The Summertime Girls

by Laura Hankin

  “She’s not here,” Beth said. “They’re not here—”

  The boy’s legs gave out from under him, and as he thumped onto the floor, his eyes registered a dazed surprise. Nathaly crouched down. She used her skirt to wipe the blood from his mouth and the sweat from his face, then let it drop. It swished back down around her ankles, and Beth noticed the way the threads unraveled from the hem. As long as she stared at the skirt, everything would be all right. She could solve the problem of the unraveling hem by re-sewing it, or by buying Nathaly something nice and new to wear. Then the ankles beneath the skirt moved toward her.

  “You. Please. Help,” Nathaly said, grabbing her arm so hard it stung. The little boy’s eyes fixed themselves dizzily on her and his breaths came in shallow whines. His mother’s face twisted itself into a hideous contortion of grief and desperation.

  Beth clearly needed to do something. She was good under pressure. Levelheaded. Calm. She knew these things to be true about herself. Just a few months ago, back in college, as her friends chugged coffee and collapsed over their desks in tears, overwhelmed by exams and papers, she’d sat and methodically done her work until she’d finished it all. How ridiculous to think about college now, as if it had any relevance to what was unfolding around her. The words—levelheaded, calm—ran through her mind on a revolving ticker. But they were describing a different Beth, an effective Beth, not the current, neutered version of herself who was paralyzed with indecision.

  There had been screaming at Open Arms before, crying too. It didn’t happen often. Deirdre and Peter tried to spread the word that emergency cases should go to the hospital, that this little clinic was best equipped to deal with patients who could wait. Early signs of malaria, checkups and consultations, cuts and breaks that caused no immediate threat to one’s life, that was what Open Arms did best. But still, occasionally, desperately ill people came anyway, the hospital too far away for them to travel on foot or by donkey, hoping for miracles. A couple of times before, Beth had seen these types of people, in their terrifying need. Always, though, Deirdre and Peter had been there, knowing just what to do, how to help.

  Now, she was the only one. Deirdre had told her when they’d left that morning that she and Peter wouldn’t be back for hours.

  The boy let out a little wheeze of a breath, and she moved toward him, finally, finally able to unfreeze her body. But her mind still stuttered. She tried to make mental lists. Boy’s Symptoms. Possible Diseases. Course of Action to Take. She could see these headers in her mind, nice and neat, underlined, but underneath them, blank white paper expanded without end.

  Somehow, she got down onto the floor with the boy and pulled him onto her lap. He flopped there, dead weight, but kept his gaze glued to her face, scared and hurting, trusting her to make it better. Her stomach curdled to see the redness in his eyes, the patches of bruising on his skin, and she tried not to flare her nose at his smell of fish and feces. Crusted vomit had dried on his shirt, over the tiger’s ears. A dribble of blood from his gums painted a little dipper on her thigh.

  As Nathaly watched her, too near, her tiny body closing in on her, Beth put her hand on the boy’s forehead. The first step of some sort of medical exam, she told herself. But she didn’t know what she was doing. She was failing him. This little boy was dying in front of her, and she was doing nothing to stop it. Minutes ticked by.

  Maybe if she just wished hard enough, she could return to the moment she’d gotten out of bed and everything in the alternate version of this day would be better, normal. She could start from the beginning; she could go back to this morning and . . .

  Then, as if Beth had wished it into reality, the door creaked open and Deirdre walked in.

  “Beth,” she said. “Peter forgot—” Her face, set in a mask of annoyance, changed as she registered the scene—keening woman, dying boy, useless Beth. Beth watched her one moment of stupefaction, so brief she wondered afterward if it had even really happened at all, and then Deirdre snapped into action.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she demanded. As Beth gaped, stammering, trying to figure out what to say—did she even know?—Deirdre turned to Nathaly and started speaking in Creole. Relieved at finally being understood, Nathaly poured out a stream of words, and Deirdre nodded. She grabbed a pair of gloves from a box on the desk and put them on, a simple gesture of competence and precaution that Beth hadn’t even thought of. Then she lifted the boy from Beth’s lap, murmuring to him quietly as she cradled him in her arms, and started to carry him down the hallway to the room with the hospital cots and the medical supplies.

  “Come on,” she said, and Nathaly followed her anxiously, hopping from one foot to the other. Beth stayed on the floor, her body shaking like she was having a never-ending cold spasm, which made no sense because it was so hot out, so hot that the air wrapped around her and smothered her. The concrete floor beneath her seemed to be pulling itself apart, ready to swallow her up and drag her into the ground, and she had to get out of there, get away from the horror and the stink of sickness and the flies lazily buzzing inches from her face. So even though Deirdre had said, “Come on,” and the boy had continued to stare at her as Deirdre carried him away, his eyes asking her to stay with him, Beth ran. She opened the main door, stepped out into the dust, and ran away.

  FIFTEEN

  Ally had never been able to do a somersault. She wasn’t great at yoga, or even Zumba. But, forward-rolling down Breezeway Mountain, her body contorted into all sorts of gymnastic positions previously unknown to her. She flipped over herself. She banged one outstretched knee on a rock. And then she came to a stop at the base of an oak tree. She lay on her back, next to the gnarled root that had finally halted her fall, and looked up at the light shining through the green leaves above her head. Everything hurt.

  Distantly, she heard Beth scrambling down the fifteen feet or so after her, pebbles skittering under her feet. She felt the impact as Beth dropped to her knees, slamming onto the forest floor beside her. And then Beth’s hands grabbed her shoulders, shaking some sort of clarity back into her.

  “Ally. Are you okay?”

  “Ow,” Ally said. “Fuck.” The fuck came out of her in a low, long tone.

  “I am so sorry for pushing you,” Beth said, her voice strangled. “Oh God. Are you all right? Is anything broken?”

  Ally analyzed the pain and shook her head. Slowly, she began the process of sitting up. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But you’re the one who’s going to be the doctor. Examine me.”

  “Um,” Beth said, “wiggle your fingers and toes. Can you move everything?”

  Ally stretched out her fingers and waved them around, then repeated the process with her toes. Her knee ached where she’d gashed it on the rock, and an occasional black spot clouded her vision, but otherwise, things seemed to be returning to normal. “Yeah. I don’t think there’s permanent damage,” she said. Beth held out her hand to help Ally up, and Ally grabbed it. “Whoa, your palm is really sweaty.”

  “Oh,” Beth said, and took back her hand as soon as Ally was upright. She wiped it on her shorts, then curled it into a fist. Her face was red, almost violently so, like someone had slapped her hard on the cheeks, and her eyes were clouded. “I am so, so, so, so sorry. I feel like such an idiot. I don’t know what I was thinking, to push you like that.”

  “Hey, you didn’t push me,” Ally said. “At least, that’s not why I fell. I’m just a clumsy oaf, and wasn’t watching where I was going.” She looked at Beth’s face again, unsettled by what she saw there. “Are you okay? You’re all red.”

  “Hah. Yeah. Sorry. I’m just— Sorry. I got really worried for a second there. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine, seriously.” Ally started brushing leaves off her butt and wiping the dirt from her arms, wincing occasionally. Beth looked down at the ground. Ally could hear her breathing fast and then swallowing.

  “I can
call Grandma Stella,” Beth said, “and ask her to pick us up at the base of the hill so you don’t have to walk all the way home. Or—or we could go get ice cream. My treat. I really am sor—”

  “Stop apologizing!” Ally snapped. She closed her eyes and took a breath, then opened them. “It’s okay,” she said. “Let’s just get off this mountain.”

  They walked the rest of the way down the hill without saying much, but the type of silence had changed from before. Beth led, mapping out a path. She kept looking back, a bizarre combination of worried mother and wounded animal. Her concern was palpable—it vibrated in the air around her.

  “I’m fine,” Ally said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. She focused pointedly on her feet. She watched her sneakers navigate the hill, trudge after trudge after trudge. They made a sort of drumbeat and then, slowly, a melody to go along with it came into her head. At first she thought it was a preexisting song, it made so much sense to her. But as it repeated itself, she knew she’d never heard it before. The melody settled in and walked with her all the way to the base of Breezeway Mountain, past the long blocks to the town center, where they stopped in front of the big windows of the grocery store.

  “Shall we?” Beth asked at the door.

  “You go ahead,” Ally said. “There’s something else I have to do.”

  • • •

  WHEN she walked back into Hooked on Tonics, Nick didn’t look up from his book. “Can I help you?” he asked in a monotone. She couldn’t believe that the store hadn’t gone out of business by now, given how blatantly annoyed he was by the prospect of customers.

  “Want to make some music in your semicrap recording studio?” she asked.

  The grin started to spread across his face even before he caught her eye. “Hell yes,” he said, pushing Infinite Jest away—of course he was reading Infinite Jest, she thought—and unfolding his long limbs as he stood. He flipped the sign on the front door from Open to Closed and motioned for her to follow him.

  He’d been right in his description of the recording studio. Amateur soundproofing was peeling from the walls like neglected wallpaper. The carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. But he had microphones, solid and full like promises, and a couple of straight-backed chairs. A keyboard and a drum set occupied two corners of the room, and she marveled anew at how much space you could get when you didn’t live in New York City.

  She climbed into one of the chairs. “Shit. What happened to your leg?” he asked. “It’s bleeding.”

  “Oh.” Ally looked down. Little droplets of blood leaked from the gash on her kneecap. “My friend Beth pushed me down a mountain.” She stood up from the chair. “Sorry, I don’t want to get it everywhere.”

  “Nah, sit back down. I’ll be right back,” he said, and disappeared. He returned a minute later with a wet paper towel and a tube of Neosporin.

  “Look at you, all prepared,” she said.

  He shrugged. “My wife made up a first-aid kit for the store. I thought it was useless, but I guess not.” She held out her hand for the paper towel, but instead of giving it to her, he knelt down in front of her on the dirty carpet.

  “Oh, hey, that’s fine—”

  “Nah, I got it,” he said. “You’re wounded. Relax.” He grasped the back of her calf and pulled it toward him. Without meaning to, she flexed her leg. Concentrating, he dabbed the blood away with the wet part of the paper towel, then folded it over and pressed the dry part to her cut. Neither one of them said anything. His hand was cold, and holding her calf harder than she thought necessary. She was glad she’d shaved recently, although, of course, it hadn’t been thoroughly.

  “So,” he said after a minute, “down a mountain, huh? That’s shitty.” He took the paper towel away, balled it up, and tossed it into a wire trash can in the corner. “How’s your new guitar working out?” He applied the Neosporin, rubbing it in slowly. It tickled and stung at the same time. She bit down on her lip. As soon as he paused in the rubbing, she pulled her leg away.

  “Thanks. Um, I haven’t had a chance to play it yet. I would’ve brought it, but I wasn’t planning on coming.”

  “Okay, hold on. Let me wash my hands and grab us some guitars.”

  When he came back this time, he handed her a Martin—way more expensive than her Fender. It rested naturally in her lap as he checked her sound levels. She sang tentatively into the mic at first, her nerves making her breath catch in her throat.

  “Oh, come on,” he said, and something in the way he smiled at her calmed her down. She sang louder, a couple of la la las, and as they left her mouth, she decided that she was proud to have put them out into the world. Satisfied, he plopped down into a chair opposite her.

  “So whatcha thinking?” he asked, as he idly plucked on his own guitar, showing off. “We can just play, or if you have anything particular in mind . . .”

  “Well, I had this in my head.” She played her melody (she already thought of it as hers, something precious) and hummed along. When she was done, he nodded his head.

  “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s good.” She leaned in, glad that she hadn’t been crazy, thankful that someone else had validated that what she’d made was worthwhile. She played it again, and he joined in this time, their guitars getting closer and closer. “Funny, I didn’t expect that from you,” he said, when they had finished.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know, I thought it would be . . . cuter.”

  She sat back a bit. “Golly gee, thanks.”

  He held up his hands as if to placate her. “No, no, hey, don’t get offended. The song we made up the first time you were here, it was very . . . sweet-sounding, and I thought that was your gimmick.”

  “My gimmick?” She didn’t know how annoyed to be with him. Her cuteness was a fact, something people automatically decided fit her because of her petite stature, her round face, her quickness with a smile. For the most part she enjoyed the benefits of “cute,” but something about how he’d said it rankled her.

  “Yeah, everyone has a gimmick, right? Even Dylan, with the folksy political stuff. I just thought you did sweet, you know, major chords, everything resolving neatly, all that, which is fun, but this is better. More interesting.”

  “Why did you want to jam if you thought it was just going to be boring and sweet?”

  “I never said sweet is boring,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do and you’re talented. And it’s a moot point, anyway, ’cause I already said I think this is really good.”

  “Well, then, thank you.” He was right in a way, she thought to herself. Most of what she wrote was cutesy, happy, maybe a little bit gimmicky. With this new melody, it was like her mind had been working overtime without letting her know. She wasn’t sure where it had come from, but she wanted to follow it.

  “You got lyrics?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he continued, “I’m no good at them. I can put together words that scan and all, but if I tried to write lyrics for this, they’d probably come out like emo kid journal poetry. I’m just gonna figure out some stuff on the keys.” He put his guitar down and went over to the keyboard, and she tried to find words to complement the sound.

  She knew she didn’t like her first try. The levity of the words clashed with the tune, creating an uncomfortable dissonance.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked her, and she sang a bit, dubiously.

  Rest your head upon my shoulder, kick those shoes off of your feet.

  And we’ll stay like that forever, ’cause I think you’re pretty sweet.

  Nick’s face reflected her own dissatisfaction.

  “Too cute,” she said. “I know.”

  “Yeah. You know, it’s okay for you to write about real feelings.”

  “Ouch,” she said, laughing to cover the sting.

  “Just saying. Music�
��s supposed to be messy, not sanitized. Not to be a didactic old asshole or anything. Clearly, I am a huge success story,” he said, gesturing at the peeling soundproofing.

  “Hey, I like your crappy studio,” she said, and he smiled. Then she tucked her feet up on her chair and closed her eyes as he played her song through again on the keyboard, filling it out. As the music ballooned around her, she seemed to start buzzing from the inside, and she concentrated on that hum, the way that for a second she was aware of all her body’s organs doing their work. She went up to that little room in her mind where all of the things she’d successfully been ignoring lived together. She knocked on the door, and it swung open.

  When she opened her eyes again, Nick was looking at her like he wanted to know what she’d been seeing. “Okay,” she said. “What do you think of this?”

  SIXTEEN

  On the day of the grand Grandma Stella and Penny Joan Reunion, Beth knocked on Grandma Stella’s door, then pushed it open.

  “Hey, need any help in here?” she asked.

  Grandma Stella looked up from her jewelry box, bracelets and rings filling her hands as she sorted through what she wanted to keep. Two large piles of jewelry lay in front of her on the bed.

  “Oh darling, I’m all right. Take a little break, why don’t you? Watch some TV or something. You’ve been working so hard to help me out.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t really like TV. It rots your brain, and all that.”

  Grandma Stella patted the bed next to her. “Well, I certainly won’t say no to company, then. And you can tell me what jewelry in here I should save for you.” Beth climbed up next to her grandmother, trying not to wrinkle the downy bedspread. She put her head on Grandma Stella’s shoulder, breathing in her comforting lavender scent and watching her little fingers detangle a heavy red necklace from the other chains in the box.