Now That You Mention It

2

How will my dog cope with this?

My soul, it seemed, wasn’t ready to leave just yet and was still hung up on the concerns of the material world.

Poor Boomer, the Dog of Dogs, my sweet little hundred-pound puppy, who protected me and came into the bathroom when I showered to stand guard just in case someone broke in. Boomer, who loved me with all his giant heart, who would put his head on my leg, who asked for nothing other than an ear scratch, who was afraid of pigeons but adored ducks... No one would love him the way I did. He’d be sad and confused for the rest of his life.

I knew I shouldn’t have waited for stupid Bobby! And why the hell was I the one getting the pizza? Why hadn’t I stood up for myself and told beautiful, snotty Jabrielle to go her damn self? She was a resident! I was a fully vested doctor, thank you!

But I hadn’t, and now I was dead.

I hope we can still go with open casket.

I had often envisioned my funeral—me lying against the rose-colored satin, looking utterly stunning, U2’s and Ed Sheeran’s sadder songs playing gently in the background while my friends wept and laughed over their precious memories of me. A closed casket was not part of the scenario, hit by Beantown Bug Killers or not. I wondered if my face was smooshed in. Eesh.

I have nothing to wear to my funeral.

Granted, in life I’d been a clothes whore, at least during the past fifteen years or so. But for my funeral, I wanted something special. The navy-blue-and-white polka-dot Brooks Brothers dress I’d been eyeing, or that pink floral Kate Spade. But maybe that would be too festive.

I’ll never meet Daniel Radcliffe now.

It had always been a long shot, I knew that, but I’d imagined stalking him after he did a show on Broadway, waiting by the side door, our eyes meeting, his inimitable smile, going out for a drink, sharing our favorite moments from Harry Potter, me finding out that he, too, hated the destruction of Hogwarts and agreed that Ron was nowhere near worthy of Hermione. Now, with me dead, it definitely wasn’t gonna happen.

True, no one was acting like I was dead, but I was fairly certain I was. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed yet. I guessed this ER wasn’t quite the be-all and end-all of modern medicine, was it? I thought I’d heard the words dislocated patella and ortho consult and trauma alert. I was pretty sure I’d seen the tunnel of light, but my spirit was tuning in and out.

What was that beeping? It was really hurting my head.

I’d read about this kind of thing happening. Out-of-body experiences. The soul lingering a little while before heading for the afterlife. Did I know anyone who’d greet me from heaven? My dad, maybe, if he was dead? That mean-ass grandmother of mine who used to tell me I was fat? I hoped she wasn’t there. Who else? Maybe that sweet patient who’d died of pancreatic cancer during my fellowship. God, I had loved her. My first fatality.

“So she’s your girlfriend?” someone asked. I knew that voice. Jabrielle. Couldn’t miss that hint of sneer.

“Yeah.” Bobby.

Was he about to start sobbing? Wait, did Bobby have to call the code on me? Or had he been hysterical, calling my name, having to be dragged out by two burly orderlies? Either way, the poor, poor man. Dang, I wished I remembered! I guess I’d shown up a little late to my own death. Which did seem to happen a lot in the movies.

The beeping was persistent and annoying.

“How long have you been together?” Jabrielle again.

“Oh, a little more than a year. It’s funny, though. I was gonna break up with her this weekend.” A pause. “She’s not in the best shape, anyway.” Gentle laughter.

I almost smiled.

Wait. What?

Did Bobby just break up with me?

I was barely even cold! Did he—Was he—

“So what will you do?” Jabrielle asked.

“It would be pretty shitty to dump her now, I guess.”

A female purr. “Well, when you’re a free man, give me a call.”

“Wish I didn’t have to wait so long.”

Are you even kidding me?

No. No, no. I was dead. I didn’t care about these things. Soon, I’d be floating up to the stars or something.

But just in case, I decided to try to open my eyes.

Oh, shit. I wasn’t dead. I was in the ER. That beeping sound was the heart monitor, nice and regular, 78 beats per minute, O2 sat 98 percent, BP 130/89, a little high, but given the pain, not unexpected.

And Bobby was fondling a piece of Jabrielle’s hair.

“Do you mind?” I said, my voice croaking.

They jumped apart.

“Hey! You’re awake! Take it easy, hon, you’re gonna be okay.” Bobby took my hand—ow, my shoulder!—and smiled reassuringly. He did have the prettiest blue eyes. “You were hit by a car.”

“Beantown Bug Killers,” Jabrielle added.

“Did I die?”

Bobby smirked. “We had to sedate you. You have a concussion—we scanned you, but you’re fine. Bruised kidneys, broken clavicle and a patellar dislocation, which we reduced. It’s splinted, and we’re waiting on ortho to check you out. Can you feel your toes?”

Everything hurt. My back, my head, my shoulder, my knee. I was one giant throb of pain. But whatever they’d given me made it so I didn’t really care.

I guess my tunnel of light had been the CAT scan.

“I want another doctor,” I said.

“Hon, don’t be that way.”

“Bite me. You were flirting over my corpse.” I pulled my hand free. Ow.

He rolled his eyes. “You weren’t dead, Nora.”

Fury blotted out the pain for a second. “Well, I thought I was. Get out. Both of you. Don’t be surprised if I file a complaint for unprofessional conduct. And call Gus to walk Boomer.”

The tug of the sedation or concussion pulled me back under, and before the door had closed, I was asleep again.

* * *

When I woke up, I was in a regular hospital room, Bobby asleep in the chair beside me. Some weary white carnations were in a vase next to me, their edges brown. If that wasn’t a metaphor for our relationship, I didn’t know what was. I sensed that moving would be very painful, so I breathed carefully and took stock.

My left arm was in a sling. A brace of some kind was on my right leg. My back hurt, my abdomen ached, and my head throbbed, little flashes of light in my peripheral vision with every heartbeat.

But I was alive. Apparently, the concussion and drugs had given me that out-of-body feeling.

Bobby stirred, never a good sleeper. Opened his eyes. “Hey. How you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Hit by a van.”

“That’s right. You were crossing the street, and you got hit. Besides the patellar dislocation, your left clavicle is broken, and you’ve got fractures in the sixth and seventh ribs on the left. Pretty good concussion, too. The trauma team admitted you for a night or two.”

“Did you call Gus?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward. “I’m sorry about Jabrielle.”

Surprisingly, my throat tightened, and tears welled in my eyes, slipping down my temples into my hair. “At least you made it easy,” I whispered.

“Made what easy?”

“Breaking up. I can’t really overlook you hitting on another woman when I’m bruised and battered in the ER, can I?”

He looked ashamed. “I really am sorry. That wasn’t classy at all.”

“No.”

“Roseline came by. I called her. She’s upstairs on L and D, but she’ll come down later.”

“Great.”

We were quiet for a few minutes.

Once, I thought I’d marry Bobby Byrne. Once, I thought he’d be lucky to have me. But somewhere in the midst of our year and change together—after the Big Bad Event—I got lost. What was once a bright and shiny penny had become dirty and dull and useless, and it was high time I admitted it.

Bobby hadn’t loved me for a long time.

I was going to need help for the next few weeks. Concussions were serious business, and with my injured arm and leg, I had mobility concerns. I’d need help, and I wasn’t about to stay with Bobby.

Problem was, we lived together. Roseline was a newlywed; otherwise, I’d stay with her. Other friends... No.

“I want to go home,” I said.

“Sure. Tomorrow. I’ll take a few days off.”

“I meant home. To the island.”

Bobby blinked. “Oh.”

Strangely enough, I wanted my mother. I wanted the pine trees and rocky shores. I wanted to sleep in the room I hadn’t slept in for fifteen years.

I wanted to see my sister.

Yes. I’d go home, as one does after a brush with death. I’d take a leave of absence from the practice and go back to Scupper Island, make amends with my mother, spend some time with my niece, wait for my sister to come back and...well...reassess. I might not have died, but it was close enough. I had another chance. I could do better.

“And I’m bringing Boomer,” I added.

* * *

A week later, still sore and slow, arm in a sling, leg in a soft brace, one crutch to balance me, I looked around our apartment for the last time. Bobby’s apartment, really. Roseline had come over last night, and we got a little weepy, but she said she’d come see me on Scupper. Bobby had thoughtfully made himself scarce and had been sleeping on the couch all week.

I should never have moved in with him. We’d only been dating a couple of months before the Big Bad Event, after which we shacked up. Way too early. But then, going back to my place was out of the question. He said we were moving in together, I said yes. Also, we’d been in love.

And lest we forget, Bobby got off on saving people.

In the week since I was hit by Beantown Bug Killers (who had sent flowers every day), I’d done a lot of thinking. I wanted to stop being afraid, to stop settling for the half love Bobby gave me, to stop feeling so gray. The time had come.

Bobby stood by the door, Boomer on the leash. There were tears in his aqua-blue eyes. “This is harder than I thought it’d be,” he admitted.

“We’ll still see each other. Joint custody and all that.”

He smiled, petting Boomer’s big head. “Thanks for that.”

Yes, we were sharing the dog. After all, we’d gotten him together.

“You want to go for a ride, Boomer?” I said, uttering the most wonderful words a dog could hear. “You want to go in the car?”

Bobby drove us to the ferry station, where people could grab a boat to Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Provincetown or, in my case, Scupper Island, my hometown, a small island three miles off the rough and ragged coast of southern Maine. The ferry came to Boston almost every day; it was also the mail boat and could carry all of three cars.

Bobby unloaded my suitcases and bought my ticket. Our breakup had made him once again solicitous; he’d been a prince these past few days, fetching me my painkillers, reading to me as I fell asleep, even cooking for me.

I didn’t care. He’d been fondling someone’s hair in my hospital room, and that was not something I’d forget.

The ferry pulled in, a battered little thing, same as it had always been. Jake Ferriman, the eponymous captain of the Scupper Island ferry, was a fixture. He didn’t acknowledge me, just tied up the boat and jumped off, a small sack of mail in one hand.

I’d hoped my mom would come on the ferry to get me; I’d called her when I was discharged from the hospital and told her I’d be coming home, that I’d been hurt but was okay—I think I used the words expected to recover, always looking for attention where my mother was concerned. Her only response had been a sigh, followed by “I’ll pick you up at the dock when you get here,” and I bit down on all the things I wanted to say. It could wait. I was starting over, after all.

Jake returned from wherever he dropped the mail, carrying the return post in a bag in one hand. He checked his clipboard. “You travelin’ alone?” he asked, eyeing Boomer.

“With the dog here.”

He frowned, glanced at me again, then made a check mark on his clipboard.

“I guess this is it, then,” Bobby said. “Call me when you get settled, okay?”

He hugged me carefully, then buttoned my coat over my sling. There was the lump in my throat again. “Take care,” I whispered.

We’d been friends for a long time and a couple for more than a year. All that was over and done with now.

Bobby’s eyes were wet, too.

Jake hefted my suitcases onto the boat, then took Boomer’s leash. My dog jumped happily onto the boat and snuffled the wind. I followed more carefully.

I went inside the ferry’s cabin and sat down, laid my crutch next to me. Looked at Bobby through the window and waved. Tried to smile.

“Ever been to Scupper before?” Jake asked.

I blinked, surprised he didn’t know who I was. Then again, I was an adult now. I wasn’t the overweight girl with bad skin and worse posture. “I grew up there. I’m Nora Stuart, Mr. Ferriman.”

“Sharon’s girl?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the kid?”

“No. The other one.” The doctor, I almost added, but that would’ve been prideful, and Mainers didn’t like that.

Jake grunted, and I sensed our conversation was over.

Then he started the engine, pulled the lines, and we were off, Boston’s pretty skyline growing smaller as we headed out on the dark gray water, toward the clouds hanging on the horizon.

My hands tingled with nerves, and I petted Boomer’s head. He looked up at me with his sweet doggy smile. “Sorry about this, pal,” I whispered. “No one is going to be too happy to see us.”

3

Scupper Island, Maine, was named for Captain Jedediah Scupper, a whaling captain who left Nantucket after he lost an election on the church council. He came to settle his own island and give Nantucket a big middle finger. Nantucket didn’t seem to mind. Captain Scupper brought a wife and five kids, and those five kids found spouses, and before you knew it, there was a legitimate community here.

Over the years, its residents lived the same way as those on most Maine islands did—they suffered after the whaling industry died, then turned to fishing and lobstering.

Islanders prided themselves on survival and toughness, bonded together by hurricanes and nor’easters, drownings and hardship. When the Gilded Age hit, it gave Scupper a new industry—service. Cleaning, gardening, catering, carpentry, plumbing, nannying, taking care of the rich folks and their property.

That never changed.

I grew up with the belief that while the rich people came in June—the summer nuisance, we called them—Scupper Island was for us, the tough Yankees. We’d deal with the summer people, those who owned big houses on the rocky cliffs and moored their wooden sailboats in our picturesque coves. The kids were attractive and polite, but never our real friends, not when they wore Vineyard Vines and Ralph Lauren and had European nannies. Not when they ate at the local restaurants where our parents worked.

But they were our bread and butter, and lots of them were genuinely nice people. They donated to our schools, paid the taxes that kept our roads patched and plowed, fed the local economy. Still, we were glad when they left every Labor Day. Being cheerful representatives of their summer getaway was a little wearing.

Scupper belonged to us. To my sister and me, to our dad and absolutely to our mom.

My mother, Sharon Potter Stuart (and believe me, her maiden name was the source of great joy to this Muggle), was a fourth-generation islander, born and raised here. She was a typical tough Maine woman—able to shoot a deer, dress it and make venison chili in the same day. She cut and stacked her own wood, made her own food, viewed going to restaurants as wasteful. She knew how to do everything—fish, sail, fix a car, make biscuits from scratch, sew our dresses. Once, she even stitched up a cut when the one doctor on Scupper was attending a difficult birth.

Scupper was not just the name of our founder. It’s also part of a ship—a drain, essentially, that allows excess water to flow out into the ocean, rather than puddle in the bottom. It was almost fitting, then, that so many of Scupper Island’s residents left, slipping away to bigger waters. If you didn’t make your life off the sea or tourism, Scupper Island was a tough place to stay.

Mom never went to college, never took a vacation. Once, I made the mistake of asking if we could go to Disney World, like just about every other American family. “Why on earth would we go there? You think it’s prettier than this here?” she said once, her thick Maine accent turning earth to uhth, here to heeah.

My earliest memories of my mother were all good. She was safe and reliable, as mothers should be. Our meals were nutritious if unimaginative. She braided my somewhat-wild hair every day, patiently taming the snarls without ever pulling. She made sure we were clean. She drank black coffee all day long, the kind that she brewed in a pot on the stove, and watched us play while she did housework and chores, a hint of a smile on her face.

Our house, though plainly furnished, was clean and tidy. Homework was done at the kitchen table, under her gaze. She went to all the parent events at school. When we walked through a parking lot or across the Main Street and Elm intersection, she held my hand, but otherwise, there wasn’t a lot of physical affection. When I was very little and she gave me my bath, sometimes she put the washcloth on my head and told me I had a fancy hat. Otherwise, she was simply there. And don’t get me wrong. I knew how important that was.

She loved me, sure. As for my sister...well, Lily was magical.

My sister was twelve months and one day younger than I was, and different in every way. My hair was brown and coarse, not quite curly, not quite straight; Lily’s was black and fine. My eyes were a murky mix of brown and green; Lily’s were a clear, pure blue. I was solid and tall, like our mother; Lily was a fairy child, knobby elbows and bluish-white skin. Lily often got carried, snuggled up on Mom’s sturdy hip. When I asked if I could be carried, too, Mom told me I was her big girl.

I loved my sister. She was my baby, too, despite the scant year between us. I loved her chick-like hair, her eyes, her skinny little body snuggled against mine when she crept into my bed after a bad dream. I loved being older, bigger, stronger.

Those early years...they were so sweet. When I thought of them now, my heart pulled at the simplicity of it. Back when Lily loved me. Back when my parents loved each other. Back before Mom’s heart was encased in concrete.

Back when Dad was here.

My father had a mysterious job, something Lily and I called “businessing.” Dad wasn’t an islander; he’d been born in the magical city of New York but grew up in Maine. He had an office and a secretary in town. I later learned he sold insurance.

But when I was about six, just starting all-day school, he started working from home. He took over our little den and tapped away on a computer, the first one we ever had. He was writing a book, he said, and he’d be around for us a lot more. Lily and I were thrilled. Both parents home? It’d be like the weekend all the time.

Except it wasn’t. There were a lot of terse conversations between our parents; we couldn’t hear the words from the bedroom Lily and I shared, but we could feel the mood, the energy between our parents brittle and tight, humming with unspoken words.

Mom took a job as manager at the Excelsior Pines, the big hotel at one end of Scupper. She’d always kept books for half a dozen local businesses, her calculator tapping into the night, but now she left the house before we got on the bus and didn’t get back till suppertime.

Life changed on a dime. Before this, we’d only see Dad for an hour or two each day. Now he seemed completely dedicated to making fun for his girls. After school, he’d be waiting for the school bus, would toss us in the back of the truck, and we’d go adventuring. No wash your hands, start your homework, here’s your apple. No, sir.

Instead, we’d hike up Eagle Mountain, pretending to be on the run from the law. We explored the tidal caves on the wild side of the island, wondering if we could live there, surviving on mussels like the Passamaquoddy Indians Lily and I wished we were.

In late spring, Daddy would hold our hands at the top of the ominously named Deerkill Rock, a granite precipice that jutted out over the ocean. “You ready, my brave little warriors?” he’d ask, and we’d race to the edge and jump out as far as we could, gravity separating us almost immediately, a drop so far I thought I might fly, the air rushing past my face, through my tangled hair, the thrilling, icy embrace of the ocean. We’d pop up like corks, Lily and I, coughing, shrieking, our legs already numb as we swam back to shore, our father laughing and proud, swimming beside us.

He’d take us to the top of Eastman Hill Road, that patched-up testament to frost heaves and potholes, and unload our bikes from the back of the truck. Down we’d go, the streamers from my handlebars whipping, the wind whisking tears from my eyes, my arms shuddering with the effort of staying in control. No bike helmets for us, not back then. Lily was too small and skinny to manage it, so Dad would perch her on his handlebars, the two of them soaring in front of me, the sound of their laughter lashing back, wrapping around me.

Dad would cook us the best meals, too. Travelers’ food, he called it—stew cooked over the campfire, the way his Hungarian grandmother had taught him. He’d tell us stories of magical people who could hypnotize you into flying, people who could turn invisible, who could talk to animals and ride wild horses. There in the firelight, the ocean lapping at the granite rocks of the island shore, a saw-whet owl calling its lonely cry, it seemed more than just possible. It seemed true.

Then Mom would call us in and get that pinched-mouth look, shaking her head over our filthy feet, and send us to take our baths.

In the summer, we’d make forts and sleep outside, then come in covered in bug bites; grimy, happy and itchy. During the day, when Mom went to her job or did the grocery shopping on her afternoon off, Dad would let Lily and me out into the wild while he worked on his book. We’d wander, spying on the rich folks’ houses, scouring the rocky shore for treasures, unsupervised and happy, returning home with Lily sunburned and me brown.

And meanwhile, my mother grew angry. Not that she showed it through anything other than terse orders about homework and chores. But the allure of all that freedom, especially with Dad’s beaming approval and frequent participation...we learned not to care what our mother thought.

Sometimes, I tried to make my mother feel better—I’d bring her lupines picked from the side of the road or find a piece of sea glass for her bowl, but the truth was, I loved having Daddy in charge. As our mother became more and more brittle, our love for Daddy mushroomed. While once I’d had friends—Cara Macklemore and Billy Ides—they didn’t come over anymore, and I turned down invitations to go to their houses to play. Home was more fun. We didn’t need friends, Lily and I. We had each other and Daddy. And Mom. Sure. Her, too.

So I pretended the tension between our parents wasn’t there. Mom worked grimly, Dad wrote his book and played with us, and life was mostly wonderful.

Except when Mom would track us down. I don’t know how she knew where we were, but every once in a while, her car would appear where we were adventuring, and she’d get out and yell at our father. “What are you doing out here? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Sharon, relax!” Dad would say, grinning, panting from whatever activity we’d been doing. “They’re having fun. They’re outside, playing, breathing fresh air.”

“One of these days, we’ll be standin’ over a casket if you don’t stop this!”

Dad’s smile would drop like granite. “You think I’d let something happen to my girls? You think I don’t love them? Girls, do you think Daddy loves you?”

Of course, we’d say yes. Mom’s mouth would tighten, her eyes would grow hard, and she’d either order us to get in the car or, worse, get in the car by herself and drive away, the rest of our day tainted.

“You’re so brave, my girls,” Dad would say. “Why be alive if you can’t have adventures, right? Who wants to end up all clenched and angry all the time?”

To prove his point, we’d go for one more swim, one more jump, one more thrilling ride down Eastman Hill. Stay out an extra half hour, have ice cream for dinner.

Lily was especially good at embracing Dad’s philosophy. Once Mommy’s girl, she started to avoid her, ignore her or, worse, talk about why Daddy was so much fun in front of her.

My flowers and sea glass didn’t cut it. “Thanks, Nora,” she’d say. But I couldn’t undo the hurt—I wasn’t Lily, after all, the magical, beautiful daughter.

Nothing I did seemed to make much impact on my mother, not the As on my report card, not the Mother’s Day art project—a little pinch pot painted yellow with blue polka dots. (Lily said she forgot hers at school; it never came home.)

I learned to kiss my mother hello when she got home, tell her about my day so I could check the mental box that said Talk to Mom. Every once in a while, Mom would give me a look that said I wasn’t fooling anyone. She wasn’t a little black rain cloud, our mother, but her skies were unrelentingly gray.

But Daddy laughed a ton, and he and Lily and I had so many fun times, so many goofy games and adventurings and imaginative meals, long stories at bedtime or in the car when we’d take a ride to nowhere. Of course, I loved him best.

The guilt hardly ever panged at me. Lily, she was the one who was really mean to Mom. Not me. At least I tried.

One spring day when I was eleven, Lily and I came off the bus to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, unexpectedly home from work, drinking her coffee. Lily buzzed right past, running up the stairs to throw her backpack on the floor and flop on the bed, as was her custom.

“Hi, Mom!” I said in my fake-cheery voice. “Guess what? Brenda Kowalski threw up during our math test, and it almost got on my desk! She had to go home early.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” She didn’t look up, just sat there, staring ahead, holding her mug. She’d changed from her work uniform of black pants and a white shirt and was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

No other words were spoken. Mom just sat there, twisting her wedding ring.

“Where’s Dad?” I blurted, unable to take the silence anymore.

Her eyes flicked to me, then back to the middle distance. “He’s gone,” she said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Off island.”

Without us? That was strange. Usually, he’d wait for us, take us on the ferry to Portland, where there was a bakery filled with the most beautiful pastries, and let us get whatever we wanted.

“When will he be back?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

My heart started to whump in my chest. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

“I don’t know, Nora. He didn’t see fit to tell me.”

Something was wrong. Something big. In that second, I felt my childhood teeter.

I pounded up the stairs. Our room had a slanted ceiling and was divided exactly in half; mine neat and tidy, as Mom requested, Lily’s a snarled mess. She was lying on her unmade bed with her headphones on, waiting for Mom to leave, for Dad to appear with the afternoon’s entertainment, because there was always something fun. Every single day.

I went into our parents’ room, and my breath started to shake out of me.

The closet was open, the top two drawers of the bureau—his—open, as well.

Open and empty. Our father’s shoes—he had more pairs than Mom—were gone. His socks were gone. Empty hangers hung like bones in the closet.

On top of the bureau, dead center, was his wedding ring.

I ran into the bathroom and threw up, my stomach heaving, my whole body racked with the violent expulsion of my ham-and-tomato sandwich and two oatmeal cookies, bits of apple floating on the surface.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lily asked. At ten, she already had a bit of a sneer.

“Daddy’s gone,” I said, my eyes streaming. I puked again, my sinuses burning with throw-up.

“What do you mean, gone? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. His clothes are gone. He packed.”

As I sat there, retching into the toilet, my sister ran into our parents’ bedroom, then pounded downstairs. She screamed accusations at our mother, whose flat, implacable voice answered questions. Something ceramic broke—Mom’s cup, I bet, throwing up again at the thought of the smell of coffee.

“I hate you!” Lily screamed. “I hate you!”

Then the door slammed, and it was quiet again.

I waited for my mother to come upstairs and take care of me. She didn’t.

Later that night, Lily told me what happened. Her version of it, anyway. Our mother, who was so boring and hateful and mean, had driven our father away. He’d gotten sick and tired of putting up with her, taken his novel and moved to New York City, where he was born, after all, and he was probably about to become a famous author. He’d call us and tell us to pack our things, that New York was the biggest place of all for adventuring, and we’d move, and Mom could stay here on her stupid Scupper Island.

If that was true...if our dad couldn’t stand our mother anymore, I honestly couldn’t blame him. He was a scarlet tanager, a rare, beautiful bird I’d only seen once in my life, flashing with red, its song happy and bright. She was a mourning dove, gray and dull, endlessly sighing the same notes over and over.

But I didn’t want them to get a divorce.

In my version of what had happened, which I dared not tell Lily, Dad would come home with a bouquet of roses. Mom would be wearing that white dress with the red flowers on it, the only dress she had, and they’d be hugging, and we’d move to New York but come home to Scupper for summers, like the rich people.