Now That You Mention It: A Novel

by Kristan Higgins

  They were still hugging. Amy was getting more affection in this hug than I’d gotten from my mother in the past twenty years. Was I jealous? You bet your life I was.

  “What’s her deal?” I whispered to the dog. He didn’t know, either.

  Mom released her, and Amy sniffled and moved toward the kitchen.

  Next up was Mr. Dobbins. “Bawb. You’re a good man. You have a good haht.” He bent down to hug my sturdy mother, and she hugged him tenderly, firmly.

  This was really freaky. Maybe it was the Vicodin. Maybe I should cough up twenty bucks and get a hug, too.

  I looked at Boomer, who lowered his head to lick my hand. Nah. Who needed a mother when I had the male version of Nana from Peter Pan? Plus, I was pretty sure that somewhere in the mother’s handbook, it said your kids shouldn’t have to bribe you to get hugged.

  My mother moved through the crowd, hugging people and telling them nice things. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Roseline that I was either hallucinating on painkillers, or my mother was offering hugs for twenty dollars apiece in our living room.

  Video or it didn’t happen, was her answer.

  Mr. Dobbins came back for another.

  Yep. My mother needed a man. It seemed very clear. Maybe this was for her sake, too. Alone all these years (Hello, guilt, how’ve you been?). And since I was here on the island for the summer, I might as well find her someone. Why not, right? Another text to Roseline. Am going to find my mother a boyfriend.

  Don’t make rash decisions while on powerful narcotics, she responded. Go to bed.

  I was pretty dizzy. And while I did want to see my mother tuck some people in with blankies on our old couch and chairs, I also knew I was too jealous to watch.

  7

  The day after hug therapy, I took a little crutch walk, as I’d been doing, a little farther every day. The sun was hard and bright, the oak trees topped with fuzzy, pale green buds, and the salty air filled my lungs and woke parts of my soul I’d forgotten about. Sure, Boston was on the water, but it wasn’t like this. Here, the air was both clean and alive with scents, sometimes thick with the promise of rain, sometimes carrying smells of pipe tobacco—presumably from Burke Hollawell, a lobsterman from my childhood (and potential bae for my mother?). Last week, I got a whiff of blueberries—somewhere, a pie was fresh out of the oven. And always, the smell of pine.

  I hobbled to a rock at the shore and sat down to catch my breath. Boomer ran up, smiling his doggy grin, and dropped a pinecone at my feet. “Oh, good boy!” I said and threw it. He bounded off, forgot his mission and chased a squirrel into a tree.

  I slid out of the backpack straps, took out my water bottle and drank. Then I dug out a notebook and pen and started writing to my sister.

  Dear Lily,

  I hope things are going okay for you. I don’t know if Mom or Poe told you, but I’m back on the island for a while after I had a little accident. Poe and I are sharing our old room. You’ve done an amazing job raising her. She’s really great and smart, and I love talking to her.

  Well, that would be a lie. I tore off the sheet, crumpled it up and stuck it in my bag.

  Dear Lily,

  I’m back on the island for a while, and I want you to know I’ll try to keep an eye out for Poe. Even though you stopped answering my emails and texts and letters, I still love you and will try to help Poe in any way I can.

  Too condescending, with that healthy slosh o’ bitterness. I crumpled up that one, too.

  Dear Lily,

  You’ll never guess where I’m sitting right now. Lookout Rock. I’m back on Scupper for a while and will probably spend a few months here; I took a leave from the hospital after I got banged up in a car accident. Home is the same. Mom’s bird is trying to kill me. Kind of creepy, the love they share.

  A cormorant just popped up in front of me, then slipped back under the water. The ocean is choppy today, making lots of noise against the shore.

  Mom and Poe are doing well. I hope you are, too.

  Love,

  Nora

  That one I could send. At least I had an address for her now. Washington State Women’s Correctional Facility.

  For reasons unknown, my sister had given me up long ago. Granted, I hadn’t been a whole lotta fun after Dad left, but neither had she. Why didn’t we become even closer after his desertion? God knows I wanted to. But sisters who didn’t get along was hardly an original problem. There was the ugly sister/beautiful sister thing, of course. The fat/thin issue. There was the fact that I made it off the island into a better future, and she’d made it off into...well, single motherhood, borderline poverty and now jail.

  She did have Poe. From what I’d been able to tell on the few visits I was granted, my sister loved her child.

  That night, as Poe and I were lying in our beds, I decided to go for it. It was dark, and the night was cold and clear. Through the skylight, I could see the thick, brilliant smear of the Milky Way.

  “Have you talked to your mom recently?” I asked.

  Poe didn’t answer for a minute. “What’s it to you?”

  “Just wondering how she is.”

  “She’s fine.” Poe rolled over to face the wall.

  “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, honey.”

  She muttered something.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t need to talk to you,” she said, enunciating clearly, her voice loud, as if talking to a room full of slightly deaf simpletons. “Though my circumstances are challenging, I am quite well-adjusted.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad.” I took a long, slow breath, still staring at the stars. “Your mom and I were really close once.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I loved her more than I loved anyone.”

  “Hooray for her.”

  “And I love you, no matter what. I would love to be closer, and I’d—”

  “Could you shut up now? I’m trying to sleep.”

  I reached down to pet Boomer, who slept next to me, since we both couldn’t fit on the twin bed. His tail thumped, letting me know I was loved. God, grant me the serenity to not tell my niece she’s a royal pain in the ass. “Good night, Poe. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  The second weekend after I returned to Scupper Island, my mom asked if I wanted anything in town. It was Saturday, her day to do the grocery shopping.

  “Can I come with you? Please? Please?”

  “Sure, but only if you calm down.” She kissed Tweety on the beak—I suppressed my scream—and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Poe, you need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Text me if you think of anything.”

  There was no answer.

  “Give me a few minutes,” I told my mom. “I need to brush my hair.” And change and put on makeup. Without a doubt, I’d run into someone I knew.

  Half an hour later, I was shiny and clean and ready to go. “Go see Poe,” I told my dog. Given time, I knew he’d win her over. He obeyed, galumphing up the stairs, the genius.

  I’d graduated to a plain old runner’s brace, which made my knee look lumpy but was a vast improvement over the soft cast. My mom was waiting by the front door, puss on her face, arms crossed.

  We drove into town, my mom grumbling about the “crowds” that would be at the market, now that it was 10:00 a.m. By crowds, she meant four to six people.

  We pulled into the store’s parking lot. “I think I’ll take a hobble around, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Here, let me give you some money for groceries.” I took out my wallet.

  “Save it.”

  “I make a good living, Mom. Let me help.”

  She gave me a dirty look, then threw the car into Park. “I can
afford to put food on the table, Nora.”

  “Well, I’m an extra mouth to feed, and—”

  She got out the car and walked off, her canvas bags flapping indignantly.

  “Thank you!” I called. She didn’t look back.

  I would definitely be needing that rental place, fast. Otherwise, there’d be blood everywhere, and soon. I hated to use words like killing spree, but between Poe talking on the phone at 3:00 a.m. this morning, then using all the hot water again and my mother’s refusal to have a conversation of more than two sentences, I was getting a little homicidal.

  I maneuvered myself out of the car. Sammy’s Grocery was behind Main Street, the heart of our happening downtown, and it was probably time for me to start walking without the crutch.

  And you know...I didn’t want to look quite so pathetic. Bad enough that I was still limping.

  Slowly and carefully, I wobble-walked up the slight incline. It was the end of April now, and in the years I’d been away, the town had planted crab apple trees along Main Street. They were thinking about blooming—the little pink buds were still clenched, but giving a sweet glow. A restaurant—Stone Cellar—had window boxes of pansies. I peeked inside. Wooden beams, dark floor, nice-looking bar. And looky here—it was open on weekends in the off-season. That was something. Only Red’s, the bar frequented by the hard-core drinkers, had been open year-round when I was a kid.

  I stopped at the corner. The gray-shingled building here was, conveniently, a real estate office, pictures of houses in the windows.

  Time to be independent and all that.

  Suddenly, I missed Bobby. I missed him so much it wrapped around me like a lead blanket, heavy, tugging me down. He had called the other day, at two-fifteen in the afternoon, and his voice had made my eyes well up. We’d talked gently and sweetly to each other, asking about work, what the other was doing. We’d listened to each other breathe, and it was...nice.

  If he was dating Jabrielle, he didn’t say so.

  Once, I’d imagined marrying Bobby. Before we started dating even, and once we’d started, I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfectly suited to me. We had so much fun together! Life had seemed impossibly wonderful.

  Then the Big Bad Event happened, but even that showed me how great he was. About three months after the BBE, he’d said, “When we make it official someday,” just an offhand remark that had made me so embarrassingly happy I almost floated. I’d told Roseline, who was already engaged, and she’d brought me to the posh bridal salon where she’d bought her gown, and we played dress-up for an hour.

  Now I was getting a place of my own, back in the hometown I never wanted to return to.

  At least I didn’t have to remember our fun times here. Bobby had never been to the island. I’d never let him come. I hadn’t come, always making the case that Mom should come to Boston, which she did, stoically, without a lot of fuss, never staying more than a day.

  The man in the real estate office saw me standing there and opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m looking to rent a place for a couple of months,” I said. Until Lily comes back. Until I make things right again.

  “Come on in!” he said with such good cheer that I knew he was an island transplant. “I’m Jim Ivansky. We handle lots of rentals here. What brings you to Scupper?”

  I filled him in, mentioned Boomer, and he smiled and smiled as Realtors do. “We have some great places. You’ll be renting during the summer, so the price will go up after Memorial Day, but I’m sure we can find you something.”

  The first few houses he showed me were the summer people’s McMansions—five-bedroom, six-bath places on the water, complete with boathouses.

  “It’s just me and my dog,” I said. I paused. “Maybe something with two bedrooms, in case my niece wants to stay with me once in a while.”

  He scanned his listings. “How about this?” he asked, swinging the computer screen around to show me. It was the Krazinskis’ place, an unremarkable ranch on Route 12, the closest house to Mom’s. I wondered why their house was vacant. The interior pictures showed a pretty bland, somewhat-careworn place and a kitchen last updated in the 1970s, based on the Harvest Gold appliances.

  “Got something with a little more...character?” I asked, feeling guilty. Lizzy Krazinski—or Lizzy Krizzy, as she’d been known—had been a year behind me in school. We’d ridden the school bus together. She’d been okay, Lizzy.

  “I know what you mean,” Jim said. He scrolled down. It seemed that it was McMansion or meh.

  “Oh, hold on, what was that one?” I asked.

  “This? It’s a houseboat.”

  “In Maine? Isn’t the water a little rough for that?”

  “It is, but it’s moored in Oberon Cove,” Jim said. “Some rich tech goober had it built over at WoodenBoat and then bought most of the Cove. Built a nice dock to moor it. To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t even lived here yet. One of those guys who has houses all over the world.”

  “Think he’d rent it?” I asked.

  “It’s not for sale; I just have the listing for tax reasons. I’m on the assessment board here in town. But let me give him a call. I think he’s in New Zealand on a spirit quest.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. Rich tech goobers did things like that.

  Jim punched in a string of numbers, and miraculously, the guy picked up. “Collier, Jim Ivansky from Island Real Estate here. I’ve got a beautiful young lady here who’s absolutely in love with your houseboat.” He put his phone on speaker. “You’re on with Nora Stuart. Nora, meet Collier Rhodes.”

  “Hi there!” I said in my Cute Nora voice. “It’s such a pleasure to talk to you! Jim’s right, I’m madly in love. What an amazing place you’ve built!”

  “Thank you so much!” he said. “So you’re looking for shelter and inspiration, is that it?”

  Not really, but... “You got it.” I told him my story of returning home after an accident, the siren call of the sea, the rugged beauty of Maine. “I wonder if you’d consider renting it to me. It’s so lovely, and I’d take excellent care of it. Something about it just spoke to me.”

  “I hear you. Returning to your roots, taking time to breathe in the cosmic power that saved your life. Absolutely get it. I’d be honored to rent it to you. You know what? You don’t even have to pay me.”

  Jim winced. There went his commission.

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m more than happy to pay.”

  “All right. I totally respect that. Okay, then. I’ll let Jim work out the details. Namaste, Nora Stuart.” He hung up.

  “Ah, tech geniuses,” I said, and Jim laughed.

  Ten minutes later, the houseboat was mine until mid-September, though I planned to go back to Boston in August. But maybe Poe and Lily would like to stay there when Lily got out of jail. In the meantime, it was all mine. It was even furnished. I couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe my mom and Poe would like to come with me. Or not.

  Boomer, I was sure, would love it.

  I went out of the office, keys in hand, and started down the street, feeling rather pleased with myself. No more Tweety giving me the evil eye.

  I’d be living alone again. First time since the Big Bad Event.

  My heart suddenly went into A-fib, a hummingbird trapped in my chest, buzzing frantically, trying to get out. My mouth was sand, palms sweaty.

  I’d be okay. It was fine. I had Boomer now. And it was Scupper Island. A very safe place.

  Shit. I couldn’t do it. I’d have to stay with my mom. She wouldn’t kick me out. I turned to go back in the real estate office, then turned around again.

  No. Now or never. No more gray, no more fears. Plus, when Lily came back, she could stay with me.

  “Time for a donut,” I muttered. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lala’s was four shops (or shoppes) d
own the street. I could use a sugar boost, since my mother didn’t believe in dessert, viewing it a moral weakness like her Calvinist ancestors before her. Poor thing. I mean, sure, I was a GI doc and believed in good nutrition, but I also had a beating heart.

  There. The thoughts of donuts had helped. I was calmer.

  “Let me get the door for you,” said an older gentleman, approaching with a newspaper under his arm. Mr. Carver, who did handyman work for the summer people—opening their houses, clearing their lawns, letting them know if a tree fell during the winter.

  My dad used to help him out once in a while.

  “Hi, Mr. Carver,” I said.

  “Ah...hello there, young lady.”

  “Nora Stuart. Bill and Sharon’s daughter.” I glanced at his left hand. Married, and therefore not a contender for Mom.

  “Is that right? Jeezum crow, you got big. Have a good day, now.” He smiled and headed off.

  Not everyone hated me. That was nice to know. “Hey, Mr. Carver,” I said, gimping out after him. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure thing.” Steam rose from his coffee.

  “Um...” It was embarrassing that I had to ask someone I hadn’t seen in almost two decades a deeply personal question. “Do you remember my dad, Mr. Carver?”

  “Of course. He was a nice fella.”

  “Did you ever hear from him? After he left the island?” Because he never bothered getting in touch with me. My face felt hot.

  “Cahn’t say that I did, sweethaht.” He thought another second or two. “No. I don’t think so.” His weathered blue eyes were so kind that I had to look away.

  “No, I figured it was a long shot. But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Nice to see you.”

  So. The first stone had been overturned and revealed nothing. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but...well.

  The humid, sweet air of Lala’s was like a much-needed hug.

  Standing in line was a mother with three little kids. The older two stood silently, staring down at their phones, their necks curved in that unmistakable posture that said, Don’t bother me, I’m emotionally dead inside. The littlest kid, about six, blond with a puffy winter coat on, pulled on his mother’s hand. “I want a cookie,” he said.