“I’ll be back in a minute, Mom.” I step outside and dial Leo. We haven’t really spoken since the broken engagement. He picks up after the first ring and starts in on the smallest of small talk, treating me like I’m as fragile as eggshell.
I interrupt: “Leo, what’s going on—with work, I mean?”
“It’s all over, thank god.” His sigh is audible. “I’m back on the floor this week.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had enough of your own crap going on.”
“Oh, whatever. So, what happened?”
“It turns out it was some junkie who was getting her stomach pumped last year,” he says. “They caught her trying to fill her third Vicodin scrip in a month at the same CVS. She had a slew of stolen DEA numbers. Good riddance.”
“That’s great, Leo. Congrats.”
“Well, it’s not like I achieved anything. But the good part is, now I don’t have to burden Lana with any of this.”
“So, you never even asked her about the prescriptions?” I’m ashamed to recall my own reaction, assuming Lana was to blame.
“No,” Leo says. “I didn’t want to pile any more stress onto her situation.” I marvel at my brother’s certainty, to have never doubted his wife.
“What a relief.” Relief is the main emotion flooding through me, although it’s undercut with a flicker of disappointment. Everyone I care about is coupled up, even my mom. Is it so horrible that a small part of me might wish myself some company in the breakup department—that buried under my relief about Lana’s innocence is a tiny pebble of regret that she isn’t guilty?
I tune back in to hear Leo say how much he misses his wife. “She’ll be home in a week. Then I guess we’ll start the long road of rebuilding our marriage.”
Oh, right, I think guiltily. Lana doesn’t need to commit robbery or fraud or to put Leo’s medical license in jeopardy for them to have marital strife. And I don’t really want company in my misery; what I want is for Leo and Lana to return to rock-solid. I consider the problems that tore Gabe and me apart, so flimsy in comparison to the ones Leo and Lana will have to work through. And they’ll do it, bravely; they’re pros. Gabe and I probably never had the foundation they have. Part of me knows there are as many ways to be married as there are marriages. Still, maybe Gabe and I were never cut out for the institution.
“And how are you?” my brother asks.
“Oh, fine, I guess. I’m here drinking with Mom, a reluctant passenger on her trip down memory lane. She’s already paraded out the old photos.”
“Do you need me to come up there and rescue you?”
“Thanks for the offer, but nah, I could use a bit more hibernation. And Leo, I’m thrilled for you about your job.”
“Thanks, sis.”
Back inside, my mother has earmarked a shot of me as a toddler barreling down the beach in a frilly pink bikini. “That ridiculous bathing suit was your favorite thing on earth,” she says. “You wore it for days on end, throwing a tantrum when I’d force you to take it off to be washed. You were quite a headstrong little girl.”
I stare and stare and can sort of conjure up this early attachment. Just as I can sort of remember the bliss of the beach, of splashing in the waves and building sandcastles and being chased down the shore by my dad—memories of a time before that landscape grew shadowy with heartbreak. Now it’s happened all over again, the seaside spot where Gabe and I were supposed to be wed transformed to a landmark of loss. If only I had a version of that bikini now—if only a favorite piece of clothing could provide all the joy I needed in the world.
I yawn widely, suddenly exhausted, and my mom seems to read my mind again: “I found your old moccasin slippers. They’re next to your bed.”
I head upstairs and slip my feet into the well-worn sheepskin. It does nothing to address any of the messes in my life, of course, but my toes are now warm and cozy, and that’s something.
Hours later, restless with insomnia, I drift downstairs. Splayed on the kitchen table is the photo album, a Post-it tagging a portrait of Leo and me with our father crouched between us, all of us in matching navy suits and ties, holding buckle briefcases. My mom’s note reads, “See?! Daddy taught you to say, ‘You’ve been served!’ instead of ‘trick-or-treat.’”
I stare at the photo, our three faces lit up like the jack-o-lantern behind us. How could I have forgotten this? I wonder what else I’ve erased from my memory. I think of my mother, so caring and supportive these past few days. I had no idea she even knew about the special snack I shared with my dad—peanut butter toast and warm apple cider—still my ultimate comfort. I wonder now, was she really so harsh with me after my father died? Did she really demand that I transform into the picture of goodness and decorum? I’m no longer so sure; my memory can’t be trusted. It’s a little scary to question what previously seemed so certain. But it also opens up a space in me. It feels like the potential start of something, the clearing of a new path.
• • •
Each morning, I chauffeur my mom to work and then use her car to take myself on meandering tours of my childhood, halfheartedly trying to connect the dots of how I got from then to now, from there to here. I drive past my elementary school and my high school and the various parks where I played as a kid and then revisited years later to drink with packs of friends after dark. Other sites I avoid—the lake, Pizza Palace, Sandals ’n Such, Charlie’s street. This selective revisiting of my past holds my interest for a few days, before I grow restless. The following morning, I hang a left out of town.
It’s a cool day in Ogunquit, mild for late March. The sea glimmers restlessly, drawing my gaze as I trace the lip of the Marginal Way. I’m headed in the direction of John’s inn, not sure if I’ll actually stop in. But as I approach, I see John squatting in a flowerbed, spotting me. I wave tentatively. He greets me like I was expected five minutes ago: “Molly, come see my tulips. They just came up.”
“Your garden is beautiful,” I say. The tulips are the hue of churned butter and the midday sun—a pretty palette for a wedding, I think idly.
John stands, his knees cracking one after the other. “What a nice day for a walk. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
It’s a little awkward. John is a leisurely stroller, the type I would barrel past on the streets of New York. Also, I can’t think of anything to say. The only fact that comes to mind about John is his love of waffles. I want to apologize about the wedding, and thank him for the refund, but it feels funny to bring up.
“Your mother tells me you love the ocean,” he says. Right, of course John and I have this in common. He’s put down his roots at the edge of the water I grew up worshipping.
“As a kid, I’d play in there till my lips turned blue,” I say. Until suddenly I didn’t, I don’t say.
“We could go for a dip. It’d be invigorating.”
“Today? More like hypothermia-inducing.”
“I got your mother to swear she’d swim with me on the first day of summer.”
“My mother, seriously?” I’m shocked. “I’ve never seen her wade in past her ankles. My dad used to kid her that maybe she’d melt if she got wet.”
We walk for a while in silence. “You know,” John finally says, “your father was my divorce attorney.”
“I didn’t know he did divorces.” Or, for that matter, that John had been married, or that he knew my dad.
“Just for a little while, according to your mother. This was twenty-five years ago. I guess, in the end, he didn’t have the stomach for it: sad sacks like me, the bitter back and forth. Your father struck me as an optimist at heart.”
“Huh.” I’m so used to hearing and rehearing my mom’s stories and replaying my own handful of memories of my dad that my conception of him is like a well-worn photo that’s gone smudgy at the edges. It’s odd to hear this new perspective: my dad an optimist who didn’t have the stomach for breakups. I wonder if he’d be ashamed
of me now.
“Anyway,” John says, “I was a mess back then, and he really helped me. He was more like a therapist than a lawyer.”
“Both kinds of counselor,” I say, thinking Gabe would appreciate the observation. “How did he help you?”
“Well, he reminded me that it’s easiest to take the path of least resistance, like staying in a situation you know isn’t working. He reassured me that it isn’t a failure to give up on something that no longer serves you. Leaving can be brave. It takes enormous strength to choose change.”
I laugh a little. “You expect me to believe you remember all of that a quarter-century later?”
John shrugs. “What can I say? Your father gave good advice. It stuck with me.”
“He was a smart man.”
“He had to be to love your mother,” John says. I realize it doesn’t really matter if my dad told John those things or not. I like this guy, I decide.
John looks suddenly antsy. “I know this is strange timing, but I wanted to ask you something.” He clears his throat, and I grow nervous. “I really care about your mother. In fact, I’d like to spend the rest of my life caring about her, and caring for her. I’d like to propose marriage. That is, if I get your blessing, and your brother’s.”
“So fast! What is this, a shotgun wedding?” It just slips out.
John doesn’t miss a beat. “Yep, you guessed it, your mom’s knocked up with triplets. Sorry, kiddo. There goes your inheritance.” His laugh is full-throated, and contagious.
“Sorry,” I say. I consider my next words more carefully: “If my mom wants to marry you, then nothing would make me happier for her. For both of you.” It’s the truth.
“Thank you, Molly. That means so much.” John extends a fist bump, seemingly without irony. Despite my outburst, I actually think this fast track to marriage is a good sign. It speaks less to John’s impulsiveness than to his willingness to commit to my mom. And she deserves him.
“Also,” John says, “I wanted to mention, I’ve closed on another inn.”
“Ah, so you are expanding! But in property, not in progeny.”
John smiles. “Rumor is, you’re a pro at hiring and managing business matters. I could really use your talents for the new inn, especially for the summer season. What do you say about becoming my Human Resources Director, salary negotiable. That is, if you want a break from the rat race of the city.”
“The rat race?” I’ve never heard anyone use this expression in earnest. I picture a pack of rats competing to reach a discarded potato chip on the subway tracks. My mood has gone punchy. I throw an arm around John’s neck, like we’re old pals. “Thank you for being so kind. It’s a generous offer.”
But I know I won’t take him up on it. In fact, the suggestion to stay in Maine makes me realize how ready I am to get back to New York: to pack up the apartment I shared with Gabe and find a new home, to be there for Leo when Lana returns from rehab and for Sam through her third trimester, and to get my career back on track. “Alas, it’s much too idyllic here,” I say. “I think I’d miss the grime and noise of the city. Not to mention the rats and their races.”
John nods. “Suit yourself. Hopefully I can convince your mother of the other offer. In the meantime, I better focus on my other beloveds, my tulips.”
John returns to his garden and I’m drawn to the cliff’s edge. It’s high tide, and the water is making a valiant effort to fly up over the rocks. It’s hard to imagine that in just a few hours, the pool beneath me will ebb away, leaving nothing but a stretch of sand. Even harder to imagine is that just a few months ago, I pictured Gabe and me standing in this very spot exchanging vows. So much in my life has since ebbed away—my engagement, my job, my money, my stability, my confidence. It’s tempting to focus on all that’s gone. But, as a result, here I am now, all potential, like my own blank beach. It’s a freeing thought.
Back when Charlie suggested we make New Year’s resolutions, I laughed it off. Then when Sam tried to talk some sense into me about my relationship, I fled. Later, when the justice of the peace sermonized on marital commitment, I only half-heard him through my haze of hangover and regret. And throughout the entire saga of Gabe’s book publication, I obsessed over how someone else, not me, was worthy of starring in his story. I know I’m long overdue for a shift in focus—from the past to the future, from Gabe’s fiction to my real life, and from all the noise and distractions to my own internal voice, however faint it’s grown.
It occurs to me that I don’t need a new year to make resolutions. I don’t need an audience to deliver a speech. I don’t need a wedding ceremony or even a partner to recite vows. I’m finally feeling ready to make promises and to commit to them—to commit to myself. So, I do it. I compose the words in my head and then I announce them to the cliffs: “Starting today, I’ll stop doing things just to meet or rebel against other people’s expectations. I’ll be honest about what I want, and do what’s best for me. I’ll be good to people, starting with myself.”
The ocean’s roar and the wind’s whoosh form a chorus of “Amens.” Among the reverberations, I imagine I hear my father’s voice, too, giving me his blessing.
Chapter 30
GABE TEXTS ME a photo of a road sign that reads,NO PARKING. VIOLATERS WILL BE TOED. He and I both love these kinds of errors. I’m on a bus back to New York, and I spend the next half-hour trying to spot an error to send back. But Connecticut’s road signs are all woefully accurate in both spelling and grammar. So, I text back, Fingered too?
Gabe responds with an open-hand emoji. Up until a few days ago, I might’ve spent an hour trying to interpret its meaning—fingered? high-five? stop?—but now I don’t bother. It no longer matters, I realize with both sadness and relief.
There’s a celebrity magazine in the seat pocket in front of me, and the first page I flip to features a giant photo of Larissa “LaLa” Laraby—she’s inescapable. The headline reads, “Are wedding bells ringing for LaLa?” I half-expect Gabe’s name to appear as the mystery fiancé. But, halfway through the article, I discover a different familiar name: Melinda Lowe, my old coworker. The article refers to her as an “up-and-coming stationery designer.” Larissa was apparently spotted buying ten dozen of Melinda’s “We’re tying the knot!” cards, which are pictured in an inset. A month ago, this would’ve made me livid. Now it strikes me as funny, how person by person this reality star seems to be infiltrating my life. Perhaps next I’ll receive a press release about the binge TV club she’s started with her new besties, Sam and Kirsten.
I take another look at Melinda’s cards. They’re stamped with a simple but elegant logo:. Before, I was dismissive of Melinda stumbling so easily into entrepreneurship. But now I see how impressive it is that she’s struck out on her own. I remember my vow: Be good to people. I decide to email her my congrats.
Her reply comes minutes later, subject MOLLY! followed by a hefty paragraph:
I was planning to write to you this week. You can’t imagine what a shit-show Funhouse Branding has become since you left.
I’m struck by the generous phrasing—she could’ve written, “since you got fired” or “since you were disgracefully ejected from the premises.”
They’ve been hiring people who are pros at branding and styling themselves… but not so much our products! It’s like a sitcom of a branding company: Everyone looks the part, but no one’s doing any actual work! Natalie’s on a hire-and-fire tear, so the office is basically a revolving door. Half the staff doesn’t even know where the bathroom is!
I’m entertained by Melinda’s observations, and touched, too. She’s probably exaggerating, but it’s kind of her to imply that the place has unraveled without me as its gatekeeper.
Full disclosure: I’m planning my exit, too, to go full-fledged start-up with my stationery (!). I’d love to tell you more. Can I take you to lunch? Somewhere with tablecloths and a decent Cobb salad? Say yes! Cheers, Melinda
I’m surprised by how excited I am b
y Melinda’s offer. I write back immediately. Then I mentally scroll through my business-casual clothing, pumped at the prospect of once again putting on makeup and heels and heading to midtown.
• • •
Though it’s been unoccupied for less than two weeks, my apartment looks abandoned, everything coated in a layer of dust. My thoughts drift to E.B. White, the change and churn of the city. Most of Gabe’s stuff is gone, as is my ring from his dresser; in its place is a check for two months’ rent—the full amount, not just Gabe’s usual portion. That’ll finish out our lease. I notice that the check’s memo line is filled with Gabe’s tiny print:
I present the rent, 100 percent. Went to a book event. –the gent. P.S. Never meant the torment, the lament, the dissent. I no longer resent. I repent.
I waver between relief and annoyance. For so long, I’ve wanted this from Gabe, an apology, an admission that his actions have hurt me. But it’s too late now. Plus, he’s devoted at least as much effort to style as content. And written it on the two-inch memo line of a stupid check that I’ll have to deposit into a ATM. I’m working myself up into a fit of anger, until I remember: Gabe is no longer my fiancé, no longer my anything. I force out a loud sigh. I fold the check in half and stuff it into my wallet. I let it go.
The mail is a pile of wedding-related catalogs, flyers for bridal trunk shows, and ads for honeymoon packages; I must be on every mailing list. I’m about to toss it all when, tucked among the junk, I spot a letter from Sam. She’s sent back the wedding cancellation announcement like it’s an RSVP, and scrawled on the back:
Bummer that your original plans fell through. But now that you’re free on my due date, will you do me the honor of being my plus-one in the delivery room? (I don’t want Tom anywhere near my hoo-ha while I’m pushing out a human.) XO, Sam.
Of course I will.
There’s also a card from Lana. I scrutinize the envelope’s lettering for evidence of tremors or other trauma, but it’s Lana’s same old loopy half-print, half-cursive. Inside are pages of bridal gown sketches, plus a note:
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