Something to think about when you’re planning your family: the worst combination is one boy and one girl. Why don’t people see that? Everyone wants two, one of each, so they can experience the full spectrum. But that’s the loneliest way to go. That’s the most dangerous way to go.
My mother pitted us against each other like dogs; I see that now. The competition was meant to ramp up our affection for her, and for a while, it worked on my end. Never on Caroline’s, though. She took it all personally, always. Only saw things from her own point of view. So poor Alice’s strategy backfired, and she amped up the pressure on me. Bad move. I don’t like pressure. I don’t like being blamed for things I didn’t do.
But still she hammers. When she called and asked me to come to Nantucket, when she said she needed our help and I told her I was too busy at work and to hire a local caregiver, she said, “You have to come. You can’t do that to Caroline.”
“I’m not doing it to Caroline.”
“Indeed you are. Leaving her alone, just like you did in the tent.”
“For God’s sake, Mother. I didn’t leave her alone in the goddamn tent!”
“If you hadn’t flirted with those silly friends of hers, would they have been so eager to come inside?”
“That’s not what happened! They were cold!”
“So they said.”
“Jesus, Mom, this has nothing to do with that.”
She quieted then, but her silence was only to let it all soak in. With my family, no matter what I do, no matter what I say, it’s wrong. I try my best, and my best is just a little shittier than everyone else’s, so there you have it. Sometimes I wonder if my dad was the same way. If he just resigned himself to always being wrong and always being less and just gave in to her, so he could have some peace. And she did grant him freedom, much of the time. My entire life, I can barely remember the two of them together except for at a meal. Different hobbies, different interests, even different friends. The way he said “the bridge gang” and she said “your golf buddies”—both of them with a whiff of derision, as if they were saying “Hells Angels” or something. And why not stay separate, if this is where life takes you anyway—one in a nursing home facility and the other tucked away at home. Why wouldn’t my parents end up apart when they had always been that way?
I walk toward the beach, alone for the first time since I arrived on the island. Not with my dad, not with John, and not with my sister and her kid. Just me, just like it used to be. I walked down the public access path and then picked my way toward Brant Point along the shoreline, stepping over the pilings and dinghies and kayaks. I liked watching the ferries come and go and seeing the different boats and equipment. People don’t realize the entire beach is public in Nantucket. The folks with homes on the shore don’t own the sand or the water. Locals come down here all the time, during the day, during the night. Many, many parties and memories here.
The wind had picked up, and a couple of people were kiteboarding. The only folks on the beach were watching them, as I was. As they swooped and dipped over the waves, their bright equipment dancing, I sat down and thought, once again, about taking a few lessons. I loved the idea of being outside when it was rough and enjoying the beach when everybody else had abandoned it. The sky darkened a little. Rain was forecast for late in the day, but I never put too much stock in the weather report. On an island, things were always changing. When I felt a few fat drops on my hand and shoulder, I stood up and started walking back before the rain truly began.
I walked by the old Grinstaff house. I couldn’t help wondering if they had a wine cellar and how obvious their choices probably were. I’d heard Connor was divorced, and I hadn’t known his wife, but I did know he’d always been a douche bag, no matter what anyone said or didn’t say. But being a douche bag is not against the law. However, having money and a shitty wine cellar ought to be a punishable crime.
The path to Hulbert Avenue was overgrown, so I didn’t see the cab pulling up to our old house, or I might have stopped it. Might have nipped the whole situation in the bud. Instead, I stepped outside through the bushes and heard knocking and a voice calling, “Hello? Is anybody home?”
I walked past the tarps, up to our porch.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Mr. Warner?” the girl asked. She had that weird combination you see in wealthy kids—young face but a worldly voice. Like a baby hooker who summered in France and wintered in Gstaad.
“Yes,” I replied. “One of them.”
She looked vulnerable and small, standing there on the enormous empty porch. I thought of the rapist, roaming the beaches, and suddenly Caroline being overprotective of her daughter made more sense. This is how they look when they’re alone. Delicate. Breakable as glass.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Courtney.”
“Courtney?”
“Sydney’s friend.”
I resisted the urge to say Oh fuck, but I’m sure my face registered a mix of shock and horror. The name was familiar now. I could hear it in the air, the two syllables cut in half, the pronunciation crisp. I’d heard it not from my niece, and not from my sister, but most unfortunately, from my father.
“It’s a surprise,” she whispered.
Yes, I agreed. It certainly is.