The crew set up a buffet with fried macaroni and cheese balls and sliders and chicken skewers and a giant cupcake tower. The deck is overflowing with silvery balloons and twinkly lights. I’m floating into adulthood on a magical ship.
“Here, honey. I found you a tiara,” Mom says. She sets it on top of my head and steps back to assess me. She gives the familiar you-would-look-so-much-better-with-a-different-hairstyle nod.
“What, Mom? I’m not putting on Spanx under a sundress.”
“No, no, honey. I just couldn’t be prouder of the remarkable young woman you’ve become.” She hugs me.
“Thanks, Mom. That really means a lot to me,” I say, stuck in her uncomfortably tight grip. She adjusts my princess crown and makes her way over to Roberta.
Janie is already drunk. She and Ty are doing shots with Jeb and Camilla in the Grotto. Bob and Dad scurry back and forth to the wheelchair brigade, carrying plates and glasses of champagne.
Paige runs up and kisses me on the mouth. She reeks of tequila. “Sip?”
I take a swig from her margarita vat. It’s so strong, I nearly barf.
“Where’s Grace?”
“Uncle Babysitter is walking her around in the stroller, trying to get her to sleep. He’s practicing for—” Her eyes go wide. “Uh-oh, oopsie.”
“Don’t worry. I know about the baby.”
“Thank God.” She smacks me on the back. “I’ve been keeping that secret for weeks. It was torture.” She takes another drink. “Those two are going to be the best dads ever. I’m so happy for them. I am wicked drunk. When are we going to dance?”
“Soon.” It’s hard to be around drunk Paige without thinking about the seizure. Every time she looks at me funny, I’m afraid she’s got one coming on.
“Will you keep in touch with Grace, Maddie? Will you tell her all about this”—she flings her hand toward the gathering crowd—“when she’s old enough? Not the part about me being drunk.”
“Of course. How about I take Grace shopping at Saks for her eighteenth birthday? I’ll take her to the lunch counter and tell her about the Wishwell and her amazing mommy.”
“Saks. Fancy. I like it.” She puts her finger up to my lips. “Just don’t tell her about the shots.”
“I won’t tell her about the shots,” I say, as she runs over to tackle Lane.
Gollum comes toward me in a three-piece suit. He’s combed his hair and slicked it back for the party. It might be the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Happy birthday, Maddie. Thank you for inviting me.” He shakes my hand. His fingers are like ice.
“Thank you, Heinz. Thank you for coming.”
Awkward silence.
“Will you save me a dance later?” Why did I say that?
“That is kind of you, but I must decline. I’m not a very good dancer.”
“Okay. No problem.”
“Well, enjoy your party, Maddie. Happy birthday.”
I don’t say anything as he walks away. What do I say to a lonely old man who doesn’t even know how to dance?
An über-cute baby in a purple party frock comes toward me in a stroller, flapping her arms frantically.
“Kiss Aunt Maddie, Gracie.” Wes glows with daddy hormones. I lean over, and Grace holds her slimy mouth on my cheek. She hasn’t figured out how to pucker, but she makes a muh sound.
“When are you going to tell everybody about the baby?” I say, grabbing Grace’s bare feet and kissing her tiny toes. “Why are you keeping it a secret? It’s the best news we’ve had, maybe ever.”
“Billy doesn’t want to tell until we’re sure. It’s like when a woman is pregnant. She waits until she’s past the typical miscarriage stage. There’s so much heartbreak in the adoption world.”
“But you’re slacking, Wes. I haven’t had a status update since Italy.”
“You’ve been shagging all day and night.”
“Hey. Not cool.”
“We are getting a baby girl,” he says. “She’s due in early September. We’re going to have a baby, Gracie.” Wes unbuckles Grace and picks her up. She grabs a big clump of his hair.
“So tell everyone before I explode. I’m a teenage girl—it’s against my nature to keep juicy secrets.”
“Soon. Very soon. Go have fun. Gracie needs to go night, night.”
“How is it that Uncle Billy was the one pushing for the kid when you’re so good with them?”
“I’ve always loved kids.” He coaxes Grace back into the stroller. “I just didn’t love being a kid. It wasn’t easy growing up gay in cow country forty years ago. I don’t want to screw things up for some other kid.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re Uncle Babysitter.” Wes smiles wide before walking away behind Grace, who has decided she wants to push the stroller.
Enzo comes around the corner in khaki shorts, a faded T-shirt, and a red baseball cap.
“Hey, birthday girl. I like the crown. You’re making me want to take you back to the cabin.” He grabs my waist and pulls me toward him.
“Stop talking in that British accent. It’s too distracting,” I whisper in his ear.
“Burt and I got Mark so bombed he’s giggling uncontrollably,” Enzo says. Paige runs over, rips the tiara off my head, and puts it on top of Burt’s cowboy hat.
“I’m glad this has degenerated into a frat party.”
“Mum’s here. Time to sing.” He escorts me up to the Grotto.
Francesca kisses my cheeks and picks up the microphone. “Attention, everyone. May I have your attention?” After five minutes of trying to shut up the crowd, Bob Johns blows his trumpet into the mic. People cover their ears. Burt throws a beach ball at Bob.
“I’m going to play a little something for our Maddie girl.” Bob’s voice sounds even deeper over the mike. “Happy birthday to a lovely young lady.”
Bob does a bluesy trumpet version of “Happy Birthday” and the entire Wishwell crowd serenades me. I scan the deck for Gram. She blows me a kiss, rests her hand on her heart, and mouths, I love you.
I love you too, I mouth back.
Ty’s intern friend DJ Steve plays a reggae birthday song, and the dancing erupts like an Icelandic volcano. It’s a whirling mass of stomping feet and shaking hips and spinning wheelchairs.
If only I could wrap up this moment and tie it with a pretty ribbon, I would give it to baby Grace someday.
It’s five AM, and Janie has puked and rallied so many times that I think she’s finally sober. Only the strong have survived to settle into the Grotto with ganja and cold macaroni and cheese balls. My thighs are in spasm from all the dancing, and the hot water feels incredible.
“Oh my God, I am messed up.” Lane slides in next to Paige and takes a long hit from Jeb’s joint. “Macaroni and cheese in a fried ball. Genius.”
Burt grabs the mic from Wes, the one-man karaoke act. “Mark wants to go skinny-dipping. Let’s do this. Yeah!”
Burt yanks off Mark’s shorts. Jeb and Lane jump out of the Grotto to help lower Mark’s skinny, deformed body into the choppy water. Enzo holds one arm, Burt holds the other, and they pull Mark in circles around the pool. It’s beautiful and grotesque at the same time. “Woo-hoo-hoo,” Mark yells.
“How’s that, little bro?” Burt says. “Hey, Maddie, how do you like your present? Mark’s in his birthday suit for you.”
“Ha-ha, Burt,” I say before I cannonball in.
Wes gets the bright idea to have a chicken fight. Enzo hoists me up and barrels toward Ty. It’s Janie and me in a death match. I’m fifteen pounds heavier and twenty shots lighter and Janie still shoves me into the water first.
We, the Wishwellians, purveyors of depravity, watch the sun rise, wrapped in towels. I shiver as the chill of dawn wakes me up and exhausts me all at once.
“How do we go from this to death?” We should be having sex right now. We should have gotten into bed and worked off all that crazy sexual ener
gy. But I asked the question, and he is about to answer. It’s stupid of both of us.
Enzo is on his stomach, facing away from me. His voice is hoarse.
“After Wishwell Island, it’ll happen quickly, one patient after the next, in a matter of days. They will honor the patients and then there will be a grieving period. Mum always says grief is healthy. And that’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
I turn over. “I’m so tired,” I tell him. I don’t want him to talk anymore. I’m sorry I asked the question. He’s asleep in two minutes, and I’m racked with anxiety.
It feels like the universe is punishing me for having the best birthday of my life.
TWENTY
SOMEHOW I GOT roped into typing Gloria’s recipes, because Mom needs backup so she can laminate.
“I think it’s time for Chicken Cordon Bleu,” Gloria says. “Be sure to type it exactly as I say it, because this is a tricky one. Note that I use the heavy whipping cream and the good sliced ham, not the kind from the case.”
Mom looks down at my text: Do you really think her grandchildren are going to eat this gross crap?
She texts back: Not nice, Maddie. It’s Gloria’s recipe book, not ours.
Gloria has a story for every recipe.
“Sometimes the minister and I took in homeless women and children for weeks on end until we could find them a safe place. They loved my Cordon Bleu.”
I text Mom again: You should be recording the stories for her kids. They would appreciate them.
She texts back: Already doing that. I’m one step ahead of you.
Gram texts me: Can you come up, honey? Need to talk.
I feel the instant stomach anxiety rise up into my throat. I don’t like the tone of the text. I don’t want her to die today. I’m not ready.
I recruit Roberta to take over, and I run the stairs to Gram’s cabin. I’m getting the sharp stomach cramps. Damn irritable bowel syndrome. Gram answers the door in her housecoat and slippers. She must feel shitty.
“What is it, Gram? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, honey. It’s just time we talk about Grandpa Martin’s service in Taiwan. I know it was a shock.” She lowers herself onto the sofa. I cover her with a fuzzy blanket and sit at the other end. I lift her feet and lay them on my lap.
“It’s okay, Gram.”
“So here’s the thing.” She makes her humiliated-dog face. “We sort of didn’t leave all of Grandpa in Taiwan.”
“What?”
“There’s a fabulous company that specializes in preserving ashes in handblown glass. And I had a marble made for each of you.”
“Wait a minute. You made Grandpa into marbles?”
“Yes.”
I can’t believe she’s keeping a straight face. She made her husband into marbles.
“I don’t understand. I mean, why did you even cremate him in the first place? It’s awful.”
“One day Martin and I took one of those rowboats out in Central Park, and we talked about our wishes. Grandpa was like you; he avoided dealing with death. He wouldn’t go to the doctor because he didn’t want to hear bad news.”
“I go to the doctor.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t. Not smart.”
I ignore a text from Mom: Thanks for ditching us.
“Your grandfather did not want to go into the ground. That gave him the creeps, with the worms and such. We talked about a family mausoleum, but Martin was too cheap for that. He settled on cremation, and once he decided, he was done. He wanted the ashes scattered at the temple. Then I found the marble company, and he loved the idea. ‘I’ll keep all my marbles even after I go,’ he joked. He wanted this, honey. All of it.”
I turn and stare out at the sea. Maybe I have been a brat. Maybe I should think about what other people want, even if it scares the shit out of me.
“So he wanted to be a marble?”
Gram laughs. “He did. And if you like, you can have the first pick.”
“Now?”
“Sure.” She struggles a little to get up, so I give her a push.
“Finally. Janie always gets first pick.”
Gram sets a mahogany box on the table. Inside, eight marbles rest in grooves on a tray. I see mine right away.
“I’ll take the blue one.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but it feels like Grandpa Martin belongs inside these marbles.
“To match our eyes,” she says. “See? There’s one for your mom and Billy and Mary and the four of you. And I think I’ll take the orange one. It reminds me of the temple roofs. That one goes with me.”
I hold the marble against my cheek. I roll it between my fingers as we wait for the others to show up and claim their tiny round pieces of Grandpa Martin. For some strange reason, it’s all okay.
Enzo persuades me to go running with him, even though he always wants to race and never lets me win. We get our smoothies from the Grotto bar and go down to see Mark. Enzo sees Mark a lot these days. On the Wishwell, every moment is a tiny glass ball we hold between our fingertips.
Burt is in the cabin, waiting for Mark to get back from group. I wonder if there’s one nurse, a secret keeper, assigned to write thoughts on the Gathering Wall for the paralyzed people. Do they pick the nurse with the best handwriting?
Burt makes me uncomfortable, not because of the pockmarks and bulbous nose, but because he acts like the loser guys at the lake club who can’t get girls and try too hard to be cool.
“Come hang out. I’m just playing a video game.” Burt needs to put a shirt on. “Sweat much?” he says.
I want to say Maybe you should try exercising once in your life, but I hold my arm up and say, “Scratch and sniff.”
“Good one,” Burt says, laughing.
Burt and Enzo drink beers and tear open a bag of barbecue chips. I clear space on the cluttered balcony floor to stretch a little. They talk endlessly about sports. Burt chugs another beer and lets out a disgusting belch. He looks over at me.
“Can I tell you guys something fucked up?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“My parents abandoned my brother. They fucking flat-out ditched him. They were all ‘golden-boy Mark, superstar-surfer Mark, chick-magnet Mark,’ and then he got the diagnosis, and they pretty much disappeared.”
“That’s terrible,” Enzo says.
“Yeah, well. They hired nurses and then, when it got bad, they stuck him in a nursing home. He had me. As much as I bust on him, he’s my little bro.” Burt’s voice cracks.
“You’re a really good brother,” I say. “I don’t get how parents can just ditch their own son.”
“Mostly because they’re selfish pricks. Mark deserved better. That kid is golden. He’d do anything for anybody. Even now, he would if he could.”
Burt’s face is full of pain. The poor guy is forced to feed his little brother, and help the aides change his diapers, and watch hopelessly as Mark’s body turns to mush.
“Do your parents even know he’s here?” Enzo says. Burt tries to flip a quarter into a shot glass.
“Oh, yeah, they know. They think it’s barbaric. The worst part of all is they refused to say good-bye. My brother has to go with that on his head. Plus, Mark’s a surfer, man. His legs are his soul. He’s got nothing left. Not even his parents.”
“They’re the ones who will have to live with that,” I say. “Believe me, my aunt and cousin did the same thing. I wouldn’t want to be them a couple months from now.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
The nurse wheels Mark into the cabin. I can only imagine what that smile did to the girls back in his surfer days. I leave Enzo to talk surfing and go down for a shower.
The storm hits out of nowhere during lunch. All the plates and glasses fly off the table. We instinctively jump for the cutlery instead of the patients, who are left to fend for themselves. Gram, Gloria, and Vito roll around until we secure everyone against the inside dining room walls.
> I would be even more terrified right now if Enzo weren’t hugging me. The sky is night-dark, and we’re still sitting here waiting out the storm. Enzo’s hand roams beneath my giant beach towel, but I push it away. The rumbly noise of the sea crashing against the Wishwell isn’t exactly putting me in the mood.
The ship hits a huge wave and goes airborne for a second, then plops back down. We scream. The lights flicker. “Are we going to die?” I dig my fingers into Enzo’s arm.
“No. Relax. The ship has been through much worse than this. You should see the North Atlantic storms.”
Suddenly it’s gone. We get up and sort out all the ventilator equipment and canes.
“Oh, shit! Heinz,” Dad yells. “We need to check on him.”
Heinz rarely eats in the dining room. Other than the card games with the guys, he’s reclusive.
A bunch of us run through the dining room, stepping over upturned tables and chairs everywhere. It’s amazing how much damage a twenty-minute storm can cause. When we get to Heinz’s cabin, the door is ajar.
“Oh, shit,” Dad says again. “Don’t move. We’ll help you. Just don’t move.”
We need a bomb squad for this delicate job. Enzo calls the crew for canvas gloves and industrial trash bags. We pick up hundreds of pieces, one by one. Heinz has a look of utter despair. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s surrounded by broken glass or because his work is ruined.
He has spent all these weeks stuffing messages in bottles.
Paige, Mom, Roberta, and I collect the letters. They’re in German, but some of them have sketches in the margins: a balloon, a teddy bear, and a little boy holding a book.
“This is so traumatic, I want to throw up,” Paige whispers.
All I can think about is Paige going into a seizure on all this broken glass.
After hours of painstaking work, we’ve cleaned up most of the cabin and Heinz is talking to Vito on his balcony. My back aches, and I’m miserable. But we keep going.
Janie and Jeb and Wes and I swarm Dad in his cabin and grill him about Heinz.
The Loose Ends List Page 20