Mystic Summer

by Hannah McKinnon

  When I roll her onesie up to remove her diaper, I see the small pink ridge running up the center of her ribs. My breath catches. “You brave little thing. What have you and your daddy been through?” I change her diaper and roll her onesie back down gently. The scar disappears.

  “Okay, all done!” I scoop her up, and press my nose to her little head. Emory smells like shampoo. And something else: like Cam. I kiss her three times, before I bring her back out to her dad.

  Back in the booth, the boys are revving up again. Emory is warm and heavy against my chest, and it’s with some reluctance that I hand her back. “Was she good for you?” he asks.

  “The best.”

  I can’t take my eyes off Cam. There are so many things I want to ask him. About the surgery that made that scar on Emory’s perfect little chest. About what it means—if she really is okay. And if he is.

  But then the server arrives with the check, and Cam snaps it up. I protest. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he insists. “It’s my treat. Besides, you’ve got baby food in your hair.” He winks playfully as I put a hand to my head, horrified.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He waves me away. “Because you’re enjoying yourself. And I’m enjoying that,” he adds.

  I glance at him, my cheeks warming.

  The server returns with Cam’s change. She looks around the booth at all of us as she clears our plates. “You have a beautiful family,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Oh no, we’re not—”

  But she’s already headed for the kitchen, the plates rattling in her arms.

  I glance around the booth, trying to see what she saw. Two toddlers, two babies, two diaper bags, and a car seat between us. “God, can you imagine if all this was ours?”

  Cam laughs aloud. “No! No, I cannot.”

  But in that moment I see the picture we make. Beside me, Lucy coos in her baby carrier. Owen’s and Randall’s mouths are stained with pizza sauce. Across from me, Cam bends to kiss Emory’s cheek. In that moment I am inexplicably happy. Baby food in hair and all.

  Thirteen

  A wave of heat engulfs the northeast coast, delivering temperatures in the high nineties and a stifling humidity that makes it hard to move. Since Dean Hartman’s call, my desire to return to Boston has become more insistent. I need to put my life back in order. As much as I like my mom’s home-cooked meals and Dad’s bad jokes, I feel helpless being back in Mystic.

  But Erika convinces me otherwise. “I’m melting,” she groans into the phone. “You can’t even walk up Commonwealth without feeling like you’re going to get stuck in the pavement.”

  Evan confirms this. “It’s hotter than hell.”

  “How are you handling it on set?” I ask. Even though they tape in the studio, a good deal of the action scenes are shot outside.

  “We had to film until midnight last night, just to avoid the afternoon heat. One of the crewmembers fainted. And the humidity set off Angie’s migraines.”

  “Poor thing,” I say, grateful that he can’t see me roll my eyes.

  “I’d give my left arm to be away from this and out on the coast,” he says. “You should stay put. No reason to rush home.”

  No one’s rushing, I think. But deep down I feel the pressure. I need to find a job. And we need to look at apartments. “What’s your schedule like?” I ask, anyway.

  “I’m on set for the rest of the week,” he says apologetically. “So grab some ice cream. Hit the beach with a book.” The very things that’d be more enjoyable if Evan were here to share in them. It feels like we haven’t seen each other in forever.

  “Isn’t Erika coming back soon, anyway?” he asks.

  Erika just has a few details to wrap up for one of the partners before she can leave. “Yeah, she’ll be here soon. But even though you’re tied up at work, I was thinking that maybe I should start looking at places. I can narrow down some choices for us.”

  “Oh, you just reminded me! I’ve found one that I think will work.”

  This is news to me. “You’ve already picked out an apartment? Without me?”

  “Relax, Maggie. I got a tip from one of the crewmembers that there was an old brick schoolhouse near Charles Street that his sister was vacating. It’s gorgeous. Two bedrooms, hardwood floors, lots of sunlight.” He pauses. “The only thing is they don’t allow pets.”

  I bristle. “I can’t just abandon Mr. Kringles,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to keep the frustration out of my voice.

  “But cats make me break out in hives,” he says, with a matching level of frustration. “I think I’m allergic.”

  It’s a discussion we’ve had before. When Evan sleeps over, the only “reaction” he’s had has been itchy eyes, at worst. Which has prompted me on several occasions to suggest seeing an allergist. “You don’t know that for sure,” I remind him. “You said that your grandmother’s cat doesn’t bother you. Maybe it’s just hay fever or something environmental. Can’t we get you to a doctor first, like we agreed?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. “You know how busy I am at work.”

  “I know, honey,” I say, with more empathy this time. “Mr. Kringles has been with me for years. I’d have to convince my parents to take him, and I would miss him. But giving him up is something I’m willing to do if we are absolutely certain you’re allergic. Okay?”

  I can picture his brow wrinkling in consternation. When anything interferes with work, he gets flustered. The man could lose a toe, but wouldn’t leave the set to see a podiatrist. It’s gone from admirable to somewhat ridiculous.

  “Fine. I’ll schedule an appointment with an allergist. But in the meantime, I’m wondering if I should just go ahead and sign the lease. I’d hate to lose this place.”

  “But I haven’t seen it yet,” I remind him. Sometimes Evan’s singular focus overshadows other details. In this case, me.

  We end the call with a terse goodbye, Evan agreeing, again, to call an allergist, and me agreeing to look over the listing link he’s sending. With the decision to stay in Mystic having been made mostly for me, I find myself wandering around town. I grab an iced coffee at Bartleby’s and head over to Bank Square Books to browse. Later, armed with a new summer read, I cross the Bascule Bridge to Mystic River Park and walk along the pier. I’m glad that it’s not crowded in town today. I imagine most of the tourists have headed up the coast to the nearby Rhode Island beaches to escape the heat, or hit the air-conditioned recesses of the aquarium and the seaport shops. I find a spot on a bench and people-watch as I sip my coffee.

  Growing up in Mystic, summers were like an endless vacation. Sure, there were drawbacks to living in a tourist destination, like the traffic that clogged Main Street—the standing room only in restaurants, and the inevitable bumping elbows and backsides with strangers on the stalled sidewalks. Still, there was something so magical about this season on the Connecticut coast that it transcended all of those boat-shoe-wearing intruders who flooded our little village. From the roaring orange sunsets that fingered the sky to the crisp white sails that slapped taut in the wind, I know how lucky I am to be here, sitting on a bench, watching the boats in the harbor.

  Last night Jane and Toby arrived home from Newport looking somewhat less exasperated. Toby’s nose was red with sunburn. “I told him to reapply the sunscreen,” Jane said, shaking her head, as she dropped her bags and scooped up her kids. But there was a new nonchalance in her tone.

  “So how was it?” I asked them, positioning myself strategically in front of the full sink of dishes. The kids were still standing, after all.

  Toby high-fived me. “The bomb.”

  Jane scoffed. “The bomb? Really. That’s how you describe a romantic weekend in Newport with your wife?”

  I tried to conceal my smile.

  Toby looked genuinely confused. “What? C’mon, honey. I shot a seventy-two on the golf course, and I won the office pool.” He wrapped an arm around Jane and winked. “Then I took this one
out for dinner and won her, too.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe a thing this man says.”

  “Well, we all survived just fine here,” I told them, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

  Toby hoisted Randall up onto his shoulders. “How’d the rugs make out?”

  “Just one tinkle in the yard,” I mouthed.

  He high-fived me again. “See? The bomb!”

  Now, with my babysitting detail complete, and Erika not due to arrive for several days, summer is mine to contemplate. I stretch out on the bench, debating the merits of going home to work on teaching applications or driving up 95 to one of the beaches, when my phone vibrates. I pluck it out of my purse, hoping for some pictures of the schoolhouse apartment from Evan.

  But it’s Cam. “Still in town?”

  “I am,” I reply.

  “Remember how we used to climb up to the lookout on River Road?”

  “Never forgot it.”

  “Meet me there at eight?”

  Cam’s invitation to meet at the Peace Sanctuary lookout sparks my curiousity. But it also sparks visceral memories: in his Jeep with the top down and James Taylor wafting through the speakers. A cooler full of cold beers clinking on the backseat. Climbing the dirt trail up the hillside to the lookout, where we’d lean over the railing to take in the views of Mystic River, we’d see constellations spread across the July sky ceiling overhead. It’s one of the defining summer hallmarks in my memories. And I wonder what it means that I suddenly can’t wait for eight o’ clock to arrive.

  That night, I tug on a pair of denim shorts and a loose white T-shirt and slip into a pair of sandals. It’s an outfit as casual and breezy as the night outside my window, and it’s not lost on me that it’s something I would never wear in Boston. Evan must still be filming, and right now he seems a million miles away.

  Already the peepers are throbbing in the night air as I drive along River Road. Cam’s silver Jeep is parked in the small lot by the base of the hill. I wonder for a heartbeat if he left his old high school Wrangler out in California, along with all of the plans he’d made.

  Cam hops out and comes over to lean in my open window. He’s so close I can smell his aftershave. “You came.”

  “I said I would.” And I wonder if he had second thoughts, like I did. And what that means.

  He opens my door for me and steps aside, a simple but chivalrous gesture that reminds me of my father. “Follow me.”

  The path up the wooded hillside to the lookout is steep. Without street lamps the blanket of growing darkness seems especially thick. I stumble once, over a rock, and Cam reaches back to take my hand.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling alternately clumsy and flustered by the brush of our fingers.

  We reach the clearing at the top and step up onto the platform of the lookout. Directly below there is the whir of a passing car along the road, and then it grows still again. The river stretches out before us and the lights of the Seaport glimmer across the way. I can make out the narrow silhouette of the Mayflower II hoisted up on blocks in the boatyard. Cam sets a six-pack of beer on the wooden bench and the bottles clink against one another.

  “A sound from our past,” I laugh. “I haven’t been up here since college.”

  “I find myself coming up here more and more,” he says, opening a beer and passing it to me. The bottle is cold in my hand and the beer even colder in my throat. I’m suddenly thirsty.

  “So,” I say.

  Cam leans back. “Here we are. How many years later—eight?”

  I do the math in my head, aware of the warmth of Cam’s closeness on the bench. “Something like that,” I say. “Where’s Emory tonight?”

  “I put her to bed before I left. My mom is watching her.”

  I smile. “One of the advantages of moving back home.”

  Cam lets out a small laugh. “One, I guess. It can be tight quarters being back in the house with all of us.” But he’s quick to add, “Honestly, they’ve pretty much saved me this year. I couldn’t have done it without my folks.”

  “I’m sure. But give yourself some credit, too. You’re running a new business. And raising a baby.” I don’t add, “all by yourself,” though I think it.

  “It’s why I came home.” Cam takes a deep sip of his beer. “So, tell me about teaching. I always knew you would.”

  “How? I was an English major,” I remind him.

  “I know. But I saw you with those kids at Camp Edgewater. You were a natural.”

  The sentiment warms me. “Well, I’ve really loved teaching at Darby. The salary isn’t huge, being a private school. But the kids come in every day prepared to learn, and they’re from families who expect the best. It was so different from the urban student teaching stints I had in grad school.”

  “I’ll bet. Those must’ve been rough.”

  “They were. Some days you were glad if a kid just came to school, let alone came in with breakfast in his tummy and his homework done. You know what I mean?”

  Cam shakes his head.

  “But that’s all changing now,” I admit, turning back to the view. “My position has been cut due to budget changes. In fact, that was the phone call I got at the playground the other day. So, I’m back to square one.” I turn to Cam. “You hiring by any chance?”

  He smiles at my joke, but concern crosses his expression. “Maggie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you’d lost your job. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  I shrug helplessly. “Deep down I didn’t think it’d really happen. I complained about the hassle some of those parents gave me, but I had some really great kids.”

  Cam listens, quietly. “You’ll miss them, huh?”

  I nod. “But I’ve been working on applications for public school positions. I think I need a change, even if I don’t feel entirely ready for one.”

  Cam regards me for a long minute. “Change is scary.”

  I realize at that very instant how trivial my worries must sound. “Oh, Cam, I shouldn’t have—”

  But he puts a hand up. “Don’t apologize. You’re on the cusp of some big transitions, and I don’t blame you for being hesitant. Fear is good. It means that whatever it is you’re contemplating, matters.” Cam pauses. “Any school would be lucky to have you. Are you looking to stay in Boston?”

  His question surprises me. Boston is where I’ve lived and worked since college. It’s where all my friends are. “That’s the plan. Although, my mom keeps sharing these local employment clippings with me. Not that I ever considered moving back here,” I say, then regret it as quickly as it’s out. “I mean—” I smack my forehead for emphasis. Two insensitive remarks in less than two minutes.

  Cam smiles. “No, no, I get it. There’s more opportunity there. Your whole life is there.”

  Not all of it, I want to say, suddenly. I steal a glance at his strong profile out of the corner of my eye. For the first time since arriving home, I don’t feel the usual push and pull of Boston. I don’t want to be anywhere else.

  “Em and I have been living with my parents for a while, but I’m working on something else.”

  “Oh?”

  Cam smiles. “As soon as I wrap up the Bate house, it’s going to be my next project.” I want to ask what Cam is working on. I want to know where he’ll be. But he interrupts the thought. “So, what part of Boston do you call home?”

  “I’m in Back Bay for now.”

  Cam lets out a lone whistle. “Nice area. Isn’t that where Tom Brady lived?”

  I’m surprised he knows this. As if reading my mind, he turns to me and smiles. “Hey, just because I’m back home in sleepy Mystic doesn’t mean I’ve never experienced anything else.” And even though I know Cam’s teasing, I feel a beat of guilt. Just because all of his plans were turned upside down doesn’t mean he never had any.

  “Well, I won’t be staying there much longer. Erika’s moving out in August, after the wedding. We were only there th
anks to both her salary and her dad’s monthly contributions. So I’ve got to find a new place to live, too.”

  Cam nods thoughtfully. “You’ll figure it out, Griff,” he says, finally. “I have no doubt you’re on the road to all kinds of wonderful.”

  I’d wanted to ask Cam about California, and about his graduate research, tonight. But suddenly they seem so far off. There are more pressing matters. Wonderful matters.

  “Will you tell me about Emory?”

  He turns to look at me, and breaks into a slow smile. “I’d love to.”

  Emory Blanche Wilder, named after her great-grandmother on Cam’s mother’s side, was born during a winter storm in January, three weeks early. Lauren and Cam had just started their last semester of grad school. Aside from her small size and early arrival, she was perfect. A peachy-complexioned baby girl, with blue eyes and a small patch of golden downy hair on her head. The doctors did not realize right away that anything was wrong with her. It wasn’t until her follow-up appointment at the pediatrician’s when her parents mentioned to the doctor that her breathing seemed to change during feeding sessions, that anyone realized she had ASD.

  “It’s a congenital heart condition,” Cam explains, “called atrial septal defect. Basically, she has a hole in her heart.”

  Hearing Cam say it out loud causes me to put a hand to my own. “What does that mean for her?”

  “She was born with an opening in her septum. The blood flows between the two upper chambers of her heart.”

  “Is that why I felt her chest swoosh? Like a river?”

  Cam turns, his eyes flashing in the light from across the way. “You felt that?”

  I nod in the growing darkness, wondering if I’ve said something too personal.

  He looks away and runs his hand through his hair. “That’s exactly how my mom describes it. Like a little river in her chest.”

  Cam stares out at the river as he tells me their story, but I don’t mind that he’s not making eye contact. Because the more he shares the less I trust myself not to cry. “So, the first surgery she had at eight weeks old didn’t seal the opening as we’d hoped. Usually they wait until babies are older and stronger, because the chance of a successful outcome is stronger, too. But Emory couldn’t wait. She wasn’t thriving. So now we’re looking at having a catheterization done at Yale this summer. If it goes well, that will hopefully be our fix.”