We left the car downtown overnight so no one had to be the designated driver. Now, it’s my responsibility to take the local bus, the Wave, back to where we left it. Otherwise, it will surely get towed. The new renters will be here at noon and everything has to be perfect for their arrival. I stretch and rise out of bed, beginning to get ready.
I stop by Lily’s room, peering through the door she left ajar. There she is: unconscious, peaceful. Her curly red hair splayed across the pillow, tangled anew.
My baby.
“She’s not a baby anymore,” said Josie last night when Lily was at the bar buying drinks. I was telling her about the Henry run-in, warning her not to mention the subject.
“You can’t protect her from everything,” she said.
It was like telling me to let Lily tumble over a cliff. Abandon her to the wolves. Of course, I know Lily isn’t a baby anymore. I trusther. I trust the woman she’s becoming, but every time I look at her face, it’s as if I’m seeing all the versions she’s ever been lined up at once, like some sort of matryoshka doll. I blink and there she is at fifteen, seven, and five. Her cheekbones less angular, her eyes wider, but her mirth as wicked as ever.
A text pops up on my phone, letting out a beep. It’s the man from last night, William.
I was charmed to meet you, it reads.Dinner soon?
I suppress a shudder at the wordcharmed. It’s so formal, over the top. When I met William, he brought the back of my hand to his mouth and gave it a quick kiss. It was like watching a cheesy adaptation of a Regency novel, one of Lottie’s favorites.
I spare another glance at Lily, content in her dreams, before continuing to get dressed for the day. I hate that she’s going through a rough time, but I also cherish having her here, safe and cozy in her bedroom, where she belongs. I grab a Post-it and write her a note in case she wakes up before I’m back.
Out the door, I begin to walk to the bus and mull over the idea of saying yes to William.
When I found out Lily was returning home, there was a part of me that was thrilled. Raising her alone was hard, but more often than not, we were partners in it. She was my companion, my buddy. I often wished I had someone to share the lows of parenthood with and shoulder the challenges, but I also had the joys all to myself. We created a life together, a life we were proud of, and we still had Lottie.
When Lily left for college, I dropped her off, unpacked the car, and then sat in the university parking lot for a few minutes, catatonic. Her absence was a physical presence, a shift in the atmosphere. The air whistled with the sound. For the first time in my life—in all my loneliness—I felt truly alone.
Then Lottie told us she was sick. I packed up our small house in New Haven and came back to the island. I haven’t left since. Nantucket has been a lifeline. With Lottie’s help, I built another life for myself here: a community, friends, a career, purpose. I made myself whole again. I didn’t let Lily see my devastation over her absence. I didn’t let her know about my loneliness.
Having her momentarily back brings me joy, another bonus summer for us where we’ll be together all season. And yet, I also know she is going to leave. It’s inevitable: It’s what’s natural and right. During the pandemic, we got used to living together again, but kids are supposed to leave their parents. Parents are supposed to be okay with that. However, now Lottie is gone, too.
Where does that leave me?
The streets are narrow around here with no sidewalks, and cars keep passing, forcing me into neighbors’ yards. Lottie’s cottage—now my cottage, I suppose, although it’s difficult to think of it that way—is situated one block away from the start of the famous bluff walk, a long trail that curves between the edge of the cliff and through the flower-lined yards of residents to the beach.
A flagpole stands in the center of the cobblestone-lined rotary. Beyond it, the tiny town that constitutes Siasconset, affectionately referred to as ’Sconset village by the islanders. Compared to downtown, it’s nothing, but this area of the island will always have my heart. It feels as if you’re stepping into another era, where neighbors chat over morning coffee and the mail carrier knows your name.
There’s a market that sells milk, eggs, pantry items, pastries, fresh vegetables, and homemade ice cream. There’s the post office, and a sandwich shop called Claudette’s with a reliably long line. There’s a liquor store, a restaurant, and a clothing shop smaller than a walk-in closet.
That’s it, but as a preteen, I thought it was the whole world. I loved the autonomy of being able to walk into the village to buy my own ice cream or run an errand for my aunt. It made me feel like an adult, back when it was still thrilling to feel like an adult.
Maybe I also love this area because it’s the place I first met him.
Of course, that didn’t last. It’s been over thirty years since we’ve laid eyes on each other. But here, with the island frozen in time, I can still imagine him strolling by, solid as fog.
“Hi, Rose!” one of my neighbors calls out to me, waving. She’s tending to the flowers in her yard. I wave back.
It was a close call with Lily last night. I’m not even sure why I don’t want her to know about it, except that talking about him makes it all feel more real somehow, ever present. Lily has never shown such an interest in my past before. Maybe it’s the reappearance of Henry, or the loss of her job, or the fact that she’s now the same age I was when I had her, but the questions threw me for a loop. Every time she asked me about my past relationships, my heart jolted and shrank. It’s pathetic, really, that he’s still the first person I think of when someone asks me about love. After all these years, I can’t shake him loose.
I look at my phone again.
Charmed. William was “charmed” to meet me.
There are parts of William that remind me of James, Lily’s father: his clothing, the polished, overpruned manner in which he spoke. But William was also nice. There was a degree of uncertainty, awkwardness, that warmed me.
“Can I buy you a refreshment?” William asked last night, almost bowing.
“A refreshment?” I repeated, amused. “That’s a little formal for a place like this.”
All of the Gazebo’s drinks are served in plastic cups. The most complicated item on their menu is a mix of cranberry, Red Bull, and vodka.
