by Jane Green
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 t
hem.”
“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.
Twenty-four
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 la
st 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.