Heartbroken

by Lisa Unger

  “That would be great, girls,” she said. Kate dropped one arm over each narrow set of shoulders. “Thanks.”

  The girls ran the rest of the way, light, dancing over the rocks utterly without fear of losing their footing. They looked like fairies in the sunlight. They laughed, landed heavily on the wood, their footfalls and peals of laughter echoing across the bay. She turned to look back at the house. Birdie stood on the porch, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Kate couldn’t tell if she was smiling or frowning.

  “It’s Birdie Burke, from across the channel,” she said. From the desk in her bedroom, Birdie could hear Chelsea’s and Lulu’s voices, the sound of their laughter like the tinkling of bells somewhere off in the distance. Kate was in the guesthouse, unpacking and getting settled.

  “Oh, hello,” John said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” she said. She gripped the phone. “How did you fare in the storm?”

  It had been a battering, howling affair, keeping Birdie up most of the night. It wasn’t just the weather that had her tossing and turning into the wee hours. It was the intruder, the photograph, the pending arrival of Kate and her family. Birdie couldn’t keep her mind quiet. She’d always been this way, unable to control the churning of her thoughts. And then there had been her sciatica. The fire from her back down her leg that took her breath away. It wasn’t quite as bad as the pain of childbearing, but it was damn close. They had only Tylenol on the island; it was no match for what Birdie was suffering.

  In spite of the storm and the pain, she’d finally drifted off sometime after three A.M. The morning had dawned clear and chilly, no visible wind damage to any of the structures, just leaves and branches tossed about. The pain, too, had disappeared as quickly as it came.

  “Well enough,” John said. “No damage. You?”

  “All fine here,” she said. “Look, thank you for your help yesterday. I’m a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.”

  “That’s what neighbors are for,” he said. He sounded distant and distracted. She’d expected him to be more loquacious on the phone. In their few encounters, he’d always struck her as a talker.

  “I was wondering,” she began. But suddenly, she felt silly. She didn’t go on, and the silence on the line seemed to yawn awkwardly.

  “I saw you arrive back with your family a little while ago,” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered. She wanted to clarify that Lulu was not her family, but she didn’t bother.

  “Perhaps you’d all like to come over for cocktails this evening? Around five?” John asked.

  Birdie found herself accepting even though she normally would have declined. At the best of times, she didn’t like to socialize with the neighbors. And she was lost without Joe, who had a special gift for small talk and making everyone feel at ease, especially when he’d been drinking a bit.

  “I was wondering,” she said again. “About your island.”

  “Oh?”

  “Its history and former owners.”

  “Ah,” he said, but didn’t go on.

  She found herself chattering to fill the silence. “It’s a bit of a pet project for me to learn about the various island histories.”

  This was actually true. Birdie had amassed quite a knowledge of some of the properties with more storied histories. The little island across from them, uninhabited for as long as she could remember, had never piqued her curiosity. Or had she, for some subconscious reason, avoided it?

  There was another long silence on the line.

  “John?”

  “Funny you should ask, Birdie,” he said. “I’ve been doing some research of my own. I’ve learned quite a bit about this island.” She thought he’d say more, but instead, “I’ll look forward to chatting about it tonight.”

  She wanted to press, but she was loath to seem overeager. She never wanted people to feel that they had something she needed or wanted.

  “Very well, then,” she said lightly. “See you at five.”

  She stepped out of her bedroom to find Kate in the kitchen, which was open to the great room. From the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the room, they had a panoramic view. The green of the trees, the blue of the sky, the gray of the rocky islands filled the room with a fresh, soothing beauty.

  “Tea?” Kate asked.

  “Please,” Birdie said. She sat on the sofa and watched her daughter move about the kitchen. It was hard for her to sit while someone else was in the kitchen. She leaned forward to straighten the magazines on the maple coffee table, fixed the pillows on the plush sofa. She noticed that the antler chandelier (Joe’s choice) hanging over the long dining table needed dusting, and that some of the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves were out of order from John Cross’s snooping. She got up to fix them.

  She strode over to the sidebar near the dining table to check the levels on the liquor. The Scotch was low. The port hadn’t been touched in months. Then she went back to the couch, keeping her eyes on her daughter.

  “Let it steep awhile,” she said when Kate poured the hot water from the kettle into the pot. “The matching cups are in the cabinet to the right of the sink.”

  Kate looked into the cabinet, but Birdie could tell she didn’t see the cups, just stood there looking. Must she do everything?

  “Well,” said Birdie. She rose and walked over to the kitchen. “Just have a seat. Let me do it.”

  Kate got that stone-faced look she shared with her father, and without a word, she took the seat that Birdie had so briefly occupied. Better to let her do it herself, whatever it is, Birdie remembered overhearing Joe say to Kate. You’ll never do it quite right, and you’ll never hear the end of it. The memory smarted, as so many memories did.

  She retrieved the cups and saucers, the tea tray, the spoons, and put together the service. She took the creamer and sugar bowl from the refrigerator and carried it all to the coffee table. Kate moved to clear the magazines (which Birdie had just straightened—never mind), and Birdie set the tray down with a satisfying clink.

  Birdie knew that Kate, left to her own devices, would have brewed the tea right in a mug, then tossed the tea bag in the garbage. But a tea bag could make many cups of tea in a pot. And the ritual of the tea service was calming and centering. These things were lost on Kate’s generation. Everything was a rush, the shortest distance between two points. Why dirty cups, saucers, spoons, teapot, and tray when one mug would do? Why boil the water in a kettle that would take ten minutes when you could heat it in the microwave in two? Because there was a right way to do things. And doing things the right way was its own reward. This was something that could not be explained to young people.

  “We’ll be going over to Cross Island at five,” she said. She poured the tea and handed it Kate.

  “Oh?” said Kate. “I thought we didn’t socialize with the neighbors.”

  Kate and Theodore had always wanted to play with the children on the neighboring islands, and Birdie had never allowed it. When they were older, they’d take the boat themselves. It had annoyed her to think of them associating with the caretaker’s son or the daughters of the man who ran the marina. The children never seemed to perceive boundaries like that. You couldn’t make them understand why it was awkward to share a meal with people, then direct them properly when they were your employees. Kate and Theo thought their mother was a terrible snob.

  “He knows Sebastian,” said Birdie. She watched for Kate’s reaction, but there wasn’t one.

  Kate peered over her cup. “How?”

  “They move in the same publishing circles, apparently. How is Sebastian?”

  “Sober. But otherwise unchanged.”

  “Remarried?”

  Kate offered a shrug. “Living with someone. She’s fine. She’s kind to Chelsea, which is all that matters.”

  “Hmm,” said Birdie. “Such a shame.”

  A younger Kate would have bitten. What do you mean by that? She’d have wanted to know. A fight of some k
ind would follow. But motherhood seemed to have mellowed her daughter. Maybe “mellowed” wasn’t the right word. She was more distant, less easily engaged. She and Theo had this in common, this subtle drift away from Birdie and her influence. Maybe that was the way with grown children, or maybe just with hers. Her acquaintances always seemed so busy with their grandchildren, taking care of them, planning big family vacations, arranging for visits, or planning to go stay with their grown children. Birdie tried not to notice that she was rarely making those kinds of plans with Theo and Kate. They came to the island or for brief visits in the city. But that was it.

  Kate leaned back easily and crossed her legs. “That’s fine. The plans you made, I mean,” she said, ignoring Birdie’s invitation to rumble. “I assume we’ll leave the girls behind.”

  “Of course,” said Birdie. She couldn’t have that trollop socializing as though she were a member of the family. Birdie didn’t have to say as much; Kate knew.

  Here, suddenly, Birdie had a strong desire to tell Kate about the events of yesterday. Part of her wanted to share about the photo album and the childhood memory and how all of it seemed connected. She felt that she needed to share it with someone. It had all been knocking around in her head, like birds fluttering, panicked in an attic, looking for a way out. But the words didn’t come.

  “She’s not that bad,” said Kate, answering the comment about Lulu that Birdie hadn’t bothered to make.

  “I thought this would be a family time,” said Birdie. She smoothed out her pants leg and tried for a slightly injured look.

  Her daughter rolled her eyes as if nothing could be more laughable. “It still is. Or will be when Dad, Sean, and Brendan get here.”

  Birdie gave a dissatisfied grunt. Why are you always making that noise? Joe wanted to know. Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking? Then, “Theodore has taken a pass. Do you know why?”

  “He said he couldn’t get away from work,” Kate replied. She was gazing out the window. Birdie thought she would say more, but she just took another sip.

  “And you believe that?” asked Birdie.

  Kate turned a cool gaze on Birdie, offered a slight lift of her eyebrows. “What else, Mother? Can you think of another reason he might not want to come?” Her tone said it all.

  Birdie went silent. Somewhere one of the girls shrieked in that way that could be terror or could be delight. Birdie watched them out the window, walking near the shore, the sun behind them. They were lovely, slim-bodied and with flowing hair, faces lit by the afternoon sun. Birdie couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be that young. You were never that young, Joe would undoubtedly say. And maybe he would be right.

  “I wrote a book,” said Kate. She said it softly, almost musing. Birdie nearly didn’t hear her. But the words lingered.

  “Did you now?” she said.

  “I did.” Kate looked solemnly down at her cup. “I always wanted to write. But then I just didn’t.”

  Birdie knew all about wanting to do things that never got done. When she was a girl, she thought she’d be a dancer. She’d had ballet shoes on her feet since she was four years old. They said she didn’t have the body for it, legs too short, bosom too big. She didn’t have those lean lines, that effortless carriage, though she’d had the talent. Everyone acknowledged that. Biology was an exacting bitch, wasn’t she?

  “Life can be like that,” Birdie said. Kate looked at her, surprise lighting up her eyes. What had her daughter expected her to say?

  “Yes,” Kate said. “It can.”

  “Do you have an agent?” Birdie asked. She was aware of a flutter of anxiety, though she couldn’t have said why. “Your father knows some people.”

  “I do have an agent.” Kate wore the slightest smile. “And a publisher. There was an auction, actually. And the book will be released next summer.”

  Birdie felt a wave of surprise, followed by an unexpected flash of jealousy, which she could barely acknowledge. “You are just full of news this visit,” she said. Her voice sounded tinny, even to her own ears.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Well, congratulations, dear,” Birdie said. “It must feel good to have finally found your calling.”

  She saw that tentative smile on Kate’s face fade, and she felt a rush of regret.

  “What type of book is it?”

  “It’s a novel,” said Kate. “About family. Caroline left me some journals that belonged to her and to Grandmother Lana. The journals—inspired me.”

  “You’ve written about our family?” asked Birdie. She felt something akin to horror.

  “No,” said Kate quickly, lifting a palm. “No, not about us. Not exactly.”

  Birdie found that she couldn’t say more. She couldn’t bring herself to ask more about what Kate had written, or what the advance had been, or any of the things an excited and proud parent would ask. She was excited for Kate, and proud. Wasn’t she? She didn’t even know why, but all she wanted to do was take her leave.

  “Well,” said Birdie after an awkward moment of silence passed between them. “I’ll go see to the boat.”

  “You do that,” said Kate.

  Kate looked more like Caroline than she did like Birdie, which made an odd kind of sense, since Kate had always preferred her aunt’s company to her mother’s. She was pretty the way Caroline was, with an upturned nose and pink cheeks, full lips. Birdie searched for something else to say. What would Caroline have said? Something gushing and effusive, something kind. But Birdie found herself, as usual, lost to bridge the distance she felt between herself and her children. Her cup sat untouched on the tray.

  Kate turned her gaze back from the window. “Call if you need help,” she said.

  “Why would I need your help?” Birdie said. She got up quickly and pulled on her jacket. She hadn’t meant it the way it came out. She’d meant that she could handle it, as she had since she was a child. And just because she was older, she was no less capable than she’d been once. But the words, the sharp tone, the misunderstood meaning all hung in the air between them, and she wouldn’t clarify. She shouldn’t have to.

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” said Kate.

  Her daughter turned away again, picked up a magazine, and started flipping through the pages. Birdie hastened from the room.

  chapter seventeen

  Emily remembered that both visits had been around this time of year, in the waning days of summer when it was still hot, before the leaves started to turn. As a girl, she’d always suffered motion sickness. She was queasy in the backseat, even with all the windows open and the clean air rushing through. She remembered vomiting in the car.

  But that wasn’t what she remembered most. Most of all, she remembered him and the way her mother was someone all new when he was with them. When he was around, her mother smiled and laughed like a girl. He wore a shiny gold ring on his left hand, and a thick gold bracelet. He didn’t smell like the other men she knew, who all smelled like cigarettes and booze. He smelled like perfume. That’s the smell of money, honey, her mother told her when she mentioned it. Lots and lots of money.

  His skin was always richly tanned, and his eyes were a smiling, sparkling sea green. Where’s my little Em? he’d call, and she’d run to him. He’d lift Emily high in the air as if she weighed nothing, and then he’d hold her tight. How old was she when she last saw him? The last time he took her there? Maybe she was four or five? And that last time, something happened. Something awful. She couldn’t remember quite what—there were raised voices, the sound of something thrown and shattered. After that, she never saw her father again. He doesn’t want us, Emily, her mother told her. He never wants to see us again.

  Since Emily never heard another word from him, not another phone call, no cards or gifts, she had no reason not to believe that. He was the sandman, appearing to her as a bright and silvery memory right before she’d fall asleep. Just a dream she had.

  There were other men in her mother’s life. They were
always fine. Emily didn’t have any horror stories to tell about abuse. But they were stick figures that came and went, leaving behind nothing except a few awkward snapshots and cheap dolls she hadn’t wanted in the first place.

  “We have to get rid of the car,” said Dean.

  They’d been driving for so long. The motel where they’d left Brad was in New Jersey somewhere. They had just entered a town called The Hollows, where they’d stopped to get gas, and food at a McDonald’s drive-through.

  “They’ll be looking for it,” he added.

  She’d already thought of this but hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want to steal a car, which was what they’d have to do if they wanted to keep running. And wasn’t there part of her that was hoping they’d get caught, that all of this would soon be over? She’d thought the drive-through girl had looked at them oddly. She wondered if there was some kind of bulletin out. But then she realized that the girl must have been looking at her swollen jaw. She’d covered it self-consciously with her hand, and the girl looked away.

  Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I saw a nice one back there.”

  “No,” she said. “Keep driving. If we steal a car from someone’s house, they’ll report it. Then the police will be looking for that car. They’ll find the Mustang nearby, and they’ll know it was us. Better to steal one from a parking lot somewhere. Right?”

  She thought it was logical, but Dean looked at her uncertainly. What did she know about stealing cars? Or what the police would be looking for?

  On the radio, they heard that the police didn’t know who had robbed the Blue Hen and killed the young employee, leaving the owner in critical condition. The security camera had captured two masked men entering the back door and leaving, carrying a young woman from the restaurant. They thought she was a hostage. Carol obviously hadn’t emerged from her coma to tell them differently. And Angelo wouldn’t be telling anyone anything ever again.