Wish I Might

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  “I know pretty much everyone in Chatham,” he says. “Most likely he was a tourist.”

  We get back into the car and continue up Route 28. We see a sign for BOX LUNCHES and stop for sandwiches. We eat in the car on the way out toward the Outer Cape. I tear open Will’s bag of Cape Cod chips to make it easy for him as he’s driving.

  “These are good,” he says.

  “The best,” I say.

  We’re headed out to the National Seashore, a more than twenty-mile-long gorgeous expanse of beaches federally protected from commercial development by President John F. Kennedy. I have Will pull in to my favorite beach, Nauset Beach, so he can see how beautiful it is.

  The surfers are already at it, riding the best waves on the Cape. Folks are lined up at Liam’s for fried clams and hot dogs and shakes.

  Back in the car, I read through Will’s clippings about the “dune shacks” — a group of cottages built on a two-mile strip of dunes in Truro and Provincetown at the far end of the Cape. Sam has mentioned them a few times and I’ve always been intrigued. The cottages were built by the coast guard in the early 1900s to serve as temporary shelters for people stranded in storms. Over the years, the dune shacks became retreats for such famous writers as Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer, and Eugene O’Neill.

  “This is so interesting,” I say.

  “You’re in good company,” Will says.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “You … wanting to be a writer someday.”

  “How did you know that?” I say.

  Will laughs. “Your friend Tina told me. What a chatterbox that one is. Pretty though, really really. But I already knew about you wanting to be a writer.”

  “How?” I ask.

  “All the clues,” Will says. “Saving that old library you love. Writing letters to the newspapers. Putting those quotes out on that board in front of the inn. What do you call that thing?”

  “The Bramble Board,” I say. Tina talked about me wanting to be a writer someday? That was nice of her.

  “You should put your own words up there,” Will says. “On that Bramble Board.”

  “Maybe, someday,” I say. “When I have something important to say.”

  “I bet you do already,” Will says.

  I smile and look out the window. That was nice of him. I’m growing to like this long-lost brother of mine. Even if he did take my dog away.

  Reason: It was his dog.

  Willa: I know, I know. Be quiet.

  I keep reading the news clippings. In recent years, the “dune dwellers” — people who come back year after year to spend time at one of the nineteen cottages — have unsuccessfully sought legal protection for what they feel are their long-term rights, sort of like old-fashioned “squatter’s rights” to the dwellings.

  I hold one clipping toward the sunlight streaming through the rental car window to get a better look at a picture of a particular man.

  Will looks over at me. “That’s right. That’s the one. It’s him. Isn’t it?”

  I stare at the face. Too bad the picture is in black-and-white. If I could only see the eyes. Nonetheless, this guy does indeed look like an older version of the man in the photo on my dresser.

  “Ice cream?” Will says, pointing to a sign up ahead.

  “Sure.” It’s always a good time for ice cream.

  We stop at Sundae School, one of my favorite places. Will gets rum raisin. I get my usual Heath bar crunch.

  “Clever name for an ice cream store,” Will says. “Sundae School.”

  I nod, thinking about our birthfather, about how he made his living coming up with clever names and advertising slogans.

  “Hand me my backpack, will you,” Will says.

  He fishes around inside and pulls out a book. “Here,” he says. “A present.”

  Skellig by David Almond.

  “He’s one of my favorite authors,” Will says. “I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  I scan the back cover. “Sounds good, Will. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a smile. “I know how much you love to read.”

  He’s nice. Really nice.

  “I’d love to visit England someday,” I say. “See the Globe Theatre where Shakespeare’s plays were performed, visit the birthplaces of Dickens and Jane Austen and—”

  “Come visit me, then,” he says, all excited. “Please. The castle is empty most of the year. My grandparents are always traveling. Just me and the twenty-two butlers and maids.”

  “Really?” I say. “Twenty-two?”

  “Well, maybe there are only thirteen.”

  The farther out we drive, the fewer buildings we see, and then finally there are just long stretches of sand, like one big, long beach.

  When we reach the dune shacks, Will parks the car and we get out. The wind has picked up, clouds moving in.

  “I feel like I’ve been here before,” Will says, looking around. “Have you ever had that happen? You are someplace you’ve never been before, yet it’s like you have been?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Déjà vu. It happens to me often.”

  I feel a raindrop, and then another. “Let’s go,” I say.

  We knock on a cottage door.

  No one answers.

  We try another, and another.

  No luck.

  I feel more drops. “We should go,” I say.

  “Wait,” Will says. “Look.”

  There’s a man coming out of one of the cottages. We go to him and tell him our story. He says that he and his wife have lived here for more than fifty years. He invites us inside, offers us lemonade.

  Will shows him photos of our birthfather.

  “No, no,” the old man says, shaking his head. “Not familiar.”

  “Well, what about these,” Will says, his voice still hopeful.

  Will hands the old man the clipping about these dune shacks … the picture of the man who looks like our father. I look at Will’s face. He’s so hopeful.

  The old man shakes his head. “No, sorry, kids. That’s my friend Eric. He’s been coming here for years.”

  I look at Will. He drops his gaze. I can feel his disappointment.

  Rain is beating steadily on the cottage roof. “We better get back, Will.”

  Driving home, my brother doesn’t say a word. I feel bad for him.

  He looks sad, so broken down. Me? I actually feel relieved. If my birthfather is dead, then my life can go on just as happily as ever.

  I have a father. I have a mother.

  If Billy Havisham is dead, Will is an orphan.

  “I’m not giving up so easily,” Will says, as if he can read my thoughts.

  “I know,” I say, “but you should prepare yourself for—”

  “No,” he says. “I’m not preparing myself for anything except finding my father. Our father.”

  When we get back to Bramble, I tell Will to drop me off in town, at the library. I can’t risk my mother seeing him leaving me at the inn. As soon as I get home, the very first chance I get, I’m going to tell her everything.

  Dr. Swaminathan and Mrs. Saperstone are coming out of the library. Dr. Swammy flicks open an oversize plaid umbrella. He offers Mrs. Saperstone his elbow and she inches in next to him. What a cute couple they make.

  Dr. Swammy escorts her down the steps. They are smiling. He says something and she laughs. I’ve seen them sitting together at BUC on Sundays, Dr. Swammy buying her candy, going to programs she runs at the library.

  They look so happy together. They look like they’re in love.

  Boing, I can hear cupid’s arrow. I knew it! Good. Two of my favorite people. Maybe I’ll have another wedding to plan before the summer is out.

  They see me and insist I join them under the umbrella.

  “No, thanks,” I say, “I’m going to make a run for it.”

  I’m soaking wet when I get home.

  Mother is waiting for me at the door.

  The minute I see the
expression on her face, I know she knows about Will.

  She stares at me, eyes filled with pain, shaking her head like she is so disappointed in me, like how could I have hurt her so badly.

  “Mom … I …”

  “Get some dry clothes on and meet me in my room,” she says.

  CHAPTER 18

  Horrible, No-Good, Awful Daughter

  No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.

  — Robert Frost

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Will Havisham?” Mother asks, her eyes filling with tears.

  My mother is not one to cry. I feel even worse, if that’s possible. I slink down to sit on her bed, head in my hands, a horrible, no-good, awful daughter.

  “I had to hear it in the grocery store, from Sherry Sivler of all people.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Really I am. I wanted to tell you but first I needed to make sure that it was true.”

  “And then Tina’s mother calls me today. It seems the whole town knows before I —”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

  “Does he really look just like you?” Mom says, her voice cracking.

  I nod my head, yes.

  My mother walks to the window. “And he’s British?” Mom says.

  I nod my head, yes.

  “What’s he doing here on Cape Cod?” my mother says, walking back to face me. “How did he know where we were living? How did he find you? I can’t believe this. Why …” She stops, lets out a choked sob. She walks back to the window.

  There’s a knock on the door. Sam pokes his head in. “There’s a young couple downstairs to see you, Stell,” he says. “Denise and Scott. You have a meeting with them about their wedding Saturday?”

  Mom checks her watch. “Oh, my gosh, I nearly forgot. Show them to the library, Sam. Tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes. Maybe you could get them some iced tea or something.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart,” Sam says. “No problem.” Sam looks at me and smiles the kindest, sweetest smile. He looks at Mom and winks.

  Oh, no, Sam. Your life is about to change and you don’t even know it. If Billy Havisham is still alive, then …

  “We only have a few minutes, Willa. Tell me quickly.”

  “Sure, Mom. Sit down. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  My mother cries when I tell her about Annie Bolton.

  “He was spending so much time in Europe,” Mother says. “Before and after we met. Opening up branches of his company …”

  “She broke it off with him,” I say. “Her family forced her to. They wanted her to marry this other really wealthy guy.”

  “What people will do for money,” Mother says, standing up, moving to the window again.

  When I tell her about Will’s mother dying, Mom shakes her head. “Poor boy. Losing both of his parents.”

  “Well …” I say, and then stop.

  “Well, what?” Mother asks.

  “Nothing.” My heart is pounding. “That’s all.”

  “Tell me, Willa,” Mother says, her mother radar revving into high gear.

  Go ahead, Willa, out with it. Enough secrets. She has a right to know.

  This time I don’t argue with Reason. This time Reason is right.

  “Mom,” I say with a weak smile. “You’d better sit down.”

  Mother does as I ask.

  Straight out, Willa. That’s the best way.

  “Mom … I think my birthfather … your first husband … Billy Havisham … there’s a chance he might still be alive.”

  Mother lets out a long, loud sigh.

  That’s odd. I’m not sure, but it almost seems like she is relieved. How could that be?

  “I’ve got to meet that couple downstairs,” Mom says, standing up and heading toward the door. “I’ll come to your room to talk when they’re gone.”

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll be waiting.”

  “It may take a while,” Mother says.

  I feel so bad for her, having to put on her polished, all-in-control wedding planner business face when her heart must just be shattering inside.

  “You know these engaged couples,” Mother says. “All those pre-wedding jitters and questions and worries as the big day finally approaches. I may be hand-holding till midnight.”

  “I know, Mom.” I nod, wedding planner to wedding planner. “Take your time. I’ll wait up.”

  When she goes I head to my room and rush for my journal, writing as the tears pour down. I would give anything to hug my dog right now.

  I picture Salty staring at me as I wrote or read, one eye cocked higher than the other, eager for any sign that I would come to my senses and take him outside.

  “I miss you, Salty.” More and more tears come.

  I think of JFK, of Mariel, of Mum so far away, but most of all right now, I just want my dog.

  CHAPTER 19

  A Book Fest

  And at night I love listening to the stars.

  It’s like five-hundred million little bells….

  — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

  There’s a knock on the door.

  Sam. “I brought you some dinner,” he says.

  A tuna sandwich with macaroni salad and Cape Cod chips, a tall glass of soda, and a slice of Rosie’s scrumptious chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. For a second I think of JFK. Of the birthday cake that girl Lorna is surprising him with.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asks.

  “Mom told you?” I say.

  “Yes,” Sam says. He sets the tray on my nightstand, smiling as he moves the mountain stack of skinny-punch books to the floor.

  “Glad you’ve got a book or two to read,” he says.

  I laugh. “You know me and my books, Dad.”

  My voice breaks at the word Dad. I think of how I spent the day with my new brother, Will, on a wild goose chase for our birthdad.

  “It must have been quite a shock to hear you have a half brother,” Sam says.

  I study his face. I can tell Sam doesn’t know I might have a father alive, too. He doesn’t know about Billy Havisham.

  I hope Mother’s meeting doesn’t take too long. I can’t bear the waiting.

  “It’s funny,” Sam says.

  “What?” I say.

  “Funny’s not the right word,” Sam says. “Just a strange coincidence. The other night, when your mom and I wanted to have dinner alone with you —”

  “You were going to tell me something,” I say, remembering.

  Sam nods his head with a sweet-sad smile.

  “What, Dad? Tell me.”

  “We were going to tell you that we have decided to start the adoption process. After the miscarriage, we thought long and hard about things. At our age, having a baby can be risky. And there are so many children already in the world just waiting for a family, praying every day that a family will adopt them.”

  “Oh, Dad, that’s wonderful! Is it a boy? A girl? A baby or an older —”

  Sam laughs. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says. “We haven’t gotten that far yet. Deciding to adopt was a huge decision. We’re still adjusting to that. One step at a time.”

  When I finish eating dinner, I put my tray outside the door, feeling like a Bramblebriar guest rather than one of the owners.

  Mother may be a while. I might as well have a little book fest while I’m waiting.

  I check out my skinny-punch pile on the floor. The cover of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry catches my eye.

  It looks like a kid’s book, but shortly after I begin reading, I realize it is one of those ageless, timeless classics … like Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, which holds meaning for every reader, no matter how old. I want to write a book like that someday. A skinny book with a punch.

  There’s a good thought on page sixty-three that I copy into my book of quotes:

  “One sees clearly only with the heart.

  Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”

 
I check the clock, still early. I take my crumpled bag of candy from my nightstand drawer—almost time for a refill. I pop a sticky red fish into my mouth, remembering Jimmy of the Gummy Worms, and choose another book: The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros.

  It is so beautifully written. It reads like poetry. I jot down lines I like in my journal.

  Page 11: “She looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.”

  Page 33: “You can never have too much sky.”

  Page 61: “You must keep writing. It will keep you free.”

  Page 87: “One day I’ll own my own house, but I won’t forget who I am or where I came from.”

  Page 105: “When you leave you must remember to come back for the others. A circle, understand?”

  I love this book. Definitely makes the Willa’s Pix List.

  I get up and dress for bed. Looking out my window, I gaze up at the stars. I wish I may, I wish I might. I try to hear them like the Little Prince does, but they are silent.

  I unwrap the last three pieces of saltwater taffy and choose a new skinny-punch book. 42 Miles by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. There’s a girl’s face and a map on the cover. Where is she going? I wonder.

  The first page tells me that the main character is facing big changes in her life. The second page starts:

  I look just like Mom—

  hazel eyes

  straight brown hair.

  Even my dimples

  match hers.

  My chest tightens. I close the book.

  Why do I have to look just like my birthfather? Why can’t I look just like my mother? Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a painful reminder to her.

  I finish the book quickly. On the page inside the front cover I write: “I like how JoEllen brings the half of herself she is in her mother’s house and the half of herself she is in her father’s house together to make a whole. Gorgeous writing, vibrant, fresh, and hopeful.”

  I get a drink of water. Brush my teeth. Still no Mom. I remember the book Will gave me today, still in my beach bag.

  I open Skellig and read the first line. “I found him in the garage on a Sunday afternoon.” The plot is engaging, the language lyrical, each chapter a quick, tight scene. I keep writing “nice” in the margins.