It’s April, but she only knows this because the letter she received from her lawyer the other day was dated April fourteenth. Without that letter, she would’ve guessed that it was still March, still winter given how cold it’s been and how nothing has changed.
The springs she spent in the Boston area were unrecognizable compared to the lush, warm, green springs in Athens, Georgia, where she grew up. Spring in Boston is just another word for winter, the second half. Right about when the magnolia trees are blooming in Athens, it snows in Hingham. And not just a dusting. Snowfall in March in Hingham is school-canceling, street-plowing, where-are-we-going-to-put-it-all snow. Olivia made no secret of her hatred for March snow, but she had to admit, the white at least brightened up the barren, grim, preblossom landscape.
It doesn’t snow on Nantucket the way it does near Boston. Surrounded by ocean, the air is usually too wet to support the structure of a delicate flake, and it rains instead. A couple of times here, she noticed the ground was slushy, but she never saw any actual snowfall this year and hasn’t had to shovel once. She’s not sure she even owns a real snow shovel here. The only shovel she can think of is in the backseat of her Jeep, kept there to dig herself out of sand, not snow, if (when) the Jeep gets stuck.
But even though it doesn’t snow here like it does on the mainland, it still doesn’t feel like spring. Even on sunny days, the cold is unrelenting. And somehow everything seems tinged gray, the way the world looks through sunglasses. It’s been the same cold and gray winter day for months. Time feels literally frozen here.
According to the letter from her attorney, her divorce proceedings are frozen as well. The agreement is uncontested and no-fault, their divorce being one of the few things she and David haven’t fought over in a long time. She’s read through the entire document three times now. She likes to linger on the words no-fault, typed in black and white right there on the official, legal page, as if the state of Massachusetts is acknowledging them personally, exonerating them both of any blame. The failure of their marriage wasn’t really his fault or hers.
Within a few breaths of the word autism, Anthony’s pediatric neurologist actually asked them, How’s your marriage? Olivia remembers bristling, thinking, What business is that of yours? And, We’re talking about Anthony here, not me and David. But the neurologist knew their future. He’d seen it too many times before, the comorbidity of autism and divorce.
She doesn’t remember if she answered him. She doesn’t remember most of whatever followed the word autism in that office on that day, but she’s thought about his question and her answer many times since. If she managed to voice a polite reply on that day, a day she thought for sure would be the absolute worst day of her life—only to be irrefutably unseated for all time a few short and long years later—she probably said something like Fine. And their marriage might’ve remained fine had they not been pressed and pulled and gutted in ways that two married people could never have imagined when they dressed up and said I do.
No, they most certainly weren’t fine after that day. But how could anyone be? That would be like throwing a glass vase against a brick wall and expecting it not to smash into a thousand broken pieces, acting surprised and upset that it no longer holds water. The vase will always shatter. That’s what happens when glass hits brick. It’s not the vase’s fault.
When they were still dating after college, when they entered the “real world” and things got serious, Olivia questioned whether David was husband material. She made a mental list of necessary qualities and began checking off boxes: Handsome. Smart. Funny. Good provider. Handy around the house. Loves children. All checks. They married when she was twenty-four.
She never imagined the additional boxes she should’ve had on that list: Can function on little sleep for years. Willing to have his heart and will broken every day. Doesn’t mind dumping all the money he earns down a bottomless drain.
Like the state of Massachusetts says—it’s not his fault.
They agree on all the terms. She gets the cottage on Nantucket. He gets the house in Hingham. There’s no money. They already spent all of their savings on Anthony.
Applied-behavioral-analysis therapy, speech therapy, Floortime, sensory integration, metal chelation, gluten-free diets, casein-free diets, B12 shots. Pediatricians, neurologists, gastroenterologists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, energy healers. From the mainstream to the alternative to the practically voodoo, Olivia doesn’t remember much of any of it being covered by their health insurance. David worked more and more hours. They refinanced the houses. They emptied their IRA nest eggs. Because how could they retire with money in the bank and a son with autism, knowing that there was a therapy out there that might’ve helped him but they didn’t try because it was too expensive?
They were about to sell the cottage.
Olivia remembers those late-night conversations in bed with the lights off, she on her side, David on his, hope and hopelessness living and breathing between them and every other word. She’d read or heard about some new treatment. It’s not FDA-approved for autism, and I agree, it sounds a bit cockamamy, but expert Dr. So-and-So said at this year’s conference it works on a subset of kids. It costs a fortune. What do you think? She remembers the sound of his exhale and then the silence, knowing he was nodding in the dark.
They tried it. They had to.
So there’s no money left, and half of nothing is nothing. There’s no alimony. And no child support, of course. That’s basically it. Clean and simple. They can set each other free.
But David hasn’t signed the agreement. Olivia knows he will. He just needs more time. And since time isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t mind waiting.
She gets up and walks into the kitchen. She opens the cupboard and sighs. She forgot to buy more coffee.
If David were here, he’d say something like No problem, let’s go to The Bean. Before they had Anthony, they’d make a morning of it. They’d settle into a table, hopefully the one in the corner by the front window, he’d read the Globe, and she’d read a book for work, he’d have two large coffees, both black, and she’d have a large latte and a blueberry scone. Every now and then he’d read part of a news story to her, and she’d share either some particularly insightful, gorgeously worded nugget of wisdom or some hideously atrocious paragraph of trash. She loved those easy, unstructured mornings, back when they were newly married.
She wishes he were here. As she stews on this a bit more, she realizes that what she’s really longing for is a latte, a scone, and a leisurely morning at The Bean. She doesn’t need David here for that. Seized by a sense of purpose and a desire she hasn’t experienced in a long time to be out in the world, she throws on a pair of jeans and a sweater, zips her coat, grabs her hat, purse, and keys, slides her feet into her boots by the front door, and, before she can talk herself out of going, leaves the house.
DOWNTOWN IS MOBBED, crawling with cars and people. The few times Olivia has driven through Town since she arrived on the island this winter, it’s been deserted, even on a weekend. The storefront windows have been darkened, sporting naked mannequins and signs reading SEE YOU NEXT SEASON. Most of the restaurants have been closed in the middle of the day. Parking spaces have been everywhere, just as anyone would expect in winter, when too few people are on the island to support most businesses.
But today everything has come alive as if it were the middle of August, not the middle of April. What’s going on here? She can’t imagine.
She turns right onto India Street, beginning to loop the block for a third time, and vows to abandon the mission if she can’t find anything this go-around. She’s about to give up, planning a consolation trip to Stop & Shop for a bag of coffee or maybe the Downyflake outside Town, but then she spots an opening in front of the Atheneum in between a Hummer and a Land Cruiser.
The Atheneum is Nantucket’s library, an imposing white building, the front entrance flanked on either side by colossal Ionic columns. It loo
ks like an architectural anachronism, more like an ancient Greek temple than a modern library, as if it belongs on the Acropolis and not in the heart of the otherwise quaint, New England–style, historically restored town of Nantucket. Since she’s right there, and she’s now imagining how nice it would be to read a book while she drinks her latte at The Bean, just like old times minus David, she decides to run inside and find something to read.
As the bumper-to-bumper traffic outside might’ve predicted, the library is swarming with people. There are strollers everywhere, mothers and fathers reprimanding and calling to their kids, kids yelling and running away from their parents. A baby in one of the strollers is wailing, inconsolable. The whole place is buzzing with activity and voices that echo and skip off the high ceilings. The energy feels all wrong, disrespectful, like when kids talk and goof around in church, and Olivia second-guesses her decision to come inside.
She gets as far as the front desk and pauses, wondering if she wants a book badly enough to wade through the clogged chaos before her, deciding, in the end, that she’d rather get the hell out of there. She’s about to turn around and leave when she catches sight of a familiar book cover sitting alone on a TO BE SHELVED metal cart. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.
She read that book years ago, just after Anthony was diagnosed, part of her mission to read everything ever written about autism. She remembers thinking at the time how different the main character’s autism was from her Anthony’s. Exact opposite ends of the spectrum, like red and violet in a rainbow. In the most obvious ways, they were entirely different, yet she found subtle and surprising similarities that comforted her, restored her hope. Violet isn’t blue because it also contains red.
“I’ll take this, please,” she says, deciding that she might be ready to read it again.
After filling out the paperwork for a library card, she hustles out the door and down the front steps of the library with her loaned book in hand, relieved to be out of there. She walks around the corner to The Bean, expecting to stroll right in, but her progress is stopped well outside the entrance by a snaking line of customers. It’s freezing cold, and the line is long, yet everyone around her appears to be in exceptionally good cheer. Olivia hasn’t left her neighborhood much, but when she does venture out—to the grocery store, to the bank—there are never any crowds. She hasn’t waited in a single line since she’s moved to Nantucket. She’s become used to the quiet bubble of her life here, the convenience of getting in and getting out with whatever she needs with minimal human contact.
She glances down at her bare wrist, looking for the time, wondering how long this is going to take. It’s got to be well after noon. Why are all these people here? She pulls the collar of her coat up over her chin, shoves her hands into her pockets, closes her eyes, and breathes.
At long last, the line inches forward, and she steps inside. The café is exactly as she remembers—the worn wooden floor, the teardrop crystal chandelier, the antique copper and pewter teapots on the shelves, the glass canisters filled with biscotti. But her air of enjoyment in the familiar surroundings deflates when she notices every seat in the house is occupied.
“Can I help you?” asks the girl behind the counter.
“I’d like a large latte and a blueberry scone, please.”
“We’re all out of scones.”
“Oh, okay, just the latte then.”
“Milk or soy?”
“Milk.”
“Regular, two percent, or nonfat?”
“Uh, regular. What’s going on today?”
“Sorry?”
“Why are there so many people here?”
“The daffodils.”
Olivia thinks. “Is that a band?”
The girls looks Olivia up and down, sizing her up, the way young people look at older people who don’t have a clue. “The flower? You don’t know? Why are you here?”
“I live here.”
“Huh,” says the girl, not believing this at all.
“So all these people are here to see some daffodils?”
“Yah, there’s like three million in bloom all over the island.”
Three million. Really? She hadn’t noticed any. And is someone actually counting these? Olivia suspects that this girl must be exaggerating, the way young people do. “So, what, people drive around and look at flowers?”
The girl hands Olivia her latte, and Olivia pays for it.
“There’s like a whole festival, the parade, the tailgating—”
“Tailgating?”
“Over in ’Sconset.”
“Is there a football game?”
The girl laughs.
“Excuse me, are you done? There’s a long line here,” says the guy behind Olivia.
“Sorry.”
Olivia steps out of the way and looks around the room one last, hopeless time. No seats. She nudges her way against the incoming line back outside and returns to her car. As she bounces over the cobblestones of Main Street and then turns onto the smooth pavement, she notices, for the first time, all the daffodils—planted in gardens and window boxes, lining fences and front yards, “wild” crops of them dotting the sides of the road. They’re everywhere. How did she not notice any before?
Daffodils and tailgating. Curious, she decides to take a quick detour over to ’Sconset. She and David used to tailgate with their friends before every home football game at Boston College. Everyone wore BC sweatshirts and jackets and hats. Someone always brought a grill and a couple of kegs—charred cheeseburgers and Milwaukee’s Best in plastic cups. David and his friends would talk in passionate detail about the players, and someone would invariably compare the quarterback to Flutie, and they’d argue over who was better. They’d all be rowdy and drunk by midmorning, well before kickoff.
As she approaches Main Street in ’Sconset, there they are, the tailgaters, parked one after another along the strip of grass between Milestone Road and the bicycle path. She’s in a thick parade of traffic now, but she slows down even more than she needs to for a better look. A car parked on the grass ahead of her begins to pull out as she’s approaching it, and she decides to take the spot.
She grabs her mirrored sunglasses, gets out of her Jeep, and begins walking. Main Street is blocked off to car traffic, so she walks down the center of the road. The tailgating cars are now mostly antiques or fancy convertibles and must’ve had special permission to be here. Most of the license plates are from New York or Connecticut. These people aren’t year-rounders.
All of the cars are decorated with daffodils—huge bouquets tied to mirrors and roof racks and hoods. The people are decorated in daffodils, too. Hats, leis, corsages, boutonnieres. Most everyone is dressed for the occasion, casual but festive in some combination of yellow clothing with daffodil accessories, but some of the women are wearing elegant spring dresses and heels, and a few of the men are wearing seersucker suits and ties, as if they were out for tea in the English countryside. It feels like a Mardi Gras parade thrown by the Kennedys.
There are no kegs. There are wineglasses, champagne glasses, and martini glasses. There are Bloody Marys with green olives and sticks of celery. There are lawn chairs and card tables adorned with tablecloths and, of course, centerpiece vases bursting with daffodils. The tables are also piled with food, and not hamburgers and hot dogs, but beautiful food, food that could be served at a wedding. Baskets of bread, boards of cheese, fried clams, sushi, salads, and chowder.
It’s all very civilized. Although everyone appears to be drinking in public, and she’s sure that plenty of these people are feeling tipsy, none of them is drunk enough to be a public nuisance. No one’s calling the campus police here. No one is reliving a Hail Mary pass or doing keg stands or puking. No one has taken off his shirt and finger-painted GO EAGLES or YOU SUCK on his chest.
These people aren’t here to cheer on their beloved home team or celebrate a winning season. These people have packed up their suitcases and traveled hundreds of m
iles by plane or car and ferry, they’ve prepared picnic baskets full of crackers and cheese and lobster and wine, gotten dressed up in their wacky yellow outfits, and driven over to ’Sconset to sit by the side of the road on a freezing-cold day in April to celebrate a flower. These people are crazy.
Olivia avoids eye contact and walks at a brisk pace down the middle of the road, as if she’s on her way somewhere specific, looking for someone she knows, and doesn’t have time to stop and visit. The air smells like wet earth and buttery-sweet flowers, ocean and garlic. Her stomach growls. She wishes she had that blueberry scone. Or a bite of that woman’s lobster roll.
Satisfied that she’s seen all there is to see at this bizarre roadside holiday, she turns around, returns to her car, and heads to the other side of the island, enjoying the cheery sprays of yellow that decorate the landscape all around her as she drives. Back in her driveway, she spots six daffodils in her own front yard, three gold and three white, fully open and bobbing in the wind as if they were nodding and happy to see her. She wonders who planted them. She smiles, feeling not only hungry now, but also strangely inspired.
She heats up a bowl of clam chowder in the microwave and shakes a heap of oyster crackers on top. She grabs a spoon, her latte, a blanket from the couch, and her library book and sits on the rocking chair on her front porch. Cold coffee, three-day-old chowder, and six of the three million daffodils all to herself. Her own private tailgating party to celebrate Daffodil Day, or whatever they call it. Perfect. Or at least, not bad.
She eats a spoonful of chowder and studies her flowers shivering in the wind, impossibly bright and fragile and brave against the cold grayness of April on Nantucket. It must be hard to be a daffodil here. They probably wish they could stay in the ground another month. But they have no say in the matter. Some biological alarm clock inside them tripped the germination switch, telling each bulb to sprout and go forth, whether it’s sunny and seventy in Georgia or still feeling like winter in April on Nantucket. They come, year after year.