“We just put them on the plane,” Jim said.
Abbie whooped with glee and did a little salsa, bouncing Harry in her arms. He giggled. Abbie said, “Marina, I’m so glad.”
Marina blushed. “Thanks. Want some scrambled eggs?”
“No, thanks, we just had pancakes,” Abbie told her. She set Harry on the floor. “Maybe some fruit, though. I’ll make a fruit bowl.” She opened the refrigerator.
Marina smiled and began cracking the eggs into the mixing bowl.
The back door opened. Emma and Spencer stepped inside.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Marina! You’re here!”
Marina winked. “Yup. Jim and I took Gerry and the baby to the airport first thing this morning.”
“Hallelujah!” Everyone was staring at them. Emma collected her wits and said, “Everyone, this is Spencer. Spencer, this is my dad, Marina, my sister Abbie, and—” She squatted down next to the little boy. “You must be Harry.”
He looked amazed at her clairvoyance. “I am Harry!” He laughed.
Emma said, “And I’ve never met a Harrier Harry than you.” She stood up. “Oh, wow, Marina, are you fixing breakfast? We’re starving.”
“Coming right up.” Marina took out a block of cheddar and grated a pile to add to the eggs. She put four pieces of bread into the toaster, and set the butter out to soften. She took a package of bacon from the freezer and organized it for the microwave. She said, “Emma, could you pour the juice? Jim, could you make more coffee?” She found the blueberry jam and set it with a spoon in the middle of the table. I’ve found my element, she thought.
The microwave pinged. Marina took out the bacon. “All right, everyone, breakfast is ready. Grab a seat.” She put the bacon on a platter and loaded plates with a pile of steaming-hot buttery, yellow eggs. She grabbed the second round of toast, spread it with butter, and set it on the table.
“I might be a little hungry, too,” Harry announced hopefully.
Jim said, “Here’s a trick.” He picked up a pile of cookbooks and set them on a chair, then lifted the little boy up. “Just the right height,” he said, pushing the chair close to the table.
Emma looked around the table. With so many people here, they were crowded arm to arm, and she liked it. She saw Spencer talking to Marina, and thought: Maybe we’re not the weirdest family in the world.
The back door opened and Lily stepped into the kitchen. Her face fell. “No one told me about a party.”
Emma laughed. “Lily, it’s just breakfast!”
Marina motioned to the chair next to her. “Sit down, Lily. There’s plenty here.”
Pleased but confused, Lily sat.
“Where’s Jason?” Marina asked as she dished up eggs for Lily.
“He’s working,” Lily said. She leaned close to Marina. “I talked to Jason. I told him we could compromise, he could come to Paris, too—”
“Who’s going to Paris?” her father asked.
“Oh, well, I am, Dad.” The eggs smelled so good she took a bite before continuing. “Eartha’s going to take me. This fall. For six months. And Jason’s not thrilled.”
Her father looked perplexed. “I thought you were going to marry Jason.”
“Well, I am. But first I’m going to France.”
“This is marvelous, Lily,” Marina said.
“I know!” Lily wiggled with delight. “Maybe you can come visit. You and Dad.” She looked around the table. “Maybe you can all come visit!”
Emma squeezed Spencer’s hand under the table. “Perhaps we will,” she told her sister. “It’s a possibility.”
Harry slipped out of his chair and went to the shelf holding the beach treasures. “Nanny Abbie, what’s this?”
Abbie knelt next to him. “It’s cool stuff we found on the beach. That’s a rock we liked. And that’s an oyster shell. You can pick it up. When I was your age, Harry, I used to pretend it was a cradle for my little troll.”
Harry’s eyes went wide. “You had a little troll?”
“Yes. I made them out of rocks. Let me show you.” Abbie took the small, smooth rock from the trophy spot and drew a face on it with a blue felt-tip pen. Harry watched, entranced.
“You have a lot of people in your family, Nanny Abbie!” Harry said, looking over at the table where the others were eating and talking and laughing.
“That’s true,” Abbie agreed.
After a moment, Harry said solemnly, “Nanny Abbie, I like your family.”
Abbie paused to consider her answer. She wanted to tell the child he was going to be part of her family, but this morning was too soon for that announcement. It would only confuse him. So she kissed him on his cheek and said, “You know, Harry, I like my family, too.”
61
Abbie, Emma, Lily, and Danielle, Kind of
It was Abbie’s idea.
In the cool of the evening, they climbed into the Old Clunker and headed out to Surfside beach. Abbie drove. Emma sat in the passenger seat, holding the picnic basket. Lily sat behind Emma. She didn’t have her seat belt on because she was perched on the edge of the seat, leaning forward, trying to subdue Emma’s long curly hair.
It was just after seven, and when they arrived at the parking lot at the top of the bluff, they spotted few other cars. The concession stand was closed. The air was tinged with early autumn coolness.
They didn’t speak as they went down the sandy hill, although Abbie said aloud, to herself, really, “Why did I bother to wear sandals?” and stopped to take them off.
When they came to the wide beach, they all just stood for a moment, gazing out at the infinite expanse of ocean. The breeze came from the southeast, so the waves rolled dramatically, crashing onto the shore in a scatter of white froth.
“Mom would like this,” Emma observed.
Abbie nodded. “You’re right. She always loved big waves, stormy seas.”
“So that’s one more thing I don’t know,” Lily said sadly.
“What do you remember?” Abbie asked. She handed Emma a corner of their ancient beach blanket and together the sisters spread it on the sand. Abbie weighted one corner with the picnic basket.
Lily said, “Mostly I remember her singing me lullabies.”
“Well, there you go, Lily.” Abbie nodded encouragingly as she took the glasses out of the basket. “That’s a memory we don’t have. Mom stopped singing me lullabies when I was about eight.”
“Me, too.” Emma was working the cork off the champagne.
“She sang me lullabies all the time.” Lily chewed her lip, remembering.
Abbie smiled. “And you were seven. You were her last little baby. She adored you.”
The cork exploded out with a loud gunshot sound.
“Hooray!” Emma held up the bottle. “Glasses, everyone.” She poured champagne into three glasses.
“I officially declare the opening of the First Danielle Fox Memorial,” Abbie pronounced solemnly.
The sisters clinked their glasses and drank.
Emma looked at her sisters. “All right. Who starts?”
“You,” Lily decided. “Because Abbie and I already had a memory.”
Emma agreed. “Okay. I’ve been thinking about this, and I’ve got a good one. I remember how Mom used to make clothes for my dolls—”
“That’s right, she did!” Abbie said.
“Except she made weird clothes. None of my friends ever had clothes like my dolls had. She turned one of my Barbies into a Gypsy. With shawls and lots of sequins.”
“That’s kind of cool, Emma,” Lily said.
“Actually, it was embarrassing,” Emma told her. “I loved my baby dolls. I just wanted lots of baby clothes for my dolls. I didn’t even like my Barbies, and I at least wanted clothes just like my friends had. Malibu Barbie. Cinderella Barbie.”
“Oh, gosh!” Abbie shrieked. “I’d forgotten that! Remember, she made one of my Barbies into Wicked Stepmother Barbie! With an old black shawl and a little basket with apples
in it. The apples were cinnamon red hots.”
“She didn’t make clothes for my dolls,” Lily recalled.
“No, you were her doll. She made dress-up costumes for you, remember?” Abbie prompted.
Lily thought. “I had a princess outfit.”
Emma said, “Right. With a tiara.”
The three sisters were silent for a moment, caught up in memories. Then Lily said, carefully, “Mom was really kind of bizarre.”
“She was artistic,” Emma corrected.
“She was different,” Abbie insisted. “We agreed we’d be truthful out here. And we never have talked about the bad stuff.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Lily hurried to protest. “It’s not like she ever hit us.”
Abbie looked at her youngest sister. “No. You’re right. She never hit us or said mean things to us.”
“But she acted like she hated us, sometimes,” Emma said softly.
“No, she didn’t!” Lily exclaimed.
“Okay,” Emma continued, “maybe not you, Lily. You were so young. But she would say things … I remember coming home from school my first day in seventh grade. I was excited because I was taking French. I said something like bonjour to Mom, and she got that sad look in her eyes and said, ‘I always wanted to live in France. If I weren’t stuck in this house on this island, I could go to France. Now I’ll never get to go.’ Gosh, I felt so terrible, like I’d ruined her life.”
Abbie nodded. “That was getting near the time she died. She had a really bad couple of years then with depression. She was fighting it but it was winning.”
Lily burst out, “She should have loved us most! She should have wanted to be with us! We loved her! Dad loved her! Why wasn’t that enough for her?”
Abbie countered, “Okay, Lily, listen to yourself. You’re the one who’s postponed your wedding so you can go to France with Eartha.”
Lily chewed her lip.
Emma said, “Hey. We agreed not to talk about the present and not to criticize one another.”
“I wasn’t criticizing. I was only saying.”
“It sounded like criticism.” Lily pouted.
Emma changed the subject. “Doesn’t it scare you? I mean, do you ever think that depression might be inherited? That we’ll suddenly get slammed by it?”
Abbie said, “I think about that a lot. But it helps to remember how levelheaded Dad is. He’s calm, content with life. I guess I think maybe his genes and Mom’s mixed. Anyway, when I get depressed, I can get out of it pretty fast.”
“She used to shout at Dad,” Emma said, almost whispering.
“I remember that,” Lily said. “It was scary.”
Emma continued, “She used to have rages. She’d throw things. Remember when she broke the vase we gave her for her birthday? It wasn’t expensive, but we were young, we didn’t have much money. We were so proud when she put it in the living room on the front table where everyone could see it. And then she broke it—”
“She didn’t know what she was doing,” Lily insisted.
“She felt terrible the next day,” Abbie said. “She cried and cried. She apologized to us over and over again. She glued it back together.”
“She tried to glue it back together,” Emma clarified. “It was in so many little pieces, and she cut her finger on a shard—”
“I remember that,” Lily whispered. “I remember all the blood.”
The sisters fell silent, each staring out at the roiling seas. Evening was drifting toward them like a dark cloud, staining the water with indigo.
“Okay.” Abbie took a deep breath. “This is why we’re here. We’ve never done this before, and it’s hard, it hurts, but I think we need to do it. So let’s each say the worst memory we have of Mom.”
After a moment, Lily said, “I think the vase thing was the worst for me. The entire incident. The way she screamed at Dad. The sounds of things breaking. You came and got me,” she said to Abbie, “and took me out to the Playhouse. Me and Emma. We were in bed. In our pajamas. It was scary to go to the Playhouse at night like that.”
“I didn’t want you to have to hear,” Abbie said.
“Dad yelled, too,” Emma recalled. “That was always the most frightening thing for me. Dad was so good with her, he listened to her for so long, he kept asking her if she’d taken her medicine, he tried to get her to just calm down. But he ran out of patience and yelled at her.”
“What do you want me to do?” Abbie said in a low voice. “What in the hell do you expect me to do? Jesus, Danielle, I’m trying!”
“We fell asleep in the Playhouse, remember?” Emma shifted in the sand, unsettled by her memories. “You slept on the sofa, with your arms around Lily. I slept on the floor.”
“The next morning, Mom served us pancakes with all the maple syrup we wanted.” Lily smiled ruefully. “She promised it would never, ever, happen again.”
“Well,” Abbie said bitterly, “she kept her promise.”
They were quiet again.
“I hate her,” Lily declared. “I was a little girl. She left me.”
“She left us all, and Dad, too,” Abbie said.
“But you were grown up! I was so young!”
“I think she was in agony,” Abbie said slowly. Very quietly, she told them, “Once I caught her trying to cut her wrists in the bathtub.”
“Oh, Abbs, I never knew that,” Emma gasped. “How terrible for you.”
“Dad was out fishing. It was late. I had to pee, so I just walked into the bathroom … She was naked in the bathtub with a knife. She dropped it when she saw me. I said, ‘Mom.’ She said, ‘It’s all right, Abbie.’ But I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. I needed Dad to help. I was terrified.”
“What did you do?” Lily asked.
“I just stood there like a big dummy, frozen. Deer in headlights. Finally, Mom stood up, dripping water, and wrapped a towel around her and got out of the tub. She hugged me really tight for a long time. She said, ‘It’s okay, Abbie. You go on back to bed. You have school tomorrow. I’ll be fine. I’m going to go to sleep, too.’ But I still couldn’t move. I’d forgotten this—I was turned to stone. I couldn’t even speak. I was fifteen. I knew I should do something. And I was embarrassed that Mom was naked, her towel kept falling off her. And she kept making these big fake smiles and telling me everything was fine.”
“So what happened? Did Dad come home?”
“Not then. Later. Mom finally dried off, and pulled on a nightgown and took my hand and said, ‘Come on, honeybun, let’s get in bed together and cuddle up like we did when you were little. I’ll scratch your back like I used to.’ So somehow I could move and we lay in bed together for a long time. I didn’t fall asleep. Mom didn’t, either, I could tell by her breathing. But she was calm. Then Dad came home, and I went to my bedroom and fell asleep.”
Lily said, “That’s awful, Abbie.” She drank some champagne as she sorted her thoughts. “I’ve been so jealous of you—and Emma—because you got to have more of Mom than I did. Years and years more. But you got the hard stuff, too. I never thought of it that way.”
Emma’s voice was low and husky. “Remember, a few weeks before she died, how we woke up one morning with her jewelry on our pillows next to us?”
“Oh, I remember that!” Lily cried. “I was so excited. I’d always wanted her amethyst bracelet. I put it on right away.” She sobered quickly. “It never occurred to me that she was giving us her jewelry because she was planning to … not use it anymore.”
“You were seven,” Emma reminded her. “But I was thirteen, and I thought it was just creepy.”
“Dad should have gotten her into a hospital that day,” Lily said.
“It’s not Dad’s fault,” Emma protested.
“I’m not saying it was,” Lily began.
“Dad tried so hard to get her to check herself in for long-term treatment, but she wouldn’t even hear of it.”
“Okay,” Abbie straightened up and her take-charge voice
returned. “I think the three of us need to make a pact. We need to keep in touch with one another, wherever we are, and if one of us starts showing signs of serious depression, we’ll fight and kick and scream until we get help.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lily said, “but how do we judge a serious depression? When Emma came home this summer, she was flat out in bed for days.”
“And you emailed me, and I came home,” Abbie reminded her. “But really, that was a situational thing.”
“I think we’ll need to talk to our husbands or roommates or whoever is living with us at the time,” Emma suggested.
Abbie said, “Right. Like when you marry Spencer, he should know to call me and Lily and we can figure it out together.”
“But if I tell Jason I might have crazy genes, maybe he won’t marry me!” Lily wailed, distraught.
“Oh, come on,” Emma chided. “Jason is wild about you.”
“Still, you should mention it to him,” Abbie said. “Anyway, it won’t be a huge surprise to him. Everyone in town knew that Mom was eccentric.”
The sky and ocean were dimming into a luminous field of gray. The wind was rising, playing with the corners of the blanket.
Lily shivered. “I’m getting chilled.”
“Okay,” Abbie said. “One more memory each, and then we’ll go.”
“I remember how much she loved summer,” Emma said. “Practically the moment the snow stopped, she’d be outside stringing up the shell lights around the deck and setting up the deck chairs. She’d go swimming every day. She just lived in her bathing suits with a shirt of Dad’s buttoned over them.”
“She loved Christmas, too,” Abbie said. “She’d blast Christmas music all over the house and make fifteen different kinds of Christmas cookies and a bûche de Noël and she always bought the biggest tree she could find.”
“And she put three angels on top of the tree.” Lily choked up as she spoke. “She always said we were her three angels, so she had to have three angels on the tree.”
“I’d forgotten that.” Abbie was growing teary too. “It was a cool idea, but it always looked kind of odd.”
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