"My bird just died," she said.
Xiaowen choked on a laugh, having been far, far too amused of my tales of Tweety. "Excuse me a second," she said, heading for the bathroom to let the not-so-young lovers get to know each other.
"I'm gonna get a refill," I said. "Anyone need anything?" My mother looked ready to bite me, but Richard smiled and said he was all set.
I stood in the line, which was about six people deep, and watched my mother. Open up, I pleaded silently. Don't be so cutoff from everyone.
Then again, maybe it was just me. Everyone else seemed to like her tremendously. Look at her hug therapy group.
"Nora Stuart? Is that you, dear?"
I looked up, and there was Mr. Abernathy, my old English teacher, holding a cup of coffee to go. "Mr. A!" I exclaimed, hugging him. "How are you?"
He beamed. "I'm doing very well. Look at you! It's wonderful to see you!"
"Do you have a minute to chat?" I asked.
"Sure!" he said, his voice so familiar. We took a table near the counter.
"Do you still live here?" I asked. "I haven't seen you around."
"No," he said, "but we kept the house here and come back a few weeks every year. Rent it the rest of the time. How are you? I always hoped to see you back here at reunions and whatnot."
I nodded, feeling a prickle of shame. "Well, I went to Tufts, as you know, and then went on to medical school."
"How wonderful! Your mother must be so proud!"
"Well, yes. When did you retire?"
"About eight years after you left. Ten, maybe." He took a sip of his coffee. "You know, you remained the only student ever to do that Great Works project."
And there it was. "Yeah. About that, Mr. Abernathy," I said. My hands twisted in my lap. "I have a question you might be able to answer. Was that... Is that how I got the Perez Scholarship?"
He tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"Is that what put me over the edge? Because I..." I closed my eyes. "I smeared the assignment on the blackboard so Luke Fletcher wouldn't see it."
"All of you had four months to see that assignment."
"I know, but...I wanted to make sure."
Mr. A nodded. "Well, from what I know, you moved heaven and earth to get that paper done, during finals, no less. I doubt very much young Mr. Fletcher would've been able to pull that off. But it really doesn't matter, dear. You already had an A-plus in my class, so the paper didn't change your grade at all. That's why I was so surprised that you did it."
"If Luke had done it and gotten an A, too..."
"Ah, I see the root of your guilt. Feel guilty no more, my dear. Luke ended the term with a B-minus. His grades had been sinking all semester, and not just in my class. We all talked about it. The night of the car accident... That wasn't his first experience with drugs, apparently."
I blinked. Blinked again. "Oh," I said. "I didn't know that."
Mr. A reached across the table and patted my hand. "You won that scholarship fair and square, Nora. No one else was even close." He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Ah, there's Mrs. Abernathy, wondering where I am. I have to go, dear. It was wonderful to see you. Congratulations on everything."
With that, he left.
I hadn't stolen the scholarship, after all.
In a bit of a fog, I stood up and got back into line, and there was Sullivan, smelling like sunshine and salt air and motor oil. His skin was brown, making his eyes look like hot fudge.
I didn't steal the scholarship. I wasn't responsible for that accident.
Sully had never blamed me...and now I could stop blaming myself.
"Hiya, handsome," I said.
The corner of his mouth rose, and so did my entire reproductive system, reminding me that I'd had sex with this guy. Mediocre sex, sure, but there'd been a few flashes of greatness.
Maybe we should revisit that effort.
He stood very close to me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin beneath. Meow. He wasn't wearing a baseball cap, either, God bless him.
"Can I buy you a coffee?" he asked.
"What? Excuse me? Say again?"
His smile widened. He said some words--let's have sex on this table. Or no, I think that was just my brain.
"Sorry, what?" I said, clearing my throat.
He laughed. "I'm usually the one who can't hear things."
"I'm...I'm dazed with lust, it seems."
His eyes wandered over me. "Is that right?"
"Mmm-hmm." God. My legs were getting weak. I swayed and put my hand against his chest, feeling the sun-warmed T-shirt, the solid thump of his heart.
"Hey, hot stuff," Xiaowen said, coming up to us.
"Hey, Xiaowen."
"We're fixing up Nora's mom with that hottie over there."
"I see."
"You can tell it's going well by the way she's glaring at her child," Xiaowen said.
I snapped out of my fog. "Right. I better... I better go back."
"You free this weekend?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
"God, you two," Xiaowen said. "You need to work on your pillow talk. Sully, see you around. You're doing Go Far, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it." His eyes came back to me. "See you soon."
"Okay."
"Close your mouth, Nora. Bye, Sully." Xiaowen took me by the arm and pulled me back to the table. "You'd better be tapping that, or I will," she said.
"Yeah, yeah." I could barely formulate a thought.
"Nora," said my mother, her tone somewhere between You're grounded, young lady and I've just put you up for adoption. "This poor man thinks I'm looking for a boyfriend. Came all the way out here to meet me." She turned back to him. "Sorry you wasted your time, mister. Make my daughter pay for your ferry ride." She stood, jammed her hands on her hips and said, "Get your butt home for dinner tonight."
"Sounds fun," I said. She glared. "Yes, ma'am," I amended.
"Sorry again, pal," she said to Richard. "Xiaowen, always nice to see you."
My phone dinged--it was the clinic. I wasn't on duty today, it being Friday, but this usually meant something big. "I have to go," I said. "I'm so sorry, Richard."
"Not at all," he said graciously. "I've always meant to come out to Scupper Island."
"I'll walk you to the ferry," Xiaowen said. "Don't get any ideas. I talk a good game, but I've sworn off men."
"At least tell me why over a drink."
They left, flirting and chatting. My mother glared some more. "What the hell was that?"
"I have to get to the clinic."
"Nice try. They'll either die or get better, no matter what you do."
"I have a slightly different attitude, being a doctor. Walk and talk, okay?" She stomped out in front of me; I'd walked here, and it was only five minutes to the clinic. "I confess, Mom. I want you to have someone in your life. Lily will be out soon, Poe will go back to Seattle, I'll be back in Boston, and life on this island isn't easy! Is it so wrong for me to worry about you?"
"Worry all you want!" she snapped. "Stop fixing me up! I'm fine the way I am. And don't be late for dinner."
*
I stashed Boomer with Amelia, who loved him, and saw the patient--a summer kid who'd scratched his cornea. Piece of cake, definitely something that could've been handled by Gloria, but she was all about making my life harder these days. I gave the mom the gel antibiotic, told the little guy to take it easy and went to the counter where Gloria sat, staring straight at the computer monitor, pretending I wasn't there.
"Paperwork on the last patient. I'm surprised you needed to call, but I'm glad you did. Whenever you feel over your head, just give me a shout." And take a bite, missy, I added mentally. It was the end of a long day, and I was itchy and scratchy from her shitty attitude.
I'd ridden my bike to work today, and it had been a great choice. There was something intimate and exhilarating about riding a bike through a town, even one I knew as well as mine. The pace w
as fast enough not to get into a conversation, slow enough to smell the good smells of burgers and some kind of dessert and someone's pipe smoke, all made more intense by the salt air. Boomer loved it, too, since I was too slow for him on our runs, forcing him to trot. With the bike, he could canter alongside.
I stopped at the package store, once a dive with yellowing windows where serious alcoholics got their booze, now a rather lovely wine shop, and bought a bottle of pinot noir to bring to my mom's, put the bottle in my basket and continued on.
I turned on Oak Street, where Sullivan lived. Hey, it was a legitimate through road. I slowed a little past his house. His truck wasn't there (which was good, since I was stalking), but I didn't know if Audrey was home or at the boatyard or maybe at Amy's.
You could tell a lot about a person by where they choose to live. Sully's house was quietly charming, well kept and fairly unadorned, just like the man himself.
It made me smile.
I kept riding, intending to go home, maybe (maybe) take a quick swim and then shower. It was getting warmer, and the sky, which had been pure blue two hours ago, was now filling with towering gray clouds. Thunderstorms were coming. I hoped I'd be home for them. I'd gotten to the point where I loved the rocking of my little houseboat, the flashes that lit up the cove and sky, the bolts that made me squeak and jump in my chair.
About forty feet from the top of the hill, where the road curved and steepened, my cell phone rang. "Dang it," I said. I'd wanted to make it to the top without stopping, get my cardio and burn off that creamy iced coffee I'd had. Cholesterol, yo.
I pulled over under a pine tree and pulled my phone from my purse.
"Dr. Stuart, it's James Gillespie."
For a minute, I couldn't remember who that was, but the Morgan Freeman voice clued me in. The private investigator I'd hired that day in Boston, the day I'd seen Voldemort.
"Hi! How are you?" I said.
"I'm fine. And yourself?"
"I'm good. Do you... Do you have anything?"
There was a pause. Never a good sign. "Well, yes and no. As you said in my office that day, your father's name is extremely common. Without his Social Security number, it's a bit of a crapshoot."
"Right."
"I did find two notices of the deaths of men named William Stuart, however. Both with your father's date of birth, both born in New York City."
Panic flashed across me, finding every injury I'd ever had--my clavicle, my knee, my shin from where I'd whacked it so hard in college on the steps of the library, every place Voldemort had hurt me. Don't be dead, Daddy. Don't be dead.
"One is from seventeen years ago. Cause of death was a car accident, El Paso, Texas." There was a pause. "The other, I'm sorry to say, was a suicide. Buffalo, New York, eleven years ago."
A chickadee lit on the branch next to me. So pretty, those little birds, so industrious and smart. I felt a little faint suddenly, gray spots hiding the bird, and sucked in a breath.
"Dr. Stuart?"
"Still here," I said. My voice was odd. Another breath. The gray spots faded.
"Neither had obituaries, and there were no next of kin or spouses listed. No Social Security numbers available, either." He coughed. "Would either of those locations have made sense?"
"Um...no. Not really. I mean, he could've gone anywhere."
"If you had his Social Security number..."
"Right."
"It would be on your parents' marriage certificate, if you have access to that. Without it, I'm afraid I'm at the end of the road."
"Thanks, Mr. Gillespie. I'll let you know if I find anything else." I hung up and got back on my bike.
I didn't realize I was crying till the wind blew its breath against my tears.
*
Rather than go home, I went to my mother's, propping my bike near the back door, a leftover habit from childhood. Poe was at work and so was Mom, which meant I could snoop all the way up till dinnertime.
If my father was dead, I wanted to know. I couldn't imagine my mother throwing away a document like her marriage certificate--or divorce papers.
God. I didn't even know if my parents were legally divorced.
I hadn't thought about snooping when I first got here, and given my injuries, it would've been tough. Man, that seemed like an age ago, when I had the crutch and the sling.
The house smelled like meat loaf. Mom made hers in the Crock-Pot, one of her few not-horrible dinners. At least I wouldn't have to contend with Tweety, I thought, then felt immediately guilty.
Boomer lay down in front of the woodstove, panting happily. I got him some water and took a breath. The den would be the place to start, I guessed.
Unsurprisingly, my mom's desk was tidy and organized. Feeling another kick of guilt (twinge just wouldn't cover it), I opened her file drawers. Neatly labeled files of bills, receipts, the local businesses who hired her as a bookkeeper. Health--God, did I even dare? I did. It contained a copy of her lab work, all perfectly normal, and a prescription for glasses.
There was one for Poe--school records from Seattle, a report from the Greater Seattle Department of Children and Families. "No evidence of abuse or neglect," it said. Seemed like my sister had been investigated after her run-ins with the law.
Oh, Lily.
There was nothing here about my father.
I went upstairs into Mom's room, just across the little hall from mine. A memory drifted down--me, scared of something at night, coming across the way in a nightgown, wanting my parents but not wanting to wake them up. My father's hand on my head, getting a glass of water, waiting for the water to be cold, then tucking me back in bed, telling me Mr. Bowie, my teddy bear, would protect me.
No. That had been Mom. I remember her talking in a growling voice, pretending to be Mr. Bowie. "No one will get past me!" And we'd laughed there in the moonlight, Lily fast asleep in the other twin bed.
Her bedroom hadn't changed much.
I opened the night table drawer and closed it fast. Okay, then. Mom still had womanly needs. Good for her. I'd get some eye bleach and erase that memory, stat.
The other night table drawer had a Stephen King novel in it. Funny. I didn't know my mother liked him. She didn't used to--she'd ask me why on earth I'd read something scary before bed. Guess she'd fallen into the trap.
Her bureau contained the normal things--socks, underwear, turtlenecks, jeans. In her closet, not much of interest. Winter coat, boots, sweaters, her one dress.
Hang on a second.
There, behind her bulky winter coat, was a box. I pulled it out.
It contained pictures. Pictures of my dad. Of us. Our family.
Seeing his face after all these years hit me square in the chest.
He was so young! How had so much time passed without him? How had we survived the loss of him?
Here he was, laughing in the canoe, his hair black, face young. Maybe when they were dating? The two of them on a hiking trail, both wearing jackets and hats, the foliage brilliant around them.
Dad holding me in the hospital after I was born. I knew, because my mother had written on the back--Bill with Nora, 2 days old.
There were dozens. Some were in frames, and I remembered them sitting on the shelf over the couch in the living room. Some had faded, some were better quality, but all a treasure chest of memories. Lily, about three, sitting on a pony, Dad holding the halter. Daddy and me sitting in his chair, reading a book. The four of us squinting into the sun. Mom and Dad eating cotton candy. When the heck had that happened? Dad flipping burgers on the little round grill we'd had as kids. Lily sitting on his shoulders, reaching out for snowflakes.
The pictures were mostly from our golden years--the first seven or eight years of my life. They tapered off after that.
Why had Mom kept these from us?
When was she supposed to give them to you, Nora? said a voice in my head. You've been away from home for half your life.
And so had Lily.
Boomer nudg
ed my head, and I turned. He licked my cheeks--I was crying again, for the second time this day.
The love my father had for us--for all three us--radiated out of these pictures like sunshine.
How could he have borne life without us?
I leaned against my dog's solid neck and let the tears seep into his fur.
25
I was so lost in memories and sadness, I didn't hear my mother's car. I had no idea how long she'd been home when I heard laughter. Boomer whined to see his grandmother, but I held his collar.
Mom wasn't alone. Was Poe home? No, this was her sleepover with Audrey. Or maybe it was Poe, home to grab some things.
Nope. That definitely wasn't Poe's voice. And Mom didn't laugh very often...at least, not when I was around.
I stood up, my knee crackling. My legs were stiff--I'd been on the closet floor awhile.
I wanted to talk to my mother about this box. About Dad. She had to have some answers. She had to. Maybe that was the point of this dinner, why she'd been so insistent that I come over.
I went to the top of the stairs. Boomer, wrongly thinking it was nap time, went into my old room and climbed onto Poe's bed.
"All right, I'll get out of your hair," came a woman's voice. "Good luck tonight."
"Yeah, I'll need it," answered my mother. "Call you later."
"You better." There was another laugh. Donna Krazinski, that's who it was. I wondered why she'd wish my mother luck.
I went down the stairs, turned into the kitchen, and saw my mother and Donna kissing.
Let me repeat. My mother and Donna were kissing.
"Holy shit," I said, and they broke apart.
"Aw, damn it," Mom said. Her neck and face turned bright red.
"Donna," I said. "How are you?"
She smiled. "Fine, sweethaht. Have a seat. There's something your mother wants to tell you."
"Now that you mention it, I think I might know what it is." The chair was good, though, because my legs were a little wobbly. "There's a bottle of wine in my bike basket," I said. "I highly suggest we open it. Right now. I parked in the back."
Donna went outside.
My mother leaned against the counter, not looking at me, arms across her chest. The clock ticked. In the distance, a crow screamed (not really, but it felt that way).
"Here we go," Donna said, bustling back in. When we all three had glasses, I chugged mine, then held it up for a refill. Donna obliged.
"To love," I said.
Mom glanced at Donna, who smiled. "To love," she echoed. My mother had apparently been struck mute.
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