Present
The next morning, Diana arrives promptly at 8:00 a.m. Brett and I are up and ready, but Matt is still asleep. Brett’s finishing off a bowl of Apple Jacks at the kitchen table. Diana says very little, her greetings reduced to a few, select words, a kind hug for me, and a kiss on the forehead for her granddaughter.
Brett’s unusually quiet, too, which makes me feel out of sorts. For Diana, the behavior is off-putting, but at least it makes sense. But Brett is only six years old. In my mind, that’s too young to be so quiet.If this is their way of coping as a family, then it’s not my place to judge. Instead, I keep busy, washing dishes, refreshing my cup of coffee, and folding the blankets I used on the couch the night before.
I stayed up well into the night trying to think of a plan to make the day special and fun for Brett, a genuine distraction from the disturbing reality of her father’s situation. Around midnight, I finally settled in on a plan I thought would suffice. I was proud of it, actually. The key to executing a successful hooky day for Brett would be to take her mind off her dad’s condition. I came up with something I knew would be exciting for Brett, but it would absolutely remind her of Matt, which was why it was a little bit risky.
“You ready, kiddo?” I ask.
Brett looks up, snapping out of a fog. “Sure,” she responds. “Where are we going?”
“Well, it’s a hooky day, right?”
Brett nods.
“So, it’s got to be something special.” I wink. Brett’s rosebud lips turn up into a smile.
“I’ll keep you posted,” Diana promises me. We hug. “And you, little miss,” she says to Brett. “You be a good girl for Taylor, okay?”
Brett nods, folding into the woman’s arms, both of them searching for comfort in the gesture.
“Okay, kiddo, grab your jacket,” I instruct. We climb in the car, where the stereo promptly comes alive as soon as I start the ignition. I leave the music on, allowing us to drown out any potential silence. We groove for miles to pop songs that Brett appears to like or, at the very least, knows the words to.
Because Brett is always cognizant of her surroundings, I intentionally take a different route out east, choosing a parkway about 10 miles south of the Long Island Expressway and driving the back roads up toward Sound Hollow. I turn into a small, residential beach community called Bluff Oaks and drive down their private, main drag past several narrow side streets, littered with bungalow houses. I only know about this community because Lisa’s family’s summer house was somewhere among these tangled, winding lanes. Everyone knows that Dottie D’Angelo was raised on a farm out here, before the land was parceled out and sold to developers, most of whom turned them into summer communities like Bluff Oaks. At the second to last cross street, once the beach is in full view, I make a left turn and park the car in front of a random, minty-green beach cottage. It’s a risk, leaving my car here like this, but given that it’s April and there’s nobody around, it’s unlikely that the police will be out and about ticketing trespassers.
“Where are we?” Brett asks.
“The beach. I thought we could go walking,” I reply.
I grab my backpack, which contains an extra sweatshirt for Brett, two large bottles of water and plenty of snacks to keep us satiated. The initial walk measures a mile and three quarters, which I’m concerned might be too much for Brett’s little legs, but it only gets worse from there, so I opt not to think about it.We’ll just take it slow.We’ve got all day and nowhere else to be.
We stroll down the hill to an entrance to the private beach. A large sign reads “Bluff Oaks – Private Property.” Brett sounds out the bigger words. “Are we allowed here?”
“Of course, honey. Come on. It’s going to be fun. This beach is very special.”
“Special how?”
“Well, come follow me.” I lead Brett down to the water. Sand kicks up into our sneakers until we get to the rocks. It takes me a minute, but finally I catch a glimmer of Budweiser brown. It’s a rich, clear woodsy color. I reach down and rescue the piece of beach glass before a wave comes to wash it away. I hand it to Brett.
“What’s this?” she asks, turning the treasure over in her palm.
“It’s beach glass. People throw old glass bottles into the sea where they get broken and trashed. The waves and the current smash them against the rocks, and eventually they shatter into little pieces.” I bend down and find another, smaller piece the color of fresh sod. I hold it up for Brett to see. “But the pieces live in the Sound, turning and tumbling over the rocks until eventually their edges get smooth and their flat sides get cloudy.”
“They’re beautiful,” Brett says, quietly.
“I’ve been collecting beach glass on this stretch of shoreline since I was your age.”
“Is this still Long Island?” Brett asks.
“Sure is.” I grin. “We’re at camp.”
“Wait. But we didn’t come through the gate.”
“You’re right. Technically, that over there,” I point east, down the shore, “is our camp beach. Right now, we’re at Bluff Oaks, which is right next door.”
“So, will we get to see it?”
“Well, I had an idea. I think we might be able to get in there by coming up through the beach. It’s going to be a lot of walking, though.” I watch with appreciation as Brett’s eyes smile behind her purple frames. “Are you up for it?”
