by Jen Malone
Mom grabs the towel from next to the sink and begins roughly drying a plate. Since Sunny has the potential to tilt at steep angles while under sail, all our dishes are plastic, and I’m surprised this one doesn’t snap in half with the effort she’s putting into the task.
“Yes, Cassie, but the difference is that he’s with an adult, and I’ve been told exactly which route they’ll take, so if they aren’t back at a reasonable hour, I’ll know precisely where to go looking for them. Tell me which part of Off to do laundry includes any of those reassurances? I had no idea where you were or what you even meant. Were you looking for a Laundromat? How am I supposed to interpret Back soon? Five minutes? Five hours? Not to mention that you took the dinghy and left me stranded here, so if I did need to help Drew, I couldn’t! Did you think of that?”
She tosses the plate on the counter, where we both watch it wobble out of control before settling. Okay, so no, I didn’t, but she’s exaggerating just a little bit.
I cross behind her to my berth and begin taking my clean laundry out of my bag, laying things on my bed to fold.
“You could have used the radio to call Amy and Miranda if you needed anything,” I tell her. “They would have come over in Liki Tiki to get you. They also could have told you which path I’d followed into the woods since Amy’s the one who gave me directions.” I’m speaking the words to my quilt, but I can sense Mom in the doorway.
“Oh. Well, then. As long as Amy and Miranda were in on the plan.”
I guess there’s no question who I get my mastery of sarcasm from.
“Did you not think your own mother had a right to know where her child is?”
“That’s just it, Mom. I’m not a child! I’m seventeen years old, so you can quit trying to micromanage me. It’s bad enough you have me cooped up in this cabin like I’m freaking Rapunzel. You don’t need to know where I am every second of every day! What are you going to do next year when I’m off at college?”
“Know what, young lady? Keep acting like you’re the only person on this planet with feelings worth considering and you might not be going away to college. Oregon State’s a perfectly good school.”
“You can’t control where I go,” I spit.
“Oh? Which of us is paying the tuition bill?”
I see red. That’s hitting way below the belt. The surge of anger coursing through me is Hulk level, and I feel every bit as volatile as the big green dude. And since Drew’s not here, there’s no reason to hold back. It’s so incredibly hard not to fling the cheating in her face right now, to really hammer home my argument. I’d love to watch her expression when she realizes that, oh yes, I know ev-er-y-thing. There have been a million opportunities like this over the past months to confront her with it, but I always clamp my jaw shut and grind my teeth together instead. Like I’ll do now too.
I have reasons. Many of them.
The thing is, I don’t know everything. I know I overheard Dad hiss, “If you hadn’t cheated, we might not be in this position,” and I know that was the last night he spent in our house. I know that a week later he accepted a yearlong visiting fellowship overseas, something he’d been offered many times before and claimed he’d never consider because he didn’t want to uproot our family. I’d say that’s telling enough.
I don’t think I can handle any nitty-gritty details. No one wants to picture their parents having sex, but trying to imagine Mom doing the nasty with someone else? It makes my head thud and my stomach heave.
I also don’t think I can handle the awkwardness of confronting my own mother about something as adult as this. I used to think I could talk to her about anything, but not this anything. Not “please defend all your screwups to me, your child who previously looked up to you as someone worth emulating.” What kid wants to be placed in that position? It’s not only embarrassing, it’s humiliating. For her, probably . . . but also for me.
The whole thing is humiliating, not just the idea of confronting Mom about it. I couldn’t even bring myself to confide in my very best friends in the world. I know that’s not logical, and that they love me no matter what, and that my mom’s actions don’t reflect on me . . . but they do, on some level. I couldn’t bear to see Tara and Jess try to act like what happened was fine and normal when they came over, when we’d all know deep down that my family isn’t normal anymore. No one else we know has a cheating mom.
And then there’s my even bigger fear. What if whoever he was is still in the picture? I don’t think he is. I’ve avoided my house a lot since the split, but whenever I have been there, so has Mom. Alone, or with Drew. And would she really have instigated a four-month trip if it meant leaving the new love of her life behind?
But.
She fooled us all once.
I don’t know what it’s going to take for me to forgive her for that, but I do know finding out he’s still around—or, worse, that I might be getting a new stepdad—would plummet our mother-daughter relationship into an abyss we’d never climb out of.
So I keep the little I do know held tight to my chest.
Instead I spit out a tamer version that fits both our narratives. “You think I act like the only person on this planet with feelings worth considering? Where do you think I could have learned that, Mom? It’s real obvious you considered all of our feelings when you and Dad called it quits.”
Not that tame, I guess, because she winces like I’ve slapped her. A millisecond later, she turns and retreats to her berth, slamming the door. I throw myself onto my bed and land directly on the pile of clean laundry, but I don’t care.
Where does she get off looking so hurt? I only said the truth. She didn’t consider us. And she wants to say I’m only concerned with my feelings? Hey, pot, it’s kettle. You’re black.
If I were in Pleasant Hill, I could escape to blow off steam. I could come home after she was already asleep and I wouldn’t have to worry about a huge blowout with her. It’s not like I want to feel this way about my own mother, and I’ve been doing a pretty damned good job over the last six months of avoiding arguments like this, especially since Drew’s always around and I don’t want to drag him into it.
But now she’s trapped me in this floating jail cell.
How exactly does she expect me to avoid saying all the horrible things I’ve been shoving down when I’m cornered in this . . . this pressure cooker?
12
I blink awake, early the next morning, to my mother settling gingerly on my bed.
“I’m sorry, Cassie,” she whispers.
I’m bleary-eyed and my brain’s not functioning yet. After our fight yesterday, I fell asleep and woke to an empty boat and a note (ah, the irony!). It said they were having dinner on Christian’s boat and to call if I wanted to join them; otherwise there were plenty of groceries to choose from.
Plenty is a relative term, given Drew’s carrying capabilities and the size of our “pantry” under the floorboards, but at least I scored my potato chips. The distance back must have kept Drew from getting anything frozen, because no one had disturbed me to get under my mattress.
I made myself dinner, took it into my berth, and watched a movie on my laptop. When I heard them return, I faked sleep.
Now it’s morning, my head is fuzzy, and my mother is stroking my hair like she used to every time I’d have my recurring nightmare about being at a funeral and being unable to see who’s in the casket. I tug my blanket around my neck, curl my legs to my chest. I don’t look at her.
She sighs. “Look, I feel terrible about our fight yesterday. I wanted this trip to be about setting things right between us, but it feels like they’re getting worse instead of better. I was hoping . . .”
She trails off and I don’t move. After a second she exhales deeply and says, “I was hoping you might start to feel differently about things once a little time had passed and you’d settled in. But, I can acknowledge I’m probably not helping things much, and that’s on me. I heard what you said yesterday, and I’m goin
g to try harder to treat you more like the grown-up you’re becoming.” She pauses, then asks, “Okay?”
I lie perfectly still and hide the one tear that sneaks out of the corner of my eye and onto my pillow.
God, I miss my mom.
I miss my dad because he’s thousands of miles away, but I think I miss my mom, who’s all of two feet away, more.
Except I don’t see any way back to how things used to be with us this time last year. If I give in now and start being my regular self with her, that would be like acknowledging that what she did to us was okay. It’s not okay.
“Cass?” she asks, and her voice cracks.
I shrug, causing the covers to slip down. “Sure, whatever,” I whisper, my head still turned to the wall.
She puts a hand on my back. “All I ask in return is that you try to put in an effort too, okay?”
When I don’t answer, she settles my blanket back into place, squeezes my shoulder, and stands.
“I’ll let you get some more sleep. We’re finally setting sail, in about an hour.”
In reply, I curl up tighter.
“Now that Jonah’s here, things are about to get interesting, huh?” my mother says.
I whip my head to face her. She’s perched at the steering wheel, while Drew’s in the bow and I fulfill my simply-an-observer role on a bench in the cockpit.
Despite it being only a few hours after her possibly heartfelt apology, her question instantly puts me on the defensive.
“Why? What do you mean?”
It’s just like my mother to assume that the mere appearance of a guy my age on this trip would catapult me into a schoolgirl crush. I’d like to think I’m slightly more mature than someone who would fall into instalove, thank you very much.
“What’s with the tone?” she asks. “I meant that now we can finally put some coastline between us and our starting point. Why? What’d you think I was saying?”
Oh.
I don’t respond, instead returning my gaze to our wake. I may be annoyed with her, but I’m thrilled that we’re finally back under sail, cutting through the choppy whitecaps like we’re the boss of them. This time my stomach is only slightly queasy, which is a bonus.
A minute later, Mom asks, “Wait, did you think I was suggesting something about you and Jonah?”
Her laugh suggests she considers the mere idea of it preposterous. Okay, so, I’m not exactly thinking about Jonah like that. Sure, he’s cute. More than cute. But in the first ten seconds we spent together, I could tell he’s a giant flirt, and past experience has taught me not to mess with giant flirts—they’re nearly always players. Plus, my head is enough of a mess without bringing any guy drama into it, least of all over one who’s seen my entire underwear collection. Nothing could be more mortifying.
But still. My mother doesn’t know any of those deterrents, and it’s not that crazy to imagine two teens forced to spend months together at sea eventually hooking up. Is she saying there’s no way he’d be interested in me? What must she think of her daughter for the idea not to have even crossed her mind?
I ignore her question and continue to study the wake we’re leaving behind us, until Mom says, “Well, I really hope you’re smarter than to go there, Cassandra.”
I turn to face her. “What? Go where?”
“Jonah. He seems directionless; he told us last night at dinner that he recently dropped out of college. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with a grotty yachty.”
“What is a grotty yachty?”
My mother shrugs. “Like a beach bum, but the sailing version.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a super-lame term. Anyway, I think he’s kind of cute,” I say, a challenge in my voice. Regardless of my own feelings on the matter, where does she get off telling me who I can like? I dart a glance at Drew, who’s far in the front of the boat with wind whipping around him, before lowering my voice and saying, “And thank you so much for your new efforts to treat me like an adult capable of making my own decisions. I can tell you’re trying really hard.”
Mom’s shoulders drop. After a few seconds she nods and says, “You know what, you’re right. You should make your own decisions when it comes to who you like. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
I never said I liked him; I said I thought he was cute. But wow. I’m impressed with her total 180, despite myself.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome,” she says, offering a half smile.
“Mom, should I hoist the jib now?” Drew calls.
She turns her attention to the bow and I open my phone. I finally managed to guilt Tara into planning a spy mission to my house so she can text me pictures of my garden. I need to make sure the tenants are watering and weeding it according to the detailed instructions I left, before it passes the point of no return. It’s gonna be hard enough getting me back into the swing of things come November; I don’t need my garden to be equally out of sorts.
No updates from Tara yet, so I switch to the GPS app. I want to know exactly where we are and how much progress we’re making.
“Think we’ll cross the California border tomorrow?” I ask, studying the map. Both sails are now filling with wind, and Drew joins us in the cockpit.
“Tomorrow, if all goes well,” Mom replies. “We anchor in Hunters Cove tonight, then on to Cali in the morning.”
Cali. That’s almost as bad as grotty yachty. Parents should not use slang. Like, ever. I catch Drew’s eyes, roll mine, and smile when he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
“So by tomorrow night we’ll be docking in an actual marina,” I say, amazed at how giddy this makes me. “Actual laundry facilities. Actual showers that don’t have to end after two minutes, to conserve the fresh water in the tanks.”
“Maybe even a burger joint!” Drew adds, and I smile. A burger would be heaven.
The thought of creature comforts to come breathes life into me. I creep along the ropes until I reach the front, where I dangle off it like one of those mermaid torsos carved into the front of Viking ships so I can take pictures of us zooming along for Dad.
I still need to find the negative one for today, but I push that aside because I’m tired of being all angsty. The water is green and we’re finally headed in the right direction, which means this trip is getting closer to being over by the nautical mile.
Things have to be looking up, right?
“Hey, check it out,” Drew says, joining me and pointing to the shoreline in the distance. “Cape Blanco.”
“Westernmost point in the state of Oregon!” we singsong in unison, grinning at each other. Cape Blanco is a national park where we used to go camping. Every time we’d pull up to the entrance, Dad would say, “Here we are, kids. Westernmost point in the state of Oregon,” until it got to be a family joke.
I wish we were close enough to snap a picture for Dad. Although even at this distance and in the bright sunshine, I can see the flashing of the familiar lighthouse beacon every few seconds. It’s strange to view it from this perspective, versus being on land. We’re far enough out to sea that I’d need the binoculars to discern the mossy green covering the top parts of the chalky cliffs that Mom and I spent countless hours walking beneath, chatting about stuff at school, or what plants I wanted to add to the garden that year, or, well, anything.
Dad had his precious lighthouse, but my favorite part was always exploring the tidal pools formed by all the rocks along the water’s edge. Mom and I would spend whole afternoons crouched down, peering in at the mini “aquariums” formed by crevices in the rocks. I loved watching the hermit crabs scurry along the tops of mussel shells and brainstorming with her about what kinds of weird things we could put on our s’mores that night at the campfire. (For the record, melted Hot Tamales candy s’mores are not as bad as they sound.)
I steal a glance at her now, standing at the helm of our boat, and my heart sighs. I swallow the memory away.
“I’m gonna go read for a while
,” I tell Drew.
I’m barely downstairs when I hear:
“Reality Bytes to Sunny-Side Up. Come in, Sunny-Side Up. Sunny-Side Up, do you copy? Over.”
Okay, I’m no willing participant in this life at sea, but talking into the VHF radio makes me feel like a wartime spy, and I’m all over it anytime it squawks.
“Sunny-Side Up, we copy. Over.”
“Plantita? Is your mother available? Over.”
No fun radio time for me; Christian sounds all business. “I’ll grab her. Over.”
Drew takes the wheel and Mom comes down to the navigation center. “This is Elise. Go ahead, Christian. Over.”
“I’m worried about a change in the weather report. It forecasts a small system hitting our area overnight and I don’t like the idea of being anchored in Hunters Cove during it. Over.”
I watch Mom’s face for a reaction, but she doesn’t give anything away. “What are you proposing? We pass Port Orford first, right? Should we try to stick it out there for a couple days and wait for the storm to pass? Over.”
Oh dear god, no. I can’t do any more “sticking it out.” I swear, I could walk to the tip of Mexico faster than this.
“I’d rather try to outrun it, so we don’t get any farther behind schedule. It would mean sailing straight through to Crescent City, but that’s a protected harbor. If the storm tracks south, it’s a better spot to wait things out. Plus it has the marina. Over.”
Getting to a marina sooner? Unloading trash? Emptying out the waste tank? Being able to take a shower long enough to use my deep conditioner? Creeping closer to the finish line? Yes, please. Let’s go!
Mom has frown lines between her eyes. “I don’t know. I thought we were committed to avoiding overnight sail-throughs? Have you checked with Amy and Miranda? Over.”
The radio is crackly for a second, and then Christian’s voice is clear as he says, “They said they’re good either way, but I’ll wait and watch the forecast. We can assess again in a couple of hours when we’re approaching Port Orford. Over and out.”