I drifted to sleep last night thinking I would creep out of the house in the morning, not waking anyone up, but of course we are all on British time, and I’m the last one down. Sam is trying to figure out how to use the coffeemaker; Annie gets up from the sofa on the sun porch to come in and give me a hug. She is bikini ready, and I watch her go back to the porch, a little stunned at how womanly she is. I still think of her as such a little girl, yet look at her in this bikini, curvy as anything, her waist a tiny hourglass. She is not my little baby anymore, much as I want to pretend she is
“I’ve got it!” Sam announces, sliding the filter holder out of the machine and pouring the ground coffee in. “Thank Christ! Finally figured out how this bloody thing works. Annie? Do you still want coffee?”
“What?” I say. “Since when does Annie drink coffee?”
“She said she’d have some when I figured it out. Is that okay?” He looks at me doubtfully.
“I suppose so.” I shake my head. “I just … I’m realizing she’s much more grown up than I think.”
“With a figure like that?” says Sam. “You think? Where are you off to, anyway?”
“A meeting.”
“Here? On vacation?” He grimaces. “Isn’t this the time you should just be relaxing?”
“No. This is exactly the time when I need a meeting most! When I’m off my guard. I told you the story of what happened last time. I definitely need a meeting.”
“Don’t you think what happened last time was because you were young and foolish rather than because you hadn’t been to a meeting?” He is as skeptical as he always is when the conversation veers toward alcohol, and I wonder, not for the first time, why he is so resistant to the subject.
“If you stay away from meetings,” I say, “you forget what happens to people who don’t go to meetings.”
He opens his eyes wide. “Ominous! What happens? They get to spend the day on the beach sunbathing?”
“Ha ha. I’m not cutting into sunbathing time. It’s six thirty in the morning, for God’s sake.”
“I know. I don’t think I’ve seen six thirty in the morning in twenty years.” He peers out the window. “It’s rather lovely. I might go for a run.”
“I’ll see you later.” I blow him a kiss before climbing into the car.
* * *
I have never been to this center before, never been to this building, yet I know every person in here. I know the faded Oriental rugs on the tiled floor, the old dark brown kitchen cabinets in the corner, know I can step into the little kitchen and find a pot of fresh coffee and something sugary and sweet.
I know the big poster hanging on the wall, the 12 steps, by heart. I know the needlepoints of the Serenity Prayer, and the faded old prints on the wall, all with an AA theme.
And I know the people. I recognize the look we have, all of us who have lived a little too hard, partied a little too long, done everything a little harder, faster, longer. Addicts and alcoholics. People of extremes.
We are, as a group, often too fat, or too thin. We are too tanned. Our fashion sense is out there. But our hearts? Our hearts are as big as the ocean.
Everyone smiles a hello, reaching out a hand to introduce themselves. I grab coffee, then sink down onto a suedette sofa to one side—what is it with suedette sofas in this country?—as people start to fill up the rows of chairs facing two chairs in front of the sliding French doors.
We start with the Serenity Prayer, then go around the room introducing ourselves. There are a couple of other visitors, but most are islanders, and as I sit, listening to the readings, to people starting to share, I know this is exactly where I am supposed to be, and I know, with a sense of peace, that however Julia reacts when I find her, when I say what I need to say, it will all be fine.
I raise my hand, needing to speak, to claim my place in this room.
“Hi, I’m Cat. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Cat,” murmurs the room.
“I just wanted to claim my seat. I’m so unbelievably happy to be here. We flew in yesterday, from England, so I’m completely jet-lagged, and actually I’ve got no idea what day it is, but the last time I was here was about fifteen years ago. I was newly in program, and I never went to a meeting, and I lost my sobriety right here on the island. It took me over thirteen years to properly get it back. I loved so much of what I heard today; that when you’re drinking nothing moves, nothing changes, nothing gets better. Wow. That hit me.” I am aware that people around the room are nodding their heads.
“I was drinking for the best part of my marriage, and I screwed that up, blaming him, blaming everyone else, for nothing ever changing, nothing ever getting better, with no idea it all started with me. Anyway, I’m here, on this island, to make amends. When I was here, I was drinking, and I did something awful. I was here to meet family I’d never met before, and I ended up betraying my … urgh. I probably shouldn’t … Well. My half sister. I have no idea how she’ll even react when she sees me again, although my sponsor says that’s irrelevant. The only way through this discomfort is through it, I suppose. I’ve been putting it off, but I’m making a commitment here today to try to find her. Today. I need to make this amends so at least I have maybe a shot of enjoying this vacation. God. Procrastination is something I’ve always been very good at, especially when I was drinking. I couldn’t stand to be in any kind of discomfort, which of course was one of the excuses I used to justify the drinking. And now I’m learning to live with it, to focus on the present, to trust in my Higher Power that everything is exactly where it needs to be. I’m just … hugely grateful to be here. Thank you.”
I sit back, happy to have spoken. When I first came back in, this time, I spent the first two or three months just listening. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to soak up what everyone else was saying without being seen. Maureen got me to speak. She told me I couldn’t be part of the group unless I was part of the group, that I had to claim my seat, that my recovery would grow exponentially when I reached out to others, and allowed myself to be both seen and heard.
She was right. The woman next to me, older, with white hair and a deeply tanned, creased, kind face, reaches over and gives me a reassuring squeeze and a smile, and once again, I am glad I came.
I only ever feel awkward after a meeting. That moment when you’re not sure whether to stay or go, who you should talk to, what you should talk about. Occasionally there is someone who has shared something that has resonated with you so strongly, it is easy to walk up and talk to them, tell them how you felt about their share, what you’re going through. But often it is, at least for me, weird, and clumsy, and I walk out with my head down, careful not to make eye contact so I won’t have to talk to anyone.
I am planning on doing this here, delighted I have heard so much good stuff, determined to come back tomorrow, but not particularly wanting to talk to anyone, but the older woman sitting next to me catches up to me and stops me.
“I’m Abigail,” she says. “I really liked what you had to say.”
“Thank you. This whole amends thing is a bit overwhelming.”
“You know, you’ve probably heard this a million times before, but the ones you’re worried about are usually the people who have completely forgotten whatever it is you’re making amends for.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll have forgotten,” I say. “I slept with her boyfriend. At least, I think I did. Long story.”
“Do you want to have coffee?” she asks, and I have no idea why I say yes, other than that she looks like someone I might want to know, but I say yes, and we arrange to meet at Black-Eyed Susan’s, in fifteen minutes.
* * *
I don’t think Black-Eyed Susan’s has changed an inch since the last time I was here. In fact, the whole island seems not to have changed an inch, which is both disconcerting and something of a huge relief. Where in the world hasn’t changed? I think of London, how different it is today to when I was a child. I remember London when everything stopped on a Sunday, how sleepy it was, compared to today, when nothing is ever closed, when you cannot move down Oxford Street for the hordes of people, a million different languages reverberating in your ears.
The stores here are still, mostly, independent stores, run by islanders. There is the odd chain—I saw Jack Wills and—oh, how happy Sam will be—Vineyard Vines, but on the whole, the stores look and feel much the same as the last time I was here, all those years ago.
I know, of course, Nantucket has changed. I have read about the vast influx of wealth that is now here, and driving along Cliff Road, it is easy to see where that wealth is. The cars in the driveways are Jaguars and Bentleys, but you don’t see them in town; you’re barely aware of the millionaires who descend on the island every summer.
I read recently that Nantucket is described now as being the island of the Haves and Have Mores. And while I know that it’s here, most of the people I have seen are regular holidaymakers, families in shorts and T-shirts, little jewelry, no designer bags in their hands. Other than Sam, of course, who might possibly die without a little bit of luxury in his life.
Nantucket always had the mix. All the great old families had estates here and mixed with the islanders. I remember hearing Julia talk about Ellie hanging out with her prep school friends, who would show up during the summer on their luxury yachts. They were perfectly happy tucking into waffles at Morning Glory, or singing with Scotty round the piano at the Club Car late at night. Everyone mixed with everyone else.
Perhaps they still do, but the truly wealthy, the insanely, new-monied wealthy, the ones with the Bentleys and Jaguars in the driveways, I’m not so sure they’re mixing with everyone else, drinking at the Club Car, grabbing a burger at Brotherhood of Thieves. But this is Nantucket, where everything is possible.
Abigail walks in and joins me at our small table in the window, and I realize I am suddenly starving and order huevos rancheros, even though I’m not entirely sure what it is, other than Spanish sounding and involving eggs, but it seems exotic and filling, and both of those things sound good to me now.
Abigail has just coffee, and it turns out she is, as I thought, an islander, and a part-time Realtor, occasional cook, house manager, and sober coach.
“I’m astonished you have any time to breathe,” I say, when she has finished describing all that she does.
“Me too.” she says, laughing. “Although, you know, we all do that here. We all have a dozen jobs because the season’s so short, there’s never enough work to keep you going all year.”
“What’s your favorite out of all the jobs?”
“Hard to say. I used to love scalloping, being out on the open seas early in the morning. At the start of the season three hours will get you five bushels a person. You can really make a lot of money, although you can’t go out if the temperature dips below twenty-eight degrees, so this past winter was a hard one and I’m looking for something else. I like the house-managing stuff. That keeps me busy year ’round.”
“What does that mean, house managing? Do you look after staff for millionaires?”
I’m joking, but Abigail barely cracks a smile; in fact, she nods. “That’s part of it. I do whatever needs to be done. Organize gardening, yard work, repairs. If they’re here I’ll sometimes plan parties for them, cook dinner, whatever they need. I like doing things for other people.”
“I keep reading that Nantucket has been overrun by the super rich. What are they like to work for?”
I steel myself for great stories about entitled millionaires, realizing suddenly that there very well may be a great feature in this for me, but Abigail surprises me.
“I love everyone I work for. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t do it. That’s one of the things I learned in program: Life is where you look. Of course, entitled, snobbish people are here on the island, but if I’m not focusing on them, not only am I not attracting them into my life, I’m not even seeing them. I work for some really important, wealthy people, and my experience of them has been great. Obviously a couple of unfortunate things, but you move on. I raised my son here, and there is nowhere else in the world I’d like to live.”
“Is your son still here?”
“He is now. He left for a few years, went down to Boston, but luckily for me, he decided to come home. All my friends’ kids seem to be divided into two camps, those that can’t wait to get off the island and never come home again, and those that can’t stay away. Thank goodness he’s one who loves his home. Lucky me.”
“Lucky you, indeed. What does he do?”
“A little bit of everything, like the rest of us. Although now he’s really doing construction pretty much all the time. He’s always done carpentry, but he’s building houses now, a couple of beautiful ones down in Sconset. At forty years old he finally seemed to have found his path!”
“You don’t look old enough to have a forty-year-old son!” I lie, knowing it’s what’s expected of me.
“He’s forty-two now,” she says proudly. “And thank you. I’m seventy-five years young. It’s the summers that keep me young,” she says. “I love the influx of people we get. Every May I start to get excited that the island’s going to wake up again. Granted, I get tired by the end of the summer, but I wouldn’t change it. Things used to stop dead after Labor Day, but not so much now. It’s a funny thing about island life,” she muses. “We can’t wait for everyone to leave, then we can’t wait for them to come back. We need money, for starters,” she says, and I think of my father, painting, selling paintings on the wharf all summer.
“My father’s family was here,” I say. “You probably know them.”
“What was their name?”
“Mayhew.”
She nods, entirely unsurprised. “I figured as much. Even before you spoke, I took one look at you and knew you had to be a Mayhew. You and Julia look like twins.”
It is like someone has twisted a knife in my heart, and for a second I almost can’t breathe.
“You know Julia?”
“Of course! Everyone knows Julia. She worked for me for years, helping out with the houses. She still does sometimes, off-season, when her store is closed. She’s the one, then? The one you talked about? Or is it Ellie?”
“Oh God. I’m sorry. I just … I just didn’t realize you would know my family so well.”
“I knew Brooks very well. He was a kind man. Big drinker. Really should have been in program. And Julia I watched grow up, of course. Ellie I only know a little. She always felt like a summer person.” She laughs briefly. “Of course, Ellie really was a summer person; she never felt like an islander. You, on the other hand”—she peers at me as the waitress brings over an enormous plate of huevos rancheros—“apart from the accent, you could definitely be an islander.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a compliment. We’re a certain type, we New Englanders, and in particular we islanders. The Vineyard or Nantucket, it’s much the same. We live hard. There’s a lot of depression here, a lot of drinking, family secrets everywhere, and tremendous loyalty. In program we say there are two types of people on the island: those that are in AA, and those that should be.” She barks with laughter.
“I guess, if drinking or being in AA is a qualifier, then that qualifies me.” I take a bite, and it is delicious, the creamy egg yolks bursting over tomatoes and spicy black beans.
“It’s more than that. You’re tough. A survivor. Don’t ask me how I know, but I felt I recognized you as soon as you walked in, and not just because you look like a Mayhew. Julia’s on island, you know. I saw her in the store a couple of days ago. She’s usually at Cru for drinks after work, if you want to know where to find her.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head with a large smile. “Listen, I’d love you to come for dinner. In fact, I’d love you to meet my son.”
I sit back with a large smile. “You invited me for coffee because you’re matchmaking?”
“Absolutely. I know every single woman on the island, and none of them are remotely right for him.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“I know your family.”
There is a huge smile on my face at the way this conversation is going. “You don’t know if I’m available.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.”
I shake my head, impressed as hell. “I’ll make a deal. I would love to come for dinner, but only if I can bring my friend Sam and my daughter, Annie.”
“Of course,” she says. “The more the merrier.”
“So am I allowed to ask about your son? What should I know?”
“He’s smart, fun, sober, single, and tall. What else is there?”
“I’m so glad you mentioned tall. That would have been a dealbreaker.”
“Also, he loves animals. Especially dogs. He’s probably up at Tupancy Links now, walking Brad Pitt.”
I stare at her. “He has a dog called Brad Pitt?”
“It is a particularly handsome yellow Lab.”
“Well, of course it is. Wow. I got up this morning thinking I was just going to a quiet meeting, and I’m practically married.”
Abigail smiles. “Will you come Tuesday? Seven? I’ll write down my address for you.”
“I’ve just realized his fatal flaw,” I say, watching Abigail scribble down the details. “He lives with his mother.”
“Only while he’s doing up his house.” She smiles, and I cannot help but burst into laughter at the events of the day, and it isn’t even nine o’clock in the morning.
“Are you sure you’re not an ax murderer?” I ask her, as we get the check and I fumble in my purse, relieved I thought to take out cash before we left.
“I’m quite sure. Ask anyone on the island about me. They all know me. Now, I’m off to the Take It or Leave It Pile. Do you want to join me?”
“I’m going to go back home,” I say, knowing that if I even ask what on earth the Take It or Leave It Pile is, I may never make it out of this restaurant. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “Is there anything we can bring?”
“Bottle of wine!” she says, before cracking up laughing. “Of course, that was a joke. Bring yourselves and good humor. See you Tuesday night, if not before, and good luck with Julia!”
Damn. I was having such a good time I had entirely forgotten to worry about seeing Julia again.