Part 12 (2/2)

That afternoon, I sat on the bulkhead, dangling my feet above the water, looking over at the Lewis family as they packed up to go home. George and Wanda waved to me, and I waved back.

”Your dad went over and got you, huh?”

I recognized the voice without even turning around.

”Flake off, Ethan,” I said.

”I think it was neat that you went over there,” he said.

I turned to look at him, surprised. He was leaning on the fence. He had on sungla.s.ses that were as thick as his regular gla.s.ses.

”My father had a big fight with your father,” he said.

”What are you talking about?” I swiveled on the bulkhead, drawing my legs up so that I was facing him.

”Your father was looking for you, and my father was out here and your father said, 'Have you seen Julie,' and my father said, 'She's where she is every day, on the other side of the ca.n.a.l, fis.h.i.+ng.'”

”Your father finked on me?” I asked.

”Your father said he was going over to get you, and my father told him that, somehow, you ended up with an open mind and your father was trying to close it. And your father called mine a liberal a.s.shole liberal a.s.shole, and said that what happens in his family is none of my father's business.” Ethan grinned. ”It was pretty keen.”

Pretty keen if you're not the subject of the dispute, I thought. I had to admit, though, that the argument sounded like the most excitement we'd had down the sh.o.r.e in weeks. I couldn't believe my father had used the word a.s.shole. a.s.shole.

I did not fish with Wanda and George for a full nine days, but then I returned. I told Salena I had Daddy's permission. I brought more blueberries and ate their raspberries and big hunks of corn bread Salena had made. I shared my binoculars with them and read to Wanda. I would only go when my father was in Westfield.

And I practiced the line I would use in confession: ”I disobeyed my parents just about every single day of the week.”

CHAPTER 14.

Julie.

I arrived at my mother's house the morning after the ZydaChicks concert and was in the process of getting my gardening gloves, sunscreen and insect repellent from the trunk of my car when Lucy pulled up behind me. arrived at my mother's house the morning after the ZydaChicks concert and was in the process of getting my gardening gloves, sunscreen and insect repellent from the trunk of my car when Lucy pulled up behind me.

”I brought bagels,” Lucy said as she got out of her car. She held up the bag for me to see.

”Oh, you're good,” I said. ”I didn't think of that.”

”Love that hat with your haircut.” Lucy walked toward me, reaching out to touch the brim of my straw gardening hat.

”Thanks,” I said. ”Where's yours?”

”I forgot it. Mom'll have an extra, I'm sure.”

We started up the sidewalk to the white split-level that had been our childhood home. We did this several times during the year-joined forces to help our mother with the yard work. Mom was able to maintain her front yard flower beds beautifully, and she even mowed the lawn herself, much to our chagrin. She used a monster riding mower we had not yet been able to wrest away from her despite our many attempts. I'd offered to pay a service to handle the job for her, telling her I was afraid she might fall or the mower might tip over, but she waved off my concerns as ridiculous. I wondered how, when the time came, we would be able to talk her into giving up her driver's license. At least Mom had accepted our help with the vegetable garden in the backyard, and that was to be our task for the morning.

We'd reached the front door, and Lucy rang the bell. I could see our reflections in the storm door nearly as well as I would have been able to in a mirror. The only thing alike about us, I thought, was our oval-shaped sungla.s.ses. Mine were prescription. Our features were quite different, although I was usually able to see the presence of both our parents in our faces. Lucy's hair was well on its way to being completely silver. Except for her thick bangs, her hair was pulled away from her face into the long French braid she always wore down her back, and I wondered if, beneath the dye and highlights, my own hair was now the same color as hers.

”Okay, Mom,” Lucy said to the air as she rang the bell again, ”we're here.”

We waited another full minute. It was early, but it had to be at least eighty degrees already, and I was hot standing on the shadeless front step.

”Is the car here?” Lucy leaned away from the door and looked toward the closed garage as if she might be able to see inside it.

”I called her yesterday before the concert to tell her we'd be coming,” I said, a smidgen of worry making its way into my brain. I reached into my pocketbook. ”I have my key.”

I pulled open the storm door, glad to see our mother had not locked it, fit my key into the lock of the main door and pushed it open.

We stepped into the relative coolness of our old home.

”Mom?” Lucy called.

No answer. I walked into the kitchen and opened the garage door to see her silver Taurus.

I was about to head upstairs when Lucy said, ”There she is.” She pointed through the sliding gla.s.s doors leading from the dining room onto the patio. I was relieved to see our mother sitting at the gla.s.s-topped patio table, her back to us. She was still in her light summer robe and terry-cloth slippers.

”She must have forgotten,” I said.

Lucy and I slid open the door and our mother jumped at the sound. She tried to look behind her, but couldn't turn her head quite far enough to see us, and I was distressed that we'd startled her.

”It's just us, Mom,” I said quickly. I bent over to kiss her cheek.

She was looking at an old photograph alb.u.m, and she fumbled with it, trying to close it quickly but failing. Among the black-and-white photographs, I saw one of Isabel standing on the bulkhead dressed in a pale sundress, waving at the camera. My G.o.d, she looked like Shannon! A sailboat was on the ca.n.a.l behind her, heading toward the bay. I caught Izzy's dimpled smile just before my mother managed to close the cover on the book, her hands fluttering, shaking.

”Hi, girls,” she said, struggling to put cheer in her voice. ”What are you doing here?”

Lucy gave me a worried look over the top of our mother's head. Mom was no more forgetful than I was most of the time, but it was clear that we'd walked in on a private moment.

”We're here to work in the garden,” Lucy said.

”Oh, that's right.” Our mother got to her feet, lifting the photograph alb.u.m to her chest. We were all going to pretend it wasn't there. That was the way we operated in our family: We were masters at ignoring the elephant in the room. If we pretended it wasn't there, it couldn't hurt us.

”Let me get dressed and I'll help you,” she said. She kept her head lowered as she scooted past us, as though she knew her eyes were rimmed with red and was hoping we wouldn't notice. It was clear she wanted to get away from us to pull herself together. Seeing her self-consciousness made me ache for her. I longed to touch her. Hold her. I wished I could ask her what had her so upset, but it was clear that was not what she wanted and I let her pa.s.s.

”I brought bagels,” Lucy said, most likely because she didn't have a clue what else to say.

”And there's juice in the fridge,” Mom said, as she opened the sliding door.

Once she was in the house, Lucy and I looked at each other again.

”Maybe we should have called before we came over,” Lucy said in a hushed tone.

”How weird that she was looking at old pictures now,” I said.

”What do you mean, 'now'?” Lucy asked.

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