Mystic Summer (29 page)

But now, instead of stopping at the bank of elevators to see me out, to my surprise Cam passes them. He motions me back down the hall, back to Emory's room. His father is sitting in a corner chair, dozing. Lauren is still standing by the bed. “Lauren,” Cam says, “this is my friend Maggie.”

She looks at me warily.

But it's Emory I can't take my eyes off. She is sleeping. Someone has wrapped her snugly in a white blanket and she's wearing a pink pediatric gown, a cluster of tubes climbing up out of the neckline. A plastic oxygen mask is taped across her face, but I recognize the familiar curve of her tiny nose through it. One little arm is thrown up over her head, just like she does when she naps in her crib. The other rests by her side. Instinctively, I reach over the bedrail and tuck my finger into her hand. My eyes sting when her fingers flex around mine.

At that moment I look up. Lauren is watching me. She doesn't
smile or even hold my gaze. But it's not that that strikes me. It's the rawness of her beauty juxtaposed by the stillness of her body. I can't help but imagine Jane in this situation. In spite of the machines and IV tubes, Jane would be in the bed, or somehow perched on the edge of the bed, pressing some part of herself carefully but clearly against her child. There would be tears or whispers or humming. Some physical or audible melody of a mother's angst-ridden love. There is none of that with Lauren.

“I should go,” I whisper.

Cam thanks me for coming. His father stirs in the corner chair. Lauren still says nothing.

In the doorway, I can't help but look back. The sun is high outside the window, bathing the sterile hospital room in light. There are two heads bowed together over Emory's bed. Her mother's hair the color of an angel's.

It's not until I reach the parking lot and climb behind the steering wheel of my hot car that I cry.

T
here's only one hour until the dinner cruise. But I simply cannot imagine putting on heels and tipping back cocktails as we set sail. Not after seeing Emory and Cam. And
her
.

How can there be such celebration and also such suffering in the same town, on the same day, just mere streets away? I've lived through such contradictions before: the death of my grandfather in the same year as the birth of my first nephew. I thought my heart would break when one of my students lost her mother to breast cancer, just a week after Erika got engaged. But I've never experienced two so closely, or in the same space of time and place. Right now I am drained; I want to crawl into bed and sleep until tomorrow.

Sometime later, my mother knocks on the door and pokes her head in. “Evan came by earlier.”

I sit up. “He did?” I wonder if it was before or after I'd told him I was going to New Haven. “What did you tell him?”

“I didn't know where you were. We visited a little on the back porch. He was telling your father and me about sailing out to Fishers Island tonight. Sounds like fun.”

“When was this?”

“A couple hours ago. When he left, your dad mentioned something about the Wilder baby being back in the hospital. Is that where you were?” I didn't realize my father knew this. But I also didn't realize my boyfriend spent the afternoon on my back deck with my parents. Mystic is a small town.

I roll over and make room for her to sit on the bed. “I went to see her.”

I'm grateful when she doesn't question why, as Evan did. Instead she settles beside me. “What happened?”

“She had some kind of complication from her catheterization. Cam said it was a thrombosis—a blood clot.” My voice cracks as I think back to Emory's tiny figure in the hospital bed.

My mom props herself up with one of my pink childhood pillows. “Is she all right now?”

“They have her on blood thinners, and Cam said she'll stay there for a few days for observation. But it sounds like they've gotten it under control.”

My mother doesn't say anything right away. “Control is a funny word when you're a parent,” she says, finally. “Children change everything. And control is something you come to find you have very little of.”

Which makes me think immediately of Lauren. “Emory's mother showed up,” I tell my mom.

“Is she back in the picture, then?” she asks.

I can't help it; a sigh escapes my chest. “I don't know. I don't think any of them know. Cam called her to tell her that Emory was going to have the catheterization, and she didn't come then. I was shocked to see her.”

My mom thinks about this a moment. “I'm sure they all were. But she's here now.”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of the gravity of her words. “I guess she is.”

My mother is not exactly a judgmental person, but she has strong opinions. Being liberally minded, for her there are plenty of gray areas. And she has raised us girls to recognize that, especially in the broader context of social issues, like single parenting, women's rights, and advocacy for children. But I have to wonder what her thoughts are about Lauren: a real-life woman who had the means and the ability to stay with her child, but chose not to. Until now, I've viewed her through the lens of someone in a fairly black-and-white situation. She could've chosen to stay. But since seeing her today, and on the whole drive home from Yale, I can't stop wondering what
her
gray areas are.

As if she's reading my thoughts, “I wonder if this will change how she feels,” my mother muses. “Having a baby is not just a blessing, it's an earth-shattering responsibility. And some women find it hard to adapt. I guess there are a few who just can't. And maybe their children are better off not being raised by that kind of parent.”

Then how does that explain the parents like Cam, a guy who's proven to be more than cut out to be a father, despite all the surprises and upsets along the way? “What about all that stuff about falling madly in love when you lay eyes on your newborn baby?”

“Well, I suppose that happens for some. It's certainly a lovely thought. But I would be lying if I said that was how I felt when I had you and Jane.”

I turn over. “What do you mean?” My mother has never been anything but a sometimes overbearing hands-on mom, to the point where we were constantly wriggling away from her for a breath of freedom. Begging her to stay in the car at school drop-off and let us walk to the door ourselves. Telling her we didn't need her help when using the pair of big red scissors in the kitchen drawer. To this day, sometimes shunning her advice and insights, so sure of ourselves are we. This confession shatters the image I've always had of her bursting with pride in the nursery—a pink-faced Jane squalling in her firm embrace.

“Oh, I fell in love with you girls. Head over heels, make no mistake about it! But not right away. I'll never forget when that nurse handed me your sister, my firstborn. I looked at her plush red cheeks and her dark hair and I thought, ‘Who is this little stranger?' ”

“You did? Does Jane know this?”

Mom shrugs and laughs. “I'm sure we've joked about it in some fashion over the years. She was my baby, and I knew I'd love her. But it was not love at first sight that I most remember feeling. It was fear. And I think that's an honest reaction for many women. Perhaps this Lauren has come around. Maybe she's ready to be a mother now.”

It occurs to me that my mother has more in common with Cameron right now than I do—or at least more of an understanding of what it means to love a child. It makes me realize how much I've taken her for granted; and how grateful I should be for having felt so safe and loved all my life. That golden ticket that lets you go out into the world and try to do and be what you want to do and be.

“Were either of us ever sick in a way that scared you?” I ask her now.

“Oh, you both went through the usual checklist: chicken pox, pneumonia. One spring Jane got the flu so severely when we were on a trip to Rhode Island that we ended up at Providence Hospital. We all spent Easter in the pediatric wing. Remember that? When the Easter Bunny came to visit—you were probably only three at the time—he scared you to death. You screamed so loud the nurses came running in, thinking something was wrong with Jane.”

I stare at her in wonder. “I don't remember that at all. Are you sure it was me?”

Mom smiles. “Of course it was. Just like you were the one who fell in the Ocean Beach parking lot the following summer, racing to the ice cream truck, and skinned your knee. Four stitches and a few hours later, all you would talk about was getting your Rocket Pop. I think Dad drove you all over New London until we found the truck on its last run of the day.” She chuckles fondly at the memory.

I run my hand over my knee—the scar is faded but still bumpy. “I forgot the ice cream truck part,” I say. “How do you remember all this stuff?”

Mom rests a hand on my arm. “I'm your mother. Couldn't forget it if I tried.” She lifts herself slowly from the bed and stretches. “You spend your whole life worrying about your children. But you come to realize that you can't put your kids in glass jars. We were lucky, I guess. You girls never had any serious medical hiccups. I'm just glad to hear that Cameron's little one is doing better.” She pauses. “Now, what about you?”

The sun outside my window is that warm golden late-day
kind, and as it streams through my gingham curtains and across my bedroom, I can't help but notice that it highlights the grays in my mother's hair and the lines around her eyes. Standing in that light she suddenly looks much older to me.

“I'm okay,” I say. “It's just been a long week. I need to get cleaned up and get down to the pier before Erika and Evan have a fit. And I need to land a few interviews, so that I can secure a job for the fall. And the apartment—Evan said he found a great one . . .”

The expression on my mother's face stops me. This is not what she is asking.

My mother and I talk about personal things all the time—as long as it involves others. Like Erika's misgivings when Trent first proposed to her and the fanfare of the ring had worn off. Or when my father retired and my mother's worried that he'd drive her crazy puttering around the house. Or the concern she had about Jane, having had three kids so closely together. But we've never been good about talking about ourselves. Lying on my childhood bed as she stands in my bedroom doorway, I feel suddenly vulnerable.

“I don't know,” I say, finally, my voice cracking.

“You've grown pretty attached to Emory and Cameron.”

I nod. “It just sort of happened.”

“Well, that's who you are, honey. You've always wanted to take care of everyone. It's why you're such a good teacher. I remember, when you were just little, whenever you won a stuffed animal at the summer carnival, you always picked the one with the missing eyeball. Or the tattered paw. You've always had a soft spot for the underdogs.”

I smile, in spite of myself.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks.

“Please.”

“You're going to figure things out for yourself this summer. You may not know that now. But I do.”

Later, as the
Mystic Whaler
pulls away from the docks and the sky overhead is strewn in pink and orange streaks, I whisper in Evan's ear that I'll be right back. The night is just starting out, and our friends are heady with anticipation as we set sail for Fishers Island. Mr. and Mrs. Crane have popped a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and Trent's father is already handing out cigars to the groomsmen. Evan is endearingly rosy-cheeked from a day on the golf course, and when he tucks his arm around my waist, there is no ill will remaining about my sudden departure to Yale. “I'm glad your friend is okay. Now, can tonight please be ours?”

I kiss him, to say
yes
. Tonight I will soak it all in. There will be lobster, toasts, and music. But for now, I steal away and find a spot on the rear deck away from the noisy celebration. When I lean out over the railing, I think of Mrs. Wilder alone in her living room, holding the untouched glass of iced tea. I think of Trent and the way he grabbed Erika's hand and pulled her hard against him on the walkway this morning. And I think of Cam and Lauren, a little girl with a patched-up hole in her heart between them. My mother is right. There is so much beyond our control, and so much we fear we cannot figure out. But what a difference it makes when someone else believes—not only that you can—but that you will.

S
aint Edward's white steeple pops against the morning sky, a wedding beacon in its own right. We're doing an early rehearsal. Which started ten minutes ago. Evan and I finally find a parking spot and fly up the steps of the church, me holding the skirt of my dress and both of us laughing, only to find everyone in various states of disarray in the nave.

“Oh, good, you're here.” Peyton is the sole picture of calm against the figures assembled. Her hair is pulled up into a sleek twist, as usual, and her suit dress is as crisp as the sky outside the heavy double doors. “Too much fun last night?” she asks coyly.

“Sorry, we slept late.” I glance around. Erika's parents are standing near the pulpit speaking to the reverend. Trent and the groomsmen are standing around chatting. The younger members of the wedding party, the ringbearer and flower girls, are in various states of high-speed chase among the aisles. The Chicago twins are slumped in the first pew.

“So, let's run through the checklist.”

This time I try really hard not to roll my eyes. It's the rehearsal, after all.

“You've got Erika's music for walking down the aisle?”

I dig through my purse and pull out the DVD. “Pachelbel's Canon in D.”

“The vows?”

“Right here.” I hand her an envelope containing printouts of their vows, just in case Erika or Trent forgets theirs.