That Summer in Maine

by Brianna Wolfson

  I remember it all so clearly, even though it was so long ago now. I felt a little buzz in my veins. Perhaps I could curl up on that couch and sleep, too, now.

  Your eyelids drooped again.

  Perhaps I could pick up that book I was in the middle of before you were born.

  Your face was perfectly still and delicate now.

  Perhaps I could go to the other room and call a friend. Make some contact with the outside world. Yes, that was what I would do. I smiled at the thought of how refreshing it might be to talk to someone.

  I gingerly placed you down onto the couch and prepared to make that phone call. But just as I did, an alarming red color spread across your face. Your eyes pressed open, and your right green eye swirled violently. Your entire body began squirming and your mouth yawned open, promising even louder booming cries. The sound of all the grief and pain in the universe emerged from your little lungs. There was bellowing and roaring and agony.

  It was as if you had discovered my infidelity—the mere idea of turning my attention to anybody but you.

  I picked you up once more and rocked you. I was simultaneously excited and comforted by the fact that you needed me. Because I knew in that moment that I needed you, too. You whined a bit and I tried to offer a lullaby to get you back to sleep. And without thinking about what that lullaby should be, I began reciting the lines of a favorite poem to you. The same one I was reading when I met your father.

  Sleep little baby, clean as a nut,

  Your fingers uncurl and your eyes are shut...

  I felt a clear understanding that my life had been divided into a before and after, and I was now, and would forever be, living in the after. I wondered how I would do this alone. And then I just I closed my eyes, recited the lines some more and let you sleep in my arms.

  I knew I didn’t know what I was doing, but I wanted so badly to do it right.

  I’m sorry if it made a mess of things,

  Mom.

  15

  It was Cam’s turn to put the boys to bed and Jane’s turn to pick the movie. She cued up Lost in Translation, one of their shared favorites, and sat beneath the covers with the remote control in hand until Cam joined her. As soon as Jane heard Cam’s footsteps, a warm smile spread across her face. There were few things more pleasant to Jane these days than a quiet evening next to her husband with a favorite movie playing. Cam came in and was smiling, too. There was more pep in his step than usual, Jane thought. And his eyes looked particularly loving.

  “I was thinking we could level up movie night!” he said and pulled a big bowl of popcorn from behind his back. He dug his hand right into the pile, pulled out a single kernel, tilted his head back and dropped one delicately in his mouth from a few inches above. He snapped his head back forward to look right at Jane, picked another kernel from the bowl and held it up next to his face in a position poised for throwing.

  “Here, catch!” he said excitedly, and tossed the piece across to her. She opened her mouth and lurched to the side. The salty kernel landed right on her tongue and Jane crunched down on it with delight. Cam leaped up into the into the air to cheer—a few bits of popcorn toppled out of the bowl—and dove into Jane’s arms as if she had just caught the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. And then he kissed her sweetly on the ear.

  “You know I’m more of a sweets girl,” Jane said into the side of Cam’s ear. “And now you got me jonesing for some ice cream.”

  “Oh yeah!” Cam replied, pulling back to look at Jane in the eyes. Jane smiled and slid out from beneath the covers with a sultry look in her eye. Ice cream felt nearly as alluring as sex these days.

  “Get me some of that cookie dough,” Cam yelled excitedly after her.

  “You got it,” Jane agreed and walked down the hallway into the kitchen.

  She opened the freezer and reached for the cookie dough ice cream. Blocking its container was a second container of plain old vanilla. She contemplated which flavor she wanted for herself and just as she was about to push the carton of vanilla out of the way, she felt a pang of guilt. It was as if Hazel was right there, asking to share a bowl with her.

  She wished she could. She wished she could right now.

  Jane still hadn’t heard from her daughter. And it was hurting more and more each day. She considered calling Silas, but she wanted to give Hazel the space she deserved. But Jane so wanted to connect again. In between moments of her normal life with Cam and the twins, it was painful to remember that Hazel wasn’t there.

  Forgetting Cam was in the other room waiting for his cookie dough ice cream, Jane went to go get Susie’s journal that she had placed in her bedside drawer.

  Letter 4

  Seeing Silas in you

  Susie

  Dear Eve,

  I first saw Silas in you when you were about five years old. There was no great significance to the lead-up. It really just washed over me all at once.

  You were fighting against heavy eyelids as I turned the final page of your favorite book at the time, Rainbow Fish. I wished you good-night and turned to kiss you.

  Your eyes opened slowly as you prepared to receive your kiss and say good-night back. And when they opened, it was like Silas was greeting me with the full force of his deep green eyes. They swirled and held the light from your nightlight in little black flecks just like Silas’s, too.

  I flinched back from the bed with a light gasp and brought my hands to my chest. My heartbeat was thick and powerful with the reminder that Silas was in there, too.

  I thought about explaining everything to you right then and there. But instead I just said good-night again and turned out your light. I don’t think I ever truly looked at you, or your father for that matter, the same again.

  Over the years, I continued to catch the flicker of Silas in your eyes. I must admit that it caused me to observe you with a certain trepidation as you grew older. I wondered what other parts of Silas might emerge next without warning. What other reminders of a brief past might come crashing into our life. I watched you from afar sometimes, just waiting, as I scanned my fuzzy memory of him for things it could be.

  His hair, his gait. The way his cheeks and ears lifted when he smiled. The way his temples flared as he listened. The slight bend at the end of his pinky.

  Would you exhibit those things, too?

  I watched carefully, constantly, but nothing would reveal the Silas in you. Nothing but those green eyes.

  But then I began to consider that there were all the things I didn’t know about Silas that could have made their way to you without me realizing. There could be things brewing inside your sweet little body after my flesh and genes collided with a man I knew almost nothing about. Did Silas have a temper? Was he smart or caring or generous? Was he wise or funny or spontaneous? Was he healthy? Were his parents healthy in their old age?

  These thoughts and questions ricocheted around my mind. And ironically, it meant that I began to carry the memory of Silas with me all the time.

  By the time you were six years old, I was heavy and achy with it. I wished I could expel it from my mind, my body, my bones. And yours, too. But I couldn’t. It was a part of our family. It was part of our life. Part of the story of all of our lives. There was really no denying it no matter how much I willed it away.

  I’m sorry if it made a mess of things,

  Mom.

  * * *

  And with that, Jane wrote:

  Letter 4

  Seeing Silas in you

  Jane

  Dear Hazel,

  I first saw Silas in you the moment you were born. In the haze of bringing you into the world, I felt the past and the present begin to overlap. I saw the faint outline of my mother and father materialize across the room. They were holding hands delicately and smiling, looking calm and content. And Silas was there with them, too. His dark m
ane of hair and his swirling green eyes. His arms were folded across his chest but his eyes looked filled with pride.

  I wanted to reach out to them, to walk toward them, but another wave of piercing pain surged through my body.

  I was truly delirious through most of the labor, but I snapped right into full lucidity right before you emerged from between my legs. I was holding the nurse’s hand. I didn’t realize that I had envisioned anything else for myself, that I would have wanted a man’s hand in mine when I gave birth, but it had become apparent when I shook my hand out of hers as soon as I came to.

  Through gritted teeth I told the nurse that I could do it myself and that I didn’t need a hand. I didn’t want to reach for the hand of a stranger at this life-changing moment of meeting my first daughter. The nurse slipped her fingers under my fingers anyway, and then I squeezed them with all my might. I thanked her with relief once you came out and a strand of hair, damp with sweat, fell across my forehead. And then there you were. In my arms.

  The feeling of your small but heavy head in the crease of my arm filled me with the most warmth and pleasure and happiness I had ever felt. Your eyes were closed and your skin was dusted with a blue tint. You seemed so gentle. So pretty. I brought my hand to your cheek and you opened your eyes.

  I had been expecting blue but they were already bold and full of color and life. Your left eye, at its center, was a deep and rich chocolaty brown. I could barely even detect where the iris ended and your pupil began. The outer edge was rimmed with a deep forest green and spots of an equally deep ocean blue that rippled in toward the middle to meet the brown. Where the two colors met, they swirled together like moss creeping over soil. The overall effect was a single hazel eye.

  Your right eye, on the other hand, was a swirling mix of many shades of green. The color was fierce and powerful. The kind of green that sprang out from underneath the snow and enlivened brittle, wintry branches to remind you that spring was coming. The kind of stirring green that looked just like Silas’s. The deep green of a forest after rain. The kind of green that was certainly straight from Silas. I was overwhelmed by the image of Silas’s big green eye looking back into mine.

  I looked from one eye to the other and back again. You were no doubt Silas’s, not that there was any doubt.

  I suddenly felt confronted by the realization that you would always carry the story of both your parents with you. It was already apparent in your eyes; one for your mother and one for your father. Your eyes had not mixed in their color, as your father and I had not mixed our lives.

  I felt a pang of grief clench down tight onto my heart. You would never have the full family little girls deserved. I felt an emptiness for you that I knew I would never be able to fill on my own.

  I had wanted so badly to do this all on my own. To forget your father was a part of it all. I imagined my life filled with just you and me. Free of everything that came before it. But looking down at you, and into that green eye, I knew this wouldn’t be an option. You would always have Silas in you. Still, I felt a flurry of closeness and commitment and devotion and love swirling through my body.

  The nurse interrupted and asked what I would name you.

  I brought my lips gently down onto your forehead to kiss you. I looked into your surprisingly alert little eyes. One hazel one. One green one. You were a mix of your parents. A mix of our lives. I wanted to remember this moment. This feeling that Silas would always be with us, too, in some way.

  I said I would name you Hazel. I wanted you to know where you came from. Know the things that made you, you. Hazel Box. I remember saying it with gusto.

  I’m sorry if it made a mess of things,

  Mom.

  17

  Cam had come home early, had gotten the boys up and had gone out with them when Jane finished reading and writing the letter, but she didn’t feel done yet. She wasn’t sated at all. She missed Hazel. She felt lost without her. She needed to feel like it would all end up okay. So she pulled Susie’s book back toward her and turned the page, seeking the comfort of Susie’s story. The familiarity of another mother’s story.

  Letter 6

  When everything changed for our family

  Susie

  Dear Eve,

  I think I would have gone on with the illusion of our family forever. And for a long time, I thought I could. It was your father who brought it out into the open. It was the thing that changed all of our lives forever.

  I used to love to watch through the window as you descended the steps of the bus coming home from kindergarten. Your tiny hands clutched around the railing. Your tiny body twisting around as you brought one tiny wobbling leg and then the next tiny wobbling leg from one step to the next. The final dismount from the steps brought you so much joy, and me so much fear. It was a big step for a little girl, but you made it every time. Your tiny lips would press into a tiny smile and you would readjust your bright pink backpack, too large for your tiny body, and begin the run down the driveway toward the door. Your wispy brown hair in two pigtails pointing in different directions after a day of playing. Your backpack bouncing wildly up and down behind you.

  Just before you would reach the door, I would swing it wide open and crouch down with open, loving arms, waiting for you to fall into them. And then you did. And I melted every time your little arms flung around me and squeezed tight around my chest. Every time your little head nuzzled into my chest.

  I pressed kiss after kiss after kiss into your big round cheeks and you giggled and giggled. The kind of giggles that came straight from the belly.

  I curled my fingers around your shoulders and held you out in front of me. I wanted to soak you in at the end of the day. Make sure you were the same girl that left the house in the morning. Make sure you were happy.

  I looked straight into your eyes, your swirling emerald eyes, and asked, “How was your day? What did you do? What did you learn?”

  You smiled a big toothless smile and would recount the day. Who you played with at recess. What the other girls brought for lunch. What the teacher was wearing.

  And I nodded along as you told me, letting the words flow all the way through me. But more important than any of the details was your face as you told the stories of your day. How your eyes lit up and your lips turned up and your cheeks stayed rosy.

  You wiggled your backpack off your back and pulled the zipper open.

  One day when you got home from school you told us that your homework was to make a family tree. I could tell you were excited.

  You pulled out a piece of paper with a big tree drawn in crayon. The brown of the trunk and green of the leaves were so charmingly scribbled a bit outside the lines. You placed the paper delicately down on the floor. You sat down next to the paper and began to explain how this project would go.

  You counted as you pointed to the empty spaces in the leaves of the tree that we were meant to fill in with pictures of your family. I remembered that you paused for an extra while on the spot where your picture was supposed to go. You looked up at me to make sure I was listening to the directions. I felt proud of how clear and confident you were. I knew I had a girl that would get what she wanted, what she needed, from her world. At a slight detection that I wasn’t paying attention, you placed your palm on my cheek and directed the angle of my head down toward your drawing. You pointed at the two blank spaces connected to yours and reminded me that this was where Mommy’s and Daddy’s photos were meant to go.

  And then you continued describing where Grandma and Grandpa were meant to go at the four spaces at the top of the tree. You stood up and put your hands on my waist, apparently now finished with your explanation.

  You asked if I understood the plans and I assured you that I did. I didn’t want you to settle for anything less. And then I suggested that you find Dad to see if he had any good photos. Sometimes, I wonder if things would have been differ
ent if I hadn’t told you to ask him.

  Your eyes stretched big and wide and you yelled from your place in the foyer out for your father. Your voice was so much bigger than your body. You picked up the paper and ran toward the living room excitedly.

  I picked up your backpack and followed slowly and measuredly behind you. When you reached the entranceway to the living room, I leaned my body against the doorway and observed the scene. Your father always made sure to get home early to see you after school, and you had already jumped up into his lap and perched up on his thighs with your family tree paper in hand.

  I watched as you rested the paper onto the couch cushion next to your father and repeated the same explanation, pointing and all. Your father nodded along, just as I had, and then hoisted you up. He could hold you in one arm so effortlessly.

  Your father set you down in front of the cabinet in the corner of the living room. I still remember where I came across that piece: an antiques fair in northern Maine. I remembered falling in love with the smooth walnut wood stain and the hallmark angled legs of a midcentury modern piece. I imagined it sitting underneath a single shallow vase of succulents in the second home of one of my clients or lined with black-and-white pictures of family and friends in another’s single-story home with broad ceilings and open rooms. I had made the mistake of bringing it home before placing it elsewhere, and after putting it under my favorite Matisse print, I couldn’t manage to let go of it. So here it was in our living room, living among us.

  Your father pulled a shoebox full of photos out from the dresser. I had always found it charming that your father still printed photos. That he still enjoyed the ritual of picking up a roll of prints from the shop, even though this was a long-outdated pastime. He had to drive almost ten miles to the only place in the area that still printed them, but he insisted. And he always got great joy from lifting the flap of the white envelope they came in, and flipping through the photos. I did, too. There were stacks and stacks of shoeboxes of photos in that cabinet. Stacks and stacks of memories and catalogs of time spent together.