“At the piano with Dad. He asked her to play. He remembered she could. It’s really good for him that she’s here, Mal. And it’s good for me, too. Can she come to the shop with me tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. She had an awesome time there.”
“It’s awesome having her there.” She sounds wistful. “My niece.”
I wiggle closer to her. “You’d be a good mom, Annie.”
“You think so?” she asks.
“Of course.” But I sense her uncertainty. “Don’t you?”
As dark as the night is, I know that her eyes are a clear, honest green. Her voice is clear as well. “I’m not the most realistic person. Would I know what’s going on with my child, or just see what I want to see?”
I’m relieved that she knows this. She’s never expressed it before, certainly not to me. It’s definitely an admission.
Taking her hand, I face her. “You, sister, have bought into the image you created. Sunny Side Up? That’s optimism, and there’s nothing wrong with it. But just the fact that you asked this question is an answer. You’d know what was going on with your child, because you’d know to look deeper. You’d know to be realistic when realistic counts. Besides,” I add, grinning, “you’d have me to point things out.”
“Promise?” she begs. “I’m going to need you.”
My thoughts falter. There’s an urgency in her voice, an immediacy that suggests something beyond the hypothetical. She neither denies it nor looks away.
Cautiously, I ask, “Need? Present tense? As in … now?”
“In seven months.”
My heart thuds. I put a hand there. “Omigod. Annie. Seriously?”
She nods.
“Pregnant?”
Eyes wider, she nods again.
I slip an arm around her waist. “That’s terrific!”
“Is it?” she worries. “I haven’t told Bill yet. I keep thinking I’m not really pregnant or I’ll lose it, and then I won’t have to put him to the test. I’m not sure he wants to be tied down.”
I remember the way he reached for her at Gendy’s when she abruptly left the table. The spontaneity of the gesture said something. “He adores you.”
“But he didn’t ask for this. Birth control was my responsibility. If I force something on him, it could drive him away.”
She is right about that. Lord knew, in the course of my own decision-making, I’d met potential dads who didn’t want to be dads. Before meeting Bill, I’d have guessed he was one of them. Even expecting the worst, though, I’ve been impressed. Granted, I haven’t seen much. And his past isn’t stellar. And what he may like about Anne is the legitimacy of the Aldiss name. And his ink is way too much. But he did say the right thing about that to Joy. And he treats my sister with respect.
“You won’t drive him away,” I tell her, “and if you do, that says something about him.”
“But then I’ll be alone, just me and Dad. He thinks pregnant and unmarried is the height of immorality. Remember the awful things he said to you when you told him you were having Joy?”
Do I ever. “But it helped me prioritize what I wanted. Do you want this baby?”
“I stopped using birth control.”
Deliberate, then. Like me. I feel a connection to her in that. “So, it’s done.”
She continues to eye me plaintively. Still, I’m taken off-guard when she whispers, “What would Mom say?” Having distanced herself from our mother all those years ago, the fact that she cares touches me.
Smiling, I say, “Mom was a different person once she left here. She decided what she wanted and went for it. Isn’t that what you’ve done?”
“Is it?”
“Absolutely. You have a successful business. No one told you to do that. And now a child?”
“But it’s scary. Were you scared?”
“Terrified. But you can do it, Anne, I know you can. And you won’t be alone.”
Her eyes fill with a different doubt. “Would you really help? I mean, especially if we’re only half-sisters? I’m sorry, but I’m really struggling with that. What if you have a whole other family? What if there’s some man out there who knows you’re his daughter and who’s been watching you all these years?”
“Without saying a word?”
“Maybe, for some reason, he can’t.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” I suggest as I often have when my mind jumps on this train.
“But if it’s Roberto, there’s Danny and Tina—”
“—neither of whom have ever approached me about being related.”
“What if they don’t know? What if it’s someone else entirely, someone rich and wonderful and just waiting for the right time?” Her voice suggests a fairy tale shade, but I’m more realistic than that.
“What if it’s a one-night stand whose name Mom wouldn’t even remember, especially if she was tipsy,” I counter, “and since Mom didn’t usually drink, one martini could have done it, and we both know she and Dad were unhappy. I’ve considered the angles, Annie. I’ve wondered for years. Part of me always wanted it, because it would explain why Dad treated me differently. It would be the reason I was always wrong in his eyes—the reason why I was always standing at the very edge of the family photos, hiding from him in the shadow of Mom.”
She looks surprised, like she hadn’t remembered it that way. “Were you? Always?”
“Just look at those photos.”
“That’s so sad.”
“But I have a good life. I’ve made it a good one.”
“Still.”
“No. There’s a theoretical life. And there’s a real one. You’re my real one.”
Anne looks like she might cry. “But you’re happy in New York. How can you help me if you’re there?”
“I can be back and forth,” I say, because I would want to help her raise a baby. Half-sister or not, yes, I would—though as soon as the words are out, I feel a qualm. I avoided Bay Bluff for twenty years. Do I seriously want to commit to regular trips back? One thing I do know. “Joy will be beside herself.”
Anne gasps. “Omigod. Don’t tell her yet. And don’t tell Margo. And whatever you do, do not tell Dad.” As soon as I raise a hand in pledge, she asks, “About Dad? Will you watch him tomorrow morning? Lina isn’t in on Sundays, so I always worry when I have to leave, but Sundays are big at the shop. If I leave early with Joy, will you walk him down for breakfast?”
* * *
That’s the plan. I’m not sure whether Joy is woken by excitement or the alarm on her phone, but she is already dressed when I crack open an eye. After she kisses me goodbye and leaves the room, I try to go back to sleep. But my mind has jump-started and is racing on a track crammed with thoughts. Jack, my parentage, new info on Elizabeth, Anne pregnant—had I expected any of this when I left New York? No. But here it is.
Craving a little immersion in what has always steadied me, I pull on my Bay Bluff sweatshirt, grab my Nikon, and, with no sign Dad is up yet, I go to the beach. I do leave a note on the kitchen table, though whether he’ll notice it or even be able to read it is up for grabs. I would be safer waiting for him inside. But my memories are vivid. The beach at dawn is too special to miss.
Sunrise is different from sunset, a crescendo in the day’s symphony, rather than its denouement, and our eastern exposure is prime. I’m not discouraged by narrow strips of clouds between me and the sun. Their purples and pinks are dramatic.
While the ocean gently gathers, rolls, and retreats, I photograph the scene in thirds—beach, water, and sky—then in simple halves of sky and waves. Avoiding the two boats, which introduce elements I don’t want, I stretch out on my stomach on the dewy dock and, putting the camera on the wood, photograph its narrowing arm reaching into the brightening horizon.
Sunrise comes fast. I’m always amazed at that, but then, when I’m engrossed, I lose track of time.
Elbows on the wood, I turn my head the smallest bit. East-facing windows on the Sabathian house refl
ect the rising sun. Ours must be, too. But Jack isn’t in our house. He’s in his, likely in bed.
Unable to resist, I take a picture, just one, though whether it will bring pleasure or pain once I’m back in New York is up for grabs.
Back on the beach, I shoot the wrack line with its new offerings, singling out several shells and a length of kelp. The light has blossomed into a fragile yellow when I see my father making his cautious way down the stairs. He looks typically Tom Aldiss, meaning too formal in his button-down and khakis. His silver hair, though thinner than it used to be, barely blows. For each normal step he takes, on the next he places one shoe first, then the other beside it, like a very young child.
Straightening from the surf, I smile and wave. He doesn’t smile, but he does lift his cast in greeting. We meet at the bottom of the stairs, where he promptly heads for one of the beach chairs. Sinking into it, he is winded.
“Are you okay?” I ask. With so much else to think about, I’ve forgotten about this.
But he dismisses any problem with the wave of his hand. “Fine. Fine. I saw your note,” he murmurs. Then he eyes my camera. “You still doing that?”
I don’t take offense, don’t even brace for an attack. I’m more confident now than I was back then, when I read attacks into most everything he said. Maybe, having discussed my connection to him now with Anne and Jack, I’m that little bit shielded from hurt. Whatever, he did raise me as his—gave me his name, a home, food, clothes, orthodontia, college. The least I can do by way of thanks is to indulge him his moods.
“Still doing it,” I confirm. “Professionally.” Perching on the edge of the second chaise, I turn on my camera and pull up the last shot I made. “I took this just now.” Shading the screen with my hand, I show him the shot.
He dips his head to see better. “It’s just a slipper shell.”
“But look at its coloring. The sweep of the design is stunning. Nature is a miracle. Isn’t that what you used to say?”
“Your mother was the one who said that.”
No. He said it. I remember clearly. He said it during beach lessons—or so we thought of them, since he piled in so much information—and he said it more than once. But I wasn’t about to argue with him. Here was one memory that worked either way.
I hold the image before him for another few seconds. When he rights his head, visibly unconvinced, I set the Nikon on the webbing behind me. “I do real estate photography. Brokers hire me when they put homes on the market. So much of the shopping experience is online now. The pictures have to be good.”
“You can’t make much money.”
“Enough to support us.” Mom left me money, though there’s no point in telling him that. I would give most anything to have her, not her money. But at least the bequest allows me to spend more time with Joy.
“Where do you live?” he asks in a please-remind-me way.
“New York,” I say, then, because he seems relatively fresh and because I have an agenda, I add, “How’s Paul?”
“Paul?”
“Schuster.”
“He’s good.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Sure do. At the office.” The flick of a frown here. “Well, I used to.”
“Is he still practicing?”
He nods. “We’re a team, Paul and me.”
“Then he’s still around,” I say, just to be sure.
“Yes. Well,” he pauses, frowns, “maybe no. I don’t know.”
I want to ask whether Paul ever visits him, and if not, why not. “I’d love to say hi while I’m here. Is the office phone the same?”
He starts to speak, then stops and slips me an apologetic look that breaks my heart.
Gently, I say, “There’s medication, Dad. It can help your memory.”
But he’s waving a hand no before I’m done. “No doctors. No pills.”
Frustrated, I try, “Research is—”
“No,” he insists and, dismissing the subject, lifts his head to a trio of gulls that are flying toward pickings on larger stretches of beach.
Anne is pregnant, I want to say. You’d have a grandchild growing up here. Don’t you want to be part of that? But this isn’t my news to share.
Following his gaze, I, too, watch the gulls. The beauty of their flight soothes our moods. And it’s pleasant, sitting here with him, cushioned in the smell of the sea. I tell myself to be silent. Only there’s so much I want to know. And having him alone is an opportunity.
Casually, like it’s just popped into my head, I ask, “Paul represented Elizabeth, didn’t he?”
His eyes fly to mine, faded blues alert. “Why do you ask?”
“No special reason. I was just thinking about her business, like what happened to it after she went missing.”
“Like? Like? I hate that.” I begin to fear I’ve lost him, when he mutters, “The thing shut down. It wasn’t worth much.”
“Ever?”
“Once. But a few bad moves killed it. Bad moves,” he repeats before seeming to catch up with the thought again. “She fell behind.”
“Did that upset her?”
He considers, then nods.
“Enough so that she would deliberately jump from the boat?”
“Boat?”
“That night. Was it suicide?”
He lowers his legs from the chaise and pushes himself up. Standing, he braces his good hand on his lower back and leans sideways to ease a crick. When he straightens, he is facing the bluff. Quietly, he says, “I don’t remember,” and turns tormented eyes my way. “Wouldn’t I remember something like that? She told me everything else. I’ve never been so close to someone.”
“You loved her,” I say, giving him permission to admit it.
“I loved her,” he repeats.
“Why didn’t you marry her instead of Mom?”
He considers that and shrugs. “She doesn’t want me. Besides, I want family. She wants work.”
That makes sense, given the way she treated her husband and son, but before I can ask more, he is on his way to the stairs. With a foot on the first, he stops, considering the right side of the bluff, then ours on the left.
He gestures at ours. “Why is this side so bad?”
I remember his articulate discussion of beach erosion yesterday, but clearly he doesn’t. “That side has plantings to keep the bluff from eroding.”
“Why not this side?”
“Because … because it just doesn’t yet. I’m happy to do it. Would you mind?”
“Why in the hell would I mind?” he barks, that simply agreeing to the fix. I think of the analogy, plants-to-bluff like medicine-to-brain, but I have no time to raise it. His mood has shifted. He is already starting up the stairs, grumbling, “Why hasn’t your mother done it? Where the hell is she anyway?”
Ignoring his questions, I take the stairs at a trot. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“We can have breakfast here or at the square.”
He doesn’t respond, simply aims for the road. And yes, we can walk. Walking down is easy. But I remember how breathless he was yesterday on the walk back up.
So I run inside for my keys and, sliding quickly behind the wheel, start the car. Stopping several paces ahead of him, I lower the window just as he draws even with me. “Climb in, Dad.”
He seems startled to see me. Bending just that little bit, he squints. “Margo?”
“Mallory. Climb in.” He climbs in. “Seat belt?” I prompt.
But he either doesn’t want it or can’t process the request. “I tried to help her.”
I coast slowly down the hill with my foot on the brake. “Elizabeth?”
“She was upset. Upset,” he repeats as he searches for the next thought. “Afraid. She was afraid to lose everything. I had to help.”
“What did you do?”
He considers that, but either he can’t recall or doesn’t want to say. Hooking his elbow on the open window, he turns away from me
and looks out.
“Dad?” So close. I know the answer is there. I want it. But he remains silent, and the square is in view. Frustrated, I try the Aiellos. “Seeing Lina yesterday got my mind working. I remember her husband, Roberto. Did you know him at all?”
He is silent so long I’m about to give up, when, without looking my way, he says, “Gardener.”
“Yes. Roberto Aiello.”
He does turn now, seeming puzzled. “Do I know him?”
He would, if the man had an affair with my mother—unless he didn’t know or doesn’t remember. But here we are, stymied again. Didn’t know or doesn’t remember. That seems to be the way on too many counts.
Frustrated, I pull into the lot and park. Once inside, we settle into Dad’s front corner table. Joy rushes over with coffee, which is some comfort. Anne rushes over with the newspaper. Lily rushes over with a menu for me. She already knows that my father wants bacon, eggs, and cinnamon toast, and I just double the order.
With a great rustle, he immerses himself in the paper. Around us, voices are early-morning low. Forks scrape on plates, teacups on saucers. The shop is half-filled, though a pair of young parents with toddlers arrive minutes after we do. Of the patrons already there, several faces are vaguely familiar.
“Dad,” I cup my mug and lean close, “do you know any of these people?”
He looks up, then around the shop before meeting my gaze. “Is that a trick question?”
I chuckle. “I’m sorry. No. No, it’s not. I just can’t remember their names.”
Glancing around again, he hitches his chin. “Babcock.”
I follow the hitch. “John? History teacher?” He was old when I had him. He looks ancient now.
“Retired.”
That’s good, at least. He put us to sleep back then. I’m sure the man knows everything there is to know about America’s wars, but I doubt he would convey it any more dynamically now, and with America’s recent history? Disaster. “Who else?”
He hitches his chin farther left. “Hendersons.”
I catch my breath. “That’s Mr. Henderson?” I stare at the man. He has to be my father’s age, to judge from his hands and face, but his hair is too blonde, his Polo shirt too slim, the woman with him too young. “The Hendersons,” I breathe. “He remarried?” I ask, but Dad has returned to his paper, which is fine. The last thing I want is for him to ask about the revulsion that has to be showing on my face. The idea that the cad across the room may be my biological father is horrifying to me. That’s the downside. The upside is that he doesn’t spare me a look. If I was his daughter, he would. And he would certainly know who I am based on who I’m with.
A Week at the Shore Page 21