I have always thought I could feel Adam, that his pulse and my pulse were connected, that his soul and mine were one. It eased my fears when I woke up startled in the night, searching for him on his side of the bed, because I could feel him. Whether he was in Iraq or Afghanistan, off the coast of Carolina or the mouth of the Danube, my heart beat in time with his. Maybe it was his letters that made me feel that way; maybe it was his words, the rhythm of them, that made me feel his presence.
That’s what scared me the most. Once those uniformed men visited me to deliver the unthinkable news, I quit feeling Adam. So I read and reread his letters trying to feel him, to bring him back to me, wherever he was.
When Caroline pulled me out the door that morning, I felt conflicted at best. As we walked through the front yard to the gate, I started to feel a tightness in my chest. My head felt light and woozy, and my breath came in short gasps. Emerson, who was on my left side, supporting me while Caroline pulled, stopped suddenly, alarmed. “Caroline,” she scolded. “Stop!”
I leaned over, trying to catch my breath.
“No,” Caroline said. “No. We are fifty yards from the boat. We’re not stopping now.”
“Are you OK, Aunt Sloane?” Vivi asked.
I stood, about to cross the street to our dock. I could turn back. I could get into bed, close the draperies, and go on like I had been. I could continue to neglect my children and obsess over the myriad ways in which my love might be suffering. Or I could take Caroline’s hand. I could cross over, not only to the other side of the street, but also to the other side of my life, real living.
I thought of Adam, of what he would want me to do, and even though I’d had such a hard time feeling him these past few weeks, I knew he would want me to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Because, without him, I was all my children had. I was our only hope.
I had to do this for me, for my boys, for my niece watching me. She needed to see me swim, not sink. I stood up and leaned on Emerson. I looked up into her clear blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean. “I’m ready,” I said.
It wasn’t much, but I knew my sister understood. I was ready to start living again.
Two hours later, scopolamine patch behind my ear, I was happy with the choice I had made. Caroline was expertly captaining Jack’s yacht. I, for one, was grateful we weren’t sailing. It had been bad enough to untie the lines and let out the dinghy. Jibs and masts were more than I could take.
I sat on the bench beside Caroline’s captain’s chair, Vivi and Emerson behind us on the blue-and-white-striped bench that was sofa-comfy.
“You should have seen her in her little Seafarer uniform,” I was saying. “Your mom was amazing. She moved through the ranks so quickly that they thought they were going to have to invent new challenges for her.”
“The water’s in her blood,” Emerson added. “Against all odds.”
Caroline laughed.
“I’m so excited,” Vivi said. “I’m excited about camp, but I’m also excited to have all of you to myself for three whole days.”
Having my entire family’s attention on me didn’t happen often, but when it did, I savored it too.
“Aunt Emmy, here’s what I want to know.”
I was expecting her to ask something about camp. Instead, she said, “What’s the deal with you and Mark?”
Caroline glanced back at Emerson as if to say,You can tell her, but keep it clean.
Emerson smiled, and I swear she looked fifteen again. “I kept telling Mark I didn’t want to date him, that it was distracting and not in my plan.”
Caroline shot a look at Emerson that I knew meant,And then he started sneaking in your window, which isn’t distracting and is in your plan?
“So we were seeing each other here and there, but nothing serious at all.” She paused, taking a sip of her Perrier. “But remember that Internet series I starred in, Make It Happen?”
Caroline and I both groaned, and Caroline said, “How could we possibly forget?”
I pulled the cellophane wrapper off a bag of popcorn and put it in the microwave.
“What’s that?” Vivi asked.
She got to keep her clothes on, but in terms of writing, lighting, and production value, that show was just a notch above porn. “It was this awful show Aunt Emmy starred in.”
“Mark told me he had watched that entire series nine times just to see me.”
“Nine times?” Caroline asked, horrified. “How? Why? And, again how?”
I groaned. “If he watched that trash nine times, he is head-over-heels, can’t-breathe-without-you in love,” I said.
