“Are you serious?” I am unsure whether to be thrilled or terrified.
“Deadly. It’s time for a holiday. Get your suitcase ready, my love, because America is calling, and we’re on our way!”
Twenty-one
Nantucket, 2014
I remember this. The smell of the ocean, the salty wind whipping through my hair, the hazy island in the distance as the slow ferry chugs along from Hyannis.
We ended up flying to Boston, renting a car, and driving up here. There were no direct flights left, and truth be told, it all felt like more of an adventure this way. Annie, standing beside me, her own hair flying around her face, turns to me with a huge grin, then slips an arm around my waist, hugging me close in a rare and treasured moment of daughterly affection. I tilt my head so it is resting on hers, overcome with gratitude for getting my daughter back, for finally being able to be the kind of mother I would like.
“Excited?” I ask, smiling down at her as she nods.
“I can’t believe we’re in America!” she says. “Tell me everything again about Nantucket. Everything!”
“We’ll be there soon,” I say with a laugh. “You’ll see for yourself. Why don’t we go and find Sam? We’re almost there.”
* * *
The ferry is busy; the snack bar inside has a long line of people waiting to order fried food to pass the time. We thread through, walking up and down until we see Sam, tucked into a booth with paper trays of fried chicken and french fries in front of him. Sam is just about the most elegant man in the world. Even seeing Sam on a ferry is a little disconcerting, let alone with the kind of food he would never ordinarily touch, for his image is everything.
I had booked a Kia Soul to pick up at the airport in Boston, but Sam refused to be seen in a Kia Soul and talked the woman there into upgrading us into a Mustang for an extra ten dollars a day. And I get it. Sam needs to have a cute little convertible, in the same way he needs to dress the part.
He actually went online and ordered clothes from Vineyard Vines while we were still in London, so he could look like the perfect Nantucket vacationer. He is currently wearing Nantucket red shorts, deck shoes, a Vineyard Vines shirt, and a needlepoint belt. He looks preppier than prep. Even I’m slightly shocked when he opens his mouth and an English accent comes out.
There he is, tapping on his iPhone, his Louis Vuitton travel bag on the seat next to him, reaching out every few seconds for more greasy food as my mouth widens in shock.
We slide onto the benches, Annie reaching automatically for some fries.
“Am I dreaming? Is this my friend Sam McAllister eating unhealthy fried fast food? Did I wake up in an alternate universe?” I actually cannot believe that Sam, who lives on green juices and organic food, the healthiest of healthy, who works out in a gym every single day, who expressed slight panic that he might not be able to find a gym on Nantucket, who was only reassured when I reminded him that he could in fact go for a run instead, is eating this crap.
“I know!” He holds a hand up to silence me. “It’s a vacation, and when we’re on vacation, nothing counts. Isn’t that right, Annie?” Annie, her mouth gleefully full of fries, nods in allegiance. “And when you’re on holiday and the snack bar only has, basically, fried food to offer, what’s a girl supposed to do?”
“Don’t keep them all to yourself,” I say, reaching out for the chicken and shrugging. “As you said, it’s a holiday. Or vacation, actually. Either way, if you can’t beat them…” And I put a salty, crispy, deliciously naughty tender into my mouth.
* * *
It is painfully familiar. The boats, the huge, expensive yachts, the people milling around on the harbor. Dogs everywhere I look: black Labs, brown Labs, yellow Labs. People with designer luggage, wheeling it awkwardly across the cobblestones, others making their way to Young’s Bicycle Shop, where they’ll rent scooters to get around the island.
“The Juice Bar!” I shriek excitedly to Annie. “I remember that! They have the best ice cream!”
“Can we stop and get some?” Annie asks, not unreasonably.
“We’ll come back. Let’s get to the house, then we’ll come back into town and wander round.”
* * *
I had forgotten just how beautiful it is here, the streets charmingly cobbled, the pretty stores lining Main Street, then, as we drive farther up the street, the grand old trees, the beauty of the terraced houses, close together, a mix of grey weathered shingle and white clapboard, window boxes spilling over with geraniums and impatiens, clouds of blue lobelia.
We turn onto Cliff Road, driving slowly so we can fully appreciate the beauty of the homes, these large and impressive, each one seemingly bigger and more beautiful than the next. High privet hedges giving an illusion of privacy, crushed oyster shells or gravel driveways, hedges of huge hydrangeas flanking the houses.
“My God, this really is like Fantasy Island,” breathes Sam, who insists I stop from time to time so he can photograph some particularly beautiful house.
“I can’t believe we’re staying here,” I murmur, knowing from these houses this must be an expensive part of town. We drive past a patch of green. “Lincoln Circle,” says Sam, reading from the map on his phone. “Take the next left. There it is. Oh.” His voice is flat as I pull into the driveway, not of one of the large, beautiful homes but of a modest grey shingle house, with a single-car driveway and a few weeds growing through.
It does have the requisite hydrangeas, although they’re rather sorry for themselves, struggling to bloom in the shade of a gnarled old tree on the side of the driveway.
“This is where we’re staying?” Sam says, and I know he’s disappointed.
“It’s not grand but what did you expect?” I ask. “Do you have any idea how lucky we are to find anything? It will be fine. I know you’d like us to have one of those mansions, but this is perfect.”
“I love it!” Annie dances out of the car, and I turn to Sam, speaking quietly.
“We’re on vacation, Sam. It doesn’t matter what the house is like. We’ll probably barely be at home anyway.”
He sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry I’m being princessy. I’ll stop. Let’s go inside.”
* * *
The house is perfectly comfortable. It’s not the white-slipcovered, French-doored, white-marble-kitchened stately home that clearly Sam had hoped for. It doesn’t have a swimming pool, or en suite bathrooms (other than the master, which I give to Sam, if only to shut him up for a bit), or a brand-spanking-new stainless steel fridge.
But it is clean, and bright. And it has a screen porch that has an old but incredibly comfortable-looking wicker sofa on it, and I know we will all be perfectly happy here, if Sam can get over his disappointment.
He walks around the house, not saying anything. He glances at the greige suedette sofas in the living room, and says nothing. He looks at the slightly orangey pine coffee table upon which sit a remote control and a wire basket of fake lemons, and says nothing. He takes his Louis Vuitton suitcase upstairs, then clatters back downstairs minutes later, his face now lit with excitement.
“I’ve got it!” he says. “I need to dress the house. I’m sorry, darling, I know it’s fine for you, but I can’t. I just can’t. It offends me sartorially, and I need to be happy where I live. It won’t take much, just a few things. I already saw the perfect shop on Main Street. It won’t take long. I just need to zhuzh it up.”
I roll my eyes. “Sam, that’s ridiculous. You’re going to go out and spend money on a house that isn’t yours just so you can be happy for two weeks? It’s a complete waste of money, and I won’t let you.”
“Darling, I can have you write a feature about it, so I can expense everything. How to turn your bland rental into a summer palace. Done! Commissioned! And now we’re going shopping. Don’t look like such a sourpuss. I promise you’ll be happy when it’s done. And we can go get ice cream at the juice place too.”
“Yes!” shrieks Annie fr
om her tiny bedroom upstairs. “Let’s go!”
Twenty-two
We start with the ice cream, joining the end of the ridiculously long line at the Juice Bar, with me, the woman who has the patience of a fruit fly, not minding in the slightest that we have to wait. Being back on this island has transported me into a different state of being, one that is infinitely more relaxed than my London persona.
We go into the Sunken Ship and laugh at the crazy hats, Annie insisting on trying each one on, then we each buy a T-shirt imprinted with the word NANTUCKET.
We mosey up Main Street, with memories flooding back. The pharmacy, the bookstore, the Hub, where I remember getting the papers with Brooks all those years ago.
Everywhere we go, I think I see Julia. It seems that every woman we pass is tanned, pretty, my age. Every woman we pass wears shorts and a T-shirt, has the same body type I remember her having, and each time I see her my heart thumps a little bit harder, the relief sweet at it not being her.
I have prepared what I am going to say, but I am not prepared to bump into her unexpectedly. I can’t wander down the wharf, going in and out of the tiny stores, looking at paintings, clothes, jewelry, until this is out of the way, until I have made my amends, and although that’s what I’m here for, let me enjoy this day, let me try not to think about it until it is actually upon me.
And please, God, let me not bump into her before I am ready.
Sam finds everything he needs in two of the stores. Shell-shaped pots, oversized white clay starfish, blue and white cushions patterned with coral. Woven trays, glass hurricane lanterns with rope handles. Inexpensive bamboo throws that are as soft as cashmere at a fraction of the price. At least for us, given the exchange rate right now. Were it not for that, I suspect everything on this island is actually three times the price that it would be anywhere else.
We all carry the bags to the car, and Annie and I bring our books to the porch while Sam whirls around the house “decorating,” coming back in for the big reveal, whereupon both Annie and I start laughing, clapping our hands in delight.
“You should be a decorator!” Annie says. “Not work in journalism!”
“I know.” Sam grins. “It’s my hidden talent.”
“Not very hidden,” I say, looking around with pleasure because a few bagfuls of accessories have in fact transformed our rather bland house into a dream beach house.
The orange pine coffee table is hidden by a large woven tray; silver candles and starfish are dotted around on various surfaces. The suedette sofas are unnoticeable underneath the glorious bamboo throws, and the cushions are perfect.
“It’s gorgeous!” Annie sinks onto the throw, gathering it around herself.
“No!” snaps Sam in a panic. “It’s just for show.”
“Tell me you’re joking.” I turn to him in alarm. “Tell me you didn’t actually just say that.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Old habits die hard. Wrap yourself as much as you want. I’m sorry,” he sighs. “What are we going to do for dinner? I have to tell you, I’m completely jet-lagged and exhausted. Can we make it quiet?”
“I tell you what,” I say, realizing suddenly that I too am exhausted. “How about I run up to the grocery store and cook tonight?”
“Would you mind? That would be fantastic!”
“Of course,” I say, grabbing the keys to the car and kissing Annie, who is happy to bury herself back in her book, good-bye.
* * *
Stop and Shop for vegetables, Nantucket Seafoods for the scallops I remember so well from all those years ago.
Fresh corn from a farmstand, and on the way back, I check the map, driving along Vesper Lane to scout out where I’m going to be tomorrow morning, at the Drop In Center, at 7 a.m. sharp.
Because I never fit in as a child, I always felt as if I were standing slightly on the outside, looking in, but at this relatively late stage in life, I have been astonished to find that the one place I always fit in, the one place I always feel at home, is in an AA meeting.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s my regular meeting in London or one in an unfamiliar place. It doesn’t matter whether I recognize a soul in there, for wherever I am, as soon as I walk in, I know I’m home.
I remember clearly, when I was here to meet my father, knowing there were meetings on the island but not going to them.
Perhaps if I had found my way to them, what happened with Aidan wouldn’t have happened. I can’t dwell on the what-ifs, though; I can only make sure I don’t fuck up again, and the best way I know to stop that happening is to get to a meeting, as soon as I possibly can.
* * *
I get the shopping done, and we make it through dinner, but only just. We are all so tired we can barely keep our heads from falling into our pan-roasted scallops with brown butter and herbs. We don’t even bother washing up, just pile the plates into the sink, hug one another good night, and go upstairs to our respective rooms.
Tomorrow is, after all, another day.
Twenty-three
I drifted to sleep last night thinking I would creep out of the house in the morning, not waking anyone up, but of course we are all on British time, and I’m the last one down. Sam is trying to figure out how to use the coffeemaker; Annie gets up from the sofa on the sun porch to come in and give me a hug. She is bikini ready, and I watch her go back to the porch, a little stunned at how womanly she is. I still think of her as such a little girl, yet look at her in this bikini, curvy as anything, her waist a tiny hourglass. She is not my little baby anymore, much as I want to pretend she is
“I’ve got it!” Sam announces, sliding the filter holder out of the machine and pouring the ground coffee in. “Thank Christ! Finally figured out how this bloody thing works. Annie? Do you still want coffee?”
“What?” I say. “Since when does Annie drink coffee?”
“She said she’d have some when I figured it out. Is that okay?” He looks at me doubtfully.
“I suppose so.” I shake my head. “I just … I’m realizing she’s much more grown up than I think.”
“With a figure like that?” says Sam. “You think? Where are you off to, anyway?”
“A meeting.”
“Here? On vacation?” He grimaces. “Isn’t this the time you should just be relaxing?”
“No. This is exactly the time when I need a meeting most! When I’m off my guard. I told you the story of what happened last time. I definitely need a meeting.”
“Don’t you think what happened last time was because you were young and foolish rather than because you hadn’t been to a meeting?” He is as skeptical as he always is when the conversation veers toward alcohol, and I wonder, not for the first time, why he is so resistant to the subject.
“If you stay away from meetings,” I say, “you forget what happens to people who don’t go to meetings.”
He opens his eyes wide. “Ominous! What happens? They get to spend the day on the beach sunbathing?”
“Ha ha. I’m not cutting into sunbathing time. It’s six thirty in the morning, for God’s sake.”
“I know. I don’t think I’ve seen six thirty in the morning in twenty years.” He peers out the window. “It’s rather lovely. I might go for a run.”
“I’ll see you later.” I blow him a kiss before climbing into the car.
* * *
I have never been to this center before, never been to this building, yet I know every person in here. I know the faded Oriental rugs on the tiled floor, the old dark brown kitchen cabinets in the corner, know I can step into the little kitchen and find a pot of fresh coffee and something sugary and sweet.
I know the big poster hanging on the wall, the 12 steps, by heart. I know the needlepoints of the Serenity Prayer, and the faded old prints on the wall, all with an AA theme.
And I know the people. I recognize the look we have, all of us who have lived a little too hard, partied a little too long, done everything a little harder, faster, longer. Addi
cts and alcoholics. People of extremes.
We are, as a group, often too fat, or too thin. We are too tanned. Our fashion sense is out there. But our hearts? Our hearts are as big as the ocean.
Everyone smiles a hello, reaching out a hand to introduce themselves. I grab coffee, then sink down onto a suedette sofa to one side—what is it with suedette sofas in this country?—as people start to fill up the rows of chairs facing two chairs in front of the sliding French doors.
We start with the Serenity Prayer, then go around the room introducing ourselves. There are a couple of other visitors, but most are islanders, and as I sit, listening to the readings, to people starting to share, I know this is exactly where I am supposed to be, and I know, with a sense of peace, that however Julia reacts when I find her, when I say what I need to say, it will all be fine.
I raise my hand, needing to speak, to claim my place in this room.
“Hi, I’m Cat. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Cat,” murmurs the room.
“I just wanted to claim my seat. I’m so unbelievably happy to be here. We flew in yesterday, from England, so I’m completely jet-lagged, and actually I’ve got no idea what day it is, but the last time I was here was about fifteen years ago. I was newly in program, and I never went to a meeting, and I lost my sobriety right here on the island. It took me over thirteen years to properly get it back. I loved so much of what I heard today; that when you’re drinking nothing moves, nothing changes, nothing gets better. Wow. That hit me.” I am aware that people around the room are nodding their heads.
“I was drinking for the best part of my marriage, and I screwed that up, blaming him, blaming everyone else, for nothing ever changing, nothing ever getting better, with no idea it all started with me. Anyway, I’m here, on this island, to make amends. When I was here, I was drinking, and I did something awful. I was here to meet family I’d never met before, and I ended up betraying my … urgh. I probably shouldn’t … Well. My half sister. I have no idea how she’ll even react when she sees me again, although my sponsor says that’s irrelevant. The only way through this discomfort is through it, I suppose. I’ve been putting it off, but I’m making a commitment here today to try to find her. Today. I need to make this amends so at least I have maybe a shot of enjoying this vacation. God. Procrastination is something I’ve always been very good at, especially when I was drinking. I couldn’t stand to be in any kind of discomfort, which of course was one of the excuses I used to justify the drinking. And now I’m learning to live with it, to focus on the present, to trust in my Higher Power that everything is exactly where it needs to be. I’m just … hugely grateful to be here. Thank you.”