by Jane Porter
Happily, there’s no traffic on the 520 bridge, and we arrive at the seaplane terminal at Lake Union with time to spare.
One of the best parts of living in Seattle is Puget Sound, with its endless islands, islets, and waterways. Usually we take one of the ferries to the islands, so flying on the seaplane is extra exciting.
There’s nothing quite like taking off from the water and then flying low enough so you can see virtually everything. The world from the seaplane isn’t like the world from a Boeing jet. Life below still seems so close, yet the colors just pop—stunning sapphire blue, rich emerald green, scattered fields of brown, tan, and gold.
Eva’s glued to her window, and I’m sinking into my seat, taking some deep, calming breaths, thinking that Shey’s call was divine intervention.
God knew I needed some help.
“I heard what they said,” Eva suddenly says in a soft voice.
My body tenses immediately. I long to reach out and touch Eva, but at the moment I don’t think she’d welcome it. She’s in such a strange place now. Maybe all fourth graders go through this—angry, wistful, confused.
Finally she turns to look at me, and her expression is shuttered. “I heard what Jemma’s mom said. About me annoying Jemma by being her shadow. Following her everywhere.”
That explains Eva’s strange color when she left the Young house. I thought she looked shocked. Bruised. “Mrs. Young didn’t mean anything by it. She was just talking, just being silly.”
“But I heard what they said about you, too. I heard how they thought we didn’t have any money and that maybe it’s too expensive for us here.”
I start to protest, thinking she’s misunderstood them, but stop myself. Maybe she hasn’t misunderstood. Maybe she’s understood them better than me.
She looks at me with wide, pain-darkened eyes. “But we’re not poor, are we?”
“No.”
“And we have an old truck instead of a nice new car because . . . ?”
“It’s a classic. It’s a beautiful truck and a piece of history.” I reach out and lightly smooth back the hair from her brow. “And driving it is fun. I have fun in it. I feel . . . pretty. Sexy.”
“Sexy?”
I shrug and make a face. “Pretty is different for every woman. Mrs. Young likes designer clothes, Gucci, Prada, Ralph Lauren. I like vintage stuff. I like things that don’t match, that have a masculine edge, things that contradict standardized ideas of beauty.”
“But you’re so pretty, Mom, and you could be so beautiful.”
“And I feel beautiful when I’m me.”
“In guys’ jackets and army boots?”
“Especially then.”
Eva’s quiet a moment, then looks up at me. “I don’t like it when the other moms talk about you. It made me really upset. I was so mad.”
“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Eva. And I’m sorry that I didn’t change before the meeting. I was underdressed, and you’re right—this isn’t New York. I can’t do the things here I could do there.”
“People like things nice here, don’t they?”
I nod. Thank God we’re going to see Shey. Thank God we’re getting out of Bellevue, even if it’s just for the night. “Eva, I promise I’ll try harder to be more like the other moms, if you try not to listen to everything people say. And that includes Jemma Young.”
“But what did I ever do to Jemma?”
“Nothing.”
“So what am I doing wrong?”
Just being yourself, I think.
Outside, the sun gleams like liquid gold on the water of the sound. Tall pine trees jostle between rocky island coves.
“I’ve always been nice to her,” Eva adds softly. “I’ve always tried hard.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. Trying too hard is sometimes worse than not trying at all.”
“Why?” she demands even as the plane’s hum changes. We’ve begun our descent.
Do I tell her people can be animals? Do I tell her this is why I don’t trust women more? That I keep most women, except for my closest friends, at arm’s reach?
I glance out the window and watch us sail low, lower, down toward the sapphire water. Ten to twelve thousand years ago, Orcas Island and the surrounding Puget Trough lay beneath a glacier said to be a mile thick. The glacier eventually receded and new life formed, with humans appearing six thousand years ago. Six thousand years later, the affluent humans in the Pacific Northwest liked these islands very much.
“Why, Mom?” Eva repeats.
I look back at my daughter, who is still waiting for a response, who still thinks I have all the answers. Bless her. How wrong she is.
“I think trying too hard makes people uncomfortable, it changes the dynamics,” I say as we touch down, the seaplane’s rails bumping and then sliding across the water’s surface, “giving others too much power.”
Eva just looks at me. She doesn’t understand. I don’t blame her. I didn’t get it until I was an adult.
Shey’s at the small terminal to pick us up. She has a rental car, a small Toyota four-by-four, and I spot her as soon as we emerge into the light.
But it’d be hard not to see Shey. She’s a Texas girl and gorgeous, the kind Rod Stewart would have wanted for himself had he met her. Nearly six feet, very slim, and strawberry blond, Shey stands out in a crowd, but when she smiles, she stops traffic dead. Her smile is huge, wide, as generous as her Texas drawl and big old Texas heart.
Shey is the sister I’ve always needed.
Grinning, I hug her and pull back, check to see if she’s aged—she hasn’t—and then hug her again. How she juggles motherhood, work, and being a wife to a sexy photographer is beyond me, but she does it, and she never complains. She’s just freaking positive. And maybe that is how she does it.
With faith, good humor, and a dose of Norman Vincent Peale.
Shey’s now scooped Eva into a bear hug, and she’s showering my daughter with ridiculous kisses. Eva’s squealing and giggling, and her skinny arms are clinging as tightly to Shey as they do to me.
If I had a sister, it’d be Shey.
If Eva had another mother, it’d be Shey.
People look at Shey and see the external beauty and assume the worst, that she’s vain or narrow or shallow. But Shey’s secret weapon is that she’s far more lovely on the inside than she is on the outside, and I think that’s why God made her so beautiful. Because He knew she’d never take advantage of her gifts. He knew she’d use her beauty and love for others.
We toss our bags into the backseat, climb into the car, and buckle up. Shey’s rented a cabin for the weekend, and we head there now, a slow ten-minute drive to the other side of the island.
Eva immediately wants to go down to the beach, and Shey tells me to go with her while she carries our bag into the cabin.
Wandering toward the lake edge, I hear the screen door bang shut behind Shey, and I tip my head back to see the towering evergreens sheltering the half dozen scattered cabins.
It was beautiful in Bellevue, but it’s even more lovely here with the rustic charm of fifty-year-old cabins and ancient islands and lakes carved out of the Puget Sound.
Because in summer, the sun doesn’t set until sometime between nine and ten; at eight p.m., the lake’s beach is still warm and drenched in sun.
Eva’s standing at the edge of the water, wearing her favorite sundress—it’s simple and cream colored, with just a scattering of green ferns and leaves.
There’s nothing fancy about the dress, but as she stands at the water’s edge, the wind blows the hem, and her dark hair trails down her back, and she’s laughing at the breaking surf, which is particularly big at the moment thanks to the wave riders and water-skiers out on the bay.
Eva’s been watching some kids jump waves, and she’s caught off guard when the water suddenly rises and crashes on her legs, drenching the hem of her dress. Laughing, she turns to look at me, and I just smile, shake my head.
She laug
hs again.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her laugh like this. A long time since she seemed like a little girl. And for the first time in weeks, I feel some of the tension inside me ease. Eva’s going to be okay. Eva will find her way through the intricacies of girl friendships and girl power struggles.
She will. I did. Shey and Tiana did. It’s part of life, one of those rituals called growing up.
“I’m so glad you called,” I say to Shey as she heads down to the water’s edge with a couple of bottles of chilled water. “How did you know I needed you now?”
Shey tosses a bottle my way. “Because I knew I needed you. I miss you. The city’s not the same.”
We sit on the patch of grass before it gives way to pebbles and stone. I unscrew the cap of my water. “How’s work?”
“Amazing. Incredible. We’re so busy. The agency just keeps growing. We can’t keep up sometimes with the demand.”
“For pregnant models.”
“For models that are moms.”
I look at her, unable to hide my admiration. “I’m so proud of you, so glad you’re doing what you do.” With her agency she’s changing the way the world looks at women and helping celebrate the beauty of the pregnant woman. “To think it all started when you were pregnant with Harry.”
“I didn’t want to stop working,” Shey answers with a slight shrug.
And she shouldn’t have had to, but the agency she worked for sent her home, told her not to come back until she’d had the baby and dropped the baby weight, and oh yeah, don’t get stretch marks or ruin your looks or you’ll not have work when you return.
Fortunately, her friend Liza had a better thought, and Shey went to work with her.
It’s been ten years and some serious blood, sweat, and tears, but Shey’s now a mom of three and vice president of ExpectingModels, one of New York’s premier model and talent agencies.
“How are you?” Shey asks. “How’s Eva? You sounded pretty upset earlier.”
I sigh as I watch Eva dance along the water’s edge. “She wants to be popular. She wants to be part of the in crowd, and it’s not a very nice little clique.”
“It never is.”
“And right now, nothing I know, nothing I suggest, seems to help. Right now, being me seems to make everything worse.”
Shey grimaces. “The life of a mother.”
“But we’ve never had these problems before. My daughter once liked me.”
“She loves you, Marta.”
“She was screaming at me today, screaming at the top of her lungs.”
“She’s growing up.”
“She’s nine.”
“That’s what I mean. We’re entering the preteen years, and you have a girl. It’s only going to get harder.”
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“I don’t think you will. Not until she turns twenty-five.”
“You’re just feeling smug because you have three boys.”
“I’m feeling smug because they’re with their dad.” Shey stretches her arms above her head and sighs deeply, appreciatively. “God, it’s a beautiful night. You’re here and I don’t have to work. This is my idea of heaven.”
“You’re not missing your guys?”
Shey shoots me a look as if to say I’m crazy. “I love it when they all go. Get those stinky boy germs out of the house and indulge in all the girlie things I want to do. Bubble baths. Pedicures. Chick flicks on DirecTV.”
I lean back on the grass, consider Eva, who has sunk to her knees to begin scooping sand and pebbles into a little mound.
With her long black hair swirling with the wind and her long smooth child arms trailing along the sand, my own heart catches, overcome by love, love, love.
Stop the clock, I think, freeze everything right now. I want to remember this—this second, this moment—forever. I want to remember how lucky I was, how lucky I am.
And I want Eva safe, I don’t want her to struggle, and I don’t want to worry about her so much.
Shey shoots me a speculative side glance. “That’s a pretty heavy sigh.”
Had I even sighed? I didn’t realize. “Was it this hard when we were in school?” I ask, making a little face.
“Probably. You just didn’t happen to notice because you were the one making all the girls’ lives miserable.”
“I wasn’t.”
Shey rolls her eyes. “Did you or did you not live with your middle finger raised, your own little American flag flipping everyone off?”
I laugh softly. She’s right. I did. I couldn’t help it. I could skate, ski, and snowboard better than most guys, and no girl could come close to doing what I could do. I took ridiculous chances, lived dangerously, pushing the ex in extreme. And if any girl dared to make a snide remark, I was pretty damn comfortable giving her a smack-down.
Shey drains her water and puts the plastic cap back on the empty bottle. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. How about we go find some dinner?”
Eva falls asleep in the car on the way home from the restaurant. We ended up having nearly an hour wait for our table, and service was slow, which meant we didn’t even eat until close to ten-thirty.
Back at the lake cabin, Shey parks the car and I try to wake my zonked-out girl. She doesn’t even stir. I end up scooping her up and carry her into the bedroom she’s sharing with me.
Shey pulls back the cover while I lay Eva on the exposed bottom sheet. After covering her, I lightly kiss the top of her head and smooth the cover once more over her shoulder.
“You better keep her grounded,” Shey whispers as we tiptoe out. “Because she’s going to be a knockout later.”
“You say that because you’re her godmother.”
“I say that because I own a modeling agency and have worked with Tyra Banks for four seasons on America’s Next Top Model.”
We wander into the cabin’s kitchen, where Shey uncorks a wine bottle and fills our glasses. “And she’s got you for a mom,” she adds. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes, if you know what I mean.”
“Looks might get you a good table at a Manhattan hot spot, but they don’t guarantee happiness.”
“Touché.” Wine in hand, Shey goes into the small rustic living room, drops onto the couch, and stretches out her long legs, then runs a hand through her thick, shoulder-length, strawberry blond hair. “I could get work for you two, you know. I get lots of calls for mother-daughter teams on the West Coast—”
“No.”
“You used to model.”
“For one blink of an eye, and I hated it.”
“You were amazing.”
“I still hated it.”
“Let Eva model and she’ll be very popular.”
“Now I hate you.” I make a hideous face at her. “That’s such a sellout, and I will not sell out.”
“That’s right. Take the hard, high road. That’s so much more satisfying,” Shey mocks me, her eyebrows arched, eyes lit with mischief.
I lift my wineglass, salute her. “Life’s about the journey, not the destination.”
“That’s because you haven’t picked a very fun destination.”
“Feck off.”
She just laughs her throaty laugh.
I love Shey. I love her humor, her spirit, her feistiness. And I love most of all that she refuses to let me take myself too seriously. Every time I get up on my soapbox, she just cheerfully knocks me off.
Damn Gaelic fairy.
Drinks like a fish, eats like a linebacker, and is as tall and delicate as a prima ballerina.
I’d have to hate her if she weren’t so wonderful.
Wineglass in hand, I join her in the living room. “You took the only good place to sit, you know.”
She pats the saggy cushion next to her. “Come sit next to me, baby.”
“Don’t try anything.”
“You wish.”
I laugh and sink into the saggy cushions. It feels good to
just sit and relax.
I sip my wine and tilt my head back, and the wine’s warm and feels so good in my mouth, throat, going down. It’s a big robust red and perfect for a night like this. “You’ve always had excellent taste in wine.”
“John educated me,” she says, referring to her husband of thirteen years. Shey and John met on a shoot and they’ve been together ever since. “He said I can’t skate through life on my good looks alone.”
“Thank God for that. Otherwise you’d be useless. Over five feet eleven and bonier than hell.”
Shey’s laugh is low and husky. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world, and I open my mouth to tell her how damn glad I am to see her, how much I needed this time together, but that lump is back, the one that makes me doubt myself.
It’s been tough moving back to Seattle.
Leaving New York, leaving her, leaving everything that was good and comfortable, has really thrown a curveball into my confidence.
I’ve begun to feel more like Loser Mom instead of Super Mom.
I’d planned on being a single parent, but there are times—days—when I’m just so bewildered by all that isn’t what I thought, knew, dreamed, expected.
I knew I’d love Eva, and I’d hoped Eva would love me, but I didn’t realize that Eva would have problems I wouldn’t be able to help her with.
“I saw him,” Shey says quietly, laughter gone. “For a minute I wasn’t sure it was him, but it was.” She turns to look at me. “He’s still with her. They were together. The kids were there, too.”
I would like to pretend that I don’t know who or what she’s talking about, but Shey and I don’t have that kind of friendship. Our relationship is quick, sharp, honest, real. “How does he look?” I ask, my insides tangling, emotions suddenly chaotic.
“Good.” Shey presses her lips, tries to smile, but her expression is tender, protective. “You did the right thing, Ta. You did.”