Wish I Might (6 page)

Good thing for the roar of the motor so I don’t have to talk as Will rides us back across Nantucket Sound to Popponesset Beach. The sky is clouding up now, the water choppy. A large sailboat zips past us, sails puffed full of wind. I think of my disastrous date with JFK last month when he surprised me with a ride on his little Sunfish sailboat. How silly I was to be scared.

Suddenly all of my previous fears and worries seem minnow-fish foolish.

What if Will’s theory is true? What if my father is still alive?

It’s chilly. I shiver, wrapping my arms around my chest.

Will notices and offers me a jacket.

“Thanks,” I say. I take the jacket, zip it up. I zip my lips, too. I move to sit as far away from him as I can, eyes squeezed tight against the wind.

My birthfather, Billy Havisham, might be alive? He might be somewhere here on Cape Cod? I’m barely over the shock that I have a brother I never knew I had, and now this mind-numbing possibility that I might have a father, too? And, oh, my gosh, how will Mother react?

The theories Will shared with me just now in that Vineyard cemetery are filled with Swiss cheese holes. His evidence, if you could call it that, is flimsy slim, old newspaper photos and hunches. Either this is a very cruel joke or he is delusional. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

No. No. No.
I shake my head against the wind.

Finally, my mother is happy. I am happy. For the first time in my life, I can call a place “home.” At last my mother has stopped making us move like nomads. We’ve set down roots. We have a nice house. Good friends. Nana and Sam. Wonderful Sam. The man who has been a real father to me. The man I now call “Dad.”

It took my mother more than a decade to get over
the pain of Billy Havisham’s death. She dove into her work with an all-consuming force, refusing to fall in love again, frozen like a statue in a cathedral. I tried for years to match her up with nice men, potential fathers for me—
oh, how I wanted a father, a real father
—but no, Mother refused to crack.

Then along came Sam. A soft-spoken English teacher, a poet, a man who designed and built a spiritual circle, a labyrinth rimmed with flowers, a man who never has a harsh word to say about anyone, a man who fills bird feeders and plants butternut squash. Sam, wonderful Sam. With quiet patience and persistence he loved Stella with a love as powerful as the Crusades, and wouldn’t let my mother run away again.

Finally, I have a perfect family. And now, after all these years, now there’s a chance that my birthfather is still alive? NO. It can’t possibly be true….

“Willa,” Will shouts, snapping me out of my reverie. “See that over there?” He cuts the motor abruptly. The boat rocks in the wake. I quickly grip the side for support.

“What are you doing?” I say, annoyed.

“Look,” he shouts all excitedly. “There it is again!” He laughs. “I saw a tail flip up over —”

“Stop,” I say, cutting him off before he starts any more baloney-talk about mermaids. “We’re out in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean. There are thousands of fish. They all have tails. Dolphins, seals, whales. So what if—”

“I know what a whale’s tale looks like, Willa,” he says, sounding like I’ve truly hurt his feelings. “This was different.”

“That’s enough, Will. I’m done. Take me back right now,” I say. “I’ve had enough of your stories for one day.”

“But, Willa …”

“But nothing. I don’t believe in mermaids. I’m not sure I believe in you. Take me home. Now.”

When we get back to Popponesset Beach, there are only a few people still standing with the little girl on the bluff. The police cars and television station vans are gone.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” I say to Will. “I need time to think.”

“Sure, I understand,” he says. “I’ll be tied up with the Southends tomorrow for the holiday, anyway. Here’s my number.” He hands me a slip of paper. “Call me when you want to.”

I stuff the paper in my pocket and hurry up the beach stairs.

As I pass the little mermaid spotter, I hear her mother say, “I’m sorry, Natalie, but it’s time to go. We still have to pack up and clean the cottage.”

Their vacation rental time must be up, another family moving in tomorrow.

“No, Mommy, please,” the little girl begs. “She’ll come back. I know she will.”

“I’m sorry, Nat, really, honey, but we can’t stay here any longer. Daddy will be worried. Our vacation’s almost over. Let’s not spoil it, okay? We’ll be back next summer. You’ll have another chance then.”

The girl is crying. I feel sorry for her. She’ll have to wait a whole year to enjoy this place again. I remember looking forward to that week or two each summer when I would come to visit Nana. Now, I am so lucky to live here all year-round.

Billy Havisham might still be alive?
How will Mother react? What if she freaks out and says we have to move again? I want to tell her, but I am afraid. Should I tell Sam? No. That seems like such a betrayal to tell Sam before Mother. Billy Havisham was her husband. Oh, my gosh, I’m so confused.

Home at the Bramblebriar, I hurry past guests relaxing on the porch. I’m not in the mood for happy chatter.
I want to be alone. I notice a poster for the annual Sand Castle Competition at South Cape Beach this Saturday. I sneak past Mother, busy on the phone at the registration desk. If she sees me she’ll know something is wrong. She reads my face like a calculator, never missing a thing.

I tell Makita, one of our workers, that I’ve got a headache and would she please tell my mother that I’m going to bed early. Upstairs, I check my cell phone. Still no JFK.
Where are you?
No “miss you, pretty girl” or “I hate Florida without you” or “wish you were here” or “I’m flying home early … baseball is a bore.” I plop on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

A few minutes later there’s a soft knock at the door.

It’s Rosie with a tray of soup and some crackers.

“I’m leaving for the day,” Rosie says. “Makita said you weren’t feeling well. Just thought I’d bring this in case you got an appetite.”

“Thanks, Rosie,” I say, turning my face toward the wall.

She comes over to my bed and strokes my hair. “Are you okay?”

Her kind voice brings tears to my eyes. Maybe I can tell her…. No. She’s been working all day and I’m sure she’s tired and anxious to get home to Lilly. That
would be selfish of me. I turn to her and feign a smile. “Just missing my boyfriend,” I say.

“Oh, of course. I should have known,” Rosie says, laughing. “Hang in there, girl, it’s only a few weeks. He’ll be back before you know it.”

When Rosie leaves, I open my journal and write so long and hard my hand cramps up. I eat the now-cold chicken soup, grateful I don’t have to face my mother downstairs. I try calling JFK. No answer. I leave him a text message. “It’s true. Will is my half brother. I need to talk to you. Please call. Willa.”

Reading will take my mind off things.

I leaf through the stack of skinny-punch books Dr. Swammy selected for me. The nice part about having a bookstore in the family is that I get my choice of paperbacks free of charge. That’s good because I like to read with a pen in my hand, marking up things that move me.

I open
Song of the Trees
by Mildred D. Taylor. It’s only fifty-two pages long. The main character, Cassie, loves the big old trees in the forest by her house. She talks to them and they sing to her. Others try to tell her that trees can’t sing, it’s just the wind, but Cassie knows better than that.

I think of the little mermaid spotter, back at her rented cottage packing to go home. I bet when she leaves the Cape tomorrow, as her family’s car is crossing over the Bourne Bridge to the mainland, she’ll be taking one good last look down at the water in the Cape Cod Canal, earnestly hoping for one final glimpse of that mermaid she knows for certain appeared to her, even if nobody else believes.

There’s a knock on my door. I open my eyes and yawn, realizing I fell asleep. I look at the clock. The door opens. I close my eyes.

“Willa,” I hear Mother whisper, “are you awake?”

I don’t answer.

My mother crosses the room. She tucks the thin summer comforter up under my chin. She kisses me gently on the forehead.

“Good night, Willa,” she says.

I almost open my eyes. I almost tell her.

She turns off my night-light. I hear the door close.

Good night, Mom.

The worries flow back, the worries and the tears.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!
The sound of firecrackers somewhere outside wakes me up the next morning.

I open my eyes. It’s the Fourth of July. Happy Independence Day.

I check my phone, still no messages. What?? I turn on my computer. There, yes.

Three messages from JFK. He lost his cell phone, “sorry.” That explains it. He’s started his internship, mostly grunt work, fetching gear and fly balls, but it’s “all good.” His grandparents have neighbors with grandkids his age, and he’s already making some friends. Guy friends, I hope, but he doesn’t say.

Someone’s knocking on my door. “Come on in,” I call.

It’s Mother. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Better,” I say, not making eye contact. “Thanks.”

“Want to go for a run with me?” she says.

“Sure, Mom. Give me a minute and I’ll meet you downstairs.” I slip on shorts and a T-shirt, lace my sneakers, pull my hair back in a ponytail. I look at myself in the mirror.
Tell her, Willa.

Outside we stretch and walk to warm up.

“Where’s Salty?” Mom says. She knows he’d be the first in line for a morning run with us.

“I think he’s with Sam,” I say, feeling bad about lying, feeling worse about losing my dog.

Ruby’s mother, Mrs. Sivler, is standing on the front step of No Mutts About It. She’s wearing red strappy sandals, blue shorts, and a tight white camisole top, the picture of patriotism. Hands on her hips, she is muttering something to herself, shaking her head disgustedly.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Sivler?” I call over, then instantly wish I hadn’t. What if Ruby told her mother about Will? What if Mrs. Sivler tells my …

“More orphans,” Mrs. Sivler says, throwing up her hands, exasperated.

“What do you mean, Sherry?” my mother says, confused.

That makes two of us.

“Somebody left another basket of mangy mutts on our doorstep this morning. One of my workers called me to report it. Look at them.” She points to the basket. “Skinny, scurvy little rats. What am I supposed to do with them?”

Rats?
I walk over and look in the basket.

Kittens. Three adorable, just-born-looking orange kittens all curled up in a clump. “Oh, how cute,” I say.

“Cute!” Mrs. Sivler says. “Eeew! No papers, pedigree, nothing. Why would somebody leave them here?”

“Well, this is a pet spa, Sherry,” my mother says matter-of-factly with a pleasant smile.

I don’t feel so neighborly. “Did you ever consider that maybe the owner couldn’t afford to take care of them?” I snap.

Mother touches my arm, discreetly warning me not to be disrespectful.

“People are losing their jobs,” I say. “Some families can’t afford to feed their children, let alone their pets. Maybe —”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Mrs. Sivler sputters. Her perfect little white poodle, Pookie, runs out from the spa. She scoops him up in her arms, pulling him in tight to her ample chest so he won’t have to bear the sight of those awful orphans in the basket. “Good morning, baby,” she says. “How’s Mommy’s
pookie-wookie snukum-pumpkin today? Did you have a nice bubble bath?”

“You could feed them,” I say.

“Feed who?” Mrs. Sivler says.

“The kittens,” I say. “I bet they’d like some milk or …”

My mother clears her throat. I look at her. I swear she almost laughed.

“Try calling the town, Sherry,” Mother suggests. “The Bramble Animal Shelter. They’ll come and get the kittens,” she says. “Willa got her dog from that place. Very nice man runs it.”

Salty Dog. I thought you were mine.

Mrs. Sivler snivels her upper lip up to meet her nostrils. “I suppose I could do that,” she says. “Although it’s certainly not my responsibility.” She reaches into her pocket. She offers Pookie a treat.

One of the orphans makes a soft purring sound.

I look down at the kittens and smile.
You’ll be okay, don’t worry. They’ll take good care of you at the shelter.

Mother and I wait until we’re a block away and then we burst out laughing.

“Can you believe that woman?” Mother says.

“The orphans,” I say. “Wait till I tell Mariel.” My throat clenches.
Where are you, Mariel?

“I almost told her to send the kittens over to us,” Mother says. “We’ve got a gang of barn cats they could join, but I wanted to see Sherry squirm a bit.”

I laugh. My mother is surprising me. She actually has a sense of humor. Maybe this would be a good time to tell her about …

“Ready?” Mom says, adjusting her Red Sox cap, all set to run.

“Ready,” I say.

“Let’s go!” she says, and we’re off.

Mother sets the pace. I try to keep up. My mom is a serious runner. I’ve only just recently started. My mother does 5 and 10K races for charity on the Cape and in the Boston area. She’s even done some half marathons. She wants me to train and run the Falmouth Road Race with her next month. I doubt that I’ll be ready, but I’m glad to have this time with my mother. She’s usually so busy between running the inn and planning weddings that we don’t spend much time together.

We head out along the water toward Popponesset Island.

“Willa, look,” Mother calls back, pointing to a tall pole in the cove with a wooden perch on top.

The ospreys.
“Yep, I see them,” I shout. The two large brown and white hawks, the male and the female, are back again for the summer. Soon there will be a baby in that nest, nurtured and fed for the rest of the season until it’s time to fly.

Back at the inn, Sam says Tina called me.

I assume she’s going to start right in about meeting Will Havisham and “oh, my gosh, I didn’t know you had a brother,” but no, Tina blabs on and on about the lifeguards she and Ruby photographed up in Eastham and about the bonfire party on the beach tonight at six.

“You’ve got to come, Willa,” Tina says. “Everybody will be there. Joey’s in Florida, right? No reason you can’t flirt with some college guys. A little flirting never hurt a sand fly, right? And wear something fun, will you? You’re fourteen, not forty.”

When I hang up with Tina, the phone rings again.

Mariel!

“Oh, thank God, Mare. Where are you?”

“New York City,” she says.

“What??!” I’m so surprised. “How did —”

“My mother sent for me, Willa,” Mare says, sounding happier than I’ve ever heard her.

“Papa and the little ones are staying with cousins in Springfield. Mama sent money for the bus so I could come see her in Manhattan. Oh, Willa, it’s just amazing here. I wish you could come. Maybe your parents would let you visit.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Your mother’s living in Manhattan?”

“Yes,” Mariel says. “Mama finally hit the big time. She’s starring in
Aqualina.
You’ve heard about it, right? The show with the mermaids and the —”

“Of course,” I say. “It’s the hottest musical on Broadway.”

“I know,” Mariel gushes. “And my mother’s got the lead! The show is sold out until Christmas. Can you believe it, Willa? Isn’t it wonderful? Mama says I can stay the whole summer.”

I’m happy that my friend is happy, but my heart sinks into the sand nonetheless. First JFK is gone for the summer, now Mariel, too?

“Willa?” Mare says. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to spoil a second of Mare’s happiness. She’s missed her mother for so long. I’m not going to rain on her Big Apple parade. “I’m just so happy for you, Mare, that’s all.”

“Thanks, Willa. I knew you’d be. You’re such a good friend. I’ll miss you! Have a nice holiday.”

On duty in the kitchen, I help Sam slide squares of marinated chicken and fresh-sliced chunks of potatoes, onion, and peppers from the garden onto long steel kabob skewers for tonight’s holiday barbecue.

I work in silence, not looking at Sam, too afraid that if I start talking I’ll gush out everything and fill up the kitchen with pity-party tears and worries, and Sam is far too busy with all of the holiday cooking preparations for that. There is potato salad and macaroni salad and baked beans to make. Corn to shuck. Watermelon to slice.

Mother prefers when Sam cooks gourmet nouvelle cuisine, but on days like the Fourth of July, people like the good old American traditional favorites. Hot dogs and hamburgers. Barbecue.

After dinner, I head up to my room to dress for the bonfire. I sort through the clothes in my closet. Boring jean skirts and plain T-shirts, nothing flashy or sexy from a Hotties catalog.

I think about who will be at the bonfire. Who will I talk to? No JFK. No Mariel. Tina and Ruby strutting about side by side all night, flinging their mermaid hair, flirting with all the lifeguards, inseparable, best friends forever.

Suddenly I feel very, very alone.