The Captain's Daughter

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  “In some states, they do,” said Judith. “Oregon and so forth.”

  “Judith,” said Eliza. “Not helpful.”

  “But Fred always remembered where we kept the dog treats and the tennis balls. So he had a memory.”

  She had Eliza there. Now Eliza was the one chewing her lip.

  “Right. But it’s not the same.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well,” said Eliza helplessly. “People have—studied it.”

  “What people?” Evie had opened her eyes so wide that it looked like the rest of her features might fall into them.

  “Scientists. Scientists have studied it. Dog scientists.”

  “But how do they know? How a dog thinks?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. They do tests and things. Very scientific tests.”

  Evie looked skeptical, as well she should. Eliza had no idea how anyone knew anything about a dog’s experience. “They know,” she said smoothly. “I promise you. They know.”

  Evie allowed her eyes to scan the kitchen. Then she said, “Grandpa can’t do his job anymore, with the lobster traps.”

  Deep breath. Just before coming home, Eliza had watched Charlie bump his hip into a small side table that had been in the living room since time began. It was a visual field cut from the tumor that made it happen, she knew that, even if her dad didn’t; the tumor was in the left lobe, so he’d experience the visual cut on the right side of both eyes. He’d hit the hip hard, she’d heard the thwack of bone against wood, and she’d waited, the way you did with a child, to see if he was going to cry or not. He hadn’t acknowledged anything. It must have hurt, though.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right, he can’t work right now. That doesn’t mean he won’t again.”

  Of course he wouldn’t work again. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to drive his truck safely, never mind his boat—he might not be able to see if someone pulled out in front of him.

  “But he’s not a dog, sweetie, he’s not living only in the present. He’s going to get medicine and see a new doc—”

  “But he’s uncomfortable, right?” Evie interrupted, and selected another carrot round.

  “Sometimes he’s uncomfortable.”

  “Is he uncomfortable more than he’s comfortable?”

  Even if Charlie got treated, and even if the tumor shrank from the treatments, it would come back; it would spread like the tentacles of a sea creature until it had invaded not just his left occipital lobe but everywhere. They did, in the brain, with this kind of cancer. They always did.

  Eliza straightened her legs and leaned her hands on the edge of the countertop. She could no longer see the vegetables clearly; her eyes were filling up. She cleared her throat and said, “Have you ever considered being an attorney, Evie?”

  Evie sniffed suspiciously. “What’s an attorney?”

  Eliza regained the knife, picked up a red pepper, and wiped her eyes with her arm. “A lawyer. Somebody who argues cases in court, before a judge and a jury.”

  “Oh,” said Evie, offhandedly. “No, no, I don’t think I want to be that. I want to be an actress. Or maybe a dog scientist. I didn’t know that was a thing until now.”

  Another carrot, and she sauntered off.

  “I think…,” said Eliza weakly. “I think I might just have a glass of whatever you’re having, Judith. If you don’t mind pouring me one.”

  15

  LITTLE HARBOR, MAINE

  Mary

  Mary had entered her dates into a website that told her all about her baby’s development. At nine weeks, it was the size of a grape, with tiny earlobes and nostrils. A grape! So tiny. Although of course grapes could be many different sizes. She chose a medium one to put in her mind’s eye.

  The salon was closed on the Fourth of July. But the day before had been very busy, everybody squeezing in their waxes and highlights before the holiday, and Vivienne was looking forward to sleeping in, getting her “beauty rest.” She’d asked Mary to be quiet when she left the house to go to The Cup, which would close early to observe the holiday but was still open from seven to five. The Fourth was a big sailing day for people out on the Point and was expected to be a good day for business. People started drinking early, and when they drank early they got hungry early. Or they requested Andi’s special picnic baskets to take out on their boats. Or they needed a midday pick-me-up latte to make it all the way to the fireworks. Or all of the above.

  Later, after dark, some of the guys would set off fireworks from a lobster boat out in the harbor. Everybody would watch, residents and summer people alike. Aside from the Lobster Festival in August and Trap Day in April it was the closest the town came to a big event.

  Mary was in the far corner, wiping off table twelve, when she heard Andi say, “Hi, Vivienne!” in a surprised and cheerful voice. “Looking beautiful, darling.” Mary looked at the clock; it was only eight forty-five. Not good. Vivienne was supposed to be sleeping. Mary pretended she hadn’t heard Andi and kept her head down, wiping, though there was nothing to wipe anymore.

  It didn’t take Vivienne long to find her near table twelve—the café wasn’t very big, and there was nowhere to hide. “Your friend woke me up,” Vivienne said. She pulled out a chair and slouched into it. She did look like she’d just woken up: no makeup, hair in a messy bun—the at-home Vivienne, not the salon Vivienne. Not even close to the salon Vivienne. Actually, the at-home Vivienne was in some ways prettier than the salon Vivienne, though Mary would never dare say that, because that was not something the salon Vivienne wanted to hear.

  “My friend?” Mary was genuinely perplexed. Did she have any friends?

  “Alyssa Michaud, the little twat who stole your boyfriend.”

  Mary winced. “It wasn’t—oh, never mind.” Tyler Wasson was so far in the rearview mirror it really didn’t matter what Vivienne thought about that.

  Vivienne unleashed the bun, shook her hair out, and then re-bunned it all. This happened so quickly that Mary wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. “Said she’d been trying to call you but you never called her back. Said she was worried about you.” Vivienne went super light on the pronouns when she was tired or annoyed.

  “Huh.” Mary feigned confusion and threw a glance toward the counter to see if anyone could save her. “That’s weird. I wonder why she’d be worried. I never even see her anymore. She’s going to college soon and—”

  The door swung open and three customers entered: now she could feel Andi and Daphne send her signals but Vivienne said, “Sit,” so Mary sat. Andi and Daphne, for whatever reason, liked Vivienne enough (“a real character!”) that Mary hoped they’d forgive her the transgression of taking a seat at table twelve when she should be behind the counter. She’d work extra hard the rest of the day to make up for it. She’d clean the bathroom, even though it wasn’t her turn. Andi and Daphne were very fair about the bathroom cleaning, they’d drawn up a schedule and taped it next to the mirror, and they all rotated days, though if Mary was being honest she’d have to say that Daphne always missed the water spots on the faucet and Andi sometimes forgot to empty the wastebasket bin.

  After the incident outside Jordan’s, Mary had ignored Alyssa’s four texts and two voice mails. They all said variations on the same thing: OMG. I NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU’RE OK, MARE. THAT WAS SO WEIRD, HOW U JUST PASSSED OUT LIKE THAT. ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OK? CALL ME, OK?

  Mare. That had been what Alyssa had called her in sixth grade.

  Finally, to stop the messages, she had texted back, I’M OK THANKS. She was, she was okay! She was fine, it was a fluke, having to do with being too hungry and too warm and too pregnant (she didn’t tell anyone the last part). That’s what she’d said to the semicircle of friendly and concerned faces that were surrounding her when she came to. “No, please don’t call an ambulance, really, please, I’m fine. I just need a little something to eat…” A kind grandmotherly lady with a southern accent had helped her put her head between her knees until she was rea
dy to stand fully, and then she hadn’t even had to wait in line or pay for her root beer float. “On the house,” said the guy who brought it over. She’d picked gravel out of her hair for the rest of the day, but she was fine.

  “Well, I know why!” said Vivienne now. “She said she’s been trying to get in touch with you. She said you passed out cold outside Jordan’s, in line for a root beer float or something. Last week! Last week, and you didn’t tell me?”

  Mary tried to make her face smooth and immobile like a mask.

  “Mary? Mary.” Vivienne’s voice was pleading now. Vivienne never pleaded with her, about anything. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  Mary shrugged the tiniest shrug she could manage: an infant shrug.

  “I’ve only passed out once in my life and it was when I was pre—” She stopped, and Mary felt the muscles around her eyes twitch. She felt her features slide into an expression; she was giving herself away. Vivienne cleared her throat and finished the sentence. “It was when I was pregnant, Mary. With you.”

  Still Mary said nothing, but she knew, she could tell by the change in the atmosphere, that the secret was out. She watched Vivienne’s eyes fill; Vivienne batted at them like a mass of hornets was flying around her. “Are you pregnant?” Thankfully Vivienne lowered her voice to an almost-appropriate level and everyone else in the café was otherwise engaged. Mary nodded, mute.

  Vivienne took a minute before she said anything and Mary had the feeling that things could go one of any number of ways.

  “This is such bullshit, Mary,” Vivienne said finally.

  Or not. There was really only one way it was ever going to go.

  “I know.”

  “This is such goddamn bullshit. I cannot believe that I’m going to be a thirty-six-year-old grandmother.”

  “You’ll be thirty-seven,” whispered Mary. “In January.”

  Vivienne didn’t answer that; she folded her arms and would have stared into Mary’s eyes except that Mary kept her own eyes lowered.

  “Sorry,” whispered Mary.

  The three customers had taken to-go cups. They were dressed for sailing, with rich-people’s caps and belted shorts in tan and navy and white.

  Daphne moved toward the table and said, “Everything okay, you two?”

  “Yup,” said Mary.

  “Nope,” said Vivienne, and Daphne laughed uncertainly and said, “A couple more minutes and we’ll need you back behind the counter, Mary.”

  “Of course,” said Mary pleasantly. She had put back on her mask, the mask of a person who was not having this conversation.

  Vivienne batted some more at her eyes and hissed, “Shit, Mary, I just got my eyelashes done yesterday, I’m not supposed to cry for twenty-four hours.”

  “Sorry,” said Mary again. She was so very sorry, for so many things.

  Vivienne blinked wildly and stared at the ceiling, like she was willing the tears to go back where they came from. “Forget it,” she said finally, returning her gaze to Mary. “I did a two-hour process on Trisha from Your Eyes Only last week for nothing but a tip. She can fix up my goddamn eyelashes on Monday.” Then, unexpectedly, she reached over and grabbed Mary in an aggressive hug that nearly took the wind out of her. “Oh, Mary, Mary,” she said into Mary’s hair. “Mary. What are we going to do?”

  Mary felt a pang of something: guilt, or regret, or sorrow. But she also felt something else. Inevitability. This wasn’t like talking about it with total strangers at the clinic who saw dozens of teens a day or a week. This was her mother. The fact of Mary’s pregnancy was real now, it was out there, and there was no going back now, only forward forward forward in whichever direction she decided to go.

  She didn’t answer the question; she didn’t know the answer. “Want a coffee?” she asked after Vivienne peeled herself away. “Let me make you a cappuccino.” She didn’t wait for a reply and started toward the counter.

  “Boy trouble,” she said, in answer to Andi’s raised eyebrow over the coffee machine. Let them think it was Vivienne’s trouble. Vivienne sure thought all the trouble was hers.

  16

  BARTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Eliza

  On the way to the boat on the Fourth of July, Eliza checked Zoe’s Instagram feed without letting Zoe see that that’s what she was doing. The latest post, a photo of Zoe and Sofia jumping together into the pool at the club, both of their bodies squinched up for a cannonball, had garnered eighty-three likes. Eliza wondered who had taken the photo. Probably Evie; she was a secret whiz with the camera.

  The comments on the cannonball photo said things like omg you two are awesome and so gorgeous. It seemed a little bit over the top for a simple shot, but when Eliza checked the rest of the feed she saw that all of the comments on all of the posts included similar hyperbole. Then she checked the posts Zoe had commented on and found the exact same thing: lots of hearts, lots of gorgeous this and awesome that over the most mundane of subject matters. She scrolled down more and noticed a comment from @rackleyj02. Jackie used lots of pretty emojis and was super extravagant with the compliments. Little two-faced bitch.

  This was like anti-bullying, in a way: instead of putting each other down there was a constant buildup of ego and confidence, confusing in its own way. She sighed. How exhausting it must be, to be young, in this world.

  “No electronics on the boat,” said Evie not so long after that, standing bossily over Eliza. She was wearing a two-piece stars-and-stripes Ralph Lauren bathing suit that Judith had bought her especially for the Fourth of July. Judith and Ralph Lauren were both patriotic to the core. Judith had brought one for Zoe too, but Zoe refused to wear it for some unidentified thirteen-year-old-girl reason. “I hope she doesn’t think she’s fat,” Eliza had said to Rob, but she didn’t dare ask Zoe, because what if she put ideas into her head. Zoe currently had the shape and fat content of a straight pin, but of course she couldn’t see that.

  “I know, sweetie,” said Eliza to Evie. “I know. But this is important.”

  “That’s your rule, Mom, if I’m not allowed to bring my iPad you shouldn’t be allowed to have your phone.”

  “Just a second, honey, I’m in the middle of something…”

  When Eliza first got back to Barton, Charlie’s health problems had seemed eminently repairable. She had money, she had time, she could fix this! All she needed was some thinking time to figure out how to get him to Boston to see a good doctor, to set up an initial appointment, maybe get him enrolled in a trial. There were always new trials, new treatments. Always.

  “Mom.”

  “No, I know, you’re right, Evie, you really are right. I’ll put it away. Look! I’m powering it all the way down. I’m putting it down here, not in my pocket. You’re right, it’s my rule, I should follow it.”

  It had been Rob’s idea to have everyone out on A Family Affair for the fireworks, but now that they were here she saw that the muscles around his jaw were flexing and releasing, which meant that he was stressed. She could see why: it was stressful, owning something so expensive and then inviting people on it to eat and drink and be merry. Then again, what was the point in owning something like this if you weren’t able to enjoy it because you had to be so careful with it? Judith, who had actually paid for the boat, didn’t seem to be having any problem enjoying it. There she was, sucking on a gin and tonic, talking animatedly to Deirdre about the top five fund-raising disasters she’d encountered; Deirdre was listening avidly and smiling uneasily. Eliza crossed the deck to where Rob was standing and slipped her hand in his. He smiled.

  For sixteen months, while this boat was being built, Rob had slaved over all of the hundreds of decisions that went into the customization. He’d made several trips to Trenton, Maine, where the hull was manufactured, and then to Southwest Harbor, where the whole thing was put together. Who knew there was so much to choose? The navigational electronics. The wood down below. The sail-handling systems, the fabrics for the cushioning. The generator, the hull colo
r, the bottom paint. So very many things, things Eliza didn’t even know about.

  Fourth of July before her senior year of high school, Eliza and Russell had watched the fireworks while lying down on the deck of his boat, moored in the harbor, passing between them one Bud bottle, then another and another. The Bud bottles were warm but they didn’t care; it tasted like nectar. There were very few clothes on either of them by the time the finale came around.

  By the same time the next year, Russell wasn’t talking to her. She had her bags packed for Brown, one foot in her dorm room.

  Rob was chatting with Brock. He squeezed her hand, and Eliza stood for a moment and watched without really taking in the conversation—something about infrared cameras. Rob had a way of listening to people that made them feel like whatever the person was saying was the most important thing Rob had ever heard. He could have run for office with that little-boy sincerity, that gorgeous blond hair. Boy, she’d be a terrible political wife, though. She hated to dress up, she never got her nails done, and her own hair was unruly. The political handlers would probably make her wear it in a bun. Evie and Zoe would look great on camera, though; Zoe would look classy and Evie would have the right amount of mischievous adorableness.

  Brock was saying, “I remember sailing with my dad, it would take three people to change those sails by hand back in the day…” and Eliza let her mind drift. It was a godsend of a sunset, wide swaths of mauves and oranges mirrored in the harbor’s water, a real stunner. This was the sort of sunset people photographed and published in coffee-table books about charming New England towns. The girls had gone below to play a board game—because of Eliza’s insistence on a low-tech outing, she had brought along Clue and Life and Sorry!—and she thought about calling them up to see it. Once the sun had vanished altogether the fireworks would start.