* * *
I lay on my back in Casey’s old bed, exhausted but wide-awake. Jett was snoring at my feet. Her soft, familiar rattle usually worked better than any white-noise machine.
But when I closed my eyes too many images crowded in. Casey sitting on the dock, her blanket on her shoulders like a tiny superhero, and J.B.’s kind brown eyes avoiding mine. The willowy sea monster on the mosaic, and the treasure chest spilling over with cheap loot.
I wondered if Casey was asleep. I wondered if J.B. was, or if he was tossing and turning, remembering.
The hands on Elle’s purple glow-in-the-dark clock progressed to 12:30, then 12:45, as I counted sheep. I tried counting by threes from one hundred, backward. Then I gave up and dedicated myself to important thoughts like—why do they only say Toss and Turn? Why not Flip and Flail? For those nights of aggressive non-sleep.
At 1:05, I stopped trying since I never slept through the 2:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. stretch anyway. Other people napped from two to four in the afternoon; I was awake between two and four at night. My reverse siesta.
I sat up and Jett twitched in her sleep because she’d been using my leg as a pillow. I turned my phone on and found a text from Sam. He was another night owl. He woke up at dawn to surf and took a long afternoon nap, so he was always free to pester me late at night:
How goes the Big Reunion in the Big Woods, Laura Ingalls? Send photo of devirginizer stat. Need chuckle. Picturing your gentleman in combination spangled Olympic skating costume/woodsman outfit.
P.S. Don’t eff this up. It took guts for your friend to reach out after so long. Life is short and all that jazz. S.
The “devirginizer,” as Sam put it, was J.B.
How I regretted it, the one night Sam and I had gotten drunk in North Beach to celebrate his shirts going national. Seeing a brunette at the next table who’d reminded him of his first girlfriend, he’d reminisced about his first time, and, halfway into the second bottle of estate Sangiovese, I’d finally told him about mine.
Only the bare facts: an older boy, an empty skating rink, a dark room, a pile of ski coats.
I’d kept the important parts to myself. The sweetness of it, the buoyancy of that pile of down and nylon under my bare skin, the way we’d laughed together, after. And his name. I hadn’t told Sam any of that.
I typed back:
Can’t sleep. Reunion constantly veering between disaster and middling success. Not sure where we’ll land. Found out it’s not my friend who reached out after all. Long story. It was someone else, but we’re going along with it. For now.
You know perfectly well a certain PRIVATE incident shared in moment of weakness was at roller rink, not ice-skating rink. Request for photo too ridic. to honor. Denied.
L
He responded four minutes later:
Intrigued by invitation conspiracy. Wasn’t me, I swear.
P.S. Middling success is all we of middling age can hope for sometimes. Embrace this fact, offered free of charge. P.P.S. Like roller skating is less embarrassing. I still picture your dude in spandex and rhinestones. And I say: Excellent. Let bygones be bygones and rip that spandex off. S.
I typed Mansplainer and shut my phone down.
San Francisco felt far away, but Sam was there. I’d made a life away from this town. Small and self-contained though it was.
I stretched my toes to Jett’s warmth, going over the list of Alex’s scavenger hunt clues in my mind, wondering how she had settled on these ten.
But that only made me more restless. Each item so carefully chosen. Alex’s sharp little shovels for unearthing the past.
I forced myself to count the star stickers on Elle’s ceiling instead.
13
August
41st day of camp
It was a clear day, not a wisp of fog.
Her teammates ran ahead to hunt for strands of kelp, a white shell, a soda can.
The clue sheets that their middle-aged chaperone, Miss Cooke, passed out in the van always had the same easy, obvious items. The rules were always the same, too. They could not leave the sand. They could not talk to strangers, though there were never strangers. Maybe on weekends, but not when they visited this ragged stretch of beach—only on Wednesdays, for one precious hour.
And her mom had sold Three Pines to her as a beach camp. Look, sweetie, she’d said, showing her the brochure. Beach outings. Crafts, music, nature walks.
Was her mom allotted more than sixty minutes of beach time a week, over at the adult camp?
Did she know that the three pines in the clearing were supposed to be miraculous replicas of the three crosses on Mount Golgotha? Golgotha, such an ugly word; it sounded like choking.
Did she, too, sit on a hard chair all day as strangers railed about chastity, sober apparel, obedience? As they echoed verses that should have made them furious, smiling and nodding along, eyes closed in bliss?
For the man is NOT of the woman, but the woman of the man!
Someone yanked her shirttail. “Bad night?” It was her cabinmate, Sandy, a girl who carried a gold-and-black Good News bible with her everywhere.
“What do you—”
“I heard you crying.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Also you usually get your shoes wet right away. You pretend it’s an accident but it’s on purpose.”
“Why would someone do that?”
Sandy considered, biting her lip. “To feel the ocean, to feel normal. But your shoes are dry today. The beach hour is the one semidecent part of camp, and you’re not showing gratitude.”
She glanced over Sandy’s shoulder. Miss Cooke wasn’t looking at them. She was at the picnic blanket up the beach, smiling beatifically. Miss Cooke never lost that broad, unnerving smile, even when she had to undo a girl’s stitches for the third time in embroidery lessons.
Miss Cooke was organizing their snacks for after the scavenger hunt. They always got one Ants-on-a-Log and two vanilla Hydrox cookies apiece. Then it was back in the van. The winning team got to choose which songs to sing on the ride back; that was the prize.
It was pathetically wholesome.
But Sandy was right. The scavenger hunts were the only time she felt close to normal.
“That’s a sin, you know, being ungrateful.” Sandy stared at her, monitoring her reaction.
It was the first time she’d heard actual sarcasm all summer. She’d almost forgotten what it sounded like.
“So pray for me.”
“Take this instead. Stay awake tonight, and keep your shoes handy.” Sandy pressed something into her hand and ran ahead to help her team hunt for a sand dollar.
She uncurled a scrap of paper. It was a pencil drawing of a crescent moon. Her crescent moon, the Curdilune one, with knots and swirls and shading to suggest the texture of driftwood.
There was a thick, curved line near the bottom of the crescent, to represent a smile, and a small circle at the top for an eye.
She smiled back at it.
14
Velocity
2016
Friday morning
When I woke I had the oddest feeling. I closed my eyes again so I could hold on to it.
I knew I was an adult, that Casey’s old bedroom was now her daughter’s. But in that cloudy minute between dreaming and waking, all of my senses remembered what it felt like to wake up at The Shipwreck on a Sunday in high school.
At home I had always risen to the sound of a creaking oven door, the air already heavy with my mother’s checked-off tasks. But I was usually the first to get up in the Shepherd house.
Casey would be snoring lightly next to me, her arms flung over her head. I’d crawl out from under her soft yellow comforter slowly so I wouldn’t disturb her. I’d set my feet on the cold hardwood floors. My church dress would be hanging on the c
loset door, waiting, but my eyes would skim over it; my other life didn’t start until 8:45.
Alex would still be asleep, crashed on the daybed in her studio. I’d take my sketchbook and pencil from my bag, tiptoe downstairs. Then I’d have an hour outside to draw, wrapped in the scratchy red wool blanket against the morning chill. I always got my best ideas on those Sunday mornings on Casey’s dock. I sketched fast, without second-guessing.
After an hour or so Alex would join me. It would be just the two of us for a while.
The third phase of Sunday mornings at The Shipwreck: Casey would open the screen door, say “Why are you two so awake?” and we’d laugh at her bleary eyes and red hair sticking up.
Then there was another precious half hour or so, just the three of us, before I had to scramble home in time for church. That was the deal I’d made with my mother.
* * *
I opened my eyes, staring at the top of the tidy vanity, where Elle’s hairbrush and ponytail holders and ChapStick were neatly laid out. She had a small white metal earring tree. This, too, was tidy: the pairs of studs and tiny danglers matched up and carefully secured to the perforated leaves of the little tree.
It has been seventeen years. Casey has a daughter you’ve never met. And you are only an uninvited weekend guest.
* * *
I shushed Jett as we walked past Casey’s door.
Outside it was crisp and windless, the lake glassy. I breathed in the clean smell of pine resin, the smoky complement of wood fires. I turned my phone on, wrapped Jett’s leash around my wrist twice. My city dog was thrilled with her new surroundings—the biggest park she’d ever visited. It felt like she’d tug me straight into the water.
I had an email from Sam: a picture of a black Lab on a surfboard. A “meme.” Sam loved to crowd my inbox with memes and emojis. (He called them “mojos” though he knew the right name perfectly well.) “Every wave is a fresh chance to be a badass,” this one said.
When we came inside Casey was awake and dressed, her hair neatly brushed. “Did you sleep okay?” She scooped out coffee, in hostess mode.
“Perfect. It’s so quiet here, it’s fabulous. Thanks.” I unclipped Jett’s leash. Casey had set a bowl of water on the kitchen floor and Jett bounded for it. I crossed the living room, pretending to appreciate the tree view out one of the small windows so I’d have something to do.
“The bed’s not too soft?” Casey said. “I’ve been meaning to get a new one.”
“It was perfect.”
“Good.”
She was so polite. Too polite. Not like on the porch when she’d ordered me to stay. As if she’d spent the night regretting letting her defenses down, and plotting a reversal.
We’d taken two steps forward and one step back. Or maybe that was overly optimistic. Maybe it was one step forward and two steps back, and Sunday we’d part with the veneer of good manners painted onto everything.
Was it better that way? Less honest, but safer? Maybe that’s how it had to go when you got older. You couldn’t bear the truth—we’re not friends anymore. But you could be polite.
On Sunday we’d say, “We did it. See you in another seventeen years.” Or never.
“Cinnamon-swirl bread for your toast, or walnut whole grain or sourdough?” Casey said, breaking into my thoughts. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I got everything.”
“The walnut, but please let me help.” I moved toward the counter.
“Stop. Sit.”
I obeyed, settling in a kitchen chair.
Casey bustled around, prepared a tray with fruit, juice, toast, butter. She warmed the milk for my coffee in a tiny saucer. When we’d been in high school Casey had eaten straight from the Cap’n Crunch box, holding it out to me teasingly because she knew I didn’t like it.
“Any word from your mom?”
“Called her again but of course she didn’t pick up. The chicken.”
“You told her we’re doing her list?”
“Yes. I said we’re expecting a big prize on Sunday. Preferably in cash.” She set the tray on the round kitchen table. “How many clues do you think we can knock off today?”
I pulled the list from my purse. “The hike will take a few hours. Until two at least.”
“Are we sure this is right? I can see us dripping with sweat up at Raptor Rock, then realizing we misinterpreted the poem.”
Us. I wondered if Casey’d let the word slip unintentionally. It was so much like something she’d have said as a teenager.
We read silently:
An airy, aerie place
Where you gathered stars for me
A climb to reach them, but there you two were free
Above, the birds, below, the stone
You never went alone
“It’s definitely Raptor Rock,” I said. “The stars are those pointy leaves she liked.”
“Guess she wants us to get some exercise.”
“We’ll bring water. Take it slow. And I guess... Should I leave my stuff here ’til we get back? I’ll get over to my house this afternoon.”
“Whatever you want.”
* * *
Jett came with us, tugging on her leash, delighted by the new smells around every corner. In high school I practically had to tow Casey uphill. Now she seemed determined to push herself.
“It seems like you do this trail every weekend,” I said.
“Haven’t in seventeen years. Since you left.”
“Oh.” Dangerous territory, this. What to talk about? Work. Work was safe. “How did you decide to buy the bookstore?”
“Phil Pinkerton needed to sell during the pit of the recession. 2007. Nobody wanted it. Remember Phil?”
“Of course. Mr. Pinkerton got most of your allowance. We used to read dirty paperbacks in the back room.”
Here’s where she could grin.
Or not.
“Yeah, so I had a little money. My mom said I could take the rest of my college money... You know I dropped out halfway through freshman year, right?”
I made a sound that was supposed to be a yes, but trying too hard to convey my lack of judgment (how cool of you, who needs college, I didn’t need to finish my BFA to do my job). I went overboard and it sounded like Yayyees.
Casey looked at me strangely. “So since I dropped out she said I could do whatever with the rest of the money she’d set aside. And I bought the bookstore. Turned out to be a good investment—the real estate part.”
“That’s great. How’s the bookstore part doing?” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Netted two thousand dollars last quarter. That was good, for post-Christmas.”
I nodded, unsure if I should offer a “that’s wonderful” look or a sympathetic one.
“That’s great?” I said.
It didn’t sound great. I’d broken $120,000 the year before, largely thanks to Goofy Foot.
Casey smiled. “Eight thousand a year? We’re not exactly living like lords. But my mom’s generous, we have free housing. It’s working out.”
I nodded.
“Now, your business is going well, obviously.”
“I like working for myself.”
“How was S-C-A-D?” She sounded out the four letters of Savannah College of Art & Design, which nobody did. Everyone said scad.
I concentrated on the path, strewn with dry leaves. One foot in front of the other. We were getting into treacherous ground.
“I was lonely at first. The South felt...foreign. Like another country. But the program was good for me. I got through it.”
I held my breath, waiting for her to respond. I’d planned to go to CalArts. Casey’d been accepted at UCLA. She’d turned down her dorm assignment. We were going to live together. We’d put a deposit down on a ratty studio near Lake Balboa
, splitting the distance between our schools. We were going to laugh at La La Land together. Me and Casey and J.B. The three of us against the starlets and the surfers.
And then, at the last minute, leaving her with nobody, I’d taken off for Georgia. Like the division of property in a divorce. You get the Pacific Ocean, Casey. I’ll take the Atlantic.
She had every right to yell. Pelt me with pinecones, rocks.
“I saw that movie,” she said. “That one set in Savannah.”
“Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.”
“I rented it the day it came out, because I knew you were there. I wanted to see what it was like.”
I reached to her. “Did you? Case.”
But she marched past me and didn’t stop until we’d ascended the hill.
* * *
We got to Raptor Rock in less than ninety minutes. A record. We’d gone many times after the first visit, when I’d shown Casey my music box, but even at seventeen we’d never propelled ourselves up as fast as this.
I’d tried talking for a while. Halfway up the hill I said, “Remember that first time, how you pretended you thought raptors were dinosaurs?”
“Oh, yeah.”
After another hundred feet—“We’re walking fast. Giving the velociraptors a run for their money.”
“Hmm.”
Casey was all business at the summit. Though sweaty and clearly worn-out, she didn’t let herself rest on the rock with me and stood closer to the edge, looking out at the view. As Jett lapped from her portable water dish, from the corner of my eye I watched Casey pick up a leaf and stuff it into her pocket without examining it.
There would be no confidences shared on the rock today. We’d ventured too close to the heart of things.
“Is your mom still making her leaf crafts?” I called. “Remember that book? That awful hat?”
“Kind of.”
“Remember the place mats she gave me? It was one of her better phases, don’t you think?”
“Guess so.”
The Summer List Page 11