Dolly All the Time(37)

“Is that the end of the story? She went away for a weekend and never came back?”

“No, not at all. The weekend led to a week and then another week. And I think she got a taste of what it was like not to be worried about the fish house and a disabled son. And Patsy and me. Eventually she met a guy named Bob and remarried. Bob didn’t want kids either, so it’s been good.”

“That’s heartbreaking,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. The word comes out a little ragged because it was, at the time, heartbreaking. I sit up and rest my arms on my knees and steady my beer bottle in the wet sand between my feet. “It was sort of like quiet quitting,” I say, and try for a smile. “She was ahead of her time.”

I turn to him, still lying on his side with his swimmer’s body. He’s watching me, brow furrowed. “Is that the end of the story? You never heard from her again?”

“Oh no,” I say. “She sends a holiday card with a lot of x’s and o’s. It’s like she’s our mom but she works remotely.” I laugh at this and wonder if I’m tipsy off a single beer.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Patsy lives outside of Boston, married, with two kids. Very nice husband. Works in marketing. She’s just a year younger than me.”

“So you’re close?”

“Sort of,” I say. “I mean, we check in on each other. She wants to know how Dad’s doing, and I’m the one who knows. I kind of watch over them.”

“Huh,” he says. “That’s all so fucked up.”

“It’s fine,” I say to the water.

He sits up next to me. “Gus’s dad left you to handle things on your own. And your mom did the same thing. It’s fucked up, Dolly.”

I look out at the water and nod. “Okay, it is,” I say. I give him the best smile I can because I do want him to know I’m over it. He gives me that steady look back, like he’s made of the same limestone they used to build Eight Oaks, like he can handle it. So I just tell him. “It was kind of fun at first. Dad gave us money for groceries, and we bought junk food. We let the dishes sit in the sink, sort of an experiment to see what would happen, how bad it would get before someone actually did something.” I look at him to see if I should go on. He’s turned his whole body toward me like he’s listening with every part of himself. “And one day, when she’d been gone for about three weeks, Patsy and I rode our bikes home from school, walked into the house, and she started to cry. There was a smell. I can still smell it, actually. It was the smell of garbage and decay and giving up. The smell that tells you no one’s coming back.”

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Well I took Patsy into my arms, but she wouldn’t stop crying. And I was kind of freaking out because Christopher’s bus was coming in an hour. My dad would be home an hour after that. I couldn’t let them see Patsy that way, know how bad she felt. So I brought her over to the couch and covered her up with our grandmother’s heavy crocheted blanket. I remember I kissed her on the forehead, something I’d never done before. And I cleaned the house.”

That was probably the day I de facto became Patsy’s mother. In small ways, like bringing the blanket, and in bigger ways, like taking her shifts at the fish house so she could run around and have a childhood. When she was Gus’s age, she’d roll in after school and soccer practice, and I’d be pulling a chicken out of the oven and asking about her geometry test. I’d become a lot more than fourteen months older than her.

“I’ve been that person in my family ever since,” I say, and brush some sand off my leg.

“Fending off the chaos,” he says.

“Exactly,” I say. We’re just looking at each other as the breeze tousles our hair. We’re not so different. “I think I was having more fun when we were talking about your heartbreak.”

“Audrey?” He’s quiet for a bit. “There’s not much to say. I miss some things, like she picked great restaurants and made me order things I’d never try. But I’m not totally sure that makes a marriage.”

“Niles used to buy seltzer water and put it in my fridge,” I say. “Gus’s father. He did stuff like that, and I felt taken care of. I thought that meant forever, a lifetime of sodas appearing because someone was thinking I might be thirsty. He used to text me and ask if I needed anything from the store before he came over. Just because someone’s thoughtful doesn’t mean they love you, I later learned.”

“Audrey would never come to the hospital with me, said sick kids made her feel uncomfortable.”

I laugh though I know I shouldn’t. “Sorry,” I say. “But kind of a red flag for a guy who desperately wants kids?”

“I am not desperate,” he says.

“You are, it’s all over you. You reek of baby lust.”

He laughs. “Maybe a little.” He looks out at the waves. “I just want to have something to leave behind. If that doesn’t end up being a family, I still have my work. This restoration project in San Francisco with Kramer Corp, if we can get it done, it’ll last forever. So…” He trails off and shrugs.

I want to explain to him that a building isn’t the same as a child, but I have a feeling he understands that very well.