I follow the instructions on the note I find on the kitchen table. They have taken off to the beach, with arrows pointing the way.
I change into a bathing suit, grab a towel, sunblock, and my book, and hesitate over the front door. In London, I wouldn’t even walk to the end of the hallway without locking my door. I wouldn’t go anywhere without locking the car. There have been plenty of times when I’ve let a prime parking space go because there’s a group of dodgy-looking youths walking toward me and there’s absolutely no way in hell I’m going to get out of my car anywhere near them.
But this is Nantucket. I remember Brooks never leaving anything locked. I remember the freedom and safety that came with that. I even remember Julia telling me that everyone left the keys in their scooters and cars. How she and her girlfriends would regularly jump into a Wagoneer parked down by the wharf, feeling above the visors for the keys, then take off to a beach party down toward Cisco, private and secluded enough that they wouldn’t get busted for drugs.
They would steal scooters all the time, to go to the Madaket Sham Jam, or the Chicken Box, before heading off to Galley Beach to go skinny-dipping, out of their minds, high, drunk, stoned, buzzing.
I had forgotten all of that. The sharing of stories. The envy I had of the freedom, the way Julia got to grow up. I had forgotten her delight in sharing her stories with me, how much I had liked her, how much I felt we had in common.
I had forgotten how much, for a very brief period of time, I had loved having a sister.
And although I know it was the booze, although I know I was in a horrible place, hesitating by the front door as I debate whether or not to lock it, I cannot actually believe I screwed my life up in the way that I did.
* * *
Sam is stretched out, with tiny gogglelike things on his eyes, already beautifully bronzed.
Next to him lies Annie, who has never been the slightest bit interested in suntanning, who never considered it a proper holiday unless there was a swimming pool for her to jump around in for hours and hours every day, yet is now appearing to take her tanning very seriously.
“You’re blocking the sun, Mum!” she says, irritated, as I attempt to lean over her and kiss her hello.
“How did you get so brown already, Sam?” I put my towel next to his and spray myself liberally with SPF 30, passing it to Annie and insisting she do the same when I realize she has covered herself with Sam’s SPF nothing coconut oil and will be a rasher of bacon by the end of the day.
“It’s all fake, darling,” he says. “But good, no? I wouldn’t subject the poor people of Nantucket to my pasty white English skin if my life depended on it. They’d be blinded by the light. It wouldn’t be fair. I’d have to hand out sunglasses before disrobing. Unlike you.” He turns to me and his goggles fall off. I hand them back to him as he continues. “I do not have the skin of a Brazilian, much as I would like.”
“What are those goggles?” They are white plastic with tiny black holes to see out of.
“I stole them from the spray-tan place. Aren’t they fab? I couldn’t bear to have panda eyes again after the whole Ray-Ban Aviator fiasco last summer. So? How was the meeting?”
“Well, oddly enough, it was all rather exciting. Actually, that’s not true, the meeting itself wasn’t that exciting, although it was really good. In fact, it may have been one of the best meetings I’ve ever been to.”
“Really? What makes a good meeting?”
I always wonder whether Sam is being facetious or whether he is genuine when he asks about AA, but he takes his goggles off and makes eye contact, without a smirk, so I know it’s genuine.
“Strong recovery makes a good meeting. Old-timers. People who have been sober for years and years, who are really living in recovery. They work the steps, over and over, for years. They’re never not working them. They speak to a sponsor every day, and they have sponsees. They show people like me how to do it a day at a time. Plus I hear amazing slogans, things that just make sense to me, or help me.”
I look at Annie, who doesn’t move a muscle and has her earplugs in. This may mean she has Bruno Mars at full volume, or may mean that she is pretending to listen while eavesdropping. Hard to tell which. At this moment, even if she’s listening, it is fine. I used to have such shame in admitting I am an alcoholic, at anyone knowing I was an alcoholic, at my child, of all people, knowing that not only was I not perfect, but I was as flawed as this.
As if she didn’t already know.
I tried to hide it from her, begged Jason not to tell her, but then realized I had to come clean, that it was better for everyone. Now I talk about it openly, and Annie has come to accept it as a way of life. I have no idea whether she will turn to alcohol, whether it is in her blood as it is in mine, but I do know that if she is an addict, whatever her addiction happens to be—drink, sugar, shopping, sex—she will know that there is another path, and for that I am now grateful.
“So what did you hear today?”
I’m not supposed to talk about what happens in meetings. It is a spoken rule, so clear that we end every meeting by saying, “Who you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here.”
But for God’s sake, I’m human. As long as I’m not saying who said what, surely it’s okay to pass on a little?
“Someone used the phrase ‘itty bitty shitty committee,’ which I thought was sheer bloody genius.”
“Definitely genius,” agrees Sam. “What does it mean?”
“They were talking about stinking thinking, which is another one that I’ve always loved. How they thought they always knew best, they were in control of everything. Their itty bitty shitty committee.”
He gasps with pleasure. “Can I steal it?”
“Absolutely. It’s yours.”
“Any other gems?”
“I remember in my home meeting in London, a girl once said she had been dating the same guy for ten years. Only his name kept changing.”
“Ooh, that’s good. But that didn’t resonate, surely? You haven’t dated anyone.”
“Thanks for that. But no, it didn’t resonate, I just thought it was a great concept. Maybe I’ll use it in the novel I’ll probably never get round to writing. Someone else said who else but them gets to have a meeting with God every day. God being a group of drunks. I quite liked that one. But then afterward I ended up going for coffee with this fantastic woman from the meeting, and…,” This time I glance at Annie and do lower my voice. “She’s invited us all for dinner tomorrow night and she has a hunky son she wants to introduce me to.”
Sam slowly sits up. “Great. You’ve met a complete stranger who may well turn out to be an ax murderer, and we’re going into the lion’s den tomorrow night.”
“She’s not an ax murderer. I asked. She’s a Realtor. And house manager. And a few other things, but she’s really nice, and anyway, she knows my family.”
“But you can’t check her out because you’re not in touch with your family.”
“Trust me. She’s fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “She’s an alcoholic.”
“Oh, ha ha. We’re going.”
“You’re sure you’re comfortable flirting with Mr. Handsome with young you-know-who around?” He gestures to Annie, who still hasn’t moved a muscle, and so presumably is still not eavesdropping.
It is true there has been nothing physical since Jason. I have never had to think about how Annie would react if I suddenly announced I was going out with someone, or brought someone home she had never met before. I presume she would be fine. I like to think of my daughter as well rounded, secure, polite, but God knows I have heard horror stories from other people about children of divorce who make the second marriages hell.
I wrote a story on it last year. The reason most second marriages break up, I had read, was because of the children. I found three case studies, and each one was heartbreaking. The children hated their new stepparent, resented them, causing more friction than any reasonable person could endure, trying to force their parent into making a choice, so much so that it ended up breaking the marriages apart.
I remember being horrified at some of the things these children, and their stepparents, had done, before realizing that I was in that same boat, or at least hoped one day to be. I hoped to meet someone, to settle down, even to marry again, and naïvely presumed that Annie would be thrilled to have a family again, a man in the house, never thinking that she might do everything in her power to get rid of him.
Sadly, I have never discovered how she would react because there hasn’t been the slightest sniff of anything since I broke up with Jason. The one time I actually found someone sexy, a minor actor in a major TV series who flirted with me outrageously at the press launch and demanded my phone number, sending me home in a cab almost delirious with excitement, he turned out to be married.
Thank you for that, Google.
Not that he ever phoned.
I look at Sam. “I wouldn’t be flirting. Not tomorrow night, anyway. And even if he is gorgeous, he probably wouldn’t be interested in me.”
“Now why would you think that? You’re one hell of a sexy woman, plus you have the English accent, which over here seems to go down a storm. If I could find out where the gay men congregate, I could have myself a seriously good time.”
“What if there aren’t any gay men on Nantucket?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. There are gay men everywhere. It’s just a question of weeding them out. Although it would have been so much easier in P-town. Next time, Cat, we’re going to Provincetown. Next time it’s all about me.”
“I love you.” I blow him a kiss as he lies down and places the goggles over his eyes again. “And I thought it was always about you.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “I have trained you well.”
* * *
We swim in a surprisingly still ocean, although Annie suddenly freaks out about sharks and runs out of the water, refusing to get back in.
“Are there sharks here?” asks Sam quietly, so Annie doesn’t hear. “Because if there are, I’m getting out of the fucking water too.”
“Jaws was filmed in Menemsha,” I say. “Which is not very far.” Sam looks terrified and starts to move toward shore. “Jaws also featured a mechanical shark. We are fine. Anyway, the sharks don’t come here. They’re all over in Sconset.”
“How on earth would you know that?”
“Because Julia told me never to go skinny-dipping there. It’s where they fish, so there are always sharks. Julia’s friends all used to come over to Galley Beach to swim at night. Much safer.”
“What about Steps Beach?” Sam looks around, worried.
“Safe. No fishing.”
“I think I’ll get out now anyway,” he says. “Isn’t it nearly time for lunch?”