Chapter 8
It was two days after the first batch of women reached Nantucket and moved into the Harbor House.
Safe and warm in her little apartment in downtown Nantucket, Lindsey woke up and went for a nine-mile run.
She was getting stronger and faster, and she certainly did not miss the snow and the ice.
After eating some oatmeal back at home, she showered, changed, and hopped in her car.
This was her new schedule, her way of moving through the world.
A few times, Gwen had asked her what she was training for, running-wise. Lindsey still wasn’t sure. Maybe she was training her mind to be kinder to itself. She certainly didn’t need to win any physical races. She didn’t need to prove herself to anyone else.
She’d told Candice she’d meet her in their mother’s old library at half-past nine, as there seemed to be an unending number of books and albums and memorabilia to go through.
Every other day, they found old letters that revealed more about their mother’s psyche.
They found diaries and notes and funny letters.
They also found more photographs of Stella and Sally McGee from their glorious country-western days.
They raised the question, where on earth was Sally?
It was a question for another day.
Lindsey parked out front and hurried inside to find Candice seated at their mother’s desk, typing like crazy.
Ever since she’d quit her professor job, Candice had been hard at work on a novel, one that she’d allowed Lindsey to read bits and pieces of.
Lindsey was pleased that Candice was sharing her secret creative life with her, especially after so many decades apart.
More than that: she was pleased that the story touched on their mother’s story, memorializing Stella’s past in a way that felt honest and true.
Lindsey genuinely thought her big sister was a genius. Sometimes, she wondered what Candice thought of her back—but she didn’t linger on it.
Candice yelped with surprise when she saw Lindsey. “Oh, shoot. Is it already half-past?”
“Don’t quit on my account. Keep going!” Lindsey assured her.
Candice closed her eyes. “I’ve been here for hours. I can’t seem to figure out this scene.”
“Did you sleep here last night?” Lindsey asked, eyeing the couch in their mother’s study.
“No,” Candice said. “I always go home to check on Peter. But he’s so busy with sports and school and everything, he hardly knows I’m keeping tabs.”
“He’s seventeen, I guess,” Lindsey said. “I thought I was my own person at seventeen. I imagine Mom knew everywhere I was, every person I was with.”
Candice laughed. “I don’t think she knew everything. Didn’t you manage to drop out of university without telling her?”
Lindsey grimaced, remembering Costa Rica, and Christopher, and all the excitement she’d chased.
When she didn’t answer, Candice said, “Gwen says it’s been okay but a bit bumpy with the first batch of women. Have you talked to her?”
The truth was, Lindsey had decided to keep a wide berth.
It was because Lindsey decided to move to an apartment that Taylor Charron had been able to come to the Harbor House, and the fact of this—that Lindsey had wanted to help her former teen idol so much—embarrassed her.
She was sure it made Gwen think she was foolish.
More than that, Lindsey didn’t want to in any way impact the fundamental work that the women of Harbor House needed to get through.
She had things to work on, a life to rebuild at her place, and questions to ask herself.
“Apparently, Taylor hasn’t been so keen on participating,” Candice said, lowering her voice.
Lindsey put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh no.”
“I guess I can’t blame her. Apparently, she’s been hiding herself away for months.
She told Gwen privately that she’s scared of what the other women will say to her.
She hates that they already know more about her than they know about each other, because she’s a public person,” Candice said.
“Anyway, Gwen isn’t sure if Taylor’s going to stick around. ”
“Shoot.” Lindsey sighed. “I shouldn’t have pushed for her, I guess.”
“Don’t blame yourself. You wanted to help.” Candice smiled. “It’s what Mom would have wanted, too.”
Throughout that morning and into the afternoon, Lindsey and Candice sorted what they could. But Lindsey’s mind was never far from Taylor, worrying endlessly about the pain and torment the woman was putting herself through.
Eventually, when she’d been quiet for too long, Candice asked what was on her mind.
Lindsey explained, “On the one hand, Taylor’s gone through something that many women have gone through. She got divorced. She lost her love. She lost her job. But the fact that she had to do it so publicly must have affected her psyche. I can’t imagine.”
Candice hesitated. She was on her haunches, looking at a pile of books, but straightened up and put her hands on her hips. Just before she answered Lindsey, just before she was probably set to put Lindsey’s mind to ease, though, there was a knock on the door.
Gwen appeared, smiling at them. “Hey, Vanberg girls. Curious. Would you like to join the group therapy session today?”
Lindsey tilted her head with surprise.
“It’s our first with this new therapist,” Gwen said. “Some of the women are struggling to open up, and I was wondering, well…”
“I can talk about my divorce, I guess. The affair,” Candice offered.
Gwen grimaced. “I don’t want to force you to do that.”
“Sometimes these things need a little kick-start,” Candice said. “And I don’t mind. It’s always cathartic to talk about what happened last year. It’s a necessary cleaning-out.”
Candice and Gwen looked at Lindsey, as though expecting her to talk about her problems, too.
Lindsey wanted to laugh at that. She’d gone to the trouble of moving the box from Costa Rica to her new apartment in the Historic District, but she hadn’t so much as taken a pair of scissors to any of the tape that held it together. Maybe she never would.
“I’ll sit,” Lindsey said. “But I don’t know if I can talk.”
“That’s fine,” Gwen assured her. “I think Taylor might make it this time. Remains to be seen.”
On their walk to group therapy, Lindsey’s heart thudded with apprehension.
It was one thing to know Taylor Charron was at the Harbor House.
It was another to sit in the same room with her.
Lindsey prayed that seeing Taylor wouldn’t launch Lindsey into a thousand heartachey memories of Christopher.
She hoped it wouldn’t distract her from all that needed to be done.
When they entered the room, Gwen introduced them as Stella Vanberg's daughters.
“Nice to meet you,” Lindsey said, sitting beside her sister in one of the empty chairs.
The women ranged in age from twenty-one to seventy-seven.
Taylor wasn’t among them, so they introduced themselves as Casey, Michelle, Evelyn, Winona, Audrey, Mary, and Cindy.
After only a couple of days, it was clear that some of them were closer than others, that they’d developed friendships that some were in on and others were not.
The therapist for today's session was Dr. Estelle Donahue. If Lindsey’s memory served her, Dr. Estelle had been a longtime therapist at a clinic outside of Los Angeles before taking on this new role at the Harbor House. She’d worked with survivors of domestic abuse.
“Before we begin, I want to remind everyone here today that this is a safe place,” Dr. Estelle said. “We’re here to respect and uphold one another’s stories. We’re here to face them together.”
Lindsey shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She half-imagined telling them the truth of her own story. She half-imagined saying: I’ve been pretending none of it happened, and I think it might kill me. But of course, she couldn’t say any of that. She couldn’t face what Candice would say.
“I can start,” Candice said, when nobody else was keen on speaking.
She cleared her throat and clasped her hands.
“Last year, I discovered that my husband was having an affair with one of my university students. I discovered it the same night I learned my mother suffered a major medical emergency and passed away. I thought my entire universe was crumbling around me. I…”
But then, the door opened abruptly, bringing Taylor Charron into the room.
Immediately, silence swallowed them all up.
They looked at Taylor, bringing Taylor exactly the nightmare that Taylor hadn’t wanted to face in coming here.
Lindsey could see it written all over her face: the idea that if only she’d come earlier, if only she’d been on time, maybe she could have sat in one of those chairs and pretended she was like everyone else at the Harbor House.
Like every other woman who’d gone through something traumatic.
Lindsey was unprepared for how raggedy Taylor looked.
She was clearly underslept, her hair in greasy strings down her shoulders, and she looked to be about fifteen pounds lighter than she’d been last autumn, during the on-set meltdown that had led to the dissolution of her life.
She blinked around the room, looking as though she was about to flee.
Dr. Estelle said, “Taylor, hello. Please, have a seat. Candice was in the middle of speaking.”
Dr. Estelle gestured for Taylor to take the seat three away from Lindsey, nearest the door, and Taylor hurried over and sat at the edge of it, as though she wanted to be able to escape at any moment.
Lindsey sensed that the others were just as curious about Taylor as she was, if guarded about it.
Obviously, Taylor hadn’t been to any other sessions yet.
Lindsey wondered what about the group session had brought Taylor out of her hiding place.
Did she think it would help her more than the other Harbor House opportunities?
“Candice, please. Continue,” Dr. Estelle said.
As Candice continued to highlight what had gone wrong in her life last year, Lindsey noted that Taylor looked looser, more relaxed.
She folded her arms over her lap and narrowed her gaze at Candice, as though trying to take in everything she was saying.
Lindsey imagined that Taylor had been tremendously lonely over the past few months.
Why else would a celebrity of her caliber come to a place like the Harbor House?
Maybe, Lindsey thought, Taylor was finding a place for herself within this community. Maybe she was opening herself up.
After Candice finished, several other women spoke, including Winona, who was the woman who’d lost her entire family in the fire.
It was a harrowing story, one that made Lindsey feel—truthfully—that she didn’t know how someone like Winona could ever find her way back to normalcy.
But normalcy wasn’t what Winona wanted, Lindsey guessed.
Maybe she just wanted to chart a route through life that caused the least pain.
After Winona finished, Casey spoke. Her eyes darkened as she spoke about the money her ex-husband had gambled away, about how she’d had to sell off all her family’s possessions, including the house her grandfather had built.
She talked of her brother’s death, which had come at the tail end of a terrible year of loss.
As she finished her story, her gaze darted over to Taylor.
“I guess this isn’t something you can understand,” Casey said. “Since you have everything in the world you could ever want.”
Lindsey’s stomach tightened into a knot.
Taylor’s jaw hung slack with surprise.
“Casey, we aren’t here for that,” Dr. Estelle said softly. “We aren’t here to weigh up what we have and what we lost against everyone else.”
But Casey didn’t seem to be listening. She glared at Taylor, as though Taylor’s fame and Taylor’s fortune were the very reason behind why Casey’s husband had lost their money, and Casey had nothing left.
Again, silence filled the room. Dr. Estelle tried to rebound, turning first to Lindsey and then to a few of the other women, preparing to ask one of them to speak.
Before she could, Taylor got to her feet and fled, closing the door quietly behind her.
Lindsey’s pulse skyrocketed. Oh, how she pitied Taylor just now.
This was precisely what Taylor had been afraid of.
Lindsey ached to run after Taylor. She wanted to tell her that Casey was damaged in ways that didn’t make what she said okay, per se. But you can understand why she’d want to blame wealthy people like you, she imagined saying, although she guessed that would make it worse.
What made matters stranger, of course, was that Lindsey herself was wealthy.
Well, her mother had been wealthy, and she’d been generous in her will, so much so that Lindsey and her siblings wouldn’t have to worry ever again.
This made Lindsey’s Nantucket life dramatically different from her Costa Rican one.
If we’d had money, Lindsey thought now, would things have been different?
Would we have been able to keep our lives together?
Dr. Estelle looked very unhappy, not just with Casey but with all of them. “Here at the Harbor House, we are a team,” she told them. “We’re supposed to help one another through the next six weeks, not put up roadblocks.”
Casey stared at the ground, flaring her nostrils. Winona, who’d put herself through something harrowing just in telling her story of the fire, let out a sob.
“The world is hard enough on women,” Dr. Estelle went on. “We shouldn’t be hard on one another, too. Let’s learn to open our hearts and minds to one another. Let’s learn empathy.”