Outside the bathroom, I turn on the shower to let the water run hot, then go in search of Advil. I root around my mother’s deep, disorganized cabinet. My hand grazes something in back, and I pull it out, already knowing what it is. One of Anna’s ancient Playtex tampons. No one else ever used that brand. The plastic wrapper has yellowed, but the little pink plastic applicator inside has held its pink. I think of Conrad peering in through the bathroom window, my legs spread wide, tampon skittling across the floor. The day I met Jonas. And I think of Anna, always shouting at me for touching her things—that I was the one she told when she lost her virginity. How sad and scared she was those last months. How Peter held me fast, every day, when the tears came. I step into the shower, stand under the hot, gushing water, hoping it will drown out my guttural animal sobs, my salted-wound despair, begging the water to make me clean, to scald away the past. Knowing that there is only one choice to make.
6:45 P.M.
We walk up our steep driveway, stop at the dirt road, wait for Mum at the triangle.
“Don’t wait for me,” she yells from halfway up the driveway.
But we wait. I’m barefoot, in a linen dress, flip-flops shoved in a straw bag, flashlights for the walk home, trying to keep my insides at bay. Maddy has run on ahead—she likes to be first—with Finn racing down the dirt road behind her. I watch my mother’s slow progress. Her knees aren’t what they once were. She’s wearing her same old jeans—slightly too short, slightly too wide, and a cotton Indian shirt that covers her behind, as she likes to say. The pond frames her ascent: a glass-blue horizon line, waist-height, behind a fretwork of trees. I pretend to listen to Jack arguing with Peter about why we need a beach sticker for White Crest Beach. The surfing is better, and it only costs thirty dollars for residents.
“We’ll see,” Peter says.
I swat at my ankles. I’m being bitten alive by blackflies.
A horsefly lands on my arm. Its quail-speckled wings settle. Horseflies are slower than blackflies—bigger and easier to kill, but their sting is ten times worse. I swat it. Kill it. Watch it tumble to the dirt road and twitch once before dying.
“Who has the bug spray?”
Peter reaches into a canvas bag.
“Here I am,” my mother announces. “The flies are back. I’m glad you decided to come with us, Eleanor,” she says. “Though I wish you’d put your hair back. It looks so much nicer when it’s out of your face.”
* * *
—
We are coming up to the Gunthers’ house when my mother stops. The Gunthers’ vicious German shepherds are long dead. So are the Gunthers. I don’t know the family who bought the house. Yet I still feel a tinge of nerves, expecting the high-pitched barking, the saliva, the growling, gums exposed for the kill, every time I approach their white wooden fence, now partially rotted away, fallen into the dark underbrush along with everything else.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mum says. “The red onion.”
“Jack can run back,” Peter says. “It’ll take five minutes.”
“Why am I always the one who has to do everything?” Jack grouses. “Why can’t Maddy or Finn go?”
I can see the muscle in Peter’s jaw clenching. “Because you are currently making up for your utterly shit behavior to your sainted mother this morning.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’ll go.” I start back without waiting for Peter to contradict me. I know every fucking family is unhappy in its own fucking way. But right now, for a few hours, I need Happy Family. Until I am safely on shore, I need to hold on to this truth like a life preserver. Not let go.
“Can you grab me a sweater?” Peter calls after me. “It’s going to get chilly.”
* * *
—
A white cat I’ve never seen before is sitting on the deck outside the screen porch. There’s something about a white cat that revolts me—a ratlike porn-y quality. The cat disappears into the bushes when it sees me coming. The bottom half of a chipmunk lies on the deck, its furry tail dangling between the wooden slats. I know I should clean it up, but it’s disgusting and I may as well let the cat finish his dinner. I leave it there and go to our cabin to grab Peter a sweater.
The top bureau drawer is open. Peter, I think, annoyed. I’m always careful to shut it tight to keep the moths and spiders out. I shove the drawer closed. My jewelry box is out on the bureau top. Odd, because I know I didn’t leave it there. I open it to check if anything is missing. Nothing has been taken, but something has been added. A piece of folded paper lies atop my tangle of earrings and necklaces. It has been cut in the shape of a snapping turtle. Inside is my green glass ring. Jonas has had it all these years. Since we stumbled back into each other in the Greek coffee shop. Since that spring evening on the pier. Since the beach picnic where I first met Gina—Anna’s last summer on the pond. I wonder where he has kept it. Hidden away. A tiny secret. It’s such a small thing, a worthless tin thing, its gilt long gone. Yet, when I put it on my finger I feel a powerful sense of completion—as if I’ve finally been made whole, restored—like a Venus de Milo whose missing arm has been found, trapped under the earth for centuries, and, at last, reattached. I close my eyes, allowing myself this, at least. I remember the moment he gave it to me. His clammy, shaking hand. Saying goodbye. Two children who would always love each other. I stick the ring in my pocket, crumple the paper turtle, toss it into the wastebasket, and grab Peter a sweater.