Nantucket Blue (3 page)

HOTEL HOUSEKEEPING HAD FOUND
Nina’s body. She’d had an aneurysm. (A freak thing; it can
just
happen
.) She died not long after eight o’clock, about the time we’d hung up the phone. Mr. Clayton didn’t tell me any of this that bright morning when I’d woken up earlier than Jules.

I’d been up for hours. While I was waiting for Jules to show signs of consciousness, for her eyes to blink open, her fists to uncurl, for that sudden intake of air that signaled her release from the depths of slumber, I made a list of the top five reasons I liked Jay.
First, he’s beautiful.
He has big dreamy eyes and the best boy butt I’ve ever seen.
Second,
he’s such a talented athlete.
He looks like some kind of warrior on the lacrosse field. He’s graceful and powerful at the same time. I think part of my attraction is some kind of primitive response to his potential ability to hunt food while I gather berries.
Third, I like the way he stands.
Okay, I know this is weird, but there’s something about it I just love. I can’t explain it.
Fourth, he has a cool family.
His mom is so pretty, with her long red hair that’s always a little messy in a way that makes her seem young, and his dad has cool old cars. Even though his brother is having a rough time, I bet he still has greatness in him. You can kind of see it when he’s walking around. His walk is still confident, even if some other part of him is shattered.
Fifth, Jay always sticks up for
his brother, so I know he’s a good guy with a real heart.
I know he’d be a great boyfriend.

At eleven o’clock, I finally kicked the covers off. I was hungry. I remembered dinner last night and grinned. The Nantucket invitation hadn’t been a dream, had it? No, it was real. It was real, and it was all ahead of me, sparkling like a distant city.

I hesitated at the top of the stairs. Usually, I’d hear kitchen sounds: the fridge opening or closing, the cutlery drawer sliding on its rails, newspaper pages turning and snapping, bare feet padding the blond planks of the wood floor. Usually, I’d smell coffee, cinnamon swirl bread in the toaster, maybe bacon, and feel the warm currents of energy that Nina emanated in the cotton pajama bottoms and Brown University T-shirt she slept in. But on that morning, the house felt the way the world does after it’s snowed all night: quiet, muffled, absent of sound. The air smelled like nothing. I went down anyway. Maybe they’d gone out?

I was so certain I was alone that I was talking to myself, replaying what Jay had said to me the night before. I was sitting on his lap in a lawn chair. “Do you even know how cute you are?” he’d asked, speaking into my neck, bouncing me slightly on his knee. “Do you?” I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone this without sounding like I was bragging, without it sounding stupid and possibly sexist. Edwina MacIntosh dedicated a section of her yearly “Critical Eye” lecture on gender and the media to slides of women in magazines acting sexy in little-girl poses. Those pictures were really messed up. I’d felt a little guilty when I’d sat on Jay’s lap like that, like I was disappointing Rosewood School for Girls. I couldn’t tell anyone that it had made me feel shy and pretty and powerful all at once.

Also, I couldn’t believe we hadn’t kissed. He and his friends started playing some drinking game, and none of them were hanging out with girls. Still, I reminded myself with a grin, he’d asked for my phone number. I’d watched him enter it into his phone.

It wasn’t until I’d pulled the bread out of the fridge that I’d turned and seen Mr. Clayton, a cup of to-go coffee in front of him, sitting as still and silent as the stone Abraham Lincoln in the memorial we’d visited on a class trip to Washington, D.C. He was fish-belly white. He was holding something. It was wrapped around his fist. A bandage? A pillowcase? He lowered his hand to his lap.

“You need to go,” he said, and swallowed. His voice was low and serious and not the one he used to talk to his kids. Or to me.

I instinctively knew not to ask questions. I nodded and walked silently up the stairs two steps at a time, stuffed my feet into my tied sneakers, and walked out the front door with my half-packed overnight bag. I was confused, just following directions, aware that it was hot, almost the middle of the day, and I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth or had a sip of water. I had a two-mile walk to my mom’s house. Also, I’d left my cell phone plugged into Jules’s wall.

When I got to the mailbox on the corner I realized that Mr. Clayton had been holding the T-shirt Nina slept in. He’d been pressing it to his face when I’d walked in the room.
Those red eyes. The strange, wobbly voice.
He’d been crying. And that’s when, with no other evidence, I’d wondered if she’d died. I stopped, touched my fingers to my lips, and closed my eyes against the sunshine. A freezing darkness rushed through me, like I’d capsized, like I was attached to an anchor that was pulling me to the ocean floor. But it couldn’t be true. It was horrible to even think it.

I let myself into the house. Mom’s sad, solitary breakfast plate was in the sink, peppered with crumbs, next to her solitary coffee mug, the one that spelled out “teacher” in letters made by rulers and apples. Mostly we ate off of paper towels or from the plastic containers of the supermarket deli, using so few dishes that she only ran the dishwasher on Sundays.

It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when I’d passed plates of cheese and crackers at the impromptu dinner parties she and Dad had. I would play waitress until my bedtime, when I’d fall asleep to the smell of roast chicken and the sounds of the party wafting through the heating vents. Mom would check on me before she went to bed, and said that sometimes she’d find me giggling in my sleep. I used to think it was because the last thing I’d hear before I drifted off was her laughter.

We always made a game of cleaning up in the morning in our pajamas. She’d make a big pot of coffee, Dad would buy a dozen doughnuts, and we’d see how many plates we could wash in the span of an ’80s song. Barefoot, her toenails painted red, and high on coffee and sugar, Mom sang all the lyrics in perfect pitch. I remember watching her sing Bon Jovi with her hair down, and wondering why she wasn’t famous.

But that was a long time ago, back when there was color in her cheeks, and her hair was long, and she got dressed up for school even though the other teachers wore jeans and sneakers. That was before the parties stopped and the fighting started. It was before I heard swearing through the vents instead of laughter. It was before Dad moved out and the house filled with silence: heavy, hovering, raincloud silence.

The phone rang, startling me out of my memory. I had a feeling it was Jules, but I couldn’t find the phone. It wasn’t on its base, and I had to follow the electronic beeps around the living room until I finally found it between the sofa cushions on the last ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me,” Jules said.

“Jules?” She didn’t sound like herself.

“Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?” There was a pause. My stomach dropped. I sat on the edge of the sofa. “Jules?”

“My mom died,” she said. Her voice was flat and clipped. “She had an aneurysm in New York.” She said the word like she’d known it her whole life.

“A what?” I asked, breathless.

“It’s when the head bleeds, on the inside.”

“Oh my god,” I said, and lay down, shocked that Jules was defining the medical term. I closed my eyes. My throat cinched. My stomach hurt. “Jules, that’s terrible. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe it.” I waited for her to cry or scream or say something, but I couldn’t even hear her breathe.

“I love you,” I said. “And if you need anything, anything at all, just call me, okay?”

“Thanks,” Jules said. I gripped the phone, pressing it to my face. I didn’t know what else to say. After a few more seconds of silence she said, “I need to go now,” and hung up.

I ran up the stairs and crumbled into my mother’s bed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried to her. I’d been stoic during the divorce—locked, lights off, like a school on Christmas. I’d been all politeness and competence. It was too dangerous to cry in front of her. It was what she wanted from me, to openly admit defeat, to hop aboard the sadness train, to check in with her at the broken-down Casa de Divorce, and I wasn’t going to do it. But this was different.

“I loved her,” I said, breathing raggedly.

“I know you did,” Mom said. I hung my chin over her shoulder, my whole body shaking, my breath ricocheting in my ribs. “Poor Jules,” she said. “Poor, poor Jules.”

My mom let me skip Founder’s Day and Prize Day, even though I’d won the Anne Hutchinson Achievement in History Prize and the Chafee Citizenship Award. I could collect them later, Ed said. I went to graduation, where the seniors stood on the stage in tea-length white dresses. I sang “Simple Gifts” and “And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time” with the choir, as I had at every other school commencement. It actually made me feel a little better. Neither my mom nor my dad is religious; I guess those school songs, which I’d sung for eleven years now, were the closest things I had to prayers. Jules wasn’t there.

I wanted to call her, to go over to the Claytons’, climb into the twin bed, eat a box of Munchkins with her and Zack, and watch movies. I wanted to sit in the backyard on the striped cushions and listen to South African jazz. I wanted to drink a glass of Nina’s red wine and cry with the rest of them. But my mother insisted that I stay put; said I needed to give them time alone to grieve as a family. She used her teacher voice. I knew she was right, but who else would understand? Who else was feeling like this? We sent a plant. I was jealous of the plant. It got to be with them.

On the third day, I made them lasagna. I found a healthy recipe online (they need healthy food, I thought; they need vitamins), but the whole-wheat noodles were gooey in the middle and crunchy on the ends, and the thing didn’t hold together. “We can’t take this,” my mom said, sticking a spatula into the congealed mess. Tomato-colored water leaked out the top. We picked them up some cookies and a loaf of Portuguese sweet bread. But Jules wasn’t there when we dropped them off. Her grandmother had taken her to the movies. I slipped upstairs to get my phone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but Jules’s room looked the same as it always did. My phone was plugged into the wall. There were three texts from Jay in the last three days.

#1 Hi!


#2 Heard about Mrs. Clayton. I’m so sorry.
(This was followed by a missed call, but no message.)

#3 Leaving for Nantucket tomorrow. See you there?


The memorial service was at the church near Brown University, the one Nina liked to go to every now and then because they had a good choir. It was an old New England–style church, pretty in a simple way, without pictures of Jesus or stained-glass windows. Nina had dragged Jules and me to a choral concert there once last spring, and the church had seemed almost spacious, but there had only been about twelve of us in the audience. Now it was packed with people, and it felt small and cramped, especially without any air-conditioning. Kids were using their programs to fan themselves. There were hardly any seats left when Mom and I arrived. We found room in a pew a few rows back from the Claytons, on the opposite side of the aisle, next to some people I didn’t know but who I guessed were from New York. I could see the sides of Zack’s and Jules’s faces as we all stood to sing “Morning Has Broken.”

“And now I want to give her children a chance to speak,” the minister said after delivering her eulogy. She had the gray hair of an old lady, but the smooth, tanned skin of a young one. “Jules?”

Jules walked to the front of the church and stood behind a plain wooden podium. She looked blank. Her lips were pressed together so tightly they were colorless. She seemed someplace else; I’d seen this expression when she checked out of math class. She scanned the crowd, gazing into some kind of middle distance for what felt like a hundred seconds too long.

“Um,” Jules started. I watched her eyes dart to Zack, but his eyes were closed, his shoulders were shaking, and tears streamed down his face and dripped from his chin. I’d never seen a boy cry before. That’s one of the things about going to an all-girls’ school your whole life: it’s hard to believe that boys are people too.

“Hi,” Jules said, and waved a weird, stiff hand at the crowd. Her eyebrows rose. Oh my god, she was now biting her lip because she was trying not to
laugh
. It was happening. I’d heard about that happening to people at funerals, and now it was really happening to Jules. There was a long silence. A baby cooed. A few people whispered. One corner of Jules’s mouth twitched upward. She looked like she was in physical pain. Breathe, I thought, as her face turned red. She needed oxygen or she was going to pass out.

I stood up.

“Cricket?” my mom whispered.

“She needs me,” I whispered back and slid past her, out of the pew. Maybe my mom was the type to disappear into herself when things got rough, but I wasn’t.

It couldn’t have been more than ten paces from my pew to where Jules was standing, but it felt like it took forever to get there. I could feel everyone looking at me as I walked down the aisle. My ears were hot, and my feet were sweating inside my too-tight flats. I locked eyes with Jules. Her head tilted and her brow pinched as she watched me approach. For a second I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but leaving her standing there alone, suffocating in front of everyone, was not an option. Not for her best friend.

“It’s okay,” I whispered when I finally reached her. She looked at the ground and took a big gulp of air. I turned to face the crowd.

“The last time I saw Nina,” I said, “I was over at Jules’s studying for exams. I was really stressed out.” I could hear myself speaking, like an echo on a cell phone. Then without meaning to, I started to focus on a pleasant-looking dad type with foppish hair and wire-rimmed glasses. There was something kind about him, like a beloved English teacher. His head tilted. “And she was in the backyard, painting a big fish, like applying paint to an actual trout or something.” The man smiled, his eyes squinting behind his glasses.