Summer Secrets

by Jane Green

  Trudy gives me a hug, poor thing, still bandaged on one side of her face, and thanks me profusely for being at the hospital.

  “Don’t be silly,” I say. “Any mother would have done the same thing.” And then I realize, of course, any mother apart from hers, and I wish I had just kept my mouth shut. “I didn’t mean your mo—”

  “Don’t worry,” she interrupts me, laughing. “I know you and my mom have made up. It’s okay.”

  “Come in, come in.” I usher the two of them inside. “Come sit down. What can I get you to drink. Iced tea?” I look at Julia. “Wine?”

  “You have wine?” I hear the surprise in Julia’s voice as Sam walks in, going straight to the fridge.

  “Of course we have wine,” says Sam. “You think I’d last two weeks on holiday staying in a house with no wine? Sweetie, are you completely mad? Red or white?”

  “Actually, I’m fine without,” she says, and I am glad that she is making the effort, although she does look longingly at the bottle of chardonnay that Sam immediately opens.

  “It smells great,” she says, walking over to the stove, “and the house is adorable! I had no idea it was so cute inside.”

  “It’s not,” says Sam. “It was completely ghastly. I had to redecorate the entire thing.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “He has single-handedly revived the economy of the island by purchasing every accessory that’s for sale within a five-mile radius. Come through to the sun porch. Let’s take our drinks out there.”

  I had imagined chemistry. I had clearly imagined chemistry. Julia is lovely, as warm and personable as she always was, and I relax and remember how much I always liked her, how good it feels to have a family, to have a sister who is so very like me. I feel a wave of gratitude that Jason suggested this, that even if we don’t stay in touch in any meaningful way, the bad blood that I was so certain must have existed has definitely gone.

  I would never have imagined Ellie and me hugging, but it happened. I could never have predicted the outcome of this trip, how wonderful it feels to have been forgiven, to have the weight of guilt and shame that has sat on my shoulders all these years now removed.

  This is what they mean by making amends, I think. I apologized, and now I am letting go. And it seems, without any guidance at all, Julia had long ago reached a place where she was willing to do the same. She is a wonderful girl, I think to myself. And I am lucky to have her in my life.

  “… which was just like our dad,” I tune in to hear her say. “He wasn’t exactly known for his sense of responsibility.”

  Our dad. She didn’t say “my dad.” She acknowledged that we are related, and it is this seemingly tiny thing that warms my heart more than anything else this evening.

  “I barely knew him,” I say. “Although we stayed in touch. He always struck me as a very loving father.”

  “When he wasn’t drunk, he was the best. Actually, even when he was, he was always fun.”

  “I was so jealous of everything you had here,” I say. “I shouldn’t tell you that, but it’s true.”

  “Are you kidding?” Her mouth falls open. “I was so jealous of you! This incredibly sophisticated woman shows up who has this crazy exciting life in London, of all places! You were a journalist! You interviewed celebrities and went to parties and had such a huge life! You were going on vacations all over Europe. The only place I had ever been was Cape Cod, and Boston. And I only went to Boston to get my boobs reduced. Sorry.” She shoots Jason and Sam an apologetic look. “We all had giant boobs back in the day. I have no idea why, but that was how we used to get in everywhere when we were underage.”

  “Did the boob reduction stop you getting in?” Sam is loving the direction of this conversation.

  “I didn’t have them done until I was twenty-one, so it didn’t matter. But I had basically never been out of Massachusetts. You were the most exciting and glamorous person I had ever seen, and you were my sister! I was so jealous, I could hardly stand it.”

  “Wow.” I am speechless.

  “Wow,” echoes Sam. “Put like that, it does seem Cat’s life is rather exciting.”

  “I was this island girl. I still am. I hadn’t been anywhere, done anything. The most exciting thing I’d probably ever done was steal mopeds on Easy Street and take them to Thirty Acres, where we’d get wasted and go skinny-dipping. Excitement was baking up a batch of pot brownies, and stealing clothes from the store my friends’ parents owned, and waiting until the guy on the door at the bar was drinking so we could sneak in, one at a time. That was my life, and I never knew that there was anything different until I met you, and I wanted everything that you had. I took off because I met you. Not because of what happened, but because it opened my eyes to the fact that there could be a bigger life.”

  “That’s quite an impact. Did you get to Europe?”

  “No! I did go to St. Maarten for a few years. I worked on the boats, but after a while it felt exactly the same as here, just with better weather, and a bit more French.” She laughs, then shrugs. “So I came home. But I was the one who was jealous.”

  “But you had all those years with … our father.”

  “Yes. And when he was great, he was great. But nothing is ever how you think it is looking at it from the outside.”

  “She’s right,” says Jason. “Life is where you look, right?”

  Julia frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean look for the bad, you’ll find more of the bad, look for the good, you’ll find more of the good.”

  A smile spreads on her face. “I like it. Life is where you look.”

  “On that upbeat note”—I stand up—“let’s call the girls and go in for dinner.”

  * * *

  Dinner is wonderful, in every way. The food is delicious, everyone is relaxed, the girls don’t just sit at the end, having their own private conversation, but join in ours, as equals, and I think how perfect this evening is, how happy I am right now, how much I wish this could continue.

  It feels like a perfect little slice of life, one that won’t last, that can’t last. We’ll go back to London in two days, back to our flat, and Jason will go back to his, and there will be no more family dinners, no more hanging out on sun porches talking about nothing in particular, and I will go back to being as desperately lonely as I have been since the moment we split up.

  Jason being here has been the best and the worst thing imaginable. Every time I look at him I feel a mixture of love and pain. He’s here, but he’s not mine. He’s here, but he doesn’t want me.

  Or does he? Because there have been moments these last few days when I’ve really wondered, moments when I am convinced there is chemistry between us, that all is not lost, that we may be able to find our way back to each other after all.

  The more time we spend together, the easier it is, the more fun we seem to be having. I can’t believe it’s all about to be over, and I wonder if there’s any chance, if something may happen before we leave.

  Oh God! Listen to me! I sound like a teenager. I feel like a teenager. Giddy with happiness at my crush finally paying attention to me. The fact that my crush happens to be my ex-husband feels irrelevant, other than that he belongs with me, we belong with each other, with Annie.

  At 9:30 Julia says she has to go. She thanks me for a wonderful evening, hugs us all, and leaves. Trudy decides to stay for a final sleepover with Annie, and I pull out a box of DVDs I found in a cabinet in the living room, so they can curl up on the sofa and watch movies. What a terrible thing, I think, to be grateful for the accident, grateful that it has forced the two of them to be home, quiet, to do something safe where I can keep an eye on them.

  I tuck a blanket around them and go into the kitchen to make popcorn. Sam leaves to go meet Eddie somewhere for a late-night drink, and Jason comes in, walks up behind me as I’m shaking the pan, waiting to hear the kernels start to explode, and I am completely still, remembering how he used to do this, used to come up behind me
while I was cooking and slip his arms around my waist, rest his head on my shoulder to see what I was doing, nuzzle into my neck to make me laugh.

  I am holding my breath, frozen with anticipation, waiting for those arms to slip around my waist as I am so sure they will. I can feel him, right behind me, feel his body heat, as he leans his head forward, until it is almost on my shoulder, but not touching, and I know he feels it too, and I don’t know whether to turn, whether this is the moment he might kiss me. I am completely frozen, I am sure he is too, and then, suddenly, he backs off.

  “It smells delicious,” he says, and the only thing I can think is fuck. How did that moment just disappear? How could we have got so close, and yet nothing happened? I know it wasn’t just in my imagination; I know he was feeling it too.

  How do I get it back?

  “I think I’m going to go for a walk. I might go to town,” he says, stepping out of the kitchen. I wait for him to ask me to come too, but he doesn’t, and I realize this moment was probably overwhelming for him. It was overwhelming for me. When Jason is overwhelmed, he needs space, needs time on his own, and the absolute worst thing I could do right now is invite myself along.

  Which I wouldn’t do anyway.

  Not unless I was completely desperate.

  Which I’m not.

  “Have fun,” I say, pretending I am not standing here with my entire body on fire, pretending that lust and anticipation and disappointment aren’t fighting a huge battle inside my body, that the disappointment is winning, is so great that I feel a lump in my throat and I am worried I may burst into tears.

  Don’t be silly, I tell myself, after I give the girls the popcorn and finish the cleaning up in the kitchen. That moment was real. Jason needs to figure it out. You didn’t imagine it. It’s all good.

  And then: If it’s supposed to be, it will be. I have to let go. I can’t force anything to happen, nor can I be upset that it didn’t. If we are supposed to be together, we will be, and if I have learned anything from my time in program, it is that I have to let go and let God; that if it is God’s will, it will happen.

  I say a prayer, fold the dish towel and hang it on the hook, then kiss Annie good night and go upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  I don’t sleep.

  I can’t sleep.

  An hour goes by, then two. Where is Jason? A walk isn’t two hours. I go downstairs, pretending I need water, then that I am checking on the girls, and still there is no sign of Jason. I open his bedroom door and leave it ajar so I can walk past and check.

  No Jason.

  Where is he?

  I start to worry.

  I never used to be a worrier, until I had Annie. That first year I spent all my time terrified something terrible would happen to her. If I left her with a babysitter and the babysitter didn’t pick up her phone, I would have to go back home, to reassure myself that the babysitter wasn’t lying unconscious on the floor of the nursery with no one to look after Annie.

  If Jason was later than expected, if a meeting ran on, or he told me he’d be home by seven and it was 8:30, I would phone his cell over and over; each time it went to the machine I would literally be picturing his car smashed up on Baker Street, police and ambulance racing to the scene, where they would find my poor, mangled husband.

  It was very bad for a while, my catastrophizing, constantly waiting for the worst thing to happen, and then it seemed to go away. What is the worst thing I can imagine happening now? My daughter being involved in a scooter accident is right up there, yet it happened, I didn’t go to pieces, and we all coped.

  Which should give me a measure of relief, but I feel the familiar panic rise up as time ticks slowly on and there is no sign of Jason. Where is he and what has happened?

  Eventually, close to midnight, I text him. I keep it light. I don’t want him to know I am panicking about him, reverting to old behavior that used to drive him nuts.

  u ok? I type.

  There is no response.

  Jason? Just wanted to check you’re ok.

  No response.

  JASON? PLEASE RESPOND

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Fuck.

  Sam is out. The girls are asleep on the sofa, piled together like puppies. My adrenaline is pumping and my heart is beating fast. There is absolutely no way I’m going to sleep. Even though I haven’t heard sirens, that’s all I can think about.

  I have to go and look for Jason.

  I know it’s crazy, but, as he always used to point out, rational thought tended to go out the window once I had got myself into a state of full catastrophizing.

  I pull on jeans and a T-shirt, go outside, and stop, cursing. He took the car. Shit. I’ll have to cycle, which I don’t particularly want to do at night, but I have no choice.

  I wheel the bike out, strap on the helmet, and start to pedal along Cliff Road, wishing I could appreciate the beauty of the velvet night sky, and the smells of salt and ocean, but my heart is pounding, and images of flashing lights and broken bodies are all I can think about.

  Town is busy. Busier than I would have expected, the odd groups of people, all of them looking like they’ve been drinking, occasionally careening out of doorways with laughter and noise.

  Where would he be? In a bar? Jason doesn’t go to bars, not for years, not since before I knew him. He can go to bars, he’s well beyond the point of being tempted, but he wouldn’t go there by himself out of choice.

  Would he be by the water? Sitting on a bench, thinking? I hesitate, not knowing which way to go, happy only that there is no sign of any major accident, no sense of something terrible having happened here this evening.

  A crowd of people come out of the Club Car, noise and music drifting out with them, and I step aside, letting them pass, before opening the door, something unconscious pulling me inside.

  The noise, the heat, the laughter, the piano, the singing. Everything hits me at once in this packed former train carriage, the bar running along one side, packed with people, a huge party, alcohol fueled. Wherever Jason is, he would not be here.

  As I turn to leave, something familiar catches my eye. Julia. Seated at the bar, her back to me, leaning in to someone. I can’t move. I freeze, knowing it is Jason, and when she tilts her head I see that I was right.

  She snakes a hand around his neck, and pulls him down. As if in slow motion, I watch as Jason’s head moves closer to hers, and they are kissing.

  A wave of nausea washes over me. I have to leave. But I can’t move. I see Jason’s eyes closed, remember how it felt to be kissed by him, and I don’t know whether to tear them apart, slip away, or throw up.

  They break apart. I don’t see Jason’s face because at that moment Julia turns her head, and as if she knows I’m there, as if she is expecting to see me, she looks straight into my eyes.

  And she smiles.

  * * *

  I tear out of there, wanting to disappear, wanting to get as far away as possible. I feel as if I am in physical pain, my heart threatening to rip open and tear, and I gulp out a sob, unable to believe what I just saw, unable to believe the pain I am in.

  A bar. More people. Light, and noise, and alcohol. I hesitate by the window and look in, at the polished mahogany bar, the stools, the bottles and bottles of vodka, gin, tequila, everything that is warm and familiar and comforting, and it is like a force field pulling me in.

  That will make it all better.

  That will make the pain go away.

  Thirty-four

  London, 2014

  This is not my usual meeting. I have taken the tube into town, because I am desperate for a meeting, and not my usual cozy one, where I know all the people almost as well as I know myself, where I will hear them say some variation of what they always say, and it will be as comfortable and familiar as a night out with my oldest friends.

  No. That’s not what I need today.

  I need to be in a room filled with people I don’t know. A big meet
ing. One in which I can be completely anonymous. One in which, hopefully, I will be surrounded by people who have far better recovery than I, who know what to say to ease my pain.

  They often say that in meetings you will hear exactly what you need to hear at any given time. I need that to happen today. I need someone or some reading, something that will show me how to get through this day without wanting to drown everything out in a sea of vodka.

  I came so close, that night in Nantucket. I didn’t go into the bar, but I wanted to. I didn’t drown my pain in alcohol, but I came the closest I have come since I got sober, and it was terrifying.

  It has set off a craving, one that I thought I had let go of long ago. Pain has always been a trigger. I don’t want to feel, which is why I drink: to numb, to make it all go away.

  The pain of seeing Jason and Julia together has continued, as has the wanting to drink. I haven’t, but I think about it all the time, and I am filling my time with calls to my sponsor, meetings, reading literature, writing the steps; anything to stop the white-knuckling.

  I need a meeting that isn’t filled with strange strangers, as has sometimes happened when I’ve tried a new meeting. I don’t want one filled with homeless people—forgive me—and nor do I want one with creepy guys that come up afterward and ask for my number.

  I know there is a good meeting here, in Soho, and I walk in, a few minutes late, glad the room is packed, every seat taken, both around the table and the second circle pushed back against the wall.

  Someone grabs a folding chair for me, and there is a shuffle as they make room. I glance around, see that it’s mostly men, a few women, one I have seen before in a couple of meetings. She raises her hand and gives me a smile. I’m not sure of her name. Andrea? Amelia? Something like that.

  I close my eyes during the reading from the daily reader, Thought for the Day. Martin, a middle-aged cheerful-looking alcoholic, reads:

  “Roselle says: I used to try to deny or excuse the things he did that hurt, but that didn’t do anything to heal my hurt. When I came out with my true feelings and honestly ‘told’ him I was hurt and angry, he came back with his true feelings. The wrongs are never made right, but the love and forgiveness puts them in the past and out of today’s ‘processing memory.’”