She presses her cheek against the glass and waits for the river to materialize beside her like a ghost. Instead she sees memories out there in the cold: a snowy hill in a farmer’s field. And there she and Gabe are again, riding their toboggans down that slope, hitting frozen cabbage roots and flying off their sleds, laughing through mouthfuls of snow, not caring about the bruises, not caring about what hurt. And she sees her mother, too, with her long red-gold hair and her blue-green eyes and her ivory skin and the freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her mother was a rainbow of colors Mae has never seen again. Her mother was younger than Mae is now when she died.
What would she want me to do?
Brave. She would want me to be brave. Mae has very few memories of Virginia that she is certain she didn’t cobble together out of wishes, but there is one that has always felt solid: a trip she took with Gabe and her parents the summer before Virginia and Chase died. The four of them drove across the border into Canada on their way to a cabin in the Laurentian Mountains. Why did they go away in the middle of the summer, in the middle of the high season? Mae had never asked. The cabin was magic, it was up on stilts, it overlooked the Rouge River, it was made entirely of logs with little decks off of every bedroom. “It can be just like this, different from any of the other cabins on any of the other islands,” Mae heard her mother say to her father. She realized they were dreaming of building their own structure: a fishing camp on the island they owned.
The four of them canoed and fished every day on a river that was smaller, colder and calmer than the one Mae was used to. There weren’t any islands she could see. They had picnics on the riverbank in the afternoons and one day friends came to visit and Virginia made a shore lunch under a hazy blue sky. There was a light breeze to keep the bugs away, there were river-caught fish sizzling over cedar logs, there were brown beans and bacon, potatoes and onions, canned peaches, coffee for the grown-ups and apple cider for Gabe and Mae.
Later, Virginia took Mae and Gabe with her into town to buy groceries and drop their garbage at the dump. Her father was sleeping: had he been drinking? Mae doesn’t remember and tells herself he wasn’t, that it was a perfect week. Mae and Gabe sat in the car while Virginia unloaded the bags from the trunk. The two of them were talking about moose because they had seen one on the opposite bank earlier in the day and Mae’s dad had said to be careful around moose: they charged. “What would you do if you saw one and it looked like it was going to charge at you?” Gabe asked her. Mae said play dead, Gabe said climb a tree—and then Gabe looked out the window and said, “Woah. See that? Imagine if one of those charged at you.”
Mae climbed into the front seat and squinted out. “Woah.” But Virginia just kept pulling the black bags out of the trunk, walking to the edge of the pit, throwing them in. Once, one of the bears looked up at her and Mae almost screamed.
“I should tell her to get in here,” Mae said. But she was paralyzed, she couldn’t move even to save her mother from the bears she obviously, somehow, was not seeing. Virginia dropped the last bag in and stood still, one hand held up, shielding her eyes while she stared into the pit at all those bears clustered around the garbage heap like a big family. She turned and saw Gabe and Mae watching her and she grinned at them, walked over to the car, opened the door. “Want a closer look?”
“No way! What if they eat us? Mama, are you crazy?”
“They’re way too far away, down at the bottom there, with plenty of delicious garbage to keep them busy. And even if they did decide they were more interested in us, they’d never get anywhere close before we made it back to the car.” Mae’s eyes widened and Virginia laughed. “And they’re not going to come running over here, Mae-bell. They’re not interested in us.”
“I saw one of them look at you.”
“Sure, he was just checking me out, making sure I wasn’t a more delicious dining option than a half-full can of Beefaroni.”
“But what if they decide we do look delicious?”
“Then I’ll save you. I’ll get you into the car.”
“But what if you can’t save us, what if we can’t run fast enough?”
“Sometimes when you’re afraid, you just have to do the thing that scares you most. That’s just what you have to do. Okay?”
But Mae couldn’t do it. She watched through the windshield, sweat trickling down her back and slicking her palms, as her mother led Gabe to the edge of the pit. She remembers he high-fived her when he got back in the car, said it was rad, his new Gabe word. She remembers feeling regret and wishing to be as brave as her mother was, as he was. But it turned out Gabe wasn’t so brave after all. And now, try as she does, she can never manage to extract him from her favorite childhood memories. She can forget Peter, she already knows this, she’s doing it now in small, raw increments. But letting go of Gabe would mean forgetting she ever had a childhood. It would mean forgetting her brave, beautiful mother, and the imperfect father who loved her. And she can’t do that. Mae stares into the darkness, looking for lost people until she falls asleep. It’s dreamless. She’s alone.
Legend has it that the Iroquois used to go down to the shores of the bay in the spring to bathe in the water because they believed it would cure them of all their winter ailments-especially when it was raining. So go swimming in the rain! Why not? You’re already wet. (My mother is making me add that you are not allowed to go swimming if there is thunder and lightning. I feel like everyone knows that.)
Lilly has seen marriages fall apart before, but she never imagined her own would. Especially not at this late juncture, after sixty-seven years of marriage—an unimaginably long time, even now, looking back at it. Aren’t the twilight years the point during which you’re supposed to go gently into that good night, holding the hand of your partner? Isn’t this why people stay together at all, through thick and thin, through high and low, instead of packing it in around midlife, when desire and tolerance wane at the same time? Not that that happened with George. Really, they hadn’t had that many lows, not relationship-wise, anyway. Life lows, sure: into their lives, rain had certainly fallen, and they had had to weather the storms. But they had done so together. Until now.
Should she have argued, begged him to stay? Perhaps. If there was one thing she had learned about marriage it was that you had to choose wisely which hills you were going to die upon, and she was in absolutely no shape right now to do battle. I’m losing something, she should have said to him. My memory, I think. My mind. My grasp. On everything. Sometimes, I forget who I am. A terrifying truth, and she thinks it would devastate George more than it is devastating her. But I do love you, George. I do.
“He’s still living in a room at The Ship?”
Lilly comes around from her reverie. “Yes,” she says. Where is she? Ah, by the river. And who is this? Vivian: her best friend, her oldest friend, the friend who knows everything, almost. We all need one of those, a friend who can go away and come back, or we can go away from and come back to, and it will be like nothing has changed—although these friends are to be expected to say the things we don’t want to hear. We cannot be upset when they do. Vivian is Everett’s sister, so she knows more than anyone. She will circle around the truth and then close in, eventually. Vivian always does.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Today is one of her good days, so it’s not exactly a lie. “Yes, it stings that he’s gone, but I’m sure in another day or two George will be back and we’ll sort it out.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I have to.”
“Have you tried going to fetch him?”
“No, I have not. Too stubborn, I guess. But I’ve considered it.”
“You’ve been a good wife. You don’t deserve this.”
This support from her comrade brings sudden tears to Lilly’s eyes. She blinks and walks faster.
“Foolish man,” Vivian continues, catching up. “You see, this is why I could never stay married
for long.”
Lilly laughs, feels grateful to be able to laugh still. “Oh, is that why? I always thought you didn’t stay married for long because you married such dolts.”
Vivian laughs, too.
And then, just as swift as the laughter came, she’s onto the next feeling. It’s all she can do to keep walking, to not turn and bury her face in her friend’s shoulder and let the tears fall. “Thank you,” is all she says. “For understanding.”
“I’m worried about you. It’s not just this situation with George that—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’d better call Dr. Carroll,” Vivian says.
“I already have. I’ve been referred to a specialist. Dr. Turnbull—I know him well, from volunteering at the hospital, so at least it won’t be a stranger I’ll be seeing.”
“And you’ll go to the appointment?”
“Of course I will. But don’t say anything. I haven’t told George. Not yet. Not now.”
“Fair enough.” They cross the street and carefully take the stairs down to the river viewing platform. It’s their destination during every one of their walks. There’s a light shining on one of the islands: Jonah Broadbent’s, Island 51; Lilly knows that without hardly even looking. She stands still, and the snowflakes continue to fall on her cap of silver-white hair. At the salon every month they give her a special rinse: it’s violet when they put it on but it turns her hair vivid white when they’re done. “You have such beautiful white hair,” the stylist says every time, and Lilly feels a little vain about it. Imagine feeling vain about white hair.
“I need to tell you something. You didn’t come to bridge this week, so you didn’t hear the news.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Jonah Broadbent.”
“I can’t imagine why I’d care about anything to do with Jonah Broadbent.”
“Well, you might care about this. Checked himself into The Ship motel. He was spotted eating meals at Coffee Pot Cathy’s and the North Star. He had coffee with his meals, not booze, and never goes into the tavern or the Legion. He’s even kind to the waitresses.”
“He’s stopped drinking again, terrific!” Sarcasm doesn’t come easily to Lilly, and she doesn’t like how much spite there is in her words. “What does it matter now?” she says in a quieter voice.
“He was seen eating with George. More than once.”
“You’re sure? He was eating with George and not some other obstinate old man?” The spite is back; it never went anywhere in the first place.
“It was him. I saw them, too. I was trying to figure out how to tell you. I thought it would be best over an afternoon glass of sherry. But now—Martha said she heard George found him unconscious in his room yesterday. Jonah isn’t well. He’s in the hospital.”
Lilly keeps staring out at the light on the island. “George used to tell me everything,” she says.
“They think it was a stroke. Severe. Memory loss accompanied it, so he might have had a few beforehand.”
This makes Lilly think. Is this what’s going on with her? She’d know if she’d had a stroke, wouldn’t she? Surely she knows herself better than someone who drank himself into oblivion every day for more than fifty years?
“I wonder if Gabriel knows about this,” Lilly says, instead of voicing her frightened thoughts.
“There’s a light on at Jonah’s place.”
Lilly breathes out sharply, a puff of cold white. Could it be?
“That boy was your family once,” Vivian continues. There she is, circling the truth.
“He was.” She has the sudden urge to confess to Vivian, as if what happened with George has opened floodgates and all secrets must now come out, before she forgets what they are.
“He was a good boy, at heart.”
“Yes,” Lilly says. “I think I should get back home now. See if maybe George has had a change of heart and come home.”
Later, when she is alone in her silent house, she washes the dishes from the day and stares out at the river. She wishes for spring. She wishes she could swim in the river and feel cleansed, wishes she could engage in her secret ritual. Nothing much, just an annual springtime swim, but why had she never shared it with her daughter? She never told Virginia about the magic in the river when her daughter was alive, instead focusing on the wrong things—constant corrections, judgments, many of which still hang, though they’re hidden, in her daughter’s “Things to Do When It’s Raining” list in the lobby, a yellowing monument to the life that once made this place bright. Maybe the magic in the river will remain a secret, too. And that’s okay, because some things are better kept secret. And some things are not: life’s most difficult task is to know which is which.
Alex Bay is not always the most exciting town in the world. (My mother says she wishes I would cross that out.) If it’s raining and you’re getting bored, take the train to a nearby town. A change of scenery might do you good.
The movement of the train has lulled Gabe to sleep. Is it a dream? Is it a memory? Is there a difference? Grade one. Mae was his best friend. The kids at school thought it was weird that his best friend was a girl in kindergarten, but Gabe didn’t care. Mae was the most wonderful person in the world, other than her mother, Virginia, and her grandparents, Lilly and George. Gabe wasn’t quite as certain about Chase, Virginia’s husband. Chase would lift Mae up, spin her around, tickle her until she was gasping with laughter—but sometimes, when Gabe was sure Chase thought he wasn’t looking, he saw a darkness in Chase’s eyes that reminded him of his own father’s darkness. He didn’t want someone like Chase around Mae. He feels guilty now, even remembering these thoughts.
Mae didn’t play with dolls. She played outside, like him. What she loved most was to swim in the river, and this was how they first met, in town, at the beach. He was jumping off the pier, over and over, by himself, and then she was beside him, jackknifing and cannonballing, too.
“Keep your eyes open, and I will, too, and we’ll jump and see who sinks down farthest,” she said. He didn’t want to admit he was scared, that he had never opened his eyes in the river underwater because the way his dad talked about muskie fish made him imagine them lurking everywhere, ready to bite if you made eye contact. But he did it. He didn’t want her to think he was a coward. And he didn’t see any fish: he saw only her eyes, wide and full of light even in the depths of the river. He stared into them until she squeezed them shut, grabbed his hands, pulled him to the surface along with her.
She said to him at the end of that day, “We have a rope and it swings out over the water. You should come to my house and try it.” This was his luckiest, luckiest moment.
Soon, Gabe was playing at Mae’s house almost every day. There were some days when Jonah said no, he wouldn’t ferry him across the river in his boat. Fuck off, go away, swim if you want to go so bad. Gabe was seven, almost eight. This year, he was going to learn how to drive the boat himself and then he’d be free to do what he liked. When his father pulled the boat up to the dock at the inn, Mae always ran down to greet him, and studiously ignored Jonah.
“You know,” Jonah said to her one day, and Gabe felt afraid: normally, Jonah didn’t talk to people, and especially not to kids. “I’m friends with your mama. Or, at least, I used to be.” Mae wrinkled her nose and looked up at him. His father was not nice to look at: too skinny, but with a potbelly. A dirty undershirt, a red face, hair that looked like it was buzzed off regularly by a lawn mower, a cigarette hanging from his downturned lips, yellow-stained fingers. Was it true, that his father was friends with Mae’s mother? Her mother was beautiful, beautiful like Mae but more beautiful, even. Virginia’s hair was red and her eyes were blue-green and she had the best smile, a smile that seemed made only for the person she was smiling at. Also, she was really good at fishing. Like, really, really good.
“Who do you think taught your mom to fish the way she does?” Jonah asked Mae, before turning the motor on again and puttering away
from them.
Mae watched him go. “He’s lying,” Gabe said. She grabbed Gabe’s arm and peered down at his burn mark, the one that had appeared a few days before, round and angry-red, the shape of one of Jonah’s cigarettes. “It’s getting better,” she said. “We don’t need the ointment today. Come on, let’s go play.”
Most of the games they played had to do with imagining things. Gabe could sometimes imagine himself right out of his own reality. He imagined he lived at the inn, that Mae was his sister. Except not his sister, no—he wanted Mae to be something else, he just didn’t know what. Not yet.
It got better for Gabe when school started, because then his father had to give him a ride across the river in the boat every day or he’d get another visit from the authorities. Had Mae’s family said something? He didn’t know. They’d never bothered with him before, but now people seemed to care whether he went to school. After school, Gabe walked over to the inn with Mae. They swam until it got too late in the season. They ate spaghetti, and macaroni and cheese, and pork chops fried in a pan, and ice cream out of little metal dishes like the ones you got in the restaurants Gabe had never been to.
They played in the attic of Summers’ Inn or in Mae’s room. On weekends, sometimes he would even sleep over. Those were the best nights, because he didn’t have that tight feeling in his chest as the time he knew he needed to go home approached. He would sleep in a sleeping bag on Mae’s bed and Virginia would come in and sing to them, the same song every time. It made him feel jealous for the first time in his life, a deep pang in his stomach. His own mom had left when he was three. Jonah never mentioned her and got angry when Gabe asked.
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