Besides, I do love driving, which is why I pay a huge monthly fee for my space. A car comes in handy when I’m photographing houses in Duchess County or Long Island, and on weekends, Joy and I take road trips to explore the art center in Cornwall, hike trails in Stony Brook, or kayak in Smithtown.
Now we’re driving to Rhode Island. Not my choice. Well, yes, my choice, because I am the ultimate chooser in our family of two. Butbetween my conscience and my daughter, there wasn’t much choice at all. It’s been ten days since Jack Sabathian’s call, and while there hasn’t been a second, the first one haunts me.
“Whoa,” says Joy when we reach the accident. Morbid curiosity keeps her turning to look back as we move ahead. Finally, flopping forward, she says, “I’m not driving. Ever.” In my periphery, I see her glance at her phone, and not for the first time. She must have texted a friend before we left and is awaiting a reply.
If history serves, she’s in for a wait. Joy is on the fringe of the texting group, for which I’m thrilled, though she is not. She once told me about being in the lunchroom and sitting alone with her sunflower-butter sandwich because she couldn’t stand thesmellof thecrapthe others were eating. I figure she told them that. Both the school counselor, who loves Joy’s spunk, and Chrissie, who is a psychologist, claim that Joy is mature for her age and that the others will catch up. I worry about the harm done until that happens. It’s about self-esteem.
Deliberately, I relax my hands on the wheel, but still my heart bleeds. Every child needs a best friend at her back. I had my sisters, Margo the fearless and Anne the ray of sun. Joy is a lonely only, sitting by herself in a lunchroom full of kids. And now a silent phone? This is why I agreed to a week, rather than a weekend, at the beach. Rhode Island will be a diversion.
We’re listening to Ed Sheeran now. She had thumbed him in before dropping her phone, and I know there’s defiance in her choice.I can’t wait to go home,he sings in “Castle on the Hill,” which has been her anthem since we decided on this trip. Little does she know that while I’m okay with that line, the ones that follow grip me more.I was younger then, take me back to when I found my heart and broke it here. But she hasn’t a clue.
Greenwich falls behind us, then Stamford. As Vivaldi rises through the speakers, Joy’s fingers play the notes. “Do you remember this highway from growing up?” she asks.
We’re approaching Darien. “I do.”
“Going to New York.”
“And Philadelphia. And Washington.”
“All five of you?”
“Uh-huh. My father believed that our education needed theater and museums and history, so we’d take ‘culture trips,’ he called them.” The memory opens. “We were packed in a Jeep Wagoneer. It had wood on the sides, a really pretty car. The three of us were in back, me in the middle so those two didn’t fight. We didn’t have movies to distract us.”
“What about music?”
“Nope. Dad said that was for a concert hall. So we’d play games, like I Spy, or looking for license plates from different states. Margo was always testing him, laughing or singing, and we’d be giggling, so he’d end up yelling at us anyway. Mom would tell him we weren’t doing any harm, so he’d yell at her. It went downhill from there.”
Joy considers that as we pass a horse trailer with two tails hanging out the back. She turns to follow, looking for horse eyes through the narrow slats. “So those trips weren’t fun?”
“Actually, theywere,” I recall. “It was backseat against front, three of us against Dad.”
She thinks about that to a quieter Brahms as we pass Norwalk. Then, sounding unsure, like she’s only now considering what we might find when we arrive in Bay Bluff, she says, “But being old and all, he’s mellowed, right?”
“Anne says he has,” I grant, though, that wasn’t my takeaway from Jack’s call. If Dad is worse—if he’s irrational, or, God forbid, does have a gun—
But those are ifs, and Anne has said no to them all. If I seriously thought Joy was in danger, we wouldn’t be headed to see the man now.
“I’m starved,” she announces. The avocado wrap we’d shared before leaving, which would have spoiled if left behind in the fridge—has clearly worn off. “How much longer?”
“Ninety minutes, give or take. I can stop—”
“No. I want to wait. You said Bay Bluff has great places to eat.”
“It does.” I’ve Googled it. Of course I have. My favorite eatery is still there. “Great fried clams.”
“Fried is bad.”
“This fried is good. Trust me, babe.”
She doesn’t argue, mainly because she is checking her phone again, which she hides behind a show of changing the station. Her hand is quickly tapping the beat of Maroon 5 on her thigh.
The rain has let up, but the sky remains thick. “So,” she invites, “what did Margo say?” When I’m silent, I feel her stare. “You didn’t call her?”
“I decided not to. I didn’t want to argue with her. You want to go, and that’s that. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be there long.” One week. I’m booked for a job in the city the Saturday after this one.
“She’ll be angry if she finds out. Won’t Anne tell her?”
I hesitate several seconds too long.
