THE SMELL OF burned pie seemed to linger for days. No breeze kicked off from the lake to blow things over, and the water lay as flat as I felt. I mean, who cared if I wasn’t registered for the fair; maybe I wasn’t the best pie maker. I was absolutely becalmed, and no one seemed to notice.
Everything was fine before Eva. I pulled my blanket tight around me and stared out at the water. How could she accuse Mom of being ashamed? No one would take me away from here, away from Mom. We were Vermonters, not Eva. She was barging into our lives, pushing her politics. If only she hadn’t said anything at that softball game, then Lauren’s mom wouldn’t have yelled, “Don’t talk to my kid—stay out of our lives, stay out of our bedroom!” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the angry words out of my mind. I didn’t like hearing the argument last night, either. A tiny hope flourished that maybe Eva would leave, but I immediately felt guilty for wishing it.
When I opened my eyes again, it had started to rain. I watched the widening circles each raindrop made on the lake, overlapping and dimpling the surface. Everything was gray but also refreshed. Maybe the rain would wash away the smell of burned pies.
But it wouldn’t change one thing. I stood on my chair and pulled down a cardboard box from the top of my closet. Its edges were worn and the flaps were permanently creased. It was easy to open. I did it gently, as I had many many times. I picked up the card first, with pink and purple balloons and the words Happy Birthday in block, little-kid letters.
Dear June, welcome, my daughter. I am writing this on your Birth Day to tell you that I wanted you—I chose to have you on my own because I have so much love to give you. I love you, your mother.
I fingered the hospital bracelet, the tiny footprint on the paper with the pink bow. She told me that she wrote the card right after I had my first feeding. When I was little, I asked Mom to go over everything in the box, every night.
I pulled out It’s so Amazing! and flipped through the pages of cartoons describing eggs and sperms. I used to look at it alone, reviewing the ways families are made. It was the only book that talked about the way I was born. The other book in the box was Heather Has Two Mommies. I used to ask Mom to read it over and over. She had been trying to explain that she wanted one of the “special friends” she went out with to have a more permanent part in her life. Now it meant only one thing: I would never have a father.
I opened the brown envelope. Margaret Jane Farrell was written at the top of a faded copy of a long form. Age: 39. Reason for admittance: donor insemination. And then, the information about the sperm donor Number 58362. Birthplace: New York, New York. Education: Columbia University. Age: 26. No known diseases.
I looked out the window as the rain gathered on the glass. Somewhere, a man was taking subways in New York, going to work. I imagined him wearing glasses, his dark head bent over newspapers. His ears must be small like mine, because Mom’s were different. Maybe he was married. Maybe I had brothers or sisters out there.
Mom had wanted a family. And so my mother had chosen him, and me. And now she had chosen Eva. Or had she changed her mind?
I turned on my flashlight, placing a green lens over it. I looked through the binoculars to Luke’s house. No light yet. I shifted my view to the marina shop. Mom was already there. Downstairs, I heard shuffling and clinking cups. I waited until a door opened and closed. A car started up. Eva was going to work.
I sighed. I probably needed to help Mom at the shop today. But maybe Luke was around. I put on my bathing suit, grabbed a banana, and headed down to the lake.
***
PADDLING IN THE rain is different. I checked the sky: light gray, soft rain. Good, that meant lightning was unlikely. I lifted my face and let the rain mat my hair to my forehead. Bathing suits are perfect for rainy days. My paddle sliced the water, swirling eddies behind the canoe. The rhythm of each stroke was a familiar song.
I tied up my boat to Luke’s dock and walked toward the sculpture on shore. Until you got used to it, the large eye tangled in wavy metal rods was unnerving. But I liked Joe’s art. It looked like the eye of the sun watching the horizon line, peeking through skinny trees.
“Hello!” I called.
“Over here!”
The studio, of course. Joe was standing in the open door of the garage he had built on the island. It was funny to see a garage on an island with no cars or roads, but of course the inside was not for a car: it was full of large and small bits of metal and machinery. When Joe was in the middle of something, sparks would be flying and you had to stand back. But sometimes you’d find him at the butcher-block kitchen counter, drawing sketches of what he was imagining next. Those moments were the ones I liked, when Luke and I would sit around, listening to him philosophize.
Today he was leaning an eight-foot sculpture toward him while Luke walked around it with bubble wrap.
“Sold something?”
“Just taking a few pieces to the gallery.” Joe pointed to the base of the sculpture. “Luke, make sure you get some around the feet.”
The metal spikes ended in waves and right angles at the top. It looked like lake weed that had been run over by a motorboat. “What’s this one called?”
“Pathfinder.”
Luke grinned. “I wanted to name it Twisted Sister.”
“That makes you Crazy Brother.” I dodged Luke’s poke. “Can you swim today?”
“Luke has to help unload in Burlington.” Joe turned to me. “Do you want to come?”
“I’m going to help Mom during lunch.” I didn’t say it with much enthusiasm.
Joe studied my face and then the rain-splattered lake. “Well, if you two want to do a little swimming before we go, there’s time.”
Luke was off. “I’ll get my suit on!”
Joe threw a tarp over the wrapped sculpture. “Can you carry this with me down to the motorboat?”
“Sure.” It was heavy, but I could do it. Joe walked carefully backwards, holding the base while I carried the top. His eyes took in the worry lines around my eyes.
“What’s up, June?”
I shrugged.
“It’s hard when someone new moves in,” he observed. “I remember when Camille first lived out here, we had to learn a whole new way of being together.”
“But she left,” I blurted out.
Joe walked out on the dock, slowly lowering his end into the boat. He gestured to me to set my end down in the bow. His eye traveled across the bay to the marina shop. “I don’t think Eva’s leaving, if you’re worried. Or hoping.” He grinned. “She and MJ are a good pair. Maybe it’s hard to see.”
“They’re different.” I tucked the tarp down around the metal piece to keep the rain off.
“True,” he said. “Eva’s not much of a sailor.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I scowled. “She’s not much of a dad, either.”
“Trying to be a father would put extra pressure on a gal, that’s for sure.” He tried to joke, but I didn’t smile. “If you’re looking for guy talk, you can always chat with me.”
I nodded. Once I had hoped Mom and Joe would marry. It seemed silly now.
Luke came running down to the dock and right off the edge, into the water. Joe and I both laughed.
“Go swim,” Joe said. “Everything will be OK.”
Luke climbed up the path to the granite rock at the tip of the island. “Come on, June! Practice jumping off these rocks.”
“Piece of cake.” I clambered up next to him. These rocks were only five or six feet above the water. It was easy; I had leapt before.
“Piece of pie, you mean!” Luke cannonballed.
“Cowabunga!” I hollered, and followed him in. My heart fluttered only for a moment before I landed. The lake was warm compared to the rainy air, and I sprang back to the surface.
We jumped about ten more times. And it was true—each jump was easier. All the while, Joe was watching us. That’s what dads do, I thought. And it was nice to think of him as a pretend father, but it wasn’t quite the same as the real thing.