Wish I Might

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  For a moment I imagine Gramp Tweed “book-talking” with God and the angels in heaven. How silly we humans must seem, scurrying about with harried expressions, bundles of worries on our backs. When all around us there is—

  Bang, bang, bang, shhhhhhhhhhhh … The sky explodes now with sound and color and energy. One cannot describe fireworks with words. It happens too quickly, there is too much to hear, too much to see, too much to feel all at once. I think of JFK, somewhere in Florida, watching fireworks tonight. Of Mariel in Manhattan, maybe watching a show on the Hudson River. Of my mother and Sam, no doubt linked arm in arm on their blanket on Falmouth Heights Beach. Of Nana visiting friends in Chatham tonight. Their eyes all glued to the sky. So many people who care about me. I am a lucky duck indeed.

  My eyes fill with tears. Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me how small I am. How safe I am. How very much I am loved.

  I wish I had my journal with me. I would try to write a few sentences to paint this picture around me. But some things can’t be captured on a page. There aren’t enough words, or maybe there are too many words. Maybe all a writer can really do is invite the reader to see. To please stand still and look. To stop, look, and listen. That funny little line I learned in nursery school, teaching us what to do before we crossed the street.

  There’s a volley of firecrackers in a backyard a few houses down. I see a young girl holding a sparkler, her expression so carefree, happy.

  Enjoy it, little girl, enjoy it. Every little spark, every second.

  You’ll grow up soon enough, and nothing will feel simple again.

  I crawl into bed and choose a new skinny-punch.

  A classic. The Pearl by John Steinbeck. A poor fisherman finds a pearl and suddenly his life is changed forever.

  “In the town they tell the story of the great pearl — how it was found and how it was lost again…. And, as with all retold tales that are in people’s hearts, there are only good and bad things and black and white things and good and evil things and no in-between anywhere.”

  I read for hours, listening to the sounds of guests coming in for the night downstairs, voices talking, laughing, faucets running, toilets flushing.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  Mom and Sam. Stopping to say good night. Sam has his arm around my mother in the doorway, their happy faces lit by the hallway sconce.

  “Love you, Willa,” Mom says.

  “Love you,” Sam says.

  “Love you, too,” I say. “Good night.”

  What if my birthfather, Mother’s first husband, is really still alive? What if that destroys their happiness? Breaks up our perfect family? I think about how they had a miscarriage earlier this summer. I remember how happy I was to think that maybe, after being an only child my whole life, I might finally have a little sister or brother.

  I write in my journal and mull and worry. Willa the Warrior, I remind myself. Tomorrow I will talk to Mother. I owe her that. Surely by now Tina and Ruby have told their parents. This town is so small. Mother deserves to hear such shocking news from me, her daughter, not that blabbermouth pooch-queen Sherry Sivler.

  There, I feel better now. I have a plan. Action, not worry, that’s the key.

  I reopen Steinbeck’s The Pearl and dive back in, reading, reading, reading until the Bramblebriar Inn is hushed for the night. Only the crickets still cricketing outside.

  When I reach the last line, I sigh and smile.

  “And the music of the pearl drifted to a whisper and disappeared.”

  I close the cover and savor the moment.

  Savoring, savoring … oh, to write a book like that.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Labyrinth

  Here’s flowers for you;

  Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;

  The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun

  And with him rises weeping: these are the flowers

  Of middle summer….

  — Shakespeare

  When I seek out my mother the next morning, Darryl, who’s managing the front desk today, says she’s over at Bramble United Community with a couple from upstate New York who are having their reception here on Saturday.

  “After that, she’s off-Cape for the afternoon,” Darryl says. “Meeting with a bride-to-be in Boston, I think. She did say she’d be back in time for dinner.”

  Dinner, that reminds me. I need to find Sam and make sure it’s okay that I invited Mum’s nephew, Rob, for dinner.

  Sam is filling bird feeders out by the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is a walking circle Sam designed when he first took over the estate. You enter between two spruce shrubs and follow a narrow path bordered by perennial flowers and bushes, walking in toward the center, then back out toward the border, circling in and away, in and away, until you reach the stone bench in the middle. If you stay on the path, you can’t get lost. A good metaphor for life, I think.

  Sam’s flowers are full-bloom beautiful in every color of the rainbow: red, yellow, pink, blue, purple, orange, and white. The smell of lavender is everywhere. A fat blue jay lands in one of the birdbaths, splashing water everywhere.

  I tell Sam about Rob.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Sam says. “Of course he’s welcome. Good timing, too. Rosie’s handling the kitchen tonight. It’s my night off. Your mother and I were looking forward to having dinner with you. We’ve all been so busy this summer, we haven’t had much time to really talk.”

  “Talk about what?” I ask.

  “Nothing special,” Sam says.

  When he turns back to pour seeds in another feeder, I see him smile.

  “What, Dad? Tell me.”

  Sam laughs. “Later, Willa. Nothing that can’t wait.”

  After my shift in the kitchen, I head up to my room to check my messages.

  None from JFK, but there’s this chatty little voice mail from a girl named “Lorna” who wants to know, “What’s Joey’s favorite kind of birthday cake?”

  What?

  She’s throwing him a surprise party for his birthday Friday night at the country club their grandparents all belong to. “We all love him. He’s such a sweetie.”

  What! My jealousy hits the high jump. I love him. He’s my sweetie.

  Lorna says Joey mentioned me “once or twice” and she got my number from his cell phone.

  He only mentioned me once or twice? What’s she doing with his cell phone? I start to text her back, angry and annoyed, then Reason throws a roadblock.

  Reason: Maybe she’s just trying to be nice, Willa.

  Willa: Let her be nice to someone else’s boyfriend.

  Reason: Maybe she’s ugly with green teeth and horrendous breath and …

  Willa: She’s probably gorgeous.

  Reason: It is JFK’s birthday and he is far away from home and probably bored to death hanging out with his grandparents.

  Willa: Nothing wrong with boring. Boring’s good. We’ll have fun when he gets back to Bramble. I’ll throw him a surprise party—

  Reason: Willa.

  Willa: What?

  Reason: You’re being selfish. It’s his birthday.

  Willa: Oh, all right, all right. You win. Again.

  I text back Lorna Doone. “Hi, Lorna, that’s nice of you to throw a party for Joseph. He likes chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. His favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip.” I resist saying “Tell him his girlfriend says hello.”

  After lunch I head into town to buy a birthday card for JFK. I stop by the new dollar store and purchase four clear plastic containers with yellow tops. They look like oversize mayonnaise jars to me, gallon-size, but the sticker says they are for “sun tea.” They’ll do just fine.

  At home, I get the sharpest knife I can find in the kitchen and I cut holes, jaggedly but they’ll do, into the center of each lid. I get a fat black marker and write CHANGE FOR GOOD on each jug.

  I put mine on my dresser, next to the photo of Billy Havisham.

  Al
l those years I looked at this picture wondering about the man who was my father. Often having nightmares about how awful it must have been to have crashed and drowned all alone in the ocean like that.

  “If you’re alive, where have you been? Why didn’t you ever come to meet me? Why haven’t you told Mother? What kind of man are you, anyway?”

  I put the photo in my dresser drawer and slam it shut. I don’t want to see those eyes. Sparkling like the sea on a sunny summer day.

  I smile at the CHANGE FOR GOOD jug. I like that name. Maybe I can start a trend here. I empty out my jacket pockets, fish around my dresser, desk, backpack, purses. The pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters make a satisfying clinking sound as I drop them in. It will take a long time to fill, but I’ve made a start on my next way to serve. I can’t wait to tell Mum.

  Sam smiles when I offer him his CHANGE FOR GOOD jug.

  “Great idea, Willa,” he says. “Simple and easy to use. I like it. Thanks. What will we use the money for?”

  “I think each person should decide that for him- or herself,” I say. “There are so many organizations, important causes. I think we should each use what we collect toward something we believe in.”

  Sam smiles. “I’m proud of you, Willa. Always finding a way to pay your community rent.”

  Community rent is a phrase Sam uses to suggest that each person in society has an obligation to give back in some way. Whether it’s to your local or national or global community … it doesn’t matter, just as long as you pay your rent—your fair share of time, talent, or resources.

  “I’ll put this on my dresser and start filling it tonight,” Sam says.

  “Can you take Mom’s jug, too?” I say.

  “Maybe you’d like to give it to her yourself,” Sam says. He winks at me. “Explain your good idea.”

  “Oh, sure,” I say, smiling. Sam is always finding little ways to get my mother and me to spend more time together, to talk more. My mother and I don’t have the best history of getting along, but lately we’re starting to connect more.

  After lunch I fill out JFK’s birthday card and put it in the mailbox. Upstairs on my bed I choose a new skinny-punch. Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt. The opening line is gorgeous:

  The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.

  I stop and picture me and JFK at the Barnstable Fair, holding hands in our seat on the Ferris wheel, paused up at twelve midnight, me begging him not to rock the carriage, him teasing me like he will, our feet dangling free in the summer night air. I look down at all the lights below us and then he kisses me.

  I pull out my bag of candy from my nightstand, open a taffy, peppermint, pop it in, and continue reading. The story is about a girl named Winnie who meets a family who has found the secret to eternal life. I underline sections I want to remember and I mark up the margins with “wow” and “beautiful” and “love that.” On page eighty-six, the character Miles says: “Someday … I’ll find a way to do something important.”

  Next to his words I write “me, too, I hope!”

  It’s a lovely summer evening. Rosie has set an extraspecial pretty table for me and Mother and Sam and Rob out by the Labyrinth. To please my mother, I’ve dressed up a bit, a yellow skirt and a white cotton eyelet blouse.

  Rosie has prepared an entrée of pasta with grilled chicken, broccoli, tomatoes, and feta cheese, seasoned with Kalamata olives. A fresh green salad dotted with cranberries. Warm baguettes with butter. Peach cobbler for desert.

  Rob is right on time, dressed in a white collared polo shirt and long, tan pants. So handsome. He hands Sam a bottle of wine and gives my mother a box of candy with the familiar gold SWEET BRAMBLE BOOKS label.

  “Oh, how thoughtful of you, Rob,” Mother says. “Thank you.”

  Rob smiles. “I didn’t know your mother owned the candy store. You probably have more candy than you need.”

  “Never enough candy,” I say, and we all laugh.

  “Let’s sit,” Sam says. He passes the salad bowl to Rob.

  “We were so delighted you could join us for dinner,” Mom says.

  “Thank you,” Rob says. He takes a bite of salad. “Delicious.”

  “You’re on break from Boston College, Willa tells us,” Sam says. “What are you majoring in?”

  “I haven’t declared yet,” Rob says, “but I’m leaning toward history and political science. I was president of my class this year. I’m not sure yet, but I may want to run for public office someday.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Sam says.

  “How are you finding our small town?” Mother asks.

  “Great,” Rob says. “Everyone is so friendly. I was glad to run into Willa last night at the beach.” He turns to me.

  “Willa, your friends Tina and Ruby are a riot. And your brother—” Time stops.

  My mother coughs. She takes a drink of water. “What did you say? Willa’s brother?”

  “Yes,” Rob says. “His name is Will, right? I was surprised Aunt Sully hadn’t mentioned him. Good guy. I thought maybe he’d be here tonight.”

  I’m underwater, underwater, ears plugging, I can’t breathe.

  “What are you talking about?” Mother demands. “Willa doesn’t have a brother. She’s an only child.”

  “Stella,” Sam says. He puts his hand on Mother’s arm. “It’s okay. Surely there’s some mistake.”

  “I know,” I blurt out. “You must be talking about my friend Jessie. He’s always joking around like that, saying he’s my brother because we look so much alike.” I turn my face away from Mom and Sam, using eye language with Rob to say, “Please just go along with me.”

  Rob gets my message. “Oh, sorry,” he says. “My mistake. I knew Aunt Sully would have mentioned a brother. She’s always talking about your family and how much she misses all of you.”

  “How is Mum?” Sam asks, nicely diverting the conversation. Thank you, Sam. “Tell us all the news.”

  There’s an icy aura about my mother. She takes a disinterested bite of her dinner. She looks worlds away in thought. I can almost see the questions circling around like a labyrinth in her brain.

  After dessert, I walk Rob out to the front gate to try to explain to him what’s going on. He says to let him know if there’s any way he can be of help.

  “I’ll be working on South Cape Beach all the rest of the week,” he says. “Come by anytime if you need me.”

  In bed, I toss and turn, falling in and out of sleep. I’m riding on a Ferris wheel, all alone, circling round and round…. The wheel breaks away from the axis and now I’m spinning out over the ocean, higher, higher up and then whoosh, I’m headed down. Down, down, down. Oh, my gosh, I’m going to drown! Wake up, Willa, wake up. I bolt upright in bed, sweating, shaking. What do I do now?

  I get out of bed. I find the slip of paper with Will Havisham’s number on it and call him. When he answers, I tell him to meet me on the beach tomorrow morning at eight and to bring money and his leads about our birthfather and his driver’s license so we can rent a car.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Road Trip

  I have been here before,

  But when or how I cannot tell:

  I know the grass beyond the door,

  The sweet keen smell,

  The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

  — Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  As soon as Will’s boat is anchored in the morning, I hit him with it straight out. “If our father is alive, and he’s here on Cape Cod, let’s find him.”

  Will stares at me. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Where’s Salty?” I ask, looking past him into the boat.

  “On the Vineyard, at the Southends’ house.”

  I can barely hide my tears.

  “Oh, Willa,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you must miss him. That day Salty jumped out of the boat a
nd swam to shore straight to you … I was shocked. He never did anything like that before. It’s like he knew you were my sister.”

  “He is a very smart dog,” I say, sniffling.

  “Sure is,” Will says. “I trained him, didn’t I? He’s been my family, Willa. He’s all I’ve got. Until I find my father, that is.”

  I look at Will. Our eyes meet, blue to blue. What if he’s right? What if we find Billy Havisham today? I shiver, not knowing whether I’m excited or just plain scared.

  First stop. Hyannis. There was a meeting of an international organization of people in the advertising field held here two years ago this month. The title of the conference was “What’s the Big Idea?”

  That was the name of our father’s company.

  We track down a woman at the Convention and Visitors Bureau. She remembers booking the group. “What a fun bunch of people,” she says with a laugh. “Especially the ones from New York. They were wild.” She checks the file. No. No one by the name of William Frederick “Billy” Havisham.

  Out on the main street, Will sees the signs for the John F. Kennedy Museum. “Mind if we stop?” he says.

  “Sure.” I’ve been many times, but I always find it inspirational.

  As we look at the photographs of the Kennedy family, I think of my JFK, how his birthday is tomorrow, how I hope he gets my card in time, how I hope that cookie girl has gross teeth and facial warts.

  Next stop. Chatham. Will has a clipping from a newspaper story dated four years ago. There was a famous author in town, Stephen King, and there was a long line of people waiting to meet him at a bookstore on Main Street.

  “Right there, see,” Will says, pointing to a man in the line in the newspaper photo. The man’s face is turned downward. He is reading from a book as he waits to talk with the author.

  It’s hard to tell, but I agree that there is a resemblance to our father.

  When we reach the bookstore, Yellow Umbrella, we ask to speak with the owner. We show him the clipping. He nods. Yes, of course he remembers Stephen King’s visit, but no, he’s sorry, he’s never seen the man in the picture.