Go screw yourself,she says in her head. She can’t let herself say it out loud.
It’s only a half mile from Archer’s to the Walgreens on Park Street but if feels like a half marathon as she’s walking it. She hews close to the water as long as she can, along the Rockland Harbor Trail,by the yacht club and the harbormaster hut, watching the boats bobbing in the harbor, passing people and dogs who don’t have to do what she is about to do, before cutting over to Main Street and then to Park. By the time she arrives she’s sweating and thirsty and the air-conditioning in the store is sweet, blessed relief.
She skirts down the hair accessories aisle and toward the pharmacy, where she finds what she’s looking for next to the condoms. Irony notwithstanding. She shuttles it into her basket and hides it beneath a box of Triscuits and a greeting card, blank inside, with a photo of a black Lab puppy on the front. Kristie has nobody to send the card to, but she’s always wanted a black Lab puppy. She adds a bottle of cold water from the cooler near the checkout line and waits behind a pale family covered in sunscreen and rash guards.
When it’s her turn to approach, Kristie doesn’t meet the cashier’s eyes—she’s a grim, middle-aged local with fine lines around her mouth that suggest a lifetime spent with a cigarette between her lips. But when Kristie pays and takes the bag from her, she inadvertently catches the woman’s gaze and sees something there that could be pity. Or curiosity.
“You take care now,” the woman says, and tears spring to Kristie’s eyes. Maybe what she saw in the woman was just good old-fashioned kindness.
Kristie walks back to Linden Street, drinking the water, ignoring her phone when it dings with a text from Danny. He’ll be done in the next thirty minutes; maybe they can grab a bite at the Fog Bar? He’ll see her at home, and they can figure it out.
Kristie picks up her pace. She’ll have to take the most direct route; no meandering by the water. She passes the fancy boutique hotel on the corner of Park and Main; she passes the Time Out Pub and the Rock City Café. She passes the turnoff to the Y, and she keeps walking until she’s home.
The lobsterman’s daughters are in the front yard, arguing over a doll. One of them has it by the hair and the other by the legs and they’re pulling it back and forth between them, saying, “Mine, mine, mine,” rhythmically, almost as though they’re reciting a poem to each other. When they see Kristie they drop the doll and stare at her, wide-eyed, until she waves, and then they both smile.
Kristie locks the door behind her. She pees on the stick, sets the timer on her phone and paces, not allowing herself to look at the screen or the stick until she hears the bell. Instead she looks out the window, at the clear blue sky. When the sun starts to go down and the air cools station one will be hopping. She thinks about Lexi and her Atlanta boyfriend; she thinks about Danny pulling out of the Fitzgeralds’ driveway; she thinks about her mother’s face, small against the big pillow.
And then the timer goes.
It’s not a surprise. The nausea, the breast tenderness, the fatigue—but still itfeelslike a surprise, and she’s immediately faint and flushed and wobbly in the knees. Two pink stripes, side by side, parallel, the two ends of anHwithout the crossbar connecting them. H forhelp. H forhopeless, forhell, forhow.
It’s the oldest story in the book. A tale as old as time, etc.
A knock on the door. Danny. “Kristie! Kristie. Are you in there? Sorry, babe! I left my keys on the table this morning.”
She shuttles everything into the bathroom garbage, then takes a deep breath. She swings the door open.
July
17.
Louisa
Dear Daddy,
Hazel is mine and Claire’s sworn enemy. We are UNITED on that. We don’t think she knows because she is always extra friendly to us. She is going home on the first of August. If she’s still here when you come can you try to be not exactly perfectly friendly to her? EVERYBODY loves Hazel except for me and Claire so it would be nice if you could be on our side. Even Granny likes her, and YOU KNOW that Granny is a tough customer. I promise you Hazel is NOT ALL SHE’S CRACKED UP TO BE.
Sufficey to say Matty is probably going to fall in love. If he hasn’t already.
Daddy, I think we’ve lost him.
Write back.
Love, Abigail
The Pitcairn Islands, for those who don’t know, and truly, Louisa understands, many people don’t know, and fewer probably care, comprise four volcanic islands in the Southern Pacific. The Islands are the sole British territory in the Pacific Ocean. Only one of the islands, Pitcairn, is permanently inhabited, by about fifty people. Pitcairn is the setting for the final book in The Bounty Trilogy, a slew of self-published books, an exposé about the dark secrets on the island, and aVanity Fairarticle. To this body of work Louisa is going to add hers, which will compare the Seventh-day Adventists with the evangelical movement in the United States.
At one time—indeed, when she proposed the topic—this seemed a subject that was suitably interesting to keep Louisa working fruitfully during her sabbatical. At one time she felt great passion for the island of Pitcairn, which is rife with drama and intrigue and beauty. (The island is only about the size of Central Park! Most of the houses don’t have doors! You can watch humpback whales in the surrounding water, which is the clearest, least polluted water anywhere!) She has written four pages since she and Annie visited the Farnsworth. Recalculating the math tells her that she must write between five and a half and six pages per day between now and their departure in mid-August. Now here she is, at the Rockland public library while at Ships View her children try out her new plan for increasing her own productivity.
Her phone, set on silent mode, shows that she missed a call from Franklin in Charleston. She loves Franklin, but sometimes he’s so tapped into the history professor scene that talking to him makes her feel anxious. Better to leave it for now.
She checks her watch. It’s eleven o’clock. Too early for lunch? Maybe, but Louisa’s stomach says otherwise. And the Rockland library, though an indisputably stunning building, is hardly NYU’s twelve-story Bobst. It’s perfect for parents and children and browsers. She packs her laptop and her notecards into her work bag and slings it over her shoulder. She’ll walk around a little bit, justenough to get the juices flowing again, and then she’ll grab a bite to eat and perhaps find somewhere else to work.
On the wide green lawn in front of the library two kids are throwing a Frisbee back and forth. This warms Louisa’s heart—she didn’t know that kids still threw Frisbees. She thought they had all switched over to virtual reality Frisbee-adjacent games. But here in Rockland, maybe time has stood still. As she’s crossing Route 1 to head toward Main Street she entertains a short vision of bringing the children up here. The children can attend Rockland public schools and grow into cleaner, happier, Maine-er, more wholesome versions of the kids they would otherwise.
Then she remembers that the Owls Head house isn’t winterized. Abigail would never want to leave her gymnastics classes. Matty is at a precarious age—nobody cares to start over in eighth grade. And she and Steven, and this is the most salient fact, don’t have jobs here. (Claire would probably come.) On Main Street, she peeks into Atlantic Baking Company and Rock City Café. She chooses Main Street Markets, where she orders a hummus wrap that she can carry down to eat somewhere close to the water. She’ll find a bench! The day is temperate; the sun is out but it’s not too hot, and there’s a light breeze coming from the water.
She has just paid and is heading out the door when she feels her phone buzzing. She looks down. Steven.
