The Vacation

by T. M. Logan

  Jennifer

  Jennifer paced up and down the big bedroom’s marble floor, arms crossed tightly against her chest. She had taken one of her pills but it didn’t seem to be having any effect—sometimes they were like that. Instead of wrapping her in a favorite warm blanket (which was the way Alistair had described the dosage to her), there was just a slight softening at the edges of her anxiety, a slight blurring, but that was all. Nothing more. It wasn’t enough.

  This vacation was a bad idea, she decided. It was as simple as that.

  Maybe not a bad idea in itself—in theory, it was a lovely idea—just not right now. Not with how things were. In fact, it was pretty much the last thing she needed at the moment, with everything else going on, all the other complications that life with two teenage boys could throw her way.

  Jake and Ethan were at the stage in their teenage lives when they were pushing boundaries, testing themselves and others. Like the whole thing with them calling her Jen now, instead of Mum. She didn’t like that, not one bit, but Alistair had positively encouraged it as a move away from childhood into early adulthood. “It’s a measure of maturity,” he’d told her. “It empowers them: when the child moves into adulthood it no longer sees the parents as ‘parents,’ but rather as equals.” Sometimes she wished her husband could see the children as theirs, as different and special and unique, rather than as just two more patients to be scrutinized and counseled according to the textbooks. Their boys were not long into their teens, but it seemed they were already lifting themselves out of the nest and sniffing the air. It wouldn’t be long until they spread their wings and took flight.

  That didn’t bear thinking about.

  She stopped pacing.

  “He was this close to the edge,” she said, holding her thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. “I only just got to him in time … he was so close.”

  “I know,” Alistair said.

  “Then how can you be so relaxed about it, Ali? Jake was standing on the edge as though he had no fear at all.”

  Alistair sat back in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “He has no fear because the teenage brain has an undeveloped appreciation of consequences. He is impulsive and intense—and sometimes spontaneous to the point of being reckless. We know this already about our son.”

  “Well, that’s really helpful,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “I feel so much better now.”

  “What I mean is, I’m not relaxed, Jen. I’m focused. I’m looking for a solution.”

  “The solution is simple: we ban them from going into the vineyard and the woods.”

  “Ban them? How would we make that work, exactly?”

  “I don’t know, Ali, but we need to do something! I’m worried about him, worried about all of the children. Daniel’s only nine. He’s very impressionable.”

  “Ethan’s got a sensible old head on his young shoulders. He won’t let anything happen. And besides, exploring is a natural part of growing up. Physically, mentally, spiritually. They have to find out who they are and where they fit in the world.”

  “Christ! You’re bloody impossible sometimes. These are our children we’re talking about—here, now, today—not some case study you’re presenting at a conference in six months’ time.”

  “Come and sit down for a minute, Jen.”

  She ignored him and resumed her pacing. She wished for a time when Jake had listened to her, really listened, his little face turned up to hers, absorbing every word she said. When she had been the only female in his life.

  More and more often she found herself longing for the time when her boys were little. Full, golden days that had stretched out with endless promise, days of playing and stories and bath times and naps and going to the park with the double stroller. Long days that were pure and simple and planned out from start to finish. What in the world could compete with a beautiful, sleepy, contented baby dozing on your chest? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  At the time, other mothers had complained of the routine, of the long hours, of the sleepless nights. But not Jennifer. She missed those days with an ache deep in her chest, a physical pain that sometimes kept her awake at night. Life before her boys was a blur, as if it belonged to someone else entirely—as if those years weren’t really important enough to remember. Sometimes she would watch the home videos of when they were little, toddling and laughing and playing up to the camera, and she’d find herself with tears running down her face.

  She longed for the days when they relied on her completely, when she was the center of their world. For the last few years, as her boys had grown bigger and taller and more distant, it felt as though a vacuum were growing inside her, a hollow space that Jake and Ethan no longer wanted to occupy.

  She longed to feel whole again, for something to fill the void that was left behind.

  Her phone pinged with a new message and she checked the screen, firing off a quick message in reply before stowing the phone in her pocket.

  “I can’t be passive about this, Ali,” she said. “I can’t just sit and watch like a spectator.”

  “Why do you feel that way?”

  “You know why, after what happened.”

  “Let’s talk about Jake, then. Let’s break his behavior down and think about how we can best respond to—”

  “Do you have to be so damn analytical all the time? Can you not just think like a father, rather than a therapist?”

  “I can do a better job as a father if I use what I know. My professional knowledge.”

  Jennifer turned to look at her husband, who was sweating lightly in a maroon vest top and blue shorts.

  “Sometimes I wish that you were a traffic warden, an estate agent—a damn bus driver.”

  “If I’d been a bus driver we would probably never have met, my dear.”

  It was true, she supposed: that was how their paths had collided in the autumn after graduation. At first she’d thought her black mood was some kind of postuniversity slump, the inevitable dip caused by the end of three intense years living with her three brilliant new best friends. They’d all returned to their respective hometowns—initially, at least—and Jennifer had felt a loss of something so fundamental, so important, that she didn’t know if she would ever find it again. It wasn’t that she missed her friends back in California; that was a long way behind her by then, and she’d already started to think of herself as more British than American. But it felt like an ending to the best three years of her life. Summer came and went without the black cloud lifting, and when a routine visit to the doctor ended with her breaking down in tears and sobbing her heart out, she was referred for counseling.

  It wasn’t love at first sight. That wasn’t how Alistair affected her. But slowly, over the weeks and months, she began to look forward to seeing him more and more. She would feel a little lift, a little brightness, when her Wednesday sessions came around with this calm, kind man who seemed to have all the answers, who could relax her, who was the first man who actually listened to her. The first man who understood her. Almost ten years older, already married and divorced, he had a wisdom about him, a tranquility, that she found intoxicating. He was a scholar, a thinker, a lifelong student of the mind. He had answers for questions she’d not even realized she had.

  And then, one February Wednesday, she had made a decision. She bundled herself up in her thickest coat, gloves, scarf, and boots and settled herself on a park bench across the street from his practice, after her session was over. When he came out to buy his lunchtime sandwich from the little deli on the high street, she followed him and just happened to bump into him as he sat at the window seat with his pastrami on rye.

  That was how it started.

  They had sailed pretty close to the wind in terms of his code of professional ethics because in the early days there were times when they had got a bit carried away. But he’d avoided trouble by having her assigned to another therapist, so that their burgeoning relationship could be aboveboard, out in the
open. Everything had happened quickly after that. Moving into his apartment, then a little house together, a baby, then another, a bigger house, then a civil wedding with two of the cutest little pageboys you could ever wish for. Jake, her sweet, sensitive, complicated firstborn with a head of golden hair, and Ethan, who was just … Ethan. Her sensible second child.

  She knew mothers weren’t supposed to admit that they had favorites. Of course they said they didn’t. But deep down they all knew; they were just prevented from saying it out loud because it was part of the carefully constructed fiction that parents maintained. Like how you were supposed to say that day care was just the same as parental care, as if somehow letting your babies be looked after by total strangers was just as good as looking after them yourself. Just as good for your baby’s development, just as good for socialization and motor skills and language acquisition. How was that even logical? How could it even be half-true?

  It was one of her biggest regrets—now, more than ever—that she’d decided not to do the logical thing ten years ago and homeschool Jake and Ethan. For once in his life, Alistair had put his foot down when it came to the boys and insisted that they go to a regular school, so Jennifer had done the next best thing and got herself a job there, in the office, so she could be near them. So she could look after them.

  Because, of course, it was true that a mother’s care was better than a stranger’s.

  And of course it was true that every mother had a favorite.

  It wasn’t Ethan’s fault that his brother had stuff going on that needed his mother’s attention. That was just how things were. She’d read somewhere that second children were more resilient than firstborns because they had never had the experience of being an only one. Ethan was pragmatic, like his father—he just got on with things, even as a baby he’d been the same. He didn’t mind not being the center of attention; he was much more self-contained than Jake.

  Jake was her special one.

  At first, she’d thought Alistair was laid back in his parenting style just to balance her out. To create an equilibrium between them—her responsible parenting on one side of the scales, his let them get on with it approach on the other. But over time she’d realized it wasn’t anything deliberate on his part, it was just the way he was. With everything. Which was fine when the boys were little, but now it seemed almost irresponsible.

  Alistair sat forward in his seat, clasping his hands together.

  “OK,” he said. “How about this: we all go down there, all four of us. We walk down into the gorge, talk to the boys, find out what they’re thinking, make sure they’re aware of the dangers of the terrain and the consequences of a fall from that kind of height. We talk it through with them, articulate it clearly, ensure they’re fully cognizant of all the facts, ask them to stay away from the danger. That’s really all we can do.”

  “That’s not enough, Ali.”

  “What do you suggest, Jen? They’re bigger than me, bigger than both of us: we can’t physically prevent them from leaving the villa. They’re almost adults; we need to start treating them accordingly. We can’t track them, follow them around twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Maybe not. But we can do a damn sight more than just talk.”

  She slammed the door on her way out.

  22

  Sunday night was our night, when we would leave the children and men at the villa and have a women-only meal. Just the four of us, a chance to catch up without interruption, to talk to one another properly, enjoying good food and wine for a few hours. Knowing what I did, there was nothing I wanted to do less—but there was no way to get out of it.

  I put on my newest dress and sat at the dressing table, brushing the knots out of my hair on autopilot. Brushing, brushing, brushing. I didn’t recognize the washed-out reflection that stared back at me: dark shadows beneath my eyes that I had done my best to disguise with concealer, pale skin that seemed untouched by a full day of Mediterranean sunshine.

  I stood and went to the window, opening it wide into the air-conditioned bedroom and feeling the oven-like heat of the day wrap itself around me. The view was breathtaking: wide open skies, green fields ready for harvest, little ochre-roofed farmhouses dotted here and there. The leaves of the olive trees below me moved gently in a light breeze, tiny ripples ruffling the surface of the infinity pool.

  Daniel was down in the garden below, Sean’s camcorder in hand, skipping along, filming the pool area and the back of the villa.

  For the first time since we’d been here I felt a moment of peace, a moment of pure tenderness: my bright, funny boy, so innocent in his love of funny videos and slapstick and silly jokes. So unaware of everything that was going on beneath the surface. He caught sight of me and stopped to wave, his high voice echoing across the quiet garden.

  “Mummy! Hello!”

  I waved back and gave him my best smile as he zoomed in on me. After a moment he waved again and then he was off, disappearing around the side of the villa with the camera held out in front of him, chattering as he went.

  I felt my smile fade and checked my watch. It was nearly time to go.

  * * *

  The air had a golden quality, the evening light soft and honey warm as the sun sank toward the hills.

  Rowan had driven us into the foothills of the Monts de l’Espinouse, to the little town of Olargues. Perched in the shadow of a ruined medieval castle, our table at Les Amis gave stunning views down into the Jaur valley as it softened into dusk. Below us was the curving stone arch of the Pont du Diable, the Devil’s Bridge, which, according to local folklore, had been built by the Devil himself in exchange for the first soul that walked across it.

  We had ordered food and were waiting for starters of mussels and scallops and tomato galettes. Normally the conversation flowed when we got together: work and children and schools, reminiscences about university life in Bristol, our shared house as an inseparable gang of four, parties and nights out.

  But not tonight. Jennifer had barely said a word to Rowan all evening and I couldn’t hold on to the thread of any conversation for more than a few minutes before my mind started wandering again, looking for clues in what each of them said and how they seemed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d discovered during my search of Rowan’s room that afternoon. Izzy was valiantly keeping things going with one of our standing jokey tales about the first time we had gone for a meal in a restaurant as freshmen at university. That night, she and I had gone to the ladies and when we returned the other two were already on their way out the door, giggling drunkenly. It was only when we were halfway down the street that Rowan admitted they had run out without paying the bill—at which point I had marched them back to the restaurant and insisted that we pay up.

  “Nice that Rowan has got us a table near the exit so she can try her usual trick,” Izzy said with a smile. “Old habits die hard, eh, Mrs. James?”

  Rowan held her hands up.

  “I can assure you, that was the first and only time I’ve ever done that.” She gestured at me. “Couldn’t bear to be shamed again by Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes here.”

  I looked at her, trying to smile, trying to think of something to say, but all I could think of was her whispering in Sean’s ear at the beach this afternoon. Hugging him for just a little too long.

  “Shame you?” I said with a tight smile. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Rowan sipped her drink, giving me a quizzical look.

  Izzy raised her glass suddenly. “We should have a toast,” she said.

  “To what?” Rowan said.

  “Being forty?”

  “Oh God, really? That’s way too depressing.”

  “Forty is the new thirty, according to Oprah.”

  “How about a toast to all of us being together again?”

  We clinked glasses and drank. Icy champagne bubbles bursting against the back of my throat usually reminded me of my wedding day, that first beautiful glass before dinner as Sean and I circulated among our gu
ests, newly married, basking in the afterglow. But tonight it tasted bitter.

  I put my nearly full glass down on the table.

  Jennifer took the tiniest of sips and sat back with a frown.

  “What is it, Jen?” Izzy said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m still a bit freaked out, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Sure, right.”

  “After what happened with the boys this afternoon.” She turned to Rowan. “Why didn’t you tell us about the gorge?”

  “I’m so—”

  “Jake could have been killed,” Jennifer interrupted. “Any of the children could have been killed, wandering down there in the woods. It’s so dangerous.”

  Rowan put down her glass, nodding apologetically. “I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “My client mentioned something about the French having a bit of a sketchy attitude to health and safety, but no specifics. I was going to go down there and check it out myself on our first day but everything got away from me with the unpacking and getting things set up.”

  “How is it even allowed? How can they rent it out to people?”

  “It’s private land,” Rowan said. “There are signs up, but they’re not legally obliged to fence it off because it’s not actually rented out to the public. Sorry, guys.”

  “I can’t imagine what might have happened if Jake had slipped.” She put a hand over her mouth. “It’s too awful to even think about.”

  “I understand that. We’re all in the same boat here, Jen.”

  “But being a full-time mum, things are different for me—Jake and Ethan are my whole world. Everything is about keeping them safe.”

  Rowan leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  “I feel the same way about Odette.”

  “I know you do,” Jennifer said placatingly. “But it’s not the same, you’ve got all this stuff going on with your company, all these distractions, and it seems so irresponsible that your client didn’t tell you about the gorge, about the danger and—”

  I put a hand over hers.