A Million Miles from Boston

by Karen Day

  Bucky, Dad, Superior and I jumped. The water wasn’t deep, only to our thighs. The PT handed us bags and we walked to shore. We set them on the beach, then waded back. The water was cold and full of rocks. Superior barked at us from the beach.

  The PT wore her flowered bathing suit and a baseball cap. I watched as she bent over, lifted the cooler and turned toward us. But then she tripped. The cooler crashed onto the side of the boat, and everything inside spilled into the water.

  “Oh, no!” Dad ran, water splashing around him. Bucky and I ran, too, only we couldn’t go as fast as Dad. The PT jumped in, trying to rescue the food.

  The Tupperware container full of fruit salad had opened and strawberries and blueberries floated next to our hot dogs. Bucky picked up the giant chocolate bar we’d brought for s’mores. The paper slid off and the chocolate slipped into the water. The eggs were smashed, the butter bobbed, a tomato floated.

  We lost soda, jars of mustard and relish, and maple syrup. Bucky picked up ice cubes floating by him. Dad dove underwater and came up with two soda cans. I grabbed the orange juice container, half full, so it floated.

  Dad and the PT burst out laughing. Hot tears filled my eyes. How could they think this was funny?

  “Oh, come on, Goose, it’s okay.” Dad picked up a blueberry and squished it between his thumb and finger. They laughed harder. The PT’s big mouth was open wide and water dripped from her baseball cap. I stomped up to shore.

  “Lucy, wait,” the PT said, laughing.

  I whirled around. “You ruined the campout and now you’re laughing about it.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m clumsy when I’m nervous.”

  Nervous? About what?

  “Nothing’s ruined,” Dad said. “We have plenty of food left in the boat.”

  “She ruins everything!” I screamed.

  “Lucy!” Dad said.

  “No, Ben, this is between me and Lucy,” she said. “Tell me what else I ruin.”

  “Everything!” I couldn’t stop screaming. “You come up here every weekend and now everything has changed and then you laugh about it.”

  “I don’t laugh about everything.” Her voice was softer. “I’m trying so hard to do this right, but you don’t seem to notice. Or care.”

  “I care about a lot of things!”

  “But you don’t care about me. You’re not the only one who has lost someone you loved.” She started to cry.

  Dad waded over and wrapped his arms around her. They held each other, the boat bobbing behind them. Bucky threw ice cubes. I felt numb. Then the three of them walked up to the shore.

  “Let’s just go home.” Dad wouldn’t look at me.

  “Can’t we look for horseshoe crabs first?” Bucky asked. “Lucy, you promised.”

  “Shut up about the stupid horseshoe crabs!” I yelled. “I don’t want to look for them, now or ever! Okay?”

  “Don’t you dare take this out on him,” Dad said.

  “But that’s all he talks about!”

  “He’s not the problem!” Dad’s face was purple with anger.

  “Listen, I know this isn’t how you do it, but we’ll make the best of it,” the PT said. “Let’s stay. Bucky, come look for firewood with me.”

  They started off for the woods.

  “I’m not going to let you ruin the campout,” Dad said, wading out to the boat. I followed and helped unload. Then he took the boat out farther, dropped the anchor and swam to shore. I stood on the cool sand and watched, miserable.

  No one talked as we set up the tent and built a fire. I kept glancing at Bucky but he wouldn’t look at me. Finally I felt something melt inside me.

  “Come on, Buck.” We started down the beach, stopping to turn over rocks, but all we found were blueberries washed up on shore. I glanced back at our campsite, where Dad and the PT talked quietly. “I’m sorry that I yelled at you. I’m just upset.”

  Bucky tossed a rock into the water. “Why do you hate Julia?”

  “I don’t hate her. I just don’t want her for a stepmom.”

  “Why?” Bucky was on his knees, peering under a rock.

  “I don’t know. Why do you want her?”

  “She’s nice.”

  I wished he felt like I did. But he didn’t remember Mom. He had nothing to feel guilty about. But then I thought, Do I?

  Later we cooked cans of baked beans in the coals, then poured them into buns. They’d have tasted better with hot dogs, but they were okay. We roasted marshmallows, seeing who could make the perfect one—golden on all sides, but not burnt. Bucky won.

  We talked about Dad’s book, the PT’s job and the Big House. No one mentioned what had happened. At the same time I knew it was the main thing on everyone’s mind.

  We cleaned up, then headed into the tent. It was huge, able to sleep ten. Dad and the PT went to one side while Bucky, Superior and I were on the other. We settled in and turned off the flashlights. I listened to the night sounds—June bugs hitting the tent, the breeze rustling through the leaves, water washing onto the shore.

  Dad told us that he used to camp here as a kid. He’d always wanted to bring Mom for an overnight but then I was born; then I was too young; then Bucky came.

  This was our tradition, Bucky’s, Dad’s, mine. Now the PT’s. I glanced toward the other side of the tent but it was too dark to see. Then I remembered something the PT had said that day. You’re not the only one who has lost someone you loved.

  She’d lost her husband. Dad had tried to tell me other things but I’d never wanted to hear them. Now I wondered. Had her husband died of cancer?

  I didn’t have to like her, but I shouldn’t be mean.

  “Julia?” My voice startled me.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, Lucy.”

  And then I rolled over and tried to go to sleep.

  he Big House was packed. Mr. Ramsey started the meeting by reading a brief history that Dad had written.

  “ ‘Over the last twenty years alone, this room has witnessed numerous celebrations and arguments, a fistfight, one woman going into labor and a marriage proposal,’ ” Mr. Ramsey read. I glanced at Dad. “ ‘It continues to be the heart and soul of the Point.’ ”

  Everyone clapped. Then Mr. Ramsey talked about bonds. Inflation. Costs. Damage to the support beams. He turned the meeting over to Mr. Richards, who told us how long he’d been in construction and how many houses he’d built.

  Ian, wearing a new lacrosse shirt, was back from camp and standing against the wall. Becca and Peter waved to me from the porch. I turned back to Mr. Richards.

  “The shingles run straight into the dirt. That’s one of the reasons we’ve got termites. Remember, the Big House was built for summer use, and these long winters are taking their toll. We’ll have to do something soon. We shouldn’t let another wet winter and spring go by.

  “The southwest section has sagged because of the rotten beams. The easiest and least expensive thing to do would be to run an extra beam alongside the old ones and bolt them together.

  “The next best thing would be to remove the entire porch; that way we’ll be able to get to the other beams, see what shape they’re in. What makes most economic sense, but only in the long run, would be to knock it down, start over and build it the right way.”

  “He’s right.” Mr. Pollard stood. “My brother’s a builder and he agrees.”

  Finally everyone decided to remove the porch and see what was underneath the house. I sighed, relieved.

  After the meeting, Mr. Richards stood next to the hole by the porch. I got on my knees and looked inside.

  “Feel this?” Mr. Richards leaned over. I pressed the spongy wood. “Rotten wood, the same thing I found on our dock. The whole thing had to come down.”

  “Lucy!” Becca called. “Come on!”

  We played chase long after the adults left. Several times I hid in my tree. Later, as we were on our last game, I climbed back up. Ian wa
s there. We were quiet as I settled on his branch. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ears. Ian was so close that our arms touched.

  “Your dad’s a pretty good builder, huh?”

  “I guess,” Ian said.

  I tried to think of something else to say. “Was lacrosse camp fun?”

  “It was okay. But I’m glad to be back here.”

  We heard footsteps below. Allison stopped under the tree, the spotlight sending her giant shadow across the dirt. Ian climbed to the lowest branch, then jumped.

  “Ah! What are you doing in a tree?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Look what I found in a closet at work. Leftover fireworks.” She pulled a bottle rocket from her back pocket.

  I dropped to the lowest branch and watched.

  “And you just took them?”

  “God, Ian! Relax. Here, hold one and I’ll light it.”

  Ian backed up. “No way.”

  She huffed and emptied a soda can. She put it on the ground, stuck a bottle rocket inside and lit the fuse. It zinged up through an opening in the trees, exploding above us. I jumped to the ground.

  Allison lit another. It shot into the leaves but didn’t explode. We followed when she picked up the can and walked around the Big House. It was dark but a full moon and millions of stars lit the field.

  “Do it again,” Peter said as he, Bucky and Henry ran up.

  We weren’t allowed to light fireworks without an adult, not since Jake had blown off the tip of his finger with a cherry bomb two years earlier. What a terrible night. I knew I should tell Allison but something stopped me. Everyone crowded around.

  Allison put a bottle rocket in the can and shoved it at Ian. “Hold this.”

  “No!” He stepped back.

  She looked around. No one else wanted to hold it. She lit the fuse and pointed the can across the field. The bottle rocket would hurt her if it exploded in the can. But it shot out, skimmed the grass and exploded by the play structure.

  “It’s like a bullet!” Bucky said.

  These rockets weren’t as loud as the July Fourth fireworks. Still, I knew Superior was listening back at the cottage. Allison lit another fuse and pointed the can at the Big House. The bottle rocket zinged out, hit the side of the house and exploded.

  “I bet I can get it in that window.” She pointed the can at the window next to the door and lit the fuse. The rocket zigzagged before exploding on the porch steps.

  I wanted to scream, “Stop!” But I was too afraid of her.

  “Stop it, Allison!” Ian said.

  She flicked her lighter in front of his face, the flame making his cheeks look shiny and red. “Big baby. Gonna go tell Mommy?”

  Someone giggled. Allison kept flicking the lighter on and off in front of his face.

  “Run home. Think Mommy’ll save you?” Allison pretended to cry, her voice growing louder. Lauren slid next to me, reaching for my hand. No one laughed now.

  “Shut up.” Ian’s voice was low, angry. He glanced around the group.

  “They won’t help you. Your girlfriend already threw you under the bus.”

  Oh, no. I sucked in a breath.

  “God, Allison, you’re such a jerk,” Ian hissed.

  “Lucy told me that you broke Dad’s drill. You’re lucky I didn’t tell on you the other night when Dad was complaining about it.”

  Ian glared at Allison. He’d really hate me now.

  She lit another bottle rocket and pointed the can at us. “Run!”

  Lauren screamed and hid behind me. Peter, Henry and Bucky dove to the ground. Ian smacked the can out of her hand and the bottle rocket fizzled out in the grass.

  She slapped him, fast and hard, across the face.

  Ian ran into the dark.

  “Ian!” She took off after him.

  The smell from the rockets lingered. No one moved.

  “I wanna go home,” Lauren said.

  What had I done? I started for the road, everyone following.

  “Did Ian really break the drill?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Then why did she say you told her?” Lauren took my hand again.

  How could I explain this?

  “Do you think she would’ve hurt the Big House?” Bucky asked.

  “Nah, wasn’t enough bang.” I tried to make my voice light so they wouldn’t worry. We passed the Grahams’ cottage, the light from inside spilling across our feet.

  “Why did she hit him?” Lauren asked.

  “Because he wouldn’t hold the can,” Becca said. Everyone looked at me. I nodded, trying to swallow. Did Allison always treat him this way?

  “Is Ian your boyfriend?” Lauren asked.

  “No.” And now we weren’t even friends.

  “Would Ian’s sister have shot the bottle rocket at us?” Bucky asked.

  “Nah, she was just trying to be funny.”

  “Well, she wasn’t. She was so mean to him.”

  “I know.” I felt my voice crack.

  After we dropped everyone off, I walked Bucky and Henry to Henry’s cottage, where they were having a sleepover. Then I started home.

  Bucky’s words pounded in my head. Allison wasn’t just mean to Ian—she was horrible. In front of all of us. He must have been embarrassed. Angry. And I’d made everything worse by telling her about the drill.

  I let Superior out, and we walked to the top of the dock stairs. The moon and stars had gone behind clouds and all I saw below me was a big black space. But I heard the water lapping the boats, docks and shore.

  I’d been so sure Ian was a jerk that I never thought about the reasons he might act that way.

  I felt as if I’d been turned upside down.

  I glanced at the cottage. Somewhere inside, Dad was with the PT. I thought back to our trip to Pear Island, when she’d said, There’s always the other side of you. Now I realized that she’d been trying to tell me something different from what I’d imagined. That maybe Ian acted the way he did because he was trying to feel better somehow.

  I had to fix this.

  I started for the cottage. It was so dark that I couldn’t see Superior. I dropped to my knees and she was right there, licking my face. I wrapped my arms around her.

  Through the windows I heard Dad and the PT talking. About me.

  “ou were right, you know. She blames herself, more than I realized,” Dad said.

  “What else could she do? She was only six when her mom died.”

  “She couldn’t get out of bed for weeks,” he said. “It scared me. But I don’t want her to feel so responsible all of the time. To—”

  “Ben, you can’t tell her how to feel. She’ll feel what she feels.”

  Why were they talking about this?

  I walked to the birch tree and slumped against it. Dad was the one who hadn’t been able to get out of bed when Mom had died, not me. He hadn’t been able to stop crying. He had scared me.

  I tried to remember him in bed, but instead I saw the map on my ceiling and every nick on the chair railing. Then my head on the pillow as Superior ran toward me.

  Was I … but …

  Was I the one who couldn’t get out of bed?

  Now I really remembered Mom: her bald head and the circles under her eyes, the ugly cold sore in the corner of her cracked lips. I hated going to that hospital day after day. Feeling Mom’s bony hip as I sat next to her on the bed. Staring at the black and blue marks where the IV sank into her arm. Listening to her heavy breathing as she slept.

  Outside in the dark, I felt the big space open up inside me. Something like water rushed in my ears. Soon I wouldn’t be able to breathe. I was so scared that I ran to the cottage. Dad and the PT were on the couch on the porch.

  “I want to talk about when Mom died.”

  The PT stood and went inside.

  I sat next to Dad. “It was hot. I wanted to go to a birthday party.”

  Dad nodded. “At the Rechts’. You and Katie were friends from preschool.”


  “There were balloons and a pool. I was excited because I wanted to go swimming.” I couldn’t talk fast enough. “And I remember a big blue slide.”

  Dad stopped nodding. “No, no slide. Tell me what else you remember.”

  “I wanted to go to that party, more than anything. More than seeing Mom again. And then I was sinking and I couldn’t breathe and you carried me to the car.” Something didn’t seem right. “I was in the pool when you came?”

  “No, you were in the house, having cake. I came to tell you about Mom. The minute I walked in, you knew, somehow. Maybe from the look on my face. You dropped to the floor and I picked you up and carried you to the car.”

  How had everything gotten so tangled up? “So my memories lied to me?”

  Dad shook his head. “Not exactly. You were just so young. I think you thought Mom died because you left her and wanted to go to the pool party. Something like that.”

  No, Mom had died of a stage four glioblastoma. But something pinched my chest. This wasn’t the only thing I’d gotten messed up lately.

  I was so tired that I rested my head on the couch and closed my eyes. I didn’t know what to think. I just wanted to sit here quietly while all this soaked in.

  Then Bucky, in his camouflage pajamas, stood at the porch door. He held a big cookie in one hand, his World War II book in the other. Mr. Ramsey was behind him.

  “I changed my mind about sleeping over.” Bucky snuggled between us on the couch. Mr. Ramsey winked, then turned and walked away.

  Superior sat up and put her head on Bucky’s knee.

  “She loves cookies,” Bucky said.

  “Don’t give her any,” I said. “Chocolate is bad for her.”

  “I know.” Bucky took a bite of his cookie. “Remember the time she ate that chocolate cake and threw up?”

  I nodded.

  “You’d think she’d remember how sick she got,” Bucky said. “I hate throwing up.”

  Dad and I laughed.

  How far back did Superior’s memories go? Mrs. Richards had lots of memories of her mom. Bucky didn’t have any of ours. My memories were all jumbled up.

  “Who wants sugar?” The PT stood in the doorway with a bag of cookies.

  “Not Superior,” Dad, Bucky and I said. We laughed.