“It’s dead,” pronounces Claire, with certainty. “It’s definitely dead.” She reaches out with her stick again.
“Don’t touch it,” says Matty.
“Not even with my stick? I can almost reach it. I won’t fall in, promise.”
“Definitely not with your stick. Don’t touch it at all. We need to tell the grown-ups. That’s what we need to do. And they have to call—the authorities.”
“What authorities?”
“I don’t know,” says Matty. “The... mammal authorities.” Claire tosses him a glance so skeptical it almost makes his cheeks burn. Claire does skeptical really well for someone who is only seven. “There are authorities!” he says, holding fast. “I know there are. Mom will know, or Granny. Abigail, want to run up?”
“I got it,” says Claire. She makes fists out of her hands and puts them by her side and straightens her arms and lets outsucha bloodcurdling scream that every grown-up on the porch turns toward the children, and the children can see their faraway startled faces, the drinks in their hands.
Claire gets things done.
5.
Louisa
Annie knows what to do. She calls the Marine Mammal Reporting Hotline, whose number she keeps on the bulletin board in the kitchen, and speaks to the dispatcher, and within the hour a responder and an intern have arrived and loaded the seal into a jet sled and transported it to their facility. Claire follows the responders like a flower girl does a bride and asks alotof questions. What will they do with the seal? A necropsy? What’sthat? What’s the difference between a necropsy and an autopsy? How long will it take? Who will do it, and when? Will it smell? She reports all of the answers over dinner, which does not take place at six o’clock, and the conversation serves to make Pauline’s baked cod less than appetizing to some in the family. Pauline clatters extra loudly in the kitchen to show her dissatisfaction.
At bedtime the children, worn out by the fresh air and the excitement, fall quickly asleep, Abigail and Claire in the Bunk Room,and Matty in the corner bedroom with its own tiny bathroom. Louisa’s father is asleep too, having been helped into his pajamas by the caregiver, who has departed. Louisa loves the house like this, silent and brooding, in the hours after the children’s bedtimes and before her own. And if she’s being honest with herself it’s a relief to have her father off to bed; she can pretend, for a moment, that everything is as it always was, that time isn’t passing, that her children aren’t growing up and her parents aren’t growing old. She has always loved to be awake while others are asleep; even as a child, in this very house, she used to sneak downstairs at midnight and turn on a solitary kitchen light and read her book, sometimes staying awake until two or three in the morning. One summer here she readBridge to Terabithia,just as Abigail will do this summer. Louisa cried herself to sleep at the end, and Abigail probably will as well.
“I’m just going to sit on the porch for a few minutes,” she says to her mother.
“Shall I join you? We can have a nightcap! Unless you want to be alone?”
“No,” says Louisa decisively. “I don’t want to be alone. A nightcap sounds lovely.”
It does sound lovely! Everything sounds lovely. Her responsibilities already feel lighter here than they do at home, and also, at this particular juncture, the absence of Steven feels like a lightness too. When the children were young any trip undertaken as the solo parent was more difficult, but now that the kids are older—sometimes even bordering on self-sufficient—she can see how this summer some parts of her might feel less tempestuous, more at peace.
The moon is almost full, and they keep the porch lights off to deter the bugs. They can hear the water slapping at the rocks, and, in the distance, the foghorn at the lighthouse, low and mournful. The light flashes intermittently. Her mother brings two snifters ofwhiskey and hands one to Louisa. Annie sits in the wicker rocking chair and Louisa on the love seat, her legs tucked underneath her.
She hears a far-off sound of crickets. “Is Pauline okay? She seems quiet, or sad. Did I do something to upset her? Or did one of the kids?”
“No, no,” says Annie. “Not at all. She’s heartbroken over a sick cousin, a very close one. And her own daughter hardly ever comes back, while here you are for the whole summer. I could see where that might be rubbing her the wrong way. But it’s not your fault, of course.”
“Nicole Pelletier,” says Louisa. “I was just thinking about her today. We were really close that one summer, remember? When we were sixteen? Why doesn’t she come back more?”
Annie shrugs. “She moved to Nashville a long time ago, you know. I suppose she likes it better down there. I suppose there’s not too much for her to come back to up here anymore. I don’t think it would kill her to bring the granddaughter up every so often though.”
“I’d die if I couldn’t come up here every year, and let it renew me.” The bright dot of the stars against the dark sky, the chill of the air like a cool hand laid against a hot cheek. “I don’t know how Steven’s going to stand it in Brooklyn.”
“Nicole lived here year-round for most of her life. Maybe she’s had enough.” Annie shrugs—Annie’s shrugs are delicate and graceful, as is everything about Annie. “Steven will come up, right? Didn’t you say he’ll come in August?”
“Sure. Maybe. I’m not sure.”I hope so, I don’t hope,thinks Louisa.
“Claire said you’ve been fighting a lot.”
Louisa groans.Claire! “How’d that come up?”
“She just offered it, when I went in to say good night. She’s something, Claire.” Louisa can feel her mother’s smile in the darkness.
“Not fighting. Discussing. Figuring things out.”
“Figuring what out?”
“Work. Life. The combination thereof.”
