Places by the Sea

by Jean Stone

  She sucked in her breath and gave another heave on the door. The bureau moved enough for her to see the entire room. The entire, empty room.

  “No!” she wailed. “Oh, God, no.”

  Without stopping to summon Jeff’s help, Jill bolted from the doorway, bounded down the stairs, and raced out the front door to the Range Rover. Her thoughts whirled. If Amy had run away, she must have gone to Kyle—the boy she probably felt was in love with her, the boy who’d probably insisted she “prove” her love for him.

  Jill’s stomach rolled over again and again. She snapped on the ignition, punched the shift into reverse, and backed out of the driveway without looking.

  Brakes squealed. A horn blasted.

  She ignored the car on the road and stepped on the accelerator.

  With one fist in her mouth and tears streaking her face, Jill wound the vehicle through the small, oneway streets, out toward Edgartown Center, out toward Rita’s house. She had no idea how long Amy had been gone—she could have left right after they got home last night. But wouldn’t Rita have called? Wouldn’t Rita have let Jill know her daughter was safe?

  “Damn you, Rita Blair,” she cried as the traffic toward the center grew more congested and the little patience she had shortened.

  At Main Street, she turned right and headed for West Tisbury Road.

  It was there that she saw her: among the clutter of tourists walked Amy, her sneakers padding along the brick sidewalk, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Her head was bent; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked much younger than her fourteen years.

  Jill jammed on the Range Rover’s brakes in the middle of the road. She blew the horn. Amy paid no attention.

  Jill ripped open the door and jumped from the vehicle.

  “Amy!” she shouted. “Amy, come back here.”

  Amy stopped, turned around, and stared at her mother.

  “Lady, move your car,” someone shouted.

  “Get out of the way,” another driver ordered.

  She marched up to Amy and stopped herself from grabbing her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “None of your business.” Her defiant eyes locked on Jill’s. But she did not attempt to walk away.

  “Amy, honey, please,” Jill managed to say. “Please, don’t do this.”

  Another horn blew.

  “Please tell me where you’re going.”

  “I’m going somewhere where I’m wanted.”

  Where I’m wanted. Her daughter’s words plunged to her heart. Why didn’t Amy know she was wanted? Jill had been the daughter who had not been wanted. Jill, not Amy.

  “You’re holding up traffic, Mother.”

  Jill bit her lip. “Please come home, honey. We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “There’s everything to talk about. I’m sorry I slapped you.”

  Amy reached up and brushed her hand across her cheek.

  “Please, get in the truck. We don’t have to go home. I know a place we can talk. If you want to leave after that, you’re free to go.” Jill had no idea where those words were coming from. Was she telling Amy it was all right for her to leave? Was she setting her fourteen-year-old daughter loose on the street with her permission?

  A shiver ran through her as another car blasted its horn.

  “Lady, come on!”

  Amy glanced over to the car. “Okay. We’ll talk. But don’t expect me to change my mind.”

  “Were you going to Kyle’s?” Jill asked as they sat on the rocks under the pier, out at the Edgartown Lighthouse.

  “No.”

  “To Carrie’s?”

  Amy didn’t answer. She lifted her eyes. They were glazed with tears. “I had nowhere to go, Mom. I was too embarrassed to go to Carrie’s. And Kyle doesn’t want me.”

  Jill picked up a shell. With its ragged edge, she carved lines in the sand. “I want you, honey. I have always wanted you, even before you were born.” She wished she could tell Amy about her mother’s diary; she wished she could share that Jill had been the unwanted child. But no matter what growing up Amy had done last night, she was still a child, and should not have to deal with her mother’s problems, her mother’s insecurities. The way Jill had been forced to do, without even realizing it.

  “He gave me vodka, Mom. That’s the only reason I did that.”

  “You didn’t have to drink it, Amy. I’d hoped you’d respect yourself more than that.”

  Amy crunched her knees to her chest, folded her arms on them, and buried her face. “Carrie had some. They were drinking all night at the Tabernacle.”

  “And you wanted to be like Carrie.”

  “They had a fight. Carrie took off. Kyle was pissed, Mom. Then he got really drunk.”

  Jill sighed, half wishing she had some of Rita’s scotch now, something to soothe her own pain. “This isn’t about Kyle. This is about you, Amy. About us. I’m really sorry I slapped you. I was so shocked. I guess I just don’t want you growing up too fast.”

  “Maybe you don’t want me to grow up at all.”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, trying to be as honest as she could, trying not to be evasive, the way her mother surely would have been. “Maybe you’re right.”

  A seagull landed on a nearby rock. “Are you okay, honey?” Jill asked.

  Amy shook her head. “It all happened so fast, Mom,” she whispered without looking up. “Kyle said he had something better than ice cream. He said he knew where we could go.…”

  Jill clenched her jaw. It was difficult not to interrupt Amy, to restrain herself from jumping up and screaming that she wanted to kill the son of a bitch.

  Then, Amy’s tears flowed. “I was scared, Mom. Part of me wanted to do it, but part of me was so scared.”

  Jill reached out and put her arm around her, biting back her own tears, holding in her own pain. “It’s okay, honey. It’ll be fine.”

  “I get so confused, Mom. I hate being fourteen.”

  “The only thing that matters is that you don’t hate yourself.”

  “I hate Kyle.”

  Jill pulled her daughter close to her. “It’s not right to hate anyone, Amy. I’m sure Kyle has his own problems.” She wanted to bite off her words before she’d said them. “All that matters is that you’re okay.” She stroked her daughter’s long hair, her thick, dark hair, Florence’s hair, and wondered if her own mother had ever held her, had ever tried to heal her wounds.

  “I’m not okay,” Amy sniffed and raised her head. “I’m beat. I was awake all night.”

  Jill tilted her head down so it touched Amy’s. “Me, too, honey. You should have come to my room.” She rocked her daughter slowly. “No,” Jill added, “that’s not right. I should have come to yours.”

  They sat by the lighthouse a few moments longer, perched on the rocks in a delicate mother-daughter balance.

  “Maybe I’ll give Ben a hand,” Jeff said.

  Jill had finished fixing him lunch—a lunch that had been strangely silent, with Amy asleep, at last, upstairs, and Jill moving about in weak, post-crisis exhaustion. She was not sure if Jeff knew what had happened last night: she only knew that they had returned to find the bureau had been mysteriously removed from the doorway to Amy’s room, set, once again, against the wall where it belonged.

  She looked out the kitchen window at Ben, who stood at the sawhorse with an adze, trying to smooth the surface of a replacement living-room beam. “Honey, that’s a nice idea, but I’m not sure there’s much you can do.”

  Jeff scraped the chair against the wood floor and stood. “Maybe I can learn,” he said brightly. “Maybe he’ll teach me.” He walked to Jill and kissed her cheek. “I’m a computer whiz, Mom. How hard can a little manual labor be?” He smiled and went out the door, the screen smacking behind him.

  Jill touched her face where her son had just kissed her. The kiss said it all: that he knew what had happened, that he was trying to make up for the pain his
sister had caused Jill.

  She wondered if her life would have been easier if her brother had lived; if he could have been there for her mother when she and Jill had difficult times. Then she wondered how Florence would have been different if Robbie had not been killed, and if Jill would never have been born, or conceived, at all.

  She looked out the window at her son now, who was holding the antique tool the way Ben was showing him, who was trying so hard to make everything right. She was so lucky, she knew. So lucky that her life had not been as empty as her mother’s.

  Cleaning up the dishes, Jill decided she would not go visit Sam Wilkins today. The thought of seeing Carrie was too much: she might be tempted to tell her to keep her sex-starved boyfriend to herself.

  Tomorrow, or the next day, would be soon enough to start the story. She could certainly put off Christopher until then, maybe tell him Sam was off-island for a few days. She switched off the coffeepot, took a last look through the window at Jeff, and decided there was only one thing she wanted to do today, only one person she wanted to share her pain with. Maybe if she learned more about her mother, she would not feel so alone. Jill turned from the kitchen, went into the hall, and climbed the stairs to the widow’s walk.

  September 6, 1959

  It’s hard to believe my daughter has started school. I didn’t want her to go. George didn’t ask if I wanted to walk her: he knew what my answer would be. It was hard, to see them set off together, her little hand in his. She knew she was safe, though. She knows she’ll always be safe with her father. She would not be safe with me. Never with me. Maybe today I’ll make her a new dress. I’ll use the dark green wool plaid: she looks so pretty in green. It matches her eyes.

  Jill ran her palm over the page, wishing she could remember the dark green wool plaid, thinking that life had been easier then, when people simply lived day to day, and did their best to get by. Even Florence hadn’t seemed to realize her behavior was sick; it was as though she accepted the situation as it was, accepted that she could never feel close to her daughter. And yet, there was the dress, and all the dresses that came after that, those ugly, homemade dresses that Jill had detested so.

  She held up the diary and pressed it to her breast. “Mother,” she whispered, “I am so sorry for you.”

  It was several moments before she could continue, before she could regain her composure, before she could harness her emotions and put some objectivity between herself and the diary. When she did, the world of her youth cracked open, viewed not from her memory, but from … the other side.

  Sept. 17, 1960

  I was so nervous today. I needed to pick beach plums—their time is growing short. But George had to work, of course, and with Mother Randall gone … I didn’t know what to do with her, with Jill.

  George told me to take her with me. I didn’t think I could. What if something happened? He said nothing would. He said I had to try.

  So I tried. I gave Jill her own basket, and we walked down to the lighthouse. The beach plums aren’t as good there as they are in Tisbury, where I usually go. But I couldn’t travel too far from home, not with Jill along.

  We only picked two baskets, because I didn’t want to be gone too long. It isn’t nearly enough for all the jelly I need to make. But the best part was that George was right. Nothing happened. I think Jill had a good time. I’m not sure if I did—I was too nervous to think about that, I was too nervous when I realized this was the first time we’ve been alone together, out of the house, where things can happen.

  Maybe we’ll go back tomorrow.

  They had, Jill remembered, gone back the next day. And every weekend until the berries passed their time. She remembered feeling clumsy, not knowing what her mother had expected her to do, not knowing what to say, afraid she would say something wrong, or pick the wrong berries, and her mother would never let her go again.

  She remembered she kept very quiet and tried very hard to pick the best.

  She did not know if she’d done a good job—she didn’t recall that Florence ever said. She only knew that each year, at the end of August, when the berries replaced the blossoms, they began their weekly ritual—mother and daughter, their baskets in tow, working side by side in awkward silence.

  Jill looked down at her fingers now and remembered the sharp sting of the thorns of the beach plum branches and that she had never dared complain.

  Nov. 25, 1963

  We had a fight today. I try so hard to never raise my voice to Jill, but today she gave me no choice.

  Today was President Kennedy’s funeral. Schools were closed—everything was closed—and Jill wanted to watch it on television. I would not let her. She is only ten years old. Too young to see such misery, too young to know of death.

  “If you don’t let me watch it I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue,” Jill shouted at me.

  I was so taken back I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. In my mind I pictured Robbie, bleeding on the sidewalk, his little cheeks, his little mouth, slowly turning blue.

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for her to say that. It wasn’t fair and it made me even angrier.

  I went into the sewing room and got my big pinking shears. Then I went back into the living room, walked behind the television, and cut the electrical cord.

  After I put the shears away I decided to make pea soup and corn bread for dinner. George said he was taking Jill for a walk. I have no idea if they went to someone else’s house to watch the funeral, and I don’t want to know.

  When I heard them go out the front door, I sat down at my kitchen table and cried. I cried and cried, hoping the hurt would go away. It did not.

  I don’t know if what I did was right; I never know if what I’m doing is right.

  Jill lifted her head, remembering the argument. George had taken Jill to the tavern, where they’d watched the funeral on the black-and-white television with the small, round screen that he kept in the secret room. He made Jill promise she wouldn’t tell, so her mother wouldn’t get upset.

  She sunk her teeth into her lower lip and forced herself to remember going home that day. There had been no visible tears that stained her mother’s cheeks—only her mother, who, as usual, stood at the stove, her head bent in concentration.

  If Jill had seen her cry, perhaps life would have been much different.

  But Florence could not let that happen, for Florence was trying to be a good mother, the only way that she knew how, the same way Jill was trying now: mother and daughter, daughter and mother, caught in different times, bound by different rules.

  She felt her anger toward her mother slowly begin to lift. Florence Randall no longer seemed to be the tension-riddled, overprotective, critical mother. She now was Florence Randall, the woman, the person. The woman who had cried after George and Jill left the house that day—because she had not wanted her daughter to witness the pain of death.

  With hurt in her heart, Jill forced herself to return to the diary. The excerpts were spotty—often months passed before another passage was written; each time, it had to do with Jill. Page after page, she continued the journey, lost in the world of her mother, lost in another generation when intimacies were left unsaid, and showing love was never done.

  And then, the mood shifted.

  February 8, 1965

  Jill brought her friend Rita home from school today.

  Rita. Jill stopped a moment and caught her breath. Rita. Had it really been Rita’s fault that Kyle and Amy had done what they’d done? Had she really told Rita to get out of her life?

  She shook off her thoughts and went back to reading.

  Rita is an odd girl, with tasteless red curls all over her head. She laughs very loudly, not the way I was taught to laugh. I’ve heard so many things about her mother. I wonder if Rita will turn out like her. Or if she already is. I really wish Jill would find someone more suitable to be her friend. The kids today grow up so much faster than when I was a girl. I hope Rita doesn’t
get Jill into any trouble.

  Jill sighed and wondered if she should call Rita. She was her best friend. Had been. Always would be, whether or not they talked. She tried to picture Rita’s reaction if she let her read the diary, if she saw her mother’s description of her. But Jill wasn’t sure what Florence had meant by the lines “I’ve heard so many things about her mother. I wonder if she’ll turn out like her.” Had something been wrong with Hazel Blair? Or had Florence only been referring to the fact that she had to raise a child alone and had to work to earn a living?

  She pushed her thoughts aside and turned the page. The excerpts continued—references to Jill’s school years, the time she played Mary Magdalene in the church play, the first date she ever had.

  She is so smart in school, one excerpt read. She made a wonderful science project about volcanoes. I don’t know how she figured it out.

  Sometimes I wish we lived in New York again, another commented. I would take Jill to the fashion shows. She is much more beautiful than any model I’ve ever seen. Mother would be jealous. Myrna would be, too, that my daughter is the most beautiful. The smartest. And sweetest.

  Suddenly Jill realized she was reading all the things her mother never told her: that she was pleased, that she was proud, and that … and that she loved her.

  And then the warm feelings melded into guilt.

  January 30, 1970

  Jill came home from school tonight and announced she wants to go to college. Boston University. At first I didn’t like the idea. The city is unsafe, but she doesn’t know that yet. Then, the more I thought about it, I changed my mind. I am glad she wants to leave here. I want her to have a full life, a good life. I want her to be happy. I don’t want her to end up with a life like mine. I don’t want her to end up like me.

  A soft little moan crept from Jill’s throat. She turned the page and read on through the tears that now flowed freely.

  July 22, 1970

  I knew that girl would be nothing but trouble.