“Those beaches were for work,” Joy argues as I dump her things on her pillow, where she’ll have to address them before she sleeps. “This would be a vacation.”
“Going home will not be a vacation, Joy. Trust me on that.”
“Okay, so let’s go for a weekend, just a weekend?”
We could, I concede on the way to my room. I’ve considered that before, but always veto it when I start to hyperventilate. Okay. That’s an exaggeration. I’m not hyperventilating now. But the knots in my stomach are real. It’s an ingrained thing, a legacy of my childhood when I was always afraid I’d do something wrong, provoke Dad, piss someone off.
And then there’s my mother. She’s been dead a while, but I imagine her up there looking down, watching, waiting, wondering what I’ll do, whether I’ll flip sides now that she’s gone. Maybe my father is doing the same thing in his judgmental way. Or not. I’ve often thought it would be nice if, in his diminished state of whatever, he mellowed. When I was growing up, it was his way or the highway.
Margo chose the highway, me the median strip in an attempt to be neutral, because I want my family to love me. I want to have a relationship with my sisters once my father is gone, and that means finding common ground. Common ground is right here in New York. When they visit, I knock myself out planning fun things to do. That’s the thing about fun. Each round is a deposit in a memory bank that earns interest over time.
At least, that’s the theory.
But Joy isn’t into it. Having followed me into my bedroom, she is the dog with a bone. “He’s the only grandfather I have, and I’ve met him, like, three times? Is that fair? He could be dead this time next year. He could be dead this time next month.”
I begin folding my clothes straight from the basket.
“He could be dead this time next week, Mom.”
She isn’t telling me anything I haven’t told myself a dozen times since I saw my father last. But if I go home now, Margo will never speak to me again. If I go home now, Anne will expect that I’ll always go home. If I go home now, I’ll be subjecting myself to the godawful insecurity that I’ve worked so hard to overcome. I’m a capable woman—a good photographer, a good mom. I’ve built a life in New York. I belong here. Just thinking of Bay Bluff has me walking a tightrope again.
It isn’t your responsibility, is it? Jack Sabathian asked. Well, it is, Mallory. And for a minute, my conscience flickers. Where does conflict avoidance end and responsibility kick in?
But that was Jack speaking. He couldn’t begin to understand my dilemma back then, and he certainly can’t today.
Joy can. Giving her time to think about it, I go into the bathroom to wash my face. But suddenly hers is in the mirror with mine. Her skin is a little darker, her eyes green to my amber, her body leaner, though that could be her thirteen to my thirty-nine, or her love of kiwi versus my love of anything fried—like fried clams, of which the best, the best, were sizzled up fresh at the Clam Shack back home.
“Mom,” she calls with impatience, because she can see my mind wandering again and wants it on her. All maturity is gone now. She is my little girl, the daughter I chose to have when it was arguably a selfish thing to do, the one I love more than life and whose mental well-being is key.
“I want to go,” she insists, falling back on the one argument she knows will prick me. “My father is just a number, meaning no grandparents or aunts and uncles or cousins from him, so your family is all I have. I’m them—this hair, these eyes. And I love the beach. I want to go, Mom. Is scooping kitty poop really more important than that?”
Chapter 3
Rain can be a nightmare for me. It isn’t so bad when I’m photographing a high-rise condo, but when it comes to a freestanding home, curb appeal counts. Downpours can depress even the most elegant property, often in ways Photoshop can’t fix.
I’m not working now, though, so rain is just fine. It’s good actually—keeps traffic from moving too fast. Cruising along to light classical, which Joy loves as much as I do, I have no problem when we hit a third major tie-up. Delaying our arrival is okay by me.
The wipers aren’t as frantic now that we’ve slowed. They’re actually syncing with Handel’s “Water Music,” to which my daughter’s fingers were playing along until two minutes ago, when she stopped to check Waze. We’ve just crossed into Connecticut. The wail of an approaching ambulance confirms an accident ahead, and the app is pushing an alternate route.
“Here, Mom—here it is—turn here,” Joy instructs with enough insistence to make me nostalgic for the days when she sat in the backseat preoccupied with a snack pack of Goldfish. “Follow that car.”
When I don’t, she shoots me a baffled look that only deepens when I smile. But how not to? My daughter is a splash of color—totally, outrageously Joy, impatient face and all. Her hair is piled in an off-center topknot held by a turquoise scrunchie. Her tank top is red-and-white striped and cropped at the midriff, and her jean shorts have the kind of high waist the eighties loved. Ever the optimist, she’s wearing a bathing suit beneath.
“Weather.com says it’ll be nice in Westerly,” she had announced shortly after dawn, wanting to leave then. When I vetoed that, we agreed on nine. Then I got a call from my favorite Sotheby’s broker, and by the time I was done with her edits, it was closer to noon.
Trying to catch the spirit of vacation despite my own private storm, I’m wearing a tee shirt and shorts minus the swimsuit. My hair, a paler brown and less curly than Joy’s, is in a ponytail minus the scrunchie. My flip-flops are plain gray to her orange glitter.
Joy has sunk back in her seat, staring at me hard.
“What,” I say.
“You don’t want to get there.”
“Would I be going if I did not?” I ask, but I’m playing with words. Going home is one thing, wanting to go home another. This trip is largely a concession to my daughter, who is in a rush to reach Bay Bluff. I am not.
I stay on I-95N. Not only does bad traffic put off what I don’t want to do, but it tells Joy that the drive isn’t quite the easy-peasy 137 miles she’s said a gazillion times of late.
Besides, I do love driving, which is why I pay a huge monthly fee for my space. A car comes in handy when I’m photographing houses in Duchess County or Long Island, and on weekends, Joy and I take road trips to explore the art center in Cornwall, hike trails in Stony Brook, or kayak in Smithtown.
Now we’re driving to Rhode Island. Not my choice. Well, yes, my choice, because I am the ultimate chooser in our family of two. But between my conscience and my daughter, there wasn’t much choice at all. It’s been ten days since Jack Sabathian’s call, and while there hasn’t been a second, the first one haunts me.
“Whoa,” says Joy when we reach the accident. Morbid curiosity keeps her turning to look back as we move ahead. Finally, flopping forward, she says, “I’m not driving. Ever.” In my periphery, I see her glance at her phone, and not for the first time. She must have texted a friend before we left and is awaiting a reply.
If history serves, she’s in for a wait. Joy is on the fringe of the texting group, for which I’m thrilled, though she is not. She once told me about being in the lunchroom and sitting alone with her sunflower-butter sandwich because she couldn’t stand the smell of the crap the others were eating. I figure she told them that. Both the school counselor, who loves Joy’s spunk, and Chrissie, who is a psychologist, claim that Joy is mature for her age and that the others will catch up. I worry about the harm done until that happens. It’s about self-esteem.