A Summer Remade (11 page)

“You disappeared on everyone. No one knows what you’re thinking.”

“That’s not true, Drew—”

“Has known you for all of three weeks. I’ve known you since fourth grade.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The question is so soft, yet it’s loud with emotion. “Because then I’d have to face it.” I’m shocked I’ve admitted this so freely, but I shouldn’t be. What Drew’s helped me come to terms with in the last three weeks could be classified as miraculous.

“Yes, but out of the four of us, I get it, you know? You were there for me when my parents went through their divorce. You made me cards and drew me pictures and invited me to sleepovers at your house constantly. I know we aren’t kids anymore, but I can still be there for you. All of us can be, if you let us.” She pauses again, and I blink quickly to avoid the spill-over of pooling tears. “I’m glad you’ve had Drew this month, really I am. But he can’t replace a lifetime of friendships. He can’t replace two loving parents. And you shouldn’t want him to.”

She’s right; I hate that she’s right. My bottom lip trembles as I open my eyes and exhale. “I miss you.”

“If I could be there with you I would be. You know that, right?”

“I know it. I love you, Syd.”

“Ditto.”

I hang up the phone and power it down to conserve the rest of my battery life. Drew waves and I join him again on the plaid blanket he swiped from Grandma Culver’s sofa.

“Everything, okay?” He lifts his eyes to mine while two blonde boys, each no older than seven, sit on the edge of our quilted perimeter. Looks like they settled on a game of Go Fish.

I sit, loop my arm through his, and lay my head on his shoulder. “Perfect.”

He kisses the top of my head, anxiety leaving me like sand through a sieve.

We stay this way long after the last of the fireworks have exploded. Long after the last family has packed up. Long after the moon and stars have reclaimed the night sky.

On our slow walk back to the Culver’s dock, Drew kisses my cheek. The way he’s done at least a dozen times since we left the beach. And not even the blisters forming on the back of my heels can kill the joy I feel just by being near him. I’d walk all night long if it meant random kisses from him.

We reach the trail that forks at the Culver’s dock. He grips my waist, and I take several calculated steps backward on the path that leads to my cabin. It sits, perched like a lighthouse at the top of the trailhead. Ever since the showings began, I’ve kept the lights on, hoping to avoid random knocks on the door or peeks through the windows.

“We should say goodnight,” I say.

“Go ahead. Say it.” He continues walking, hands steering my hips.

We’re only a few yards out from the back of my cabin.

“No,
you
say it.”

Drew laughs, the curve of his lips teasing me to join in the fun. “Nope.”

“You’re so stubborn.” I stop walking and place both my sandaled-feet on top of his. Drew is not deterred. He continues forward, carrying me with him as he steps. My laughter echoes through the dense forest around us.

“Stop!” I wheeze, clutching his biceps for balance. “You’re never going to wake up in time for your run tomorrow.” Something cold and wet tracks down my scalp. I hold my palm out to the sky. A raindrop. The old man was right. “And now it’s raining!”

Drew kisses my left temple and then my right. “You’re worth the lack of sleep. And rain’s never bothered me.”

“You’re crazy,” I whisper against his mouth as several more drops land on our heads and shoulders and backs.

“It would seem that way.”

He kisses my mouth once more and I sigh into it, wrap my arms around his neck, and wish I could stay like this all night. “Goodnight, Island Boy.”

“Let me walk you to the front door.”

The rain falls harder, thumping against the ground, releasing the scent of pine and bark and fresh, rich soil. “No, Drew.” My meaning is clear. Not tonight. I’m not clear-headed enough to keep him on the front porch.

Drew buries his head into curve of my neck, his damp hair against my skin causes me to shiver. “Text me before you fall asleep, okay?”

“Okay.” My heartbeat’s in my throat when he lifts his head again to search my eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I slip out from his hold and continue up the path, one slow backward step at a time. I want to see him until the last possible second. Drew doesn’t move, not even as the night’s drizzle turns into a pounding onslaught of rain.

“Lock the door behind you!” He calls after me.

At the front corner of the house, I turn and scurry up the porch steps.

I dig in my pocket for my key, but before I can grasp it, before I can recognize the sound of a turning deadbolt or notice the parked vehicle that sits off to the right of the driveway, I’m staring into the eyes of my unresolved past.

“Hello, Joslyn. Nice of you to join us.”

‡

I
can’t help
but compare the fresh facelift of the summer cabin to the angry scowls of its inhabitants. My parents stand in the center of the living room, arms crossed over their chests, mouths turned down into half-moons. My arms hang loosely at my sides, hands numb and heavy. And for a moment, I forget how to speak.

They’re here. Together. At the cabin.

These phrases cycle through my mind a dozen times until my dad’s frown morphs into a lecture I can easily recall from my teenage years.

“Why are you getting home so late?”

Only I’m not fifteen anymore, and I no longer have a curfew. I shake my head, willing a boldness into my voice that might over-compensate for the weariness in my limbs. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We own this cabin, Joslyn,” my mother says, her eyes sleep-heavy, her mascara smudged. “It’s after one in the morning. We’ve been waiting for you for hours, calling you over and over.”

But my phone is a dead lump in my back pocket.

My eyes skirt the living room, searching for something that might make their surprise visit feel less like an invasion and more like a homecoming. But the sting of the surreal only intensifies as my eyes hone in on the photographs. There, strewn about the floor, are the snapshots once stored inside a familiar hand-crafted chest.

I can’t stop the gasp that escapes from my throat or the tears that burn hot behind my eyelids. All of my childhood memories are on display. Pieces of paper that could easily rip or tear or smudge—all reminders of a past determined as inconsequential by the very people standing in this room.

My dad says something, or maybe several somethings, but the drumbeat inside my ears drowns him out.

“What are you doing with these? Why are they out of the chest?” A rescue mission to reclaim these treasured pictures consumes me as I push past them. Shrugging off my wet jacket, I pick them up, one by one by one. I press the photos to my dry, warm chest.

“Joss, sit down. We drove a long way to see you, and now we’re forced to take tomorrow’s early morning ferry.”

My head snaps up at the use of we. “Together? You drove here together?” I snatch up another collection of photos, of birthday cake wishing and Christmas card posing.

“No. Your mother’s car is parked at the ferry dock. I just drove her to the cabin.”

Figures. The ride to the cabin from the ferry dock is less than ten minutes. Last time we were all together like this in mom’s condo they lasted about twelve minutes before the bickering began.

“Sit down, please.” The strain in my mother’s tired voice tugs at the child inside me. I obey.

My parents move to sit on opposite sides of the sofa while I refuse to get comfortable. I perch on the arm of a chair across from them. My right foot ticks uncontrollably, my cramped fingers still clutching the hope of my youth.

“This has got to end, Joss.” The rational father I’ve grown up with is back, a calm descending over him despite the charge in the air. “You can’t go days or weeks without returning our calls. We need to know you’re doing okay. With all of this.”

I clench my teeth together so hard my jaw aches.

He continues, “Our divorce isn’t about you. We want to make that very clear.”

So much for my resolve to stay silent. “Not about me?”

“You know what I mean. This is a choice we’ve made. It will affect you, but it’s not
because
of you.”

“Those lines were blurred a long time ago, Dad.”

My mother’s worn-out eyes find mine. “It may feel like all this happened once you moved out, but the truth is we had problems even before you were born.”

“You don’t think I know that?” I stand, my frazzled nerves causing me to move. “I might have been young, but I wasn’t hard of hearing.”

My father’s shoulders slump forward. “Then you know this decision has been a long time coming.”

If his words are meant to bring comfort, they don’t. Instead, they confirm the very truth I’ve wanted to deny: That all the fleeting moments of happiness and laughter and smiles were fake. A failure.

The ache in my ribcage presses against my diaphragm, my next breath labored and heavy. “Why?” It’s all I can get out because the sentences that are meant to follow refuse to be spoken: Why did you ever believe a baby would fix your problems? Why can’t you fall in love again? Try harder? Why does following your future have to mean giving up my family?

I peel the stack of pictures away from my chest and hold them out, the image on top shattering my heart one fragment at a time. “Was all this a lie?”

Silence creeps into the space between us as I flash a picture. My parents and I are playing together on a beach. I flick it off the top with my thumb and watch as it falls. I imagine the fluttering paper smashed by an anvil, the weight of twenty years lost. “Or this one? Or maybe this one?”

My first day of second grade.

My dad and I in his workshop.

My mom’s fortieth surprise party at her favorite restaurant.

I flick and flick and flick till every memory falls dead at my feet. A littering of lies.

“No…” My mom cradles her head in her hands, her words on the trail of sobs. “We’ve tried. We’ve been to four different marriage counselors, attended group meetings, read book after book.” She shakes her head, tears falling freely. “We just can’t do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore. This decision is ours, Joss, and so is the blame.” She takes a breath and meets my eyes. “But those pictures, those memories of us as a family, I will always cherish.”

I can’t remember the last time I saw my dad cry or if I’ve ever seen him cry. But right now, his eyes are misty and red-rimmed. He stands and walks toward me. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry we’ve made you question everything, even your childhood. We never wanted to hurt you, but we know we have.”

I’m swallowed up in his embrace, and the little girl inside me weeps at the comfort I find in my father’s arms.

There’s a new touch on my back. Cold, skinny fingers I’d recognize anywhere, rub a circle at the nape of my neck. My mom.

“I’m sorry too, baby. We don’t want to lose you. We can’t lose you.”

I nod into my father’s plaid shirtfront, his spicy cologne of cinnamon and cedar drawing out another round of fresh tears.

“We love you, Joss. That’s never been up for debate.”

I sniffle and wipe my snotty nose on my shirtsleeve. “I love you too. Both of you. But I still hate this.” And I do hate it. Yet this decision has never been in my control. Not as a child. And not now as an adult.

I hear the old family therapist’s words again. “I am not responsible for my parents’ marriage.” And this time I believe her.

“I know. I know there will be lots of changes to come, but we’re committed to you, even though we’re not committed to each other in the same way we used to be,” my mother says through tears.

My father kisses the top of my head. “She’s right. We’ll always be committed to you.”

“Then I want a say in holiday plans and family gatherings. I don’t want to be some pre-scheduled mark on your calendars. I’m old enough to decide where I want to go, and when.”

“Fair enough,” Dad says.

“And I’m changing my major to interior design.” It’s the first time I’ve spoken it aloud to anyone, the first time I’ve been brave enough to acknowledge my secret desire. My dream.

I wait for an argument, but neither of my parents appears to be shocked or even…disappointed.

“Good. That’s the right choice for you,” my mom says.

“It is,” my father adds, but as his eyes scan the room of he cabin, I know that’s not the last of what he’s about to say. There’s more.

I take a step back. “What about the cabin?”

“We received a full cash offer today,” my mom answers. “That’s another the reasons we came tonight. We know you’re very attached to this place, and your dad thought it would be best if we didn’t tell you over the phone.”

I close my eyes. Tears pool at the corners of my mouth. This is the taste of sorrow. This is the taste of letting go. Acceptance is so much easier when it’s far away.

“The furniture and appliances will stay, but we can haul anything else you want back with us tomorrow morning.”

I pull away slightly, look at them both as a new thought beats into my brain. “When do I have to be out?”