sand. “As you can see we’re spitting distance from the lifeguard stand and close enough to wet sand that we can build sand castles.”

  “And dig holes,” Blaine said.

  Josh put up the umbrel a, laid out a blanket, and set Porter in the shade. Immediately, Porter grabbed the pole of the umbrel a and pul ed himself up.

  “He normal y stands like that for five or ten minutes,” Josh said.

  “Then he chews on the handle of the orange shovel,” Blaine said.

  “Then he gets his snack,” Josh said.

  “I see,” Vicki said. She had brought a chair for herself, which she unfolded in the sun. “You guys have it al figured out.”

  “We’re al about routine,” Josh said, winking at Vicki. “We’re big fans of consistency and sameness.” He waved at a woman down the beach who had two little girls. “There’s Mrs. Brooks with Abby and Mariel. Blaine loves Abby.”

  “I do not,” Blaine said.

  “Oh, you do so,” Josh said. “Go ask her if she wants to dig with us.”

  “Hey, Josh,” a man’s voice said. Vicki turned around. A tal , dark-skinned man with a little boy Blaine’s age and a baby girl in his arms waved as he moved down the beach.

  “Omar, my man!” Josh said. Then to Vicki, he whispered, “That’s Omar Sherman. He brings the kids to the beach every morning while his wife talks to her patients on the phone. I guess she’s some hotshot psychiatrist in Chicago and deals with a bunch of complete basket cases.”

  “Geez,” Vicki said. “You know everybody.”

  She sat back and watched as Abby Brooks and Mateo Sherman helped Blaine and Josh dig a hole and then a tunnel in the sand. Porter stood holding on to the umbrel a pole, and then he tired out and plopped onto the blanket. He reached for his orange shovel and started chewing. Vicki watched al this with the distinct feeling that she was a visitor. Josh was 100 percent in control. At ten-thirty, he pul ed snacks from the cooler: a bottle of juice and box of raisins for Blaine, a graham cracker for Porter. Blaine and Porter sat on the blanket and ate neatly and without complaint, like a model of two children having a snack. Josh produced two plums from the cooler and handed one to Vicki.

  “Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” She took a bite of the cold, sweet plum, and juice dripped down her chin. Josh handed her a napkin. “I feel like one of the children,” she said, wiping her face. Vicki liked this, but it made her feel guilty, too. Guilty and unnecessary. She was the children’s mother and they didn’t need her. No girls allowed. Josh was taking care of everything and everybody.

  Josh sat on the blanket. Porter pul ed himself up to standing, holding on to the umbrel a pole in a way that reminded Vicki of an old man on the subway. Blaine had dutiful y col ected the trash from snack and walked it over to the barrel behind the lifeguard stand. “You’re a model citizen,” Josh said. Blaine saluted. He joined Abby a few yards down the beach, where they busily fil ed up buckets with sand and then water.

  Vicki couldn’t believe she’d been thinking of letting Josh go. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “With us, I mean.”

  “I like
being here,” Josh said. “With you.”

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Vicki said. “Or get al serious on you.”

  “You can be as serious as you want, Boss.”

  “Okay, then,” Vicki said. “I don’t know what we would have done this summer without you.”

  “You would have found someone else,” he said.

  “But it wouldn’t have been the same.”

  “Things happen for a reason,” Josh said. “I knew when I saw you coming off the plane . . .”

  “When Melanie fel ?”

  “Yeah, I knew then that something like this would happen.”

  “Something like what? You knew you’d be our babysitter?”

  “I knew our paths would cross.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did. First Brenda left the book behind, then I saw Melanie at the airport. . . .”

  “She was trying to leave,” Vicki said.

  “But I brought her back,” Josh said. “It’s like it was al part of some greater plan.”

  “If you believe in a greater plan,” Vicki said.

  “You don’t believe in a greater plan?” Josh said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Vicki said. When she looked at the ocean, or at some smal er, more delicate perfection—like Porter’s ear, for example—it was hard to deny there was a force at work. But a plan into which everyone fit, a plan where everything happened for a reason? It was a convenient fal back. How many people in Vicki’s cancer support group had said they believed they got cancer for a reason? Almost everyone. But look at Alan

  —he was dead. What was the reason there? The woman in Royersford, Pennsylvania, shot in the face, leaving her three-month-old motherless.

  That didn’t happen for a reason. That was a mistake, a tragedy. If there was a greater plan, it was ful of holes and people dropped through al the time. Vicki thought back on her own life. It had progressed in a way that made sense . . . right up until the cel s of her lungs mutated and became life-threatening. “I’ve never been good at these meaning-of-life conversations.”

  Just as Vicki said these words, an amazing thing happened. Porter let go of the umbrel a pole and took two, three, four steps forward.

  Vicki leapt from her chair. “Oh my God! Did you see that?”

  Porter stopped, turned to his mother with a triumphant expression that quickly became bafflement. He fel back on his butt and started to cry.

  “He took his first steps!” Vicki said. “Did you see him? Josh, did you see him?”

  “I saw him. He was walking.”

  “He was walking!” Vicki swept Porter up and kissed his face. “Oh, honey, you can walk!” She held Porter so tightly his cries amplified. Forget trying to find the meaning of life in some greater plan—it was right there in front of them! Porter had taken his first steps! He would walk for the rest of his life, but Vicki had been there, watching, the very first time. And Josh had seen. If Vicki hadn’t come to the beach today, she might have missed Porter’s first steps—or maybe he only took them because Vicki was there. Or maybe, Vicki couldn’t help thinking, maybe seeing Porter’s first steps was a smal gift for Vicki before she died. No negative thoughts! she told herself. But she couldn’t help it; doubt fol owed her everywhere.

  “Amazing,” she said, trying to hold on to her initial enthusiasm. She cal ed out to Blaine. “Honey, your brother can walk. He just took his first steps!” But Porter was crying so loudly Blaine couldn’t hear her. “Oh, dear. I scared him, maybe.”

  Josh checked his watch. “Actual y, it’s time for his nap.”

  “Eleven o’clock?” Vicki said.

  “On the nose. Here, I’l take him.”

  Vicki handed Porter over to Josh, who laid Porter on his stomach on a section of clean blanket. Josh patted Porter’s back and gave Porter his pacifier. Porter quieted, and as Vicki sat and watched, his eyes drifted closed.

  Josh stood up careful y. “Now is when I play Wiffle bal with Blaine,” he said. “He’s real y learning how to connect with the bal .”

  “You’re going to be a great father,” Vicki said.

  “Thanks, Boss.” Josh smiled, and something about the smile gave Vicki a glimmer of hope. Josh would get older, fal in love, marry, have children. One thing, at least, would be right with the world.

  PART THREE

  AUGUST

  There was a lot to be learned from children’s games, Brenda thought. Take Chutes and Ladders, which she and Blaine had played umpteen times this summer and which they were playing again now on the coffee table. The board, with its 100 spaces, was a person’s life, and a random spinner dictated which space a person would land on . This little girl did her chores so she earned money to go to the movies: short ladder. This boy stood on a wobbly chair to reach the cookie jar, but he fell and broke his arm: steep chute. As Blaine assiduously practiced counting out spaces, he looked to Brenda for nods of affirmation, but she was musing about al the things that had happened to her in the past year. Brenda had sailed up a tal ladder with her doctorate and the job at Champion and the highest teaching rating in the department, but al this seemed to do was to elevate her to a place where there were more perilous chutes. A professor has an affair with her student. . . . A woman throws a book in anger. . . .

  Blaine won the game. This always made him happy.

  “Want to play again?” he asked.

  It was August, everybody’s summer, though for Brenda the month heralded the beginning of the end. They would be leaving the island in three and a half weeks. It made Brenda physical y sick to think of leaving Nantucket and returning to the city, to the apartment she could no longer afford and the pervasive back-to-school atmosphere that now meant nothing to her. For the first time in her memory, Brenda would not be going back to school.

  She had been banned from school. You will never work in academia again. It was almost too much to bear. And so, Brenda did her best to ignore the fact that it was August.

  Brian Delaney, Esquire, however, would not let her forget. His cal s came so frequently that Brenda’s life felt like a video game in which Brian Delaney, Esquire, popped up in her path to thwart her.

  She final y cal ed him back from a bench in the smal park next to the ’Sconset Market. Even ’Sconset, quaint vil age that it was, was bursting at the seams with people now that it was August. There was a line out the door of the market for coffee and the paper, and there were no fewer than five people on cel phones in the smal park, but none of them, certainly, were conducting business more unpleasant than Brenda’s.

  Trudi, Brian Delaney, Esquire’s secretary, sounded relieved to hear it was Brenda cal ing. “He wants to get this settled,” Trudi confided to Brenda, “before he goes to the Hamptons!”

  “So now we’re working around your vacation?” Brenda said when Himself came on the line. She meant to sound snappy-funny-sarcastic, but for once, Brian Delaney, Esquire, wasn’t biting.

  “Listen,” he said. “The university is wil ing to settle at a hundred and twenty-five. Are you jumping for joy? One twenty-five. And they’l waive the ten grand you owe them to work on the painting. I guess the guy Len, or whomever, is going to write a paper about the restoration. So that’s a clean and clear one twenty-five. That is as good as it’s going to get, Dr. Lyndon. I strongly advise you to take it.”

  “I don’t have a hundred and twenty-five thousand dol ars,” Brenda said. “And I don’t have a job. How can I settle when I don’t have the money?”

  “We have to settle,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “How’s the screenplay coming?”

  “Fine,” Brenda said. Which was true—the screenplay, which had started out as a wing and a prayer, was now nearly done. But the problem with finishing the screenplay was the incipient worry about sel ing the damn thing.

  “Good, good,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “There’s your mil ion dol ars right there.”

  “Yeah,” Brenda said. “In my dreams.”

  “And there’s tha
t pretty piece of real estate you’re sitting on. You could sel out to your sister.”

  “No,” Brenda said. The cottage was the only thing Brenda owned. If things didn’t work out in the city, she would have to live on Nantucket year-round. She would have to get a job as a landscaper, or as a salesperson at one of the shops in town. She would have to make friends with other year-rounders who had failed to make lives in the real world. “I’ve told you I don’t know how many times, my sister is sick. She has cancer. I can’t bother her or her husband with a real estate thing now, just because I need money.”

  “But you do need money,” Brian Delaney, Esquire, said. “We can’t leave this hanging. Everything doesn’t stop just because it’s summer and you’re on Nantucket. The university wil take us to trial, where, I assure you, we wil lose—to the tune of three hundred grand, plus al the money you’l have to pay me to prepare. I don’t know what you did to that woman Atela, but she is pissed. She wants justice, the university counsel tel s me.

  Justice! ” Brian Delaney, Esquire, huffed impatiently. “Do you want me to settle this thing or not?”

  There was no justice, Brenda thought. There were only chutes and ladders.

  “Settle,” she said.

  The beginning of the end with Walsh had arrived when Brenda handed back the midterm papers to her class. She knew students compared notes and shared grades, but she never expected that Walsh would do so. Then again, she never told him (as perhaps she should have): Don’t tell anyone what grade I gave you. The fact of the matter was, Brenda and Walsh didn’t discuss the paper, or his grade, at al . It wasn’t relevant to their relationship; it might have been someone else who gave Walsh the grade.

  On the first day of April, no one showed up for class. At five past eleven, not a single student. This struck Brenda as odd, but she relished the quiet. She was tired. She had spent the night before at her parents’ house in Philadelphia; she and Vicki had gone to their father’s law office and signed the papers that made them the official owners of Number Eleven Shel Street. El en Lyndon had persuaded Brenda to stay for a dinner that featured roast chicken and several bottles of celebratory wine. Brenda missed the last train back to New York and had spent the night in her childhood bed. She’d awoken at six that morning to get to 30th Street Station. Her day had been a blur of Metroliner, subway, crosstown bus.