I looked to my right, and there was my mother's elderly Subaru turning onto Main Street. I waved, not that she could miss me; I was the only one here. She pulled over, turned off the engine and got out, looking the same as ever, and unexpected tears clogged my throat. "Hi, Mom," I said, starting to move forward for a hug.
She nodded instead, then hefted my two suitcases into the back of the car. "I didn't know you were bringing your dog," she said. Boomer wagged his fluffy tail, oblivious. "He better leave Tweety alone."
Tweety was Mom's parakeet (and favorite creature in the world). "Tweety's still alive, then?"
"Of course, he is. Where's that dog gonna sleep?"
"It's good to see you, too, Mom," I said. "I'm fine, thanks. In a lot of pain, actually, but doing okay. After being run down in the street. By a van. Sustaining many injuries, in case you forgot."
"I didn't forget, Nora," she said. "Get in the cah."
Boomer jumped in at the magical words, filling the entire back seat.
A thickly built woman with hard yellow hair approached our car. "Hey, Sharon. Who you got there?" Who y'gawt they-ah? Good to see the Maine accent was alive and well. The speaker was Mrs. Hurley, mother of Carmella Hurley, one of the mean girls from high school. I'd called them the Cheetos back then (not aloud, of course)--the popular, mean girls who'd go to Portland to woo cancer at tanning salons, resulting in a skin tone not found in nature.
"It's my daughter," Mom said.
"Lily, you're back, sweethaht?"
"Uh, no. I'm Nora. Hi, Mrs. Hurley. Nice to see you. How's Carmella?"
Her face hardened. Right. I was not an islander who had brought pride to my hometown. I was the girl who stole the prince's crown. Also, I looked a lot different from the olden days, when I'd been a fat, lumpy teenager with bad hair and worse skin.
"Cahmeller's wonderful," Mrs. Hurley bit out. "Well. You have a good day, Sharon. Nora."
It would soon be all over town that I was back.
Mom got into the driver's seat, and I flopped gracelessly in mine, ass first, bumping myself in the face with the crutch.
"So how is Carmella?" I asked, fastening my seatbelt.
"Good. Five kids. Cleans hotel rooms in the summer, bartends at Red's. Hard worker." Hahd wehrkah. Man, I guessed my accent had faded more than I realized. That, and I hadn't talked very much to my mom these past few years. Perfunctory phone calls, her annual twelve-hour visit to Boston.
"You'll be sharin' your room with Poe," she added.
"I will?"
"Well, where do you think she's sleepin'?" Mom pulled away from the curb.
Good point. I suppressed a sigh and looked out the window. Main Street had gentrified a bit. There was a bookstore I'd never seen, called The Cracked Spine. Cute name. Lala's Bakery, which would have a line around the corner every day in the summer, was fairly deserted now. A kitchen goods store. Huh.
"How is Poe?" I asked. I hadn't seen my niece for five years.
My mother shrugged.
"Mom, could you actually tell me?" I snapped. Five minutes, and already I was irritated.
"She's grumpy. Hates it here." She turned onto Perez Avenue, renamed for the man who'd sent a Scupper Island kid to college every year for the past quarter century...including me. We passed the ubiquitous made-in-China souvenir shop, unimaginatively called Scupper Island Gift Shoppe (I always hated the spelling), a restaurant I'd never seen, an art gallery, another restaurant.
We'd never be Martha's Vineyard--too far, too cold, too small--but it seemed my hometown had blossomed.
"Did things go okay in Seattle?" I asked, referencing my mom's recent visit to fetch Poe.
"Dirty town," Mom said. "Lots of litter. And beggars."
Of course. Look on the dark side, that was my mother's motto. She didn't approve of panhandling, having grown up poor herself. But her version of poor was scrappy. It meant hunting and fishing for your food if you had to, knowing how to put up the vegetables from your garden, dry fish, smoke meat. If you didn't have something, you made do.
I'd been to Seattle four times to see my sister. I would've gone more, but Lily was always slippery about letting me come out there to see my niece. Once, Roseline came with me, which was a good thing, because Lily became "too busy" to see me, and I only got to see Poe for an hour. I'd been crushed, having pictured the four of us going out for pastries, visiting the public market on Pike Street, eating at the top of the Space Needle. Rosie stepped up, and we did have fun--we ate crab and salmon till we just about turned pink, kayaked in Puget Sound, almost peeing ourselves when a pod of orca whales came within a hundred yards of us, giggling hysterically with fear and awe.
But in the back of my mind had been the thought, If only Lily was here. Now this is adventuring! If only it was like old times. The fact was, those old times had been old for more than a decade at that point.
"And how is Lily?" I asked, when it became apparent my mother wasn't going to mention her.
My mother's gaze didn't stray from straight ahead. "She's in jail, Nora. How do you think?"
I took a slow breath before speaking again. I knew she was in jail. My mom didn't have to be an ass about it. "Is she doing okay? Did you see her?"
"Ayuh. She seems fine."
Fine. Really? Was she devastated? Heartbroken? Remorseful? Angry? She was probably angry. She had been for the past twenty-four years, at least as far as I could tell. Since the day our father left.
Within three months of landing in Seattle at the age of eighteen, Lily had gotten tattooed, pierced and pregnant. She had a series of boyfriends; I had never met Poe's father, and to the best of my knowledge, neither had Poe. Lily's job history was spotty--barista (of course, it was Seattle), band manager for a local group, temp, barista again, tattoo artist.
My sister was also a petty criminal. Identity theft, credit card fraud and drug dealing, though the legalization of marijuana had put a dent in her business. I hadn't known about any of that until last month, when my mother told me she had to fly out and get Poe, because my sister had been sentenced to two years, out in August with good behavior.
Beantown Bug Killers had given me a plan. Stay on Scupper until Lily got out. Then she'd either come east to fetch her daughter, or I'd fly back with Poe. And I'd...fix things.
How, I wasn't sure.
We turned onto the dirt road that led to our house, and I held my arm across my chest to minimize the jostling. My collarbone ached. Mom glanced at me but said nothing. In the back seat, Boomer whined with excitement, sensing we were close to our destination. The car jolted over a pothole, and I sucked in a breath, my knee and shoulder flashing white with pain. My back ached, too, heavy and dull thanks to the bruised kidneys. Hopefully, I wouldn't be peeing blood later on.
And there it was. Home. A humble, gray-shingled Cape with a screened-in deck on one side, almost exactly as I'd left it, the bushes in front taller than I remembered.
I'd been away for so long.
My mom pulled into the unpaved driveway--we didn't have a garage--and threw the car into Park. She got out, opened the back door for Boomer, who raced off to sniff and mark his territory.
Lily and I used to think home was the most magical place on earth--the sound of chickadees and crows, gulls, the frigid ocean slapping against the rocks a few hundred yards away, the gray seals that would visit the shores with their pups. The wind would scrape and roar across the sky almost constantly, howling in the winter. The yard was just a carpet of pine needles, and beyond that, forest and ocean. The Krazinskis were our next-door neighbors, and they were half a mile away. Lily and I, and sometimes Dad, used to sit for hours in trees or makeshift forts and wait to see animals--fox and deer, pheasants and chipmunks, porcupines and raccoons.
I opened the car door, the smell of pine and wood smoke thick and rich.
Though I wouldn't go so far as saying it was good to be home--not yet--I knew this was where I needed to be.
I tried to get out of the car, but si
nce my knee was in a brace and I couldn't bend it, I flopped right back onto the seat, jarring my collarbone, pain flashing all the way into my fingertips.
Being helpless sucked.
Also, my mother wasn't the world's most loving caretaker. She was halfway to the house with my suitcases. "Mom? Can you give me a hand?"
"Poe!" she yelled. "Get out here and help your aunt!" She went inside.
The wind gusted, cutting through my jacket, pressing me back into the seat as I struggled. The Dog of Dogs came up to check on me, and I patted his head with my good hand. Dogs beat people every time. "Are you my pretty boy?" I asked. He wagged in the affirmative, then trotted off again.
Finally, the door opened, and out came my sister.
No. It was Poe, but the resemblance was shocking.
My niece was beautiful. Her hair was dyed blue, shaved on one side, jagged on the other. She wore torn leggings and a T-shirt with a skull on it. As she got closer, I could see she was bedecked with black rubber bracelets and more ear piercings than I could count and had a tattoo on her neck.
She looked far, far older than fifteen. But her skin was pure and sweet, and her eyes were the same shade as blueberries, just like Lily's.
"Hi, honey," I said. "You got so big." My voice was husky. The last time I'd seen her, five years ago, she asked me for piggyback rides, which I happily gave. She'd had long black hair back then, and I taught her to French-braid it.
She gave me a dead-eyed stare, looking more like Lily than ever.
"Uh, can you just..." I held out my hand. "Take my crutch, okay."
She did, and I hoisted myself out, then hopped, grabbed onto her with my good hand and steadied myself. Took the crutch back. "Thanks, Poe."
"What happened to you?"
I blinked. "Gran didn't tell you?" Wasn't it important enough for a mention? "I was hit by a van."
"Seriously?"
"Yep. I broke my collarbone, got a concussion and dislocated my kneecap. And bruised my kidneys."
"Gross."
"Yeah."
"Can you sue them or something?" she asked with a flicker of interest. "Like, if it was FedEx or the cops?"
"It was Beantown Bug Killers, and no. I was jaywalking."
The interest faded, and the disgust returned.
We went inside, though she was faster than I was, obviously, and failed to hold the door for me. "Come on, Boomer," I said, and he trotted in, nearly knocking me over, unaware that he no longer weighed twelve pounds. I followed awkwardly. Poe was already slumped on the couch, engrossed in her phone. Mom was in the kitchen, her yellow parakeet on her shoulder.
The interior of the house was the same. I looked into the little den, almost expecting to see my father there, clacking away on his computer, or Lily, playing with her Barbies on the floor in the living room. The woodstove sat on the hearth of the stone fireplace, a more efficient way to heat the house. Same brown plaid couch, same old recliner, same coffee table where Lily and I had colored and chattered.
Of course, it was the same. My mom wasn't the type to throw things away, and she could fix anything.
I thought of my apartment--not Bobby's, but mine, the one I'd had before the Big Bad Event. The pale green couch, the balcony, the pretty throw pillows on the bed. All those lovely things, packed away in a storage unit in Brookline.
"Get away from me, dog," Poe said. "Is he really going to live with us?"
"This is Boomer. He loves people." He whined, echoing my message, and licked Poe's hand. She turned away without looking up from her phone.
I crutched it into the kitchen. Same creaky table where I'd done so much homework.
Mom was pouring herself a cup of sludge. "Want a cup?" she asked. The bird was sitting on a shelf. Near food.
"Does that bird ever go in its cage?"
"Sometimes. At night. Mostly, he flies around where he wants. Coffee?"
"Sure."
When I was in medical school, my mother came on one of her annual Visits to Boston because I Have to See My Daughter and informed me she'd gotten a bird. Tweety, not the most original name. She taught it (him? her?) tricks, such as eating a cracker held between her lips or sitting on her head while Mom drank coffee. Tweety could give kisses, which made me shudder and envision my mother dying an agonizing death from bird-borne encephalitis. When I called twice a month, I could often hear Tweety in the background, sounding much like a knife scraping against a plate.
But my mother loved the bird and sometimes laughed while describing Tweety's intellect, so who was I to judge?
Mom set a mug down in front of me. Scupper Island Chamber of Commerce, as boring and unimaginative a mug as could be. Again, I pictured my pretty things--my green-and-blue coffee cups, packed, hopefully, in bubble wrap. I hadn't been able to do it myself.
I sat down, my knee flashing with pain. "Mom, can I have an ice pack?"
"Bag a' peas okay?"
"Even better."
She got one and propped my foot up on an extra chair, then laid the frozen peas on my knee. "How's that?"
"Great. Thank you." I took a sip of the coffee (black; Mom didn't believe in half-and-half or sugared beverages) and tried not to shudder.
She sat down across from me. "So what are your plans, Nora?"
"I thought I could stay here until I was a little bit better. And then...well, I don't know, really."
I want us to be close. I miss Lily. I want to love Poe. I was hit by a car, and according to the Hallmark Channel, I'm supposed to come home.
I want to find out why Dad left us, and where he's been all these years...and if he's still alive.
"How long till you get better?"
She meant how long till I could move out. Tweety screeched, probably wondering the same thing, and I eyed the bird warily. "I'll probably need help for a week or two."
She nodded. "All right. And after that? You goin' back to Boston, I imagine?"
"I thought I'd stay here for the summer. I took a leave of absence."
"Now, why'd you do that? You're a doctor, Nora!"
"I'm well aware of that. But, Mom, come on. I was hit by a van. I almost died."
"That's not what Bobby said."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I have gotten more hurt for you? Being knocked out cold and lying broken in the street wasn't quite dramatic enough?"
For a second, I thought about telling her about the Big Bad Event, but I doubted that would impact her. I'd lived, after all. How bad could it have been?
"Well, I'm just sayin' we don't have a lot of room here. What with Poe and all."
"I'll rent a place in a couple weeks, okay?" I took a slow breath, remembering my resolutions, my new take on life. I was going to be sunshiny again, goddamn it. "I've missed you, Mom. I want us to spend time together."
I sensed she wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn't. "So we'll hold hands and sing 'Kumbaya'?"
"Yes," I said. "It's my favorite song."
That got a tiny smile.
"I'm gonna take a shower," I said. "And a Vicodin."
"Don't get hooked on those," my mother said.
Wrong daughter to be lecturing about drug abuse. "Thanks for the advice."
I stood up, positioned my crutch and hobbled into the living room. "Poe, could you bring my suitcases upstairs?"
She inhaled a very long, slow breath, exhaled and raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Sure."
I went up the stairs, one at a time, Boomer trying to help, running up and down, nearly killing me. The bird flew right at my head, either attacking me or trying to nest in my hair. "Jesus! Get away, Tweety!" He zoomed past again, and Boomer lunged. "No, Boomer! Down." Imagine if my dog ate my mother's favorite living creature on my first day home.
"No bird," I told him, and he looked deeply ashamed. Luckily, my mom called for Tweety, and the creepy little thing whizzed past again, diving at Boomer, who ducked, this time and went into the kitchen.
By the time I made it to the top, I was drenched in sweat
and in a bonfire of pain. God, my ribs were killing me! And my back. And my knee! And my stupid collarbone. I was one giant ball of hurt.
I went into my room. Poe had taken my old bed, based on the snarl of sheets. The other bed, once Lily's, was covered in clothes, magazines, makeup.
Poe came in with my suitcases and dropped them.
"You'll need to clear off that bed," I said.
"Then where am I supposed to put my stuff?"
"The bureau? The closet? The trash? I don't know, honey, but I have to sleep there. Let's try to get along, okay? I'll be here all summer."
"I have to share a room with my elderly aunt all summer? Do I have to rub lotion on your feet and Tiger Balm on your shoulder, too?"
"I was hoping you'd shave off my corns."
"Jesus!"
"Poe. I'm kidding. And I'm not elderly, okay? I'm thirty-five. I'll rent a place as soon as I can get around on my own. If I sleep well and don't break another bone tripping on your crap, I'll get out of here sooner. See? Clearing off the bed works in both our interests."
"Whatever."
My eye twitched. "Would you please get me a glass of water?" I asked sweetly. "I have to take some medication." I cleared a spot on the bed, then used my crutch to snag my purse as Poe went into the bathroom. She returned instantly with a slightly grubby glass filled with water which, if experience was an indicator, would be tepid, since she didn't run the water beforehand.
It was lukewarm, all right, but my knee was on fire, and my left arm felt like lead. I swallowed a pill. Poe picked up the bottle. "Oh, the good stuff," she said. "No generics for you doctors, I guess. Can I have one?"
"Put that down and stay away from it."
"I was kidding. Jesus." She stomped down the stairs.
Boomer came up and nuzzled my hand. "You love me, right?" I asked. He licked my hand in affirmation.
The travel and stress of my injuries caught up with me. I lay back against Poe's clothes and closed my eyes. To my surprise, tears leaked out. Though he didn't deserve it, I missed Bobby. I missed Boston. I missed Roseline and the hospital and Dr. Breckenridge, that old flirt.
I missed my old life and the old me, the way things were before, when Bobby and I were still new and life seemed so perfect and clean and pure.
Now That You Mention It Page 4