Nantucket Blue (17 page)

ZACK HAD TO HAVE SEEN THE PAPER.
It was everywhere on this island.
T
he
Inquirer and
Mirror
, with Jay’s and my picture on the front page, would not go unnoticed, not in a million years.

After the birthday party, after I’d forced myself to eat a piece of cake and smile and thank everybody for celebrating with me, I decided to go for a run. Liz had made pointed eye contact with me throughout the party. She kept pinching my thigh and asking me if I felt different. I’d managed to nod and give her a thumbs-up and even laugh a little, but it had taken all of my strength.

I didn’t want to talk to her about what had happened anymore. I didn’t even want to try to get her on my side. I wasn’t even on my side. Why would she be? What I had done to Jules, losing my virginity to her little brother only a few months after her mom died, was terrible. And kissing Jay, while it had seemed innocent at the time, even
produc
tive
in some way, had been a huge betrayal of Zack’s trust. How would I have felt if I saw a picture of Zack kissing another girl on the very same night we’d had sex? Horrible. Miserable. Pissed. I clutched my stomach as though I were swallowing poison, not buttercream frosting. Thankfully, Shane wanted to take Liz surfing, and she never said no to surfing with Shane. So when the party ended, I could just drop the charade and remove the happy mask.

I was too anxious to stay inside. I was too anxious to merely walk. I needed to run. I needed to sprint. I needed to work up a salty sweat and hear my feet pound the pavement and feel the sun searing the back of my neck. I needed to feel my heart pump blood and my breath get ragged and scratchy in my lungs. I needed to jump into the depths of the cold Atlantic Ocean. I needed to plunge my head under the water, open my mouth, and scream so loud the ferries rocked.

I put on my sports bra and bikini bottoms under shorts and a T-shirt and laced up my sneakers tight. I slipped my ponytail through a Red Sox hat that had been lingering in the lost and found for three weeks, and pulled the brim low over my eyebrows. I jogged out of town on Centre Street to Cliff Road.

I was halfway to the beach when I saw the red Volvo coming toward me. That was Parker’s car! Quills of panic pierced my stomach. I bet Parker knew everything. I bet Jules had told her. Parker was confident, fearless, and mean. And she was driving fast. I stopped and turned away from the road, wishing I had a shell to hide under. Was Jules in the car? Was Zack? I tried to make it look like I was tying my shoe. I was shaking, practically hyperventilating.

What had happened back in Providence was an accident. I thought I was doing the right thing by speaking at Nina’s memorial service. I had stood up and spoken with the best of intentions. And no matter what Jules thought, I’d followed her out to Nantucket out of love for her. But what had happened last night was no accident. And kissing Jay wasn’t a mistake, either. I’d kissed him back.

I heard the Volvo slow and I squeezed my eyes shut, covering my face in some primal pose of protection. I heard a window roll down. My heart was knocking desperately against my ribs. “Are you okay?” someone asked. It wasn’t Parker and Jules in the Volvo, but a grandma and grandpa. “Do you need some help, sweetheart?”

“Just a runner’s cramp,” I said, catching my breath. “I’m okay.” I stood up.

“You’re positively crimson. And probably dehydrated.” The woman handed me an Evian. “It’s too hot for running. Do you want a ride somewhere?”

“No. No, thank you,” I said, taking the chilled bottle. They drove off.

It wasn’t Parker, but I couldn’t seem to transmit this message from my brain to the rest of my body. I was shaking. My legs felt like jelly. I couldn’t seem to fill my lungs with the air they needed. I wanted to get back to the inn, turn off the lights, and hide under the covers in my little room with the rose wallpaper and the slanted ceiling. How was I going to get there if I couldn’t walk, if I couldn’t even breathe?

“I’m taking a few days off,” I said to Gavin the next morning. He was sitting at the reception desk, penciling something into the giant reservation book. “I think Bernadette can cover for me.”

“What?” he said with a furrowed brow. He sounded annoyed for the first time since I’d met him. “You know, usually you try to arrange someone to cover for you
before
you announce that you’re taking time off.”

“I’m really sorry, but it’s a family emergency.” This wasn’t a lie. This did feel like an emergency. Hot tears pricked my eyes.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. I nodded, unable to speak. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. I’d called Dad last night and he was still willing to fly me back to Providence for Alexi’s birthday party. He booked me on a flight that would land in Providence at three thirty. I’d be at his house by four o’clock. I wanted to get off this island as soon as possible. They call Nantucket the faraway island. It’s so self-contained that it really can make you feel like you’re in an enchanted, distant world, that some magical mist separates you from reality. But it can also make you feel trapped and isolated. I wanted to get out of there.

“Cricket,” Gavin called as I walked down the hall. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, without looking at him. “I’ll only be gone for two days.” I’d already hurt and pissed off so many people, what was one more lie?

“You look like hell,” George said when I went to tell him that I’d be gone for a few days. George’s leg was healed, he was off his crutches, and he was almost done with the book. He really didn’t need me anymore.

“It’s a family emergency,” I said. That phrase had stopped Gavin from asking more questions, and it had the same effect on George.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” George said. “Is there anything I can do?” I shook my head. “Okay. Well, you’ll be back by the weekend, right?”

“I think,” I said, looking at the carpet.

“Because I was hoping you’d do an interview for me.”

“For the book?” He nodded. For one quick second I wasn’t thinking about Zack or Jules. “Like, a real live journalist interview?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “A real live journalist interview.”

“Who would I interview?”

“Paul Morgan. He’s a friend of your mom’s, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been going through my notes, and his name comes up more than once. I think he and Boaty were pretty good friends at one point. He might have some unexpected treasure for me.”

“How will I know what to ask?” I wanted to get out of there, but it would have been a shame to miss out on this. It was my chance to really be a part of the book.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “That is, if you think you’ll have time to do it.”

“FIRST OF ALL,
thank you so much for meeting me,” I said to Paul Morgan. I’d called him right from the annex, and he’d agreed to meet with me the next morning before my flight. We were sitting in the living room of his house on Union Street. It had wooden floors and a mix of antique furniture and modern things. There were some paintings of boats on the walls, framed nautical charts, and also the kind of unexpected things that Nina would’ve picked out. A bright red rocking chair. A poster from a theater festival in France. The guy had style. Mom would like this place, I thought. I scanned the mantelpiece for pictures of a wife and family, but only saw people who looked like friends. I think it was safe to say that Paul Morgan was single.

“Oh, I’m happy to do it,” Paul said. “My schedule on Nantucket is very open.”

“Well, I really appreciate it. I know your time is valuable.” I was remembering what George said about being polite. He told me how important it was to make the interviewees comfortable so that they’ll reveal their own stories, hand them over like the keys to their house. George said that a lot of journalists were jerks in the way that they tried to get information. They tried to catch people off guard and make them uncomfortable, but George’s philosophy was the opposite.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to record this,” I said, and pressed the screen of my iPad. The chair I sat in was so big that I needed to sit on the very edge of it for my feet to touch the ground.

“I don’t mind a bit,” he said, laughing a little. “I’ve got nothing to hide. So, you’re writing a book about Boaty Carmichael?”

“No,
I’m
not,” I said. My brow furrowed. He thought that this was some kind of school project. “George Gust the journalist is.”

“George Gust the journalist?”

“He writes for
The New York Times
and
The New Yorker
,” I said. George had only been published once in
The New
Yorker
, but it sounded so impressive to me. “The book is being published by Random House. It will be out in the spring.” Paul Morgan nodded, making the “I’m impressed” frown. “I’m his intern,” I continued, “and he thought since you were a
special friend
of my mother’s that it would be okay if I interviewed you.” I watched his face closely as I said “special friend.” Sure enough, his eyes twinkled. More on this later, I thought. Even if I didn’t come back to Nantucket, it didn’t mean I couldn’t arrange a meeting with Paul and Mom somewhere else. In Boston, maybe.

“Well, what would you like to know?” he asked, and clapped his hands once.

“I guess I’d like to know about any particularly fond memories of Boaty.”

“Well, let’s see. I met Boaty the summer after college. I’ve been coming here all my life, but it was Boaty’s first summer on the island. After a month, he knew everyone. He was very charming. My own mother had a crush on him. I remember him bringing her a birthday present, and forget it, it’s like he was already building his campaign. He had her vote for life.”

“What was the present?”

“A bottle of Oil of Olay!” he said, as if he were realizing for the first time how funny that was. We both laughed. “He was kind of a hick when I first met him, but, boy, he got savvy fast.”

And we were off. Paul settled back in his chair and spoke of a sailing trip they went on, and how Boaty made the best ham-and-pickle sandwich in the world by slipping potato chips under white bread slathered with yellow mustard, and the bonfire beach parties that lasted until dawn. George was right. People liked to talk. I looked at the grandfather clock. An hour had gone by, and with the exception of a few questions asking Paul to elaborate or “tell me more about that,” I’d hardly been able to get a word in. It was almost time for me to go. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten anything out of him that we’d be able to use, but my plane was leaving in a few hours and I needed to wrap it up.

“Thank you so much,” I said at the first awkward silence. “This was very helpful.” I closed my notebook and shut off my iPad.

“So,” Paul said, gripping the edges of his armchair, “your mother and father must be so proud of you, an intern for a journalist and you’re not even out of high school. Are they planning on visiting you?”

“I’m trying to convince my mother,” I said. “But they won’t come together. They’re divorced.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said.

“It happens, I guess.”

“If your mother visits, I’d love to take you two out to dinner.”

“I’ll pass along the message.”

He smiled at me warmly as he stood from his chair and walked me to the door. I trailed him through the kitchen with the speckled floor and the old-fashioned-looking sink. Blue and white dishes were stacked on open shelves. Lemon-yellow curtains billowed in the breeze. I could definitely see Mom in this kitchen, if she would only give it a chance.

“Oh, here’s a detail you might like,” he said. “Everyone thought Boaty got his nickname because he loved boats so much.”

“Yeah, there’s a story that as a toddler he made a boat out of a laundry basket and insisted on sleeping in it,” I said. Paul opened the front door and we stepped onto the porch into the perfect Nantucket morning—warm, breezy, sweet-smelling.

“That may be true,” Paul Morgan said, “but that’s not how he got his name.”

“Oh. How’d he get it?”

“His little brother gave it to him. He had a big birthmark in the shape of a boat, on his lower back.” I smiled and made a note in my notebook. This was exactly the kind of detail that George was after. I’d succeeded after all!

“You look just like your mother when you smile,” he said. “I bet you’re a real heartbreaker.”

You have no idea, I thought as I shook his hand and thanked him one last time.
You have no idea.

DAD PLANTED A KISS
on my forehead when I stepped out of the cab. He handed the driver some money and took my duffel bag. There were bunches of balloons tied to the porch railing. In front of the house hung a big colorful banner that spelled out
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALEXI
! in primary colors.

“Hi, Dad.” I leaned into his shirt. He wrapped his arms around me and gave me a squeeze. This is what I’d needed. A Dad hug. I couldn’t exactly tell him what had happened (who wants to tell their dad the details of their love life?), but I was hoping he might be able to sense my wound and apply his special Dad Band-Aid. When I was little and I’d fallen down and scraped my knee, he would sweep me into his arms so fast that I’d actually forget to cry. The tears were coming now, so I squeezed him back, hard, hoping to make them stop.

I hadn’t told Mom I was coming home yet. I couldn’t take her sadness. It was so dark and deep, I was afraid, now more than ever, that it’d pull me in and I wouldn’t be able to get out. What if I was like her? What if I became permanently sad? What if the same cloud was destined to hover over my head?

Dad ended our hug with three pats on the back and guided me up the walkway. “Come on, the party is in full swing.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Your Aunt Phyllis is here,” he said. “And so is Uncle Rob.” I was about to ask why Aunt Phyllis, who lived in Maine and only visited at Christmas, was here in Providence, when Dad opened the gate to the backyard. There were llamas in my father’s backyard. Llamas! There were other animals, too. There was a sheep, a goat, and a pig—an entire petting zoo. There was one of those jumpy castles. There was a guy in overalls sitting on a bale of hay playing songs for kids. There was a popcorn maker, like the kind they have in movie theaters. And who were all these people? Was that a waitress serving the punch? The only thing that had come close to this was Mom’s fortieth birthday party, and even that hadn’t included a waitress.

“Oh my god, Dad. This is amazing. What’s all this for?”

“Alexi’s birthday,” he said. “He’s six!”

“It’s so cool that you did all this.”

“Well, it made Polly happy for me to make a big to-do,” Dad said, beaming. “And if Polly’s happy, I’m happy.” There was Polly in a sundress. She did look happy. Her hands were on Alexi’s shoulder. He was watching the guitar guy, riveted. Polly waved to me and I waved back.

“So, Dad, do you notice anything?” I asked, and twirled around in my new jeans.

“A haircut?” Dad asked.

“No! I’m wearing the jeans you got me. My Clovers!”

“Oh, do you like them?”

“I love them!”

“Good. Polly picked them out,” he said. I kept smiling, even as my thoughts were suddenly treading dark pathways. He hadn’t met the Great Birthday Challenge after all. Polly had chosen my present. He had given up on the very last year.

A woman I didn’t know approached us. She and Dad started talking about the special school Alexi was going to in the fall.

“Your father is an absolute saint,” the woman said to me. “An angel!”

“I know,” I said, my cheeks hurting from smiling. One of the goats bleated. Dad didn’t even like zoos. He was allergic to all animals.

“Go put your bag inside, honey, so you can enjoy the party,” he said, and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

“Okay.” I headed into the house. I put my bag in the kitchen and looked for a glass to fill with water. I couldn’t find the glasses. I didn’t know where they were kept. So I grabbed a mug and held it under the tap. As it filled, I looked out the kitchen window at Polly and Alexi.

I watched as Dad brought Polly a drink and put his arm around her. He tussled Alexi’s hair. Polly called Dad her “knight in shining armor,” her “dream guy.” And I got it now. He would do anything for them. He would turn his yard into a zoo. He
loves
them, I thought as I watched Polly lean on him. He
really loves
them.

I took a sip of water and found my hand shaking. Dad had traded Mom and me in for Polly and Alexi. We were out and they were in, and it was just our tough luck. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. Those people, those
strangers
, stole my family. I drank the water. Then I spotted an open bottle of wine. With a shaky hand, I filled the mug to the top and downed it in just a few swallows. My empty stomach seemed to curl around it. A scream sat at the bottom of my lungs, waiting, like a crocodile.

“Hey, honey, you find what you needed?” Dad asked as the screen door slammed behind him.

I turned around and crossed my arms, glaring at him.

“You okay?” Dad asked.

“Eighteen is a much bigger birthday than six,” I said. I hated how bratty I sounded, but the wine had gone straight to my head. I was dizzy and warm and certain I was right.

“Don’t tell me that you wanted a petting zoo, Cricket.” He was smiling, but he looked kind of scared. His eyes searched mine as if to ask,
“Are you joking?”

“You couldn’t pick something out for me, but you got Alexi a…a…farm festival?” My voice was shrill, loud. I could hear it, but I couldn’t stop it, like it was coming from a different person.

“I thought you liked the jeans.” He put a hand on my back. I recoiled from it like it was a hot iron.

“That’s not the point,” I said.

“Well, what
is
the point?” he asked.

“I wanted
you
to pick them out. Only you.”

“Well, Polly and I are a team now.”

A team? Barf. “You know, maybe if you’d done something like
this
for Mom she wouldn’t have gotten so depressed. But you never even tried.”

“Yes, I did,” he whispered.

“Not like this,” I said, pointing to the party outside. Tears sprang to my eyes. “You never tried
this
hard!”

“Oh, honey.” He opened his arms, but I took a quick step backward.

“Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you fight for us?” I pressed my fingertips to my chest so hard I left a red mark. Tears poured down my cheeks. I couldn’t catch my breath. Dad tried to hug me, but I sidestepped him, turned away, and gripped the counter. “I don’t even know why you love them. Polly’s not that great and Alexi isn’t even your kid. Who knows whose kid he really is.”

“Cricket, that’s enough,” Dad said. His voice was low and angry.

I turned around. Polly was standing there, covering her mouth.

“You need to leave,” Polly said. Dad wrapped his arms around her as if she were a little girl, as if she were his one and only daughter, as if she needed protection from some awful stranger who’d barged into their home.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said to Dad, pleading. My ears were ringing. “It’s not fair. I didn’t know she was there.”

“Go to your mom’s,” Dad said, shaking his head at me. “Just get your things and go to your mom’s.”

I grabbed my duffel bag and ran out the back door.

I was at the Claytons’ house in twenty minutes. Not the Nantucket house, but the real house. The Providence one. I knew where the key was hidden, under the stone mermaid in the backyard, and I knew the alarm code. I let myself in to the peacock-blue vestibule with the rustic coat rack and the dark wood table with the curvy silver bowl on it and the portrait of the woman with the green scarf.

I climbed the stairs, two at a time, and opened the door to Jules’s room, which was stuffy and hot, familiar and safe. I kicked off my shoes, threw off the quilted coverlet, and crawled under the sheets—the cool, beautiful sheets that Nina had brought back from Italy. Nina, I thought. Nina would’ve known what to say and how to make me feel better. She would’ve given me words to hold on to as the world swung around. “Nina,” I said aloud. “Please be a ghost, please be a ghost.” I kicked my legs against the mattress and waited for the lights to flash. I listened for the house to creek, for footsteps to land, or a window to fly open, for the stereo to blare. I waited for a chill to pass over me, for her presence to be made known, but there was nothing but silence. Dead, empty silence.

I’m eighteen, I told myself. This divorce stuff wasn’t supposed to bother me anymore. I was leaving for college next year. I’d even found a really nice guy for Mom. So why was I such a wreck? And why was this just sinking in? Why didn’t this happen right after the divorce? Or when Dad got remarried?

Zack. It was sinking in because I had fallen in love. This was the thing about feelings. They find each other. You let one in and others follow. I pulled the sheet over my head, curled myself into a cocoon, and let the tears fall until I was tired and ragged and my eyes were raw and my stomach muscles hurt. An hour passed, and then another, and then I fell asleep.

It was dusk when I woke up. The light switched on. Mom stood in the doorway.

“Cricket,” she said. She ran to the bed and opened her arms. “Oh, my sweetheart, I was so worried. Oh, my dear girl, here you are.” She wrapped her arms around me.

“Mom,” I said, and wept into her sweater. “Mom, I’m so alone.”

“No, you’re not. I’m right here.” And for the first time in I don’t know how long, I let her hold me. Really hold me. She smelled like Paul Mitchell shampoo and almond soap and a little bit like Cheerios. She smelled like home.