Now That You Mention It

That night, as Poe and I were lying in our beds, I decided to go for it. It was dark, and the night was cold and clear. Through the skylight, I could see the thick, brilliant smear of the Milky Way.

“Have you talked to your mom recently?” I asked.

Poe didn’t answer for a minute. “What’s it to you?”

“Just wondering how she is.”

“She’s fine.” Poe rolled over to face the wall.

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here, honey.”

She muttered something.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t need to talk to you,” she said, enunciating clearly, her voice loud, as if talking to a room full of slightly deaf simpletons. “Though my circumstances are challenging, I am quite well-adjusted.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad.” I took a long, slow breath, still staring at the stars. “Your mom and I were really close once.”

“Whatever.”

“I loved her more than I loved anyone.”

“Hooray for her.”

“And I love you, no matter what. I would love to be closer, and I’d—”

“Could you shut up now? I’m trying to sleep.”

I reached down to pet Boomer, who slept next to me, since we both couldn’t fit on the twin bed. His tail thumped, letting me know I was loved. God, grant me the serenity to not tell my niece she’s a royal pain in the ass. “Good night, Poe. Sleep well.”

* * *

The second weekend after I returned to Scupper Island, my mom asked if I wanted anything in town. It was Saturday, her day to do the grocery shopping.

“Can I come with you? Please? Please?”

“Sure, but only if you calm down.” She kissed Tweety on the beak—I suppressed my scream—and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Poe, you need anything?”

“No.”

“Text me if you think of anything.”

There was no answer.

“Give me a few minutes,” I told my mom. “I need to brush my hair.” And change and put on makeup. Without a doubt, I’d run into someone I knew.

Half an hour later, I was shiny and clean and ready to go. “Go see Poe,” I told my dog. Given time, I knew he’d win her over. He obeyed, galumphing up the stairs, the genius.

I’d graduated to a plain old runner’s brace, which made my knee look lumpy but was a vast improvement over the soft cast. My mom was waiting by the front door, puss on her face, arms crossed.

We drove into town, my mom grumbling about the “crowds” that would be at the market, now that it was 10:00 a.m. By crowds, she meant four to six people.

We pulled into the store’s parking lot. “I think I’ll take a hobble around, if that’s okay with you,” I said.

“Suit yourself.”

“Here, let me give you some money for groceries.” I took out my wallet.

“Save it.”

“I make a good living, Mom. Let me help.”

She gave me a dirty look, then threw the car into Park. “I can afford to put food on the table, Nora.”

“Well, I’m an extra mouth to feed, and—”

She got out the car and walked off, her canvas bags flapping indignantly.

“Thank you!” I called. She didn’t look back.

I would definitely be needing that rental place, fast. Otherwise, there’d be blood everywhere, and soon. I hated to use words like killing spree, but between Poe talking on the phone at 3:00 a.m. this morning, then using all the hot water again and my mother’s refusal to have a conversation of more than two sentences, I was getting a little homicidal.

I maneuvered myself out of the car. Sammy’s Grocery was behind Main Street, the heart of our happening downtown, and it was probably time for me to start walking without the crutch.

And you know...I didn’t want to look quite so pathetic. Bad enough that I was still limping.

Slowly and carefully, I wobble-walked up the slight incline. It was the end of April now, and in the years I’d been away, the town had planted crab apple trees along Main Street. They were thinking about blooming—the little pink buds were still clenched, but giving a sweet glow. A restaurant—Stone Cellar—had window boxes of pansies. I peeked inside. Wooden beams, dark floor, nice-looking bar. And looky here—it was open on weekends in the off-season. That was something. Only Red’s, the bar frequented by the hard-core drinkers, had been open year-round when I was a kid.

I stopped at the corner. The gray-shingled building here was, conveniently, a real estate office, pictures of houses in the windows.

Time to be independent and all that.

Suddenly, I missed Bobby. I missed him so much it wrapped around me like a lead blanket, heavy, tugging me down. He had called the other day, at two-fifteen in the afternoon, and his voice had made my eyes well up. We’d talked gently and sweetly to each other, asking about work, what the other was doing. We’d listened to each other breathe, and it was...nice.

If he was dating Jabrielle, he didn’t say so.

Once, I’d imagined marrying Bobby. Before we started dating even, and once we’d started, I couldn’t imagine anyone more perfectly suited to me. We had so much fun together! Life had seemed impossibly wonderful.

Then the Big Bad Event happened, but even that showed me how great he was. About three months after the BBE, he’d said, “When we make it official someday,” just an offhand remark that had made me so embarrassingly happy I almost floated. I’d told Roseline, who was already engaged, and she’d brought me to the posh bridal salon where she’d bought her gown, and we played dress-up for an hour.

Now I was getting a place of my own, back in the hometown I never wanted to return to.

At least I didn’t have to remember our fun times here. Bobby had never been to the island. I’d never let him come. I hadn’t come, always making the case that Mom should come to Boston, which she did, stoically, without a lot of fuss, never staying more than a day.

The man in the real estate office saw me standing there and opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’m looking to rent a place for a couple of months,” I said. Until Lily comes back. Until I make things right again.

“Come on in!” he said with such good cheer that I knew he was an island transplant. “I’m Jim Ivansky. We handle lots of rentals here. What brings you to Scupper?”

I filled him in, mentioned Boomer, and he smiled and smiled as Realtors do. “We have some great places. You’ll be renting during the summer, so the price will go up after Memorial Day, but I’m sure we can find you something.”

The first few houses he showed me were the summer people’s McMansions—five-bedroom, six-bath places on the water, complete with boathouses.

“It’s just me and my dog,” I said. I paused. “Maybe something with two bedrooms, in case my niece wants to stay with me once in a while.”

He scanned his listings. “How about this?” he asked, swinging the computer screen around to show me. It was the Krazinskis’ place, an unremarkable ranch on Route 12, the closest house to Mom’s. I wondered why their house was vacant. The interior pictures showed a pretty bland, somewhat-careworn place and a kitchen last updated in the 1970s, based on the Harvest Gold appliances.

“Got something with a little more...character?” I asked, feeling guilty. Lizzy Krazinski—or Lizzy Krizzy, as she’d been known—had been a year behind me in school. We’d ridden the school bus together. She’d been okay, Lizzy.

“I know what you mean,” Jim said. He scrolled down. It seemed that it was McMansion or meh.

“Oh, hold on, what was that one?” I asked.

“This? It’s a houseboat.”

“In Maine? Isn’t the water a little rough for that?”

“It is, but it’s moored in Oberon Cove,” Jim said. “Some rich tech goober had it built over at WoodenBoat and then bought most of the Cove. Built a nice dock to moor it. To the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t even lived here yet. One of those guys who has houses all over the world.”

“Think he’d rent it?” I asked.

“It’s not for sale; I just have the listing for tax reasons. I’m on the assessment board here in town. But let me give him a call. I think he’s in New Zealand on a spirit quest.”

“Of course.” I smiled. Rich tech goobers did things like that.

Jim punched in a string of numbers, and miraculously, the guy picked up. “Collier, Jim Ivansky from Island Real Estate here. I’ve got a beautiful young lady here who’s absolutely in love with your houseboat.” He put his phone on speaker. “You’re on with Nora Stuart. Nora, meet Collier Rhodes.”

“Hi there!” I said in my Cute Nora voice. “It’s such a pleasure to talk to you! Jim’s right, I’m madly in love. What an amazing place you’ve built!”

“Thank you so much!” he said. “So you’re looking for shelter and inspiration, is that it?”

Not really, but... “You got it.” I told him my story of returning home after an accident, the siren call of the sea, the rugged beauty of Maine. “I wonder if you’d consider renting it to me. It’s so lovely, and I’d take excellent care of it. Something about it just spoke to me.”

“I hear you. Returning to your roots, taking time to breathe in the cosmic power that saved your life. Absolutely get it. I’d be honored to rent it to you. You know what? You don’t even have to pay me.”

Jim winced. There went his commission.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m more than happy to pay.”

“All right. I totally respect that. Okay, then. I’ll let Jim work out the details. Namaste, Nora Stuart.” He hung up.

“Ah, tech geniuses,” I said, and Jim laughed.

Ten minutes later, the houseboat was mine until mid-September, though I planned to go back to Boston in August. But maybe Poe and Lily would like to stay there when Lily got out of jail. In the meantime, it was all mine. It was even furnished. I couldn’t wait to see it. Maybe my mom and Poe would like to come with me. Or not.

Boomer, I was sure, would love it.

I went out of the office, keys in hand, and started down the street, feeling rather pleased with myself. No more Tweety giving me the evil eye.

I’d be living alone again. First time since the Big Bad Event.

My heart suddenly went into A-fib, a hummingbird trapped in my chest, buzzing frantically, trying to get out. My mouth was sand, palms sweaty.

I’d be okay. It was fine. I had Boomer now. And it was Scupper Island. A very safe place.

Shit. I couldn’t do it. I’d have to stay with my mom. She wouldn’t kick me out. I turned to go back in the real estate office, then turned around again.

No. Now or never. No more gray, no more fears. Plus, when Lily came back, she could stay with me.

“Time for a donut,” I muttered. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Lala’s was four shops (or shoppes) down the street. I could use a sugar boost, since my mother didn’t believe in dessert, viewing it a moral weakness like her Calvinist ancestors before her. Poor thing. I mean, sure, I was a GI doc and believed in good nutrition, but I also had a beating heart.

There. The thoughts of donuts had helped. I was calmer.

“Let me get the door for you,” said an older gentleman, approaching with a newspaper under his arm. Mr. Carver, who did handyman work for the summer people—opening their houses, clearing their lawns, letting them know if a tree fell during the winter.

My dad used to help him out once in a while.

“Hi, Mr. Carver,” I said.

“Ah...hello there, young lady.”

“Nora Stuart. Bill and Sharon’s daughter.” I glanced at his left hand. Married, and therefore not a contender for Mom.

“Is that right? Jeezum crow, you got big. Have a good day, now.” He smiled and headed off.

Not everyone hated me. That was nice to know. “Hey, Mr. Carver,” I said, gimping out after him. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure thing.” Steam rose from his coffee.

“Um...” It was embarrassing that I had to ask someone I hadn’t seen in almost two decades a deeply personal question. “Do you remember my dad, Mr. Carver?”

“Of course. He was a nice fella.”

“Did you ever hear from him? After he left the island?” Because he never bothered getting in touch with me. My face felt hot.

“Cahn’t say that I did, sweethaht.” He thought another second or two. “No. I don’t think so.” His weathered blue eyes were so kind that I had to look away.

“No, I figured it was a long shot. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Nice to see you.”

So. The first stone had been overturned and revealed nothing. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but...well.

The humid, sweet air of Lala’s was like a much-needed hug.

Standing in line was a mother with three little kids. The older two stood silently, staring down at their phones, their necks curved in that unmistakable posture that said, Don’t bother me, I’m emotionally dead inside. The littlest kid, about six, blond with a puffy winter coat on, pulled on his mother’s hand. “I want a cookie,” he said.

“You’re not getting one. I already told you that.” She adjusted her purse strap and sighed.

The little boy pushed out his lip, then saw me looking. “What happened to you?” he asked, eyeing my sling.

“I didn’t look crossing the street, and I got hit by a car,” I said. “So you make sure you look both ways and always hold a grown-up’s hand.”

The mom looked back at me.

It was Darby Dennings, sidekick of Amy Beckman, Queen of the Cheetos, receiver of hugs. Amazing how I knew everyone instantly, as if I hadn’t been gone for fifteen years.

“Sorry if he’s bothering you,” Darby said with a smile. Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing my injuries, her gaze lingering on my purse. “That’s a great bag,” she said. “Mind if I ask where you got it?”

“Oh, um...I think I got it at—”

I’d bought it at a snooty boutique on Newbury Street after I was hired by Boston Gastroenterology Associates. Roseline, who had a serious shopping addiction, believed that every woman needed to own a purse that was way too expensive. We’d made a day of it, both of us still heady with our salaries, and settled on this one, made of buttery brown leather so smooth and supple I wanted to date it.

It had cost an amount that still embarrassed and thrilled me.

“I got it at T.J. Maxx,” I said.

“You can get great stuff there,” she said. “The one in Portland?”

“Boston.”

“Is that where you’re from?” There wasn’t so much as a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Mommy, I want a cookie!”

She ignored the little guy, smiling at me, and I saw myself through her eyes for one deeply satisfying second. Granted, the sling. But still, my hair was shiny from the straightening iron and the high-end products I used to tame it. Makeup was Chanel. I wore a blue cashmere sweater and Lucky Brand jeans and buttery leather Kate Spade flats.

“I’m from here, actually,” I said. “Nora Stuart. How are you, Darby?”

Her jaw dropped, and her face went from pleasant to flushed, her smile fading. “Well, holy crap.”

“These are your kids?”

“Yeah. Uh, Matthew, Kaylee and Jordan.”

“Hi, kids,” I said. “I went to school with your mother.”

The children didn’t respond or notice or care.

“You lost weight. Christ. I didn’t even recognize you.” Her eyes narrowed as if I’d played a trick on her.

“Whatcha want there, Darby?” asked Lala.

Then the door opened again, bringing a gust of cold air, and in came a good-looking guy.

Darby glanced at him, too. “Hey, Sully.”

Good God. Sullivan Fletcher. Twin brother of Luke Fletcher, god of high school. For a second, I wobbled on my bad knee.

He did a double take when he saw me.

“Nora! Hey. How are you?” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl, either.

“Hi,” I breathed. “Fine, thanks, Sullivan. Um...how are you?”

He looked good, thank God. I never did learn exactly what had happened to him in that car accident senior year...just that he’d had a brain injury. I remember they said he was expected to recover, but you never knew what that truly meant.

But the years had been kind to Sullivan Fletcher. Once, he’d been an ordinary-looking boy, brown hair, brown eyes. Now age had given him character. His face had lost its boyish softness, and his jaw and cheekbones were hard and well-defined. Curling hair, on the shaggy side. He was tall, maybe six-one and rangy and...well, interesting.

And he was normal. My adrenaline burst was followed by relief. Those words—traumatic brain injury—had haunted me. Every time we’d had a TBI case in residency, I’d thought of Sullivan Fletcher.

But here he was, looking completely healthy and...well...good.

Really, really good. My mouth was dry with relief.

“I heard you were back,” he said.

“Yep. I am.” So much for witty repartee.

I wondered if Luke had turned out, as well. Once upon a time, I had loved Sullivan Fletcher’s twin, right up until I hated him.

“Darby, what do you want? I don’t have all day,” said Lala.

“A loaf of rye. Jesus. Do I ever get anything else?”

“I want a cookie, Mommy!” said the little guy. The other two had yet to look up from their phones.

Lala put the bread through the slicer, wrapped it and handed it over, taking Darby’s money at the same time. “Help you?” she said to me.

“Could I please have a donut?”

“Just one?”

“Yes, please.”

“You’re in Boston now?” Sullivan asked.

“That’s right,” I said, nodding. “Here for a little while. Are you getting donuts? I love them. I mean, you know, who doesn’t, right? Donuts should be the universal sign of happiness. We could win wars with donuts. And, hey, no one makes donuts like Lala, right?”

You are a highly trained physician, my brain told me. Snap the fuck out of it.

Sullivan’s eyebrows drew together a little.

“What do you do for work?” Darby asked, making no move to leave.

I dragged my eyes off Sully, trying to regain my cool “Um...I’m a doctor.”

“A doctor?” she said. “A real doctor?”

“Yep. I’m a gastroenterologist.”

“What’s that?”

“Stomach and digestive track.”

“Gross,” Darby said.

I usually had a reply for that, some alleged Mark Twain quote about the joys of pooping, but my mind was blank. Was Sullivan mad at me? What had happened to Luke? Did he still live here? Should I apologize? Maybe I should just get out of here.

Yes. That one.

“Here you go,” Lala said, and I handed over a couple dollars, then hobbled out, my bad leg locked, the other feeling weak.

Sully held the door for me. “See you around,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. Another eloquent answer.

Then, before I made more of an ass of myself than I already had, I stiff-legged it down the street. I kept my head down, the fear that had splashed at me earlier now rising like a fast tide.

Luke Fletcher would definitely know I was back now.

8

When it finally became clear that my father wasn’t coming back anytime soon, I did what unhappy girls do all over the earth, and especially in America.

I ate.

That first, joyless summer crept past in inches. A new school year started, and I was hungry all the time. Loneliness for my father was like a sinkhole, and I couldn’t find enough food to fill it, despite always taking seconds, always scraping my plate.

Then I started eating in secret, sneaking down to the kitchen at night when my mother was in bed to stuff a leftover meatball in my mouth, chewing the cold, tasteless wad, reaching for another before I even swallowed. I told my mother I could make my own lunches now and added extra slices of American cheese, folding one in quarters, pushing it into my mouth while I slathered the bread with mayonnaise.

At school, I started stealing dessert from the cafeteria, even though I was a cold-lunch kid. Pudding or Jell-O with fake whipped cream on it, the big hard cookies that spattered crumbs everywhere. I’d go through the lunch line, pretending I needed an extra napkin, and subtly grab a little bowl or cookie or Twinkie, then slip off to the gym, which was always empty at lunchtime, and swallow my treat in gulps, tasting only the first bite, shoving the rest in as fast as I could.

I didn’t have friends anymore. All those years of rushing home to see what Dad and Lily and I were going to do (because it was better than anything in the world) had left me outside the harsh world of junior high, where cliques were carved in stone, and cafeteria seating was more complex than the British peerage.

At home, I helped myself to seconds of my mother’s boring, unvarying dinners. Monday night: chicken, baked potatoes, carrots and peas. Tuesday night: meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans. Wednesday night: pork chops, rice, peas again. You get the idea. But I ate and ate and ate.

“You’re getting fat,” Lily accused. She remained elf thin. Soon, I knew, she’d start to become beautiful. “Stop eating, Nora. It’s gross.” She pushed back her own untouched dinner, superiority and disgust shining from her blueberry-colored eyes. One of our shared chores was after-supper cleanup. I always volunteered to do it solo. That way, I could eat her meal, too.

“Go do your homework, Lily,” our mother said, her eyes on me.

My father wasn’t the only one who’d left, it seemed. The day he packed up was the day my sister stopped loving me.

I ate and waited out the year, trying to be as invisible as possible in school that year, counting the weeks till summer, when I prayed Lily and I would recapture the magical times we’d had with Dad. When she would love me again. When I’d once again have a place in the world.

When summer finally arrived, I tried to re-create some of the things we’d done before—draw little maps in the dirt of the secret ancient Mexican cities Dad told us about or make birds’ nests that a real bird might want to live in, shinny up the saplings that lined the rocky shore, make forts.

It didn’t work.

Lily wanted nothing to do with it. One time, I brought up the subject of our father and put my arm around her to reassure her—I was the big sister, after all. She shrugged it off like my arm burned. “Get over it, Nora,” she said bitterly and went back inside.

In a lot of ways, Lily seemed older than I was. She had a sharpness about her, a complexity that I lacked. While I had hidden in sixth grade, Lily started the year off by talking to the prettiest, richest girls in our school without fear, without hesitation, as if she was one of them. And they accepted her.

Everyone knew about our father leaving. In Lily’s case, it made her edgy and badass. In my case, it made me a loser.

My solitude continued into the next school year. I worked hard, because homework could fill up hours, because if I was hunched over a math work sheet at our kitchen table, I didn’t have to see my younger sister, once so loved, glaring at me. I asked for extra-credit projects so I could spend more time at the library, sitting in the cool, dim stacks, reading, scribbling notes, so I didn’t have to go home to the home where my father no longer lived. The one bright spot in my life was straight As every semester.

I worried that our dad called Lily, that he was coming to get her, but he’d leave me with Mom. Every day when I got home, I checked the answering machine. Every day, a zero sat unblinking.

One time, I screwed up my courage when my mother was driving me to the dentist. Somehow, talking in the car was always easier. “Do you think Dad will ever come back?” I asked, looking out my window.

There was a pause, then, “I don’t know.”

Thus ended our conversation.

So I had homework, I had my secret food (which wasn’t that much of a secret really). And then came puberty. Overnight, it seemed, the plagues of Egypt visited my body. I went from a chubby adolescent to someone with breasts and a beer belly, thick thighs that chafed, a butt that was both wide and flat. The hair on my legs was as thick as on my head. I had to shave my armpits daily, or the stubble would prick my skin. I had a ’stache. I had bacne. I got warts on my knuckles.