by Angel Lawson
The breeze picks up and hits the kitschy wind chimes made out of pearly shells my mother hung up when we moved in. After a moment she says, “Do you want to know why I ran away back then?”
I brace myself. “Yes, if you want to tell me.”
“I want to.” She takes a deep breath and starts, “In 1974, Richard, Sugar, and I were accosted by Donald Gaskins on the highway between here and Myrtle Beach.”
This revelation should be more shocking, but it’s not. I’ve seen the scar. I’ve connected the dots, between the jagged mark on Martha’s chest and the one on my mother. Even so, I’d hoped it wasn’t true.
“Oh Mom, I’m sorry.”
“It was the single most terrifying moment in my life. I still have nightmares. I’ll wake up in the pitch black and think I’m back there. Back with him.”
I have no idea how to respond. We’ve spent the last month digging up story after story about the evil Gaskins performed, each one worse than the one before. I swallow through the lump in my throat and ask, “Did he hurt you?”
“He hurt all of us,” she says. Her voice sounds stony. “In our own ways.”
My mind spins around the book, the interviews, the desire to find other close-call victims. “Is this why you found Martha?”
“I’d always wondered if we were the anomaly. Were we the only ones that got away? It seemed unlikely since he was such a risk-taker. That wasn’t my intention with the book, though. I just needed to get the story out there. Stumbling upon the idea of other victims gave me a second focus—something positive to search for.”
I look down at my hands. “Is this why you and your family here stopped speaking for all these years?”
She nods. “We were young and immature. Terrified. Even though we walked away alive, the encounter haunted us. Unlike Martha, I didn’t find my guardian angel. All I wanted to do was blame everyone else. I blamed Sugar for talking me into sneaking out that night. I blamed Richard for his terrible car breaking down on the side of the road. I blamed Gaskins for being a disgusting pervert. Most of all, I blamed this tiny part of the world for no longer being the safe sanctuary I thought it was. So I ran. I ran fast and furious and I never looked back.”
I knew the feeling of looking for something better in the distance. “So what exactly happened? Tell me your story.”
“Sugar loved to sneak out at night. She was the adventurous one. Skinny-dipping, smoking cigarettes, sneaking beer from her dad’s fishing cooler. The riskier, the better. During the school year she toned it down, but the minute I arrived each summer we were back to our hijinks. It scared me. I was never one for a lot of risk, but Sugar made me bold. When I was twelve, we snuck out of the house to go night swimming.” She shakes her head at the memory. “Jimmy came with us and brought a friend. Richard.”
“You met when you were twelve?”
“Yep. He was cute, even then. All legs and arms. Shaggy, blonde hair. I had the biggest crush.” I raise an eyebrow but let her continue. “We ended up not that far from here. None of these campers were here then, but our grandparents owned the property. It was all marsh lands and we mucked through the tall grass to get to the edge of the water. I remember being terrified of getting stuck, and at one point losing a shoe in the sticky mud. Richard pulled me out and carried me the rest of the way on his back. I was convinced he saved my life.”
“From that point on, the four of us we were inseparable. I was close to Sugar, of course, but Richard and I had something different. A chemistry that when we were younger was a goofy friendship. Later it became much more.”
“So you loved him?” I ask.
“So much. More than I can describe.”
“I don’t understand how you lost that? How did he fail you?”
“Gaskins messed us all up. Sugar and I were still in high school. Richard was at the Citadel but home for summer break. He’d hardened a bit—school was tough, but we spent the summer playing hard and he had finally begun to relax.
Even though we were older, our grandmother didn’t approve of us being out late, so when we got the idea to go to Myrtle Beach one night we waited until after everyone thought we were asleep and climbed out the window. Richard waited for us a block down the street in his car,” she explains. “We didn’t even make it down there. Just outside of Cherry Grove, Richard’s car died and we had to pull over. Sugar and I went out to help him, and by help, I mean hold the flashlight and wait to wave someone over.”
“That sounds familiar,” I say.
“He’d just repaired the car when Gaskins pulled up. Sugar got in the car and started it while Richard and I came face to face with this dirty old guy. Like Martha told us, Gaskins pretended to want to help. Instead, Richard got a concussion. I have this.” She pulls down her shirt enough for me to see that scar.
“So not from a fence?” I ask.
“I wish. More like a rusty hunting knife. By the grace of God it was the only physical damage he did to me. Richard came to and attacked him. Thank god for that military training. Otherwise we would have been done for. Sugar hid in the car, scared senseless, but she got the car started and was able to drive us away.”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “I don’t understand. If Richard saved you, then why did you run away? Why did you hate him?”
She sighs and looks out past the dunes toward the water. “I suppose I was embarrassed. Gaskins left me compromised. I fared better than his other victims, but I couldn’t get the feel of his hands off of me or the evil look in his eye out of my mind. I wanted away from here and away from anyone involved. Richard and Sugar were collateral damage. Then later, when I found out they had been dating, my heart broke. I felt so betrayed.”
“How could they date after all that?” I ask. “That seems wrong. Really wrong.”
“He was my soul mate, or I thought he was, and I was crushed.” She touches her hair. “But once we had a chance to talk this summer—really talk—I understood better. I abandoned them as much as I thought they abandoned me. They only had each other to talk to about this tragedy, but they didn’t love each other, not like that, and it’s why they didn’t last.”
“So much wasted time.”
She smiles. “When Gaskins was arrested and the extent of his crimes was known, I knew we had escaped the devil that night—barely. That’s when I started writing about these crimes. At first I wrote about local stories or other sensationalized killers, but I was afraid to dig into Gaskins. More and more though, he was in my thoughts, and the more I looked into his story, the more I knew I needed to tell it. I knew there must be others like myself out there.”
“Like Martha,” I say.
“The problem, Summer, is I spent my life running away from this thing. Richard loved me and I loved him. I dare say he’s the love of my life, and I threw it away because of fear. Along with my best friend and cousin. Ultimately, I allowed Donald Gaskins to take that from me. I decided not to allow him to do that anymore.”
I lean over and pulled my mother into a hug, crying the snotty kind of cry people go into when it’s all too much, and you just let go. Her story is too much. Richard and Sugar. It’s all too painful and my stupid affair and dramatics with Mason seem trivial in comparison. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I manage, but it feels insufficient.
She gathers my face in her hands and shakes her head. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Be happy I finally figured it out. What I want to pass on to you is for you to understand it’s not okay to allow others to create your destiny. Don’t let the choices bad people make rule the way you navigate your life.” She brushes her thumb across my cheek, wiping away a tear. “Do you understand me?”
I nod and choke back a sob, because I do understand her. More than she probably realizes.
* * *
The party divides into several different groups. The family types are down by the edge of the water, supervising the kids, building sandcastles and playing. The adults, the ones my mom’s age, are on the porch, setting out food and r
efilling the coolers with ice. The rest of us, not quite adult, not quite kids, hover somewhere in between. I kind of float around the groups, first spending time with Anita and Bobby by the water, and then helping my mom and Sugar organize the food on the big picnic tables on the porch. Whit, Justin, Nick, and Ivy spend the day in the water, riding waves.
I’m watching them from the boardwalk when Pete stands next to me. “You’re back.”
I jump at his voice and throw my arms around his neck. “I am so glad to see you.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Me too. You had me worried for a minute.”
“But not as much as the others?”
“Sometimes people need space. I understand that.” He glances at the water. “Some people ride the emotional edge a little closer.”
“In some ways you guys are so similar,” I say to him, feeling his hand on my back, “But at the same time so incredibly unique.”
“So you’re here to stay?” His black hair blows in the wind.
“For a while, at least. I want to finish out the season here. Repair any damage I may have caused so far.”
There’s little doubt I’m talking about Justin, and Pete nods in understanding.
Out in the ocean, Justin catches a wave and floats across the water as if it’s nothing. Pete nods at him. “I love him like a brother, but in the end he’s like any other guy. He’ll push you away if you give him a chance.”
“I apologized. And I think he accepted it, but there’s still something lingering that he can’t get past.”
Ivy comes in next and the two of them splash in the water. They act like two kids. Justin only stops to dunk her under water before dragging her out again.
“They dated, you know.”
Anita hinted to as much. “Really?”
“Back before she and Maggie hooked up. It was hard on him and Maggie. They were jealous of each other.”
“I can imagine.”
“They grew up together and shared so many experiences. Maggie didn’t think she could compete with a history like that and Justin wasn’t completely ready to let her go.”
Justin stands up in waist-deep and shakes the water out of his hair. He looks like a merman. “He shouldn’t have to let her go. Not completely.”
“That’s what Ivy said. Her relationship with Justin was before she figured out what she really wanted. It took them a long time to be friends, but that’s more about Justin’s trust issues than anything else.”
“How did he take it, when he found out she…” I searched for the words.
“Didn’t like dick?” Pete offers.
I laugh and shake my head. “Yeah, I guess that works.”
“At first he was hurt, but I think in the end he accepted he would rather have her in his life than lose her out of some false sense of pride.”
I lean over the railing. “I’m glad they worked it out. I’m just not sure if what happened to them applies to our situation. Ivy can’t help who she is. I’m not sure Justin is willing to look past some of my choices. There’s a difference.”
“Maybe,” he says, pulling me against his chest. The pair has finally gotten out of the water and started up toward the house. Whit and Nick stay out in the water. “But if he’s this scared, you can bet you mean a lot more to him than he’s willing to let on.”
Justin follows the two women down the boardwalk with a towel wrapped around his waist. We’ve steered clear of one another all afternoon, but now he comes over and Pete whispers in my ear, “Give him time,” and walks off with the girls. When Justin gets within touching distance, I avert my eyes from his broad shoulders and chest. I also do my best to keep my eyes away from all his hot parts. Like the area between his belly button and his towel, or his biceps. Or really anywhere at all. Why did he have to be so good-looking?
“Sure you don’t want to try?” he offers, holding up his board.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Maybe next time,” he says, passing by me so close that his hip brushes against mine.
I raise an eyebrow. Next time.
Justin Hawkins may not be done with me after all.
* * *
By the time the sun starts to set, everyone has pink cheeks and shoulders, even the year-rounders.
“Need any help?” I ask Anita as she and the other moms shower their kids off outside. She gives me a grateful smile. “Take Sibley up to Bobby, please? I’m going to rinse off once everyone clears out.”
“Sure.” I take a fresh-smelling Sibley up to her dad, passing her over the porch railing. “Da,” she says, smiling and grabbing when she sees him.
Like a local, this time I brought clothes to change into after the long day. I make it to the shower just as Anita turns off the water and gets out. “Perfect timing,” I say, passing her.
“Hope there’s still hot water left.”
The shower can only be described as rustic. The door latches with a rusty eye-hook, and wooden boards with wide slats make the floor. The walls are made of a wavy, cream-colored, plastic material that provides enough light but also a sense of privacy. I say sense, because I can easily hear the others laughing upstairs and the roar of the ocean in the distance. Anita was right, there’s not much hot water left, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still warm out and my skin needs cooling. Paranoid about so many people around, I step under the water in my bathing suit. I’ve got shampoo in my hand when I hear a knock on the door.
“Yeah,” I call out.
“It’s me.”
I see Justin’s bare, tan feet under the door.
“Um…I’m in here?”
“Can I come in?”
I unhook the latch and open the door. The rusty springs holding it to the wall groan. He’s standing on the other side, looking guilty and I ask, “What? Is this some kind of last chance booty call or something?”
“No, I just need to rinse off—thought you may let me share the last of the not-so-hot water.” He holds his hands up innocently. “Anyway, you’re the queen of the booty call, not me.”
I push the door open enough for him to slip inside.
“You’re not even naked,” he scoffs.
“There are a lot of people around. I’m afraid one of these walls is going to blow away with the next strong wind.” I step back under the water and wet my hair. He also steps in, lifting his face into the water. He takes the bottle of shampoo off the small bench and pours some in his hand. Instead of washing his own hair, he bumps me out of the water and starts lathering mine.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He continues, scrubbing and massaging my head. I want to protest but it feels nice. He pulls me into the water so my back is to his chest and rinses us both of us. When he wrings my hair out and washes the soap off my arms, I blame the chill of the water for the goose bumps.
I turn around and see he’s washing his own hair now. It takes half the time and he uses the extra soap to wash his face and body.
“What is this?” I ask, talking about the two of us sharing a shower. I hold my hand up to his chest but stop short of actually touching him. He catches it in his own as I drop it to my side.
“I don’t know.” His eyes drop to my lips and then my chest and back up. I can see a hint of playfulness but something else, too. Confusion? Possibly, but then again, maybe that’s just what I’m feeling.
He drops my hand and turns around, getting a face full of water. With a glance backward and a smile he says, “You better turn around if you don’t want to get flashed. I gotta get rid of all this sand.”
I’m not sure what his game is, but he never really makes a move. Instead of hanging around for things to get complicated, I grab my towel and clean clothes off the hook. I dart out the squeaky door, but not before I hear him say, “Thanks for the shower.”
* * *
Fireworks over the ocean are the highlight of my summer vacation. The local business association puts on a display from the end of th
e pier, and although they aren’t as grand as other shows I’ve seen back home, overall, it is a perfect night.
Strangely, the shower broke the ice between me and Justin. We relaxed back into the easy relationship we’d had before things heated up between us. We eat dinner side by side, laughing at the stories Bobby tells about past Fourth of Julys. Apparently when he was fifteen, Justin singed his eyebrows on a roman candle.
“I still have a scar,” he says, leaning over for everyone to see.
He shares his non-crappy beer with me. He and the others tell stories about how afraid of the water I am, about how skittish I was when I got here and a million other tales about Summer that pulls me in and makes me one of their own.
There seems to be an unspoken agreement between the guys to give Justin the night to work through his emotions. They don’t ignore me but they’ve given us space to reconnect. From the outside it would look like I was here with him, and when the fireworks start he doesn’t hesitate to pull me into his lap and share his blanket.
I don’t know what’s louder. The fireworks or my heart.
Once it’s time to leave, my mother finds me at the car. “I’ll meet you at the Waffle Hut at nine,” my mom says, giving me a hug and a kiss. She’s going to Richard’s for the night. She doesn’t say so and really, I’d rather not hear it out loud. We’re close, but that’s closer than I want to be.
“Alright, Mom, see you in the morning.”
Mom gives Justin a hug also and then it’s just the two of us standing by my SUV in the driveway.
“Thank you for sharing the night with me,” I say. “That’s the best Fourth I’ve ever had.” A sort of wistful smile appears and he pulls me into a hug. He smells clean but salty, like the ocean never fully washes away. His fingers are still linked in mine and I hope he kisses me. I want him to kiss me. For a tiny beat, when he stares at my mouth, I think he may do it, but he steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets. I’m rocked by disappointment.
When I get home, I find the campground is having fireworks of their own, small ones, down on the water’s edge. I change into my pajamas and turn off the lights. From my bed, I watch the colorful shadows through tiny windows.