Maggie wants to go to Ship Cove Beach for swimming and a picnic. She invites Rita. “Invite anyone else you want,” she says. Imogene can’t think of anyone else.
Rita invites Cherry MacIssac, who never has much to say to Imogene, but is at least nicer than Natalie Sampson. Maggie and Nan make chicken-salad sandwiches and pack cheese and crackers and a thermos of lemonade. “Take your sunscreen,” Maggie says to Imogene. “You don’t want to broil your lovely complexion.” Which is a kind way of saying, pale as fuck.
Rita and Cherry both wear perfectly frayed jean cutoffs and Imogene realizes they made them together. The trail to Ship Cove Beach has been fixed up with a walkway of wooden boards. Rita and Cherry walk behind Maggie and ahead of Imogene, their flip-flops echo on the planks. They talk about who was at Corey Mercer’s two nights ago and what a racket Wish and Donny got into. Imogene wants to ask about it, but Cherry might think she’s interested in Wish, who Rita insists is too short for her. Or Imogene is too tall for him. But it’s not cool to think Wish would get into a fight, especially with someone like Donny, who probably fights dirty.
“What a glorious spot,” Maggie says. “You don’t see anything in Ontario like this.” From the top of the banks, they can see the stretch of grey sand lining the beach and the two towering sea stacks which mark Ship Cove as the closest thing to an exotic locale.
“My cousins went to Owen Sound last year,” Cherry says. “They said the beach there was deadly.”
“It’s not the same,” Maggie says. “Can’t compare a lake to the ocean.”
They descend the wooden stairs to the sand and lay out blankets. Rita and Cherry both have neon bathing suits from Sears, but Imogene’s is new, a burgundy Speedo.
“Nice swimsuit,” Cherry says.
“Thanks,” Imogene says. “Maggie brought me three from Toronto. I like this one the best.”
Cherry nods and Imogene catches a flicker of a shared glance with Rita. “Maybe if I have any money left from babysitting, I’ll get a new one,” Cherry says.
“End of the summer sales,” Rita says.
Imogene fishes out her book. Let Rita and Cherry have their exclusive shit. A memory flits into her mind, she and Rita playing Anne of Green Gables on Butter Brook Beach. Maggie had sent the book and Aunt Trudy read them a chapter a day. Rita liked to braid Imogene’s hair in pigtails and together, they’d search the beach for thin slabs of slate. She’d designate a rock for Gilbert Blythe’s head and they’d act out the scene when Gilbert calls Anne “Carrots” and she loses her temper. They’d take turns screeching at Gilbert and cracking the slate over his rock head. This continued until the chapter when Matthew dies. Rita cried on the living-room floor. Then she didn’t want to play Anne anymore. Or say the words “bosom friend.”
Rita and Cherry stretch out, angled away from her. They pass a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil back and forth. Both have good tans, Maggie too. In order for Imogene to tan, she’d have to work on it every day for short periods of time and even then, her skin would turn ruddy and harsh like she’s been out picking turnips all day. Rita rubs oil into her calves and Imogene burns a little in jealously. Look at Rita with her cute legs, muscled from sports, her uniform colour and beauty. All she does is pine for Nick Cleary when she could get out with any guy she wants.
“I’m going for it,” Maggie says. She dashes into the water. She shrieks with the initial cold, but sinks down. “It’s great once you’re in.” She soaks her head and her tall bangs vanish. Suddenly, she is natural and young.
“So, what have you been up to all summer?” Cherry asks.
Imogene leaves her thumb in her book to hold her place. “Just working really. Pretty boring.”
“It must be nice to have your mom home.”
“Sure. I mean, the house is crowded.”
“This is the first time she’s been home in what?” Cherry asks. “A year?”
“Almost three.”
“Almost three?” Cherry’s mouth stays open. “That’s a long time to go without seeing your mom.”
“Maggie calls Imogene all the time,” Rita says. “They’re always in contact.”
“Oh, but you’d have to call all the time,” Cherry says. “I mean, to have any idea of how your child is doing.” She flicks a bug off her knee.
“I was supposed to see her last summer,” Imogene says. “When I was in St. John’s. But it got cancelled.”
“You must have been so upset,” Cherry says.
“Shit happens.”
“I know I’d be upset,” Cherry says. “If I didn’t get to see my mother in so long and then plans changed.”
“Lots of people see their kids all the time and are still rotten parents,” Rita says. “And it’s hard when you’re in two different provinces.”
“Oh I know. Just look at Liam and Randy’s parents,” Cherry says. “Their father comes and goes. No wonder they’re the way they are.”
“I’m getting in,” Imogene says.
“The water’s freezing.”
“Go for it,” Rita says. “You’re braver than us.”
The water shocks Imogene’s thighs and hips, but she propels herself forward. Maggie cheers her on. The waves cover her face and make her gasp and then the water is part of her. As long as she keeps moving, she won’t freeze. Maggie splashes in the waves and claps her hands. “That’s my girl,” she says.
On the walk back, Maggie pauses to adjust the towel on her waist, to fix her shoe, to admire a purple iris. When they reach the dirt road at the end of the wooden walkway, she stops to read the sign indicating the continuation of the West Coast Trail. In the distance, an engine rumbles and stirs up dust. “We should hike to the Spout sometime,” Maggie says. “Maybe in August so we can pick blueberries.” She stoops to pull back grass at the edge of the road. “Wild strawberries. I miss stuff like this.” Rita and Cherry wear patient faces as Maggie fills her palm.
The cloud of dust and engine gets closer. Someone on a quad. Maggie stands up straight, ready to wave. The quad bumbles over the rough rocks on the trail. Cecil Jesso, maneuvering along. His Labatt’s cap is clamped on and he wears a yellowing undershirt over brown cords. Who wears cords in July? Imogene catches the shine of a beer bottle balanced between his thighs.
Maggie’s face is stone. Cecil gives a nod without looking up, his eyes on the path. Maggie reaches out and clasps Imogene’s arm, yanking her near.
“He looks loaded,” Cherry says and laughs. Rita laughs too, but her eyes dart back and forth from Maggie to Imogene.
Maggie looks down at her hand. “Damn. I squished my berries,” she says. Her hand opens, stained with red. “Better get back to the car,” she says. “It’s going to be an oven in there.”
In the car, Imogene stares out the window. Cherry complains about potholes and how someone should rake the roads. Imogene considers her list of questions. Something must have happened, but she’s not going to ask. The woman is trying to get whatever pleasure she can out of this summer. She glances at the rearview mirror. Maggie’s eyes focus on the road. She wants to do something, touch her. Refer to her as Mom. She deserves something nice.
Rita turns to Imogene, “What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“We might go to Seymour’s,” Rita says. “I’ll give you a call.” Cherry’s mouth curls slightly, but Rita offers her a blank look.
“Sounds like fun,” Maggie says.
“Yeah, sure,” Imogene says. “Give me a call.”