by Grace Palmer
Oliver laughed. Eliza relished his smile. It gave her a sense of normalcy in the midst of the abnormal.
“Remember when we first started dating and I had to convince you two phones were unnecessary? Now, you leave without even one.”
Getting rid of all of her workaholic tendencies had been difficult. Eliza had always had two phones—one for work, one for personal use—but that became overkill when she moved back to the island.
Work and personal became far too intertwined working with her mom at the inn. Not in a bad way. It was just that when your mother was your boss, it felt silly to have her call one number to discuss business and another to tell you she made lobster ravioli for dinner.
Suddenly, realization dawned on Eliza all at once. “Where’s my mom?”
“At home, I’d guess.” Oliver blinked.
“We have to call her,” Eliza balked, reaching down to her hip as though her phone might be in the nonexistent pocket of her gown. “She was supposed to be in the room with me.”
“Only one guest allowed in the OR for a C-section.”
“And Holly,” Eliza carried on, ignoring him. “Holly was going to keep Winter at her house while we were in the hospital. She had activities planned for the girls. Coloring pages she was going to print out.”
Oliver smoothed a hand over Eliza’s shoulder. “I called the babysitter. Julie’s watching Winter.”
“Holly was going to bring Winter to the hospital to meet the baby. And I asked Sara to make freezer meals for us. Nothing is ready.”
“What about Brent?” Oliver teased. “What was his role in the big day? He’d be annoyed to be left out.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are, babe. Which is why I’m not,” Oliver said gently. “Like I said, this was hardly our birth plan. Everyone will understand that things didn’t go the way we expected. You just need to focus on what is most important right now.”
Eliza took a deep breath. “You’re right. Can I see the baby?”
Oliver knelt down and brought Eliza’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them. “You, too, Eliza. You’re important, too.”
In her husband’s words, Eliza heard her father’s voice: While you’re taking care of everything else, don’t forget to take care of yourself.
Henry Benson said those words too many times for Eliza to count.
Mom would run around the house like a madwoman some days, checking and double-checking that everyone in the house had what they needed—sunscreen for the kids, fresh coffee for Dad, a pie for a charity pot luck, a million and one things for a million and one people.
But she wouldn’t take care of herself until Dad grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her up the stairs to shower and dress and let him handle things.
That’s what Oliver was doing: forcing Eliza up the stairs.
Or, y’know, forcing her to lay in bed, given she’d just had a major surgery. But the sentiment was there.
Tears welled in Eliza’s eyes, but she fought them back, damming her eyes to keep the pesky emotions from spilling over. Now was not the time for that.
Moments later, a knock at the door sounded. Dr. Geiger poked his graying head through the crack.
“Awake, I see.” He smiled at her, one of the few times his face wasn’t buried in a chart. His dark leather boat shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he stepped into the room. “How are we doing?”
“Good.”
Her doctor had no doubt heard about her panic attack. And given he’d been the one to perform emergency surgery on her, surely he knew Eliza was lying.
But she couldn’t help herself. She had to maintain the façade.
For herself more than anyone.
“Baby is healthy, and after a quick check up, I’m sure I’ll be saying the same about you, yes?” He winked at her and ran through a series of questions so rapid-fire she couldn’t remember them a second after they’d been asked.
Either way, by the end of it, Dr. Geiger gave her the thumbs-up of approval.
“By the way, I’m adding to your chart that you have a strong response to benzodiazepine,” he added before leaving the room.
It felt like an understatement.
A minute later, Ginny filled the space Dr. Geiger had vacated, pushing a wheelchair.
She had the same shoulder-length brown hair she’d always had, but she’d filled out in the cheeks and around the middle. Her bright pink scrubs shone in contrast with the quiet girl Eliza had known in school.
Back then, she’d seemed intent on blending in. Now, she stood out vibrantly in the pale blue and white room.
“Glad to see you,” Ginny said warmly, “and to see you’re awake. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
“There she is,” Oliver whispered, his words tinged with reverence.
“She’s so small.”
White medical tape covered their baby’s little cheeks to hold the oxygen tube in place. It made it hard to see her.
What little of her there was to see.
Could this really be the same baby who beat on her ribs at all hours of the night? It didn’t look like she’d have the strength for something like that.
When Winter was born, Eliza could remember a nurse toweling her off and laying her, slimy and purple, on her chest. Still, she’d been the most beautiful thing Eliza had ever seen.
And huge.
Later, she learned Winter was average-sized at just over seven pounds, but Eliza still couldn’t believe something—someone—that large had come out of her.
Now, her instincts had her wanting to put the baby back inside of her to let the child cook a little more. She didn’t seem done yet.
“The doctor said she was healthy. Doing better than expected, given, you know… everything.”
Oliver’s voice was bright as he tried to force Eliza to see the positives. But how could she see the positives when her “healthy” baby was connected to tubes and wires and sitting inside of a clear box like a science experiment?
Eliza had failed.
The thought rang in her head like a gong, deafening her to anything else.
She was supposed to be the one to keep the baby safe and protect her until it was time, but she’d failed. Her body had failed, and now their daughter was roasting in a petri dish on the other side of glass and Eliza could not reach her no matter how much she begged.
Suddenly, the wheelchair turned and Oliver was kneeling in front of Eliza, eyebrows drawn, expression stern.
“Eliza Patterson, you did not fail.”
Had she said that out loud?
“You carried this beautiful baby for thirty-six weeks, and she is going to be fine. So are you.”
“You don’t know that,” she whispered fiercely through tears.
Oliver pulled the wheelchair closer, the brakes squealing slightly against the force. “I do know it. We are all going to be fine because we have you.”
Eliza couldn’t help it; she wrinkled her nose.
She only liked promises people could actually keep. Vague statements that things would work out weren’t actionable. Weren’t reliable.
No matter what she or Oliver did, they had zero control over this situation.
Yet despite all that—despite a lifetime of trusting the numbers and nothing else—Eliza felt better somehow. She believed Oliver.
“What are we going to name this one?” Oliver tapped a finger on the glass. She wished he wouldn’t. It made her feel like they were middle schoolers on a field trip at the aquarium, trying to make the otters do something funny.
She took another deep breath. We’re all going to be fine, he’d said. She wanted so badly to believe him.
“My mom suggested Mildred.”
“Pass.”
“It was my grandma’s name.”
“God bless her heart and may she rest in peace,” Oliver said, voice full of mock sympathy.
Eliza playfully slapped his leg. “It’s better than Brent’s suggestion. Regardless
of gender, he offered up ‘Brent.’ Said it was gender neutral.”
Oliver laughed and then tapped his chin with his finger. “We really should have given this more thought. How do people usually name babies?”
“Months in advance,” Eliza joked.
In truth, she and Oliver had tried to pick a name, but they just couldn’t agree. As the clock on the pregnancy was winding down and they only had one month to go, Eliza was prepared to go nuclear. She had baby name websites bookmarked on her computer, and she’d planned to cuff Oliver onto the couch and not let him up until they’d come to an agreement.
The baby, however, had other ideas. Luckily for Oliver.
“The name should be something we like, obviously, but it should also capture this moment in time.”
Eliza looked around the room, dubious.
The NICU was empty aside from them. Their daughter’s incubator was the only one occupied. Eliza couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. Hopefully, it spoke to the number of healthy babies being born on Nantucket.
“Not this exact moment, though,” he clarified, waving his hands in the air as though washing away the image of the hospital room around them. “The bigger moment. Beyond.”
She closed her eyes and let herself see beyond the room. Beyond the hospital.
The last time Eliza had been outside—on the hectic venture from the doctor’s office to the awaiting ambulance—she’d felt the salty, damp air against her skin.
With so many moving parts and people circling around her, Eliza had focused on the air. On the way the sun cradled her in a blanket of warmth.
Nothing could beat summertime in Nantucket. The mornings started out with a slight bite in the air, the wind off the water enough to make you reach for a sweater. But by the afternoon, the weather would be picture perfect. Any trace of chill gone.
Down in this stuffy hospital room with its unnatural whirring and beeping, far from the sun beyond the limestone walls, Eliza looked down into the incubator and realized with a start that her baby was awake.
And looking up at her.
She blinked slowly, her pink lips moving and working around sounds she couldn’t quite form yet. Her wrinkled fingers opened and closed.
Eliza reached her hand into the hole cut into the glass. When the tiny hand closed around her index finger, Eliza’s throat closed, too.
The grip was firm. Strong.
Her little arms hardly looked capable of it, but she clung to Eliza, surprising her.
“Summer.” She turned to Oliver, a smile flickering across her face for the first time in hours. “Her name should be Summer.”
Oliver considered it for a moment, his forehead wrinkling.
Eliza worried he’d turn it down or that she’d have to fight for it. That she’d have to try to put words to something unspeakable, something that just felt right.
Then his face lit up.
Oliver beamed at her and nodded, his wavy hair bouncing around his ears. “It’s perfect, Eliza.”
“You think so?”
“It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
A tear slipped over Eliza’s cheek as she looked down at her daughter. She didn’t bother wiping this one away.
“Hear that, Summer? Daddy said you’re beautiful.”
Summer just squeezed a little tighter.
11
Sara
The Sweet Island Inn
Sara could hear Grady crunch through a fried tilapia fish stick from all the way across the lawn.
The sound may as well have been a hallelujah chorus. It meant her crust hadn’t gone soggy during the reheat.
She probably didn’t need to be overly concerned. Ten-year-olds were not the most discerning of eaters. Sara had seen Grady eat a handful of rocks once. He’d only been four, so she couldn’t hold it against him.
Still, no one liked soggy breading. Especially after it had taken Sara a week of banging her head against the wall to come up with the kid’s menu in the first place.
In an act of desperation, she’d finally gone to the frozen section of the grocery store and stared at boxes of pizza bagels and beef and bean burritos in search of inspiration. (During which time not a single casting director had come along and “discovered” her.)
Eventually, she’d spotted a box of fish sticks and today’s menu had been born.
In all reality, the kids would have appreciated frozen fish sticks just as much as anything else. But as the resident foodie in the family, Sara had to train them up in the ways of good eating. She’d ended up making a parmesan-covered, peppery, slightly elevated version of fish sticks complete with a sweet chili, honey, and mayonnaise sauce for dipping.
Even though, after all that effort, Grady might’ve still preferred the rocks.
The adult menu suited Sara’s skillset much better. Almost as soon as she’d volunteered to make the food, spicy grilled shrimp had cemented itself in her mind as the perfect entrée.
It allowed her to repurpose the leftover sweet chili and honey from the fish stick sauce. And with the addition of some lime juice, soy sauce, and a few herbs and spices, she had the marinade. After a twenty-four-hour bath in the fridge, Sara threw the shrimp onto the grill and watched them brown and caramelize to perfection.
It was a cookout, after all. The law of the universe required that something had to be grilled.
And it was the perfect day for exactly that. A slight breeze to carry away the smoke, but still enough that it wouldn’t fan the flames.
The temperature was just right, too. Standing over a hot grill in dead heat could be killer. But as day gave way to evening, the sky was turning a velvety blue. A splash of yellow and orange lit up a thin stripe along the horizon.
In another hour, the temperature would be low enough that gathering around a fire would feel wonderful. Especially with the cool air coming in off the water.
Maybe they’d pull out the fire pit. Sara had brought supplies for s’mores just in case.
Nothing elevated about Hershey’s milk chocolate, of course. But some classics ought not be messed with.
“Anyone want this last shrimp skewer?” Brent asked as he placed it on his plate.
“The last one?” Mom chewed on her lower lip, her eyes scanning the rest of the food table. “Eliza and Oliver aren’t even here yet.”
Sara could tell her mom was taking stock of the food on the table and how many people there were left to feed. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but she was entering into problem-solving mode.
Even though Sara had told her repeatedly not to worry about a thing, Mom had made several side dishes.
Two servings of potato salad had made it discretely onto Sara’s plate, but it shouldn’t have been there in the first place. No one should cook their own birthday dinner. Including side dishes.
Sara held back an eyeroll and instead piped up cheerfully, “It’s not the last one. I have two more trays inside.”
Brent fist-pumped in celebration.
“I had a sneaking suspicion Brent might hog it all,” she teased loudly in his direction.
He lowered his fist and said, the words garbled around a mouthful of shrimp, “I did ask if anyone wanted it first…”
Rose had the decency to give Sara an apologetic smile on Brent’s behalf, but she could only laugh and shake her head when Brent shoved another shrimp in his mouth.
“I should have known you’d have it all under control.” Mom winked at Sara.
Sara nudged Joey in the side. “Can you go grab the second tray of shrimp from inside?”
Joey threw his head back and laughed at something Dominic said, ignoring her entirely. “…I’ve got to read the book before the movie starts shooting.”
“I doubt it’s necessary,” Dominic remarked. “They’ll give you a script.”
“I want to do my research. Sara has a copy, but I’ve been slacking on picking it up.”
Dominic waved a hand. “You’ve been busy putting out fir
es and saving people. Believe me, I’m not offended. I’m a mere writer. You’re a hero.”
Oh, good, Sara thought. More compliments. That’s exactly what Joey’s ego needed right now.
Since arriving at the party, Joey had barely said two words to Sara.
He’d promised to help her bring in the food and set up the catering equipment, but once conversation switched to the movie, that all went out the window. He’d been too busy recounting his frozen section origin story.
Every time he told the story, it escalated. In the latest iteration, the casting director had apparently mentioned the way the lights from the freezer section caught him in profile.
It had been years since she said this out loud, but Gag me with a spoon felt like an incredibly appropriate sentiment.
With Joey otherwise occupied, Sara had been left to assemble the four-tier cake herself, standing on a chair to drop the top layer into place.
“No, you’re my hero,” Joey smarmed with so much sincerity Sara thought she might upchuck her dinner on the spot. “I’ve always wanted to try acting, and now I have a chance. Thanks to you.”
It wasn’t that Sara didn’t like Dominic. Far from it!
But describing him as a hero made it seem as though Joey had been in desperate need of saving. As if his miserable life was so pitifully unfulfilled before this opportunity to be a non-speaking extra in a low-budget indie movie had come along.
It was ridiculous.
The men’s conversation carried on nonetheless. Sara pushed her chair away from the table.
“Never mind,” she snapped, “I’ll do it.”
She ran a kitchen all day for work, so why shouldn’t she do it on her time off, too, right?
Besides—at the rate she was pissing off employees, it wouldn’t be long before she was manning Little Bull all on her own as well.
Who needed dependable employees or supportive boyfriends? Not Sara. No siree.
Joey turned his head as she walked away, his eyes still focused on Dominic. “What’d you say, babe?”
She didn’t answer. See how he likes being ignored.
The interior of the inn was cool and silent. The lights were all switched off inside, except for a single can light over the sink. Sara couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard it so quiet.