Beach Glass (30 page)

WHEN MY DAUGHTER was born, she looked exactly like Carson. Milk chocolate hair, big bright eyes, a smile that could light my way home. But her features were delicate, feminine. Each day she grew to look more like me, as though my presence and his absence shaped her appearance.

But he’s there in Amanda. I see him in her ecstatic delight and in the look of indignant surprise on her face when someone says she can’t have something.

“That isn’t a hereditary trait,” my mother says. “Not like the shape of a nose.”

But as I watch my nine-month-old’s look of outrage over being told she can’t be a baby daredevil and attempt to walk down the stairs without holding Mommy’s hand, I know where she gets this.

I see Carson most clearly in Amanda’s eyes. Her baby blues quickly turned to a sun-drenched green, a pair of bright emeralds that I could get lost in forever.

BETHY TELLS ME a lot of new mothers stop looking in the mirror for the first year or so. With a baby to care for, she said, brushing your teeth is considered a beauty routine. But I haven’t looked at myself for the better part of a year for a different reason.

When I was in Costa Rica, I felt ripe. I glowed. I was tan. I was fit. I rose with the sun. I walked barefoot and half-naked on land, breathing cool, fresh air. In the ocean, I swam like a mermaid and made love with a sea prince. This is the way I want to remember myself, the way Carson saw me.
Kate.

One day, I see a woman with a stroller on the street. She’s youngish but puckered, as though some of the life has been sucked out of her. Her hair is pulled back from her pale face in a haphazard ponytail, and she has no makeup on. She’s wearing an oversized surf company T-shirt and yoga pants, but it’s apparent from her skinny-flabby tone that she hasn’t done yoga in ages. The bright spot here is her baby, who is carefully dressed in bright tropical colors and happily kicking her feet in the stroller. I feel for this sad woman, until I realize I’m looking in a mirrored shop window. Then I feel worse.

Anyone looking at me probably sees a typically exhausted new mother. But now my fantasy self is shattered, and I see what I really am: a thirty-one year old widow, nearly destroyed by the loss of her beautiful child’s father.

I turn the stroller around and crouch down to face Amanda. “I owe you a better mommy, Peanut,” I say. “I checked out for a while, and I’ll tell you why some day. But I’m not leaving you. I love you,” I say through a tight throat, but I won’t cry anymore. Not the way I did when I looked at Amanda’s newly green eyes and had to hand her to my mother so I could go weep. No. I smile for her, determined to be the strong, brave, fearless woman her father fell in love with.

I have to swim.

PART OF MY better mommy deal is making an effort to look, if not good, at least human. I have to start out small because the effort is almost superhuman, but by Friday, when the town car comes to my apartment to take Amanda and me to Long Island for our regular weekends with the Wakefields, I’ve managed to put on a decent pink summer dress and brush my hair, even put on a little lip gloss. Hey, it’s something.

“Look, Amanda, it’s Grandpa Rich!” I say as the impressive front door of the Wakefield mansion swings open.

Richardson Wakefield’s arms are outstretched to take her. “Who’s my girl?” he coos. “Who’s my grandbaby?” She giggles as he tickles her with kisses. “Hello, my dear,” he says to me as I reach up to kiss his cheek. “Just us for lunch. Chandler and Blaire are out shopping.”

“More stuff for college?”

He nods. “And more volleyball equipment. Olympic trials start soon.”

I grin at him. “Think we’ll have a champion in the family?”

Richardson smiles, but there’s such sadness at the edges. “She won’t be the first.”

WE SIT OUTSIDE on the veranda overlooking the dark green lawn that leads to the hedge maze. My mind walks down the aisles until I can relive my kiss with Carson at the center of it. Memories like this bring on a now-familiar mix of joy and ache.

“Kate.” Richardson rescues me just as the memory turns painful. “I met with my accountants yesterday. They gave me an update on the funds Carson left for you in his will.”

I sigh, bracing myself, because I hate even thinking about the money Carson left me.

“You haven’t touched a dime of it, Kate,” Richardson says. “Why?”

Trying for nonchalance to hide the truth, I answer, “I don’t need it. I still have some royalty money from my book.” I’m hoping he doesn’t ask me to tell him how much, or, to be more accurate, how little. And I haven’t worked since
 . . .
I haven’t worked in a long time.

Richardson studies my face for a moment. Then he says, as gently as possible, “Kate, I know why you don’t want to use the money. The only reason it’s there is because he isn’t.”

For a moment, I’d forgotten who I was dealing with. Richardson Wakefield did not get to be the head of a billion-dollar media empire by buying up bull. “I understand why you don’t want to use the money, Kate,” he continues when I stay quiet. “That’s why I’m buying you an apartment in Manhattan.”

“What? Richardson, I can’t let you buy me an apartment.”

But Carson’s father, who always seems to enjoy referring to himself as my father-in-law, and acting as one, is shaking his head. “Your apartment is too small for a woman with a growing child. And I checked out the schools in your neighborhood. They’re all right, I suppose, but one could do better, if one had the means.” He looks at me pointedly. “One has the means. Therefore,” he continues, “Blaire found you a very nice apartment in Manhattan, in TriBeCa. Modest,” he assures me, “only four bedrooms, but you’ll get by. It’s near the Horton Academy for Girls, where Chandler went from pre-kindergarten through grade school.” He strokes Amanda’s curls, which are like mine but the color of Carson’s hair. “I’ve instructed the family accountants to add your monthly bills to ours, which will be automatically paid by our bank. That way, you won’t have to touch Carson’s trust fund. You can make it a trust fund for our little girl here,” he says, kissing the top of Amanda’s head.

I’m speechless. I feel like I’ve been run over by a benevolent freight train. Richardson reminds me of someone else who used to make big decisions that affected me, but with no input from me. My mouth curls on one side. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to argue.”

Richardson shakes his head slowly. “I will admit,” he says softly, “to being somewhat self-serving in this gesture.”

“How do you mean?”

My father-in-law holds his granddaughter on his lap tentatively, as though he’s doing something he has no right to enjoy. Amanda twists around and hugs him. He smiles gamely at her, but he looks at me with tears in his eyes. “I was not a good father to my children, Kate. I thought that by giving them all of this, I was being a good father. I wanted the best for them, but I gave them the worst of me.” He looks weary. “I can’t change the past. My son was lost to me in life, and now he’s gone. Chandler, well, we may one day be close.” He takes a deep breath. “My granddaughter gives me a chance to be good. I know money can’t replace love, but it has its uses. Amanda will have everything. But most especially, she will have family.”

He’s changed so much, Carson’s father. At the memorial service, I wasn’t sure how either of us would ever emerge from the darkness of loss, how we could find which way was up and swim for the sunlight. Then, Amanda came and saved us.

“Carson would have been so happy to see this,” I say, gesturing to Richardson holding Amanda. “And Amanda needs her Grandpa Rich.”

He gives me a long look of gratitude. “Then please, Kate. Let me take care of you. Let me do right by my family.”

We are both on the edge of tears. I get up from my chair and put my arms around his neck. “Thank you. Thank you for being a good grandpa and a wonderful father-in-law.”

He nods and quickly wipes his eyes. Then he asks, “Is there something else I can do, Kate? Anything you and Amanda might need, or want?”

My gaze wanders toward the hedge maze again. As powerful as Richardson Wakefield is, he can’t give me the only thing I want. But then an idea comes as though someone whispered it in my ear. “There is something,” I say. “Something Carson would have wanted Amanda to have.”

That night, we sit down to an informal dinner, not at the grand dining table, but on the veranda, overlooking the beach. Richardson grills lobster and corn on the cob, and Chandler tells us excitedly about the college classes she’ll be taking, and Blaire and Richardson take turns holding Amanda, who finds lobster claws hilarious. Before dessert is served, the butler comes to whisper in Richardson’s ear.

Richardson stands and proposes a toast. We raise our glasses to Amanda Carson Wakefield McNamara, who has become the very young owner of her first piece of real estate. A small, pristine, perfect stretch of beach, with champagne-colored sand and trees in every shade of emerald, along the bluest coast of Costa Rica. It’s so well hidden that even the locals have no name for it.

I know it as Heaven.

A WEEK LATER, my mother, Vic, Amanda, and I all head out west to spend August in California with Bethy, Ray, and Celia. As schoolteachers, Mom and Vic have the summer off, but on the plane they start talking about retirement. They discuss places they might want to visit, their heads together as they page through an airline magazine. They make me smile.

The plane trip, which has Amanda very excited, is where she decides to say her first real word. “Mama,” she says, patting my cheek. She says it again after I squeal with delight. “Mama!”

Joy. It’s different now, but these moments, they make me live.

It’s not very long after that first word that Amanda follows it up with another. This one, though, is phrased as a question. “Dada?”

She was listening intently when her cousin Celia called Ray “Daddy.” The kids in her playgroup at home have daddies, too, sometimes even two of them. The men in her life go by other names. Grandpa Vic, Grandpa Rich, Uncle Ray. “Dada?” she asks again, knowing that someone’s missing.

I pull out my phone and scroll to a photo I’ve stared at so long I know it better than my own emotion-changed face. “Here’s Mama, on her first day surfing,” I say, pointing to a woman I used to be. Then I point to Carson, eternally bathed in adoring sunlight. “Dada.”

Amanda puts her hand on the photo then looks at me. She frowns for a moment and asks the single-word question again.
Where is my father?

I TAKE AMANDA to the beach, just the two of us. The early morning sun glitters on the waves, and we have a whole stretch of sand to ourselves.

“Peanut, I don’t know how to explain this so you’ll understand,” I say. “I’ll tell you the truth someday when you’re older. But for now, this will have to do.”

I have two very different parental role models to draw on here. I think of what my mother would say and reject it immediately. Way too blunt, and a one-year-old won’t understand a flat statement like
Your father died
. Nope, best to channel Dad here.

“See the ocean, Peanut?” Amanda looks where I’m pointing, at the water. “Daddy lives there now.”

She turns back to me, confused. She’s got the same look on her face I probably had when my dad said he was moving across the country. Why would a father who loved his daughter live so far away from her?

“See, Mommy was a mermaid once,” I say, “and Daddy was a sea prince.”

Amanda frowns. She may be little, but she knows nonsense when she hears it.

“Okay, the fairytale option’s not working for you. You’re too smart for your own good, Peanut.” I sigh. “Let’s try this.”

I reach into my bag and take out a small, creamy conch shell and hand it to Amanda. “This is a special mermaid cell phone that your daddy gave me,” I say. “He has to live in the ocean now, but you can call him whenever you want and talk to him. Listen.” I put the shell up to her ear. Amanda looks at me with a surprised face—
Oh!—
that quickly turns into a grin. Her eyes, so like his, sparkle with joy.

Amanda plays with the shell for a while, listening intently, making little noises in response. Then she pushes herself up to a standing position and, after getting used to the texture of the wet sand, takes a few steps away. For someone new to walking, she’s good; the way she finds her equilibrium reminds me of Carson balancing on the board as the waves carried him. I walk behind her, probably less steady than she is.

At the water’s edge, she bends down to pick something up. “Whatcha got there, Peanut?” I say.

She hands me a piece of green beach glass. Its once-sharp edges have been worn smooth from tumbling in endless tides, being rolled around in life’s surf, emerging as a polished gem.

A gift, perhaps, from her father.