Interstitial #2
“Please. Don’t worry about it,” says Kara. She doesn’t say, That’s the least of our worries, but they’re all thinking it. The house shakes from the wind.
Caspian puts his thumb in his mouth and looks at the ceiling. “He’s ready for his nap,” says Natalie. “Should I take him in
the other room?”
“Let’s all stay here,” says Calvin.
Then Austin does something surprising. He lies down next to Caspian and sings to him, without compunction or embarrassment,
a lullaby about sleeping critters and rolling tumbleweeds and long nights under a bright full moon. It’s mesmerizing, and for several moments they all forget they’re in the middle of a coastal storm, and they feel like they’re on the ranch
or the range.
And then it comes. The ocean comes toward them, and the beach that is normally so wonderfully big, the beach that, sometimes
when the Shipman girls were small, seemed so endless it felt impossible to cross, disappears altogether, and all they can
see is water. The ocean is so loud.
The lights flicker, then hold, then flicker again.
Calvin goes out to the deck again and comes back in immediately, saying, “It’s over the wall.”
“Maybe it’s stopping at the patio,” says Mae optimistically.
“I don’t think so,” says Jordan. “Water doesn’t usually respect boundaries.”
The lights go out.
When they go downstairs an hour later, when the rain has started to slow, they can’t quite comprehend what they’re seeing.
They stand there, taking it in. In the Shipman living room, the water is several inches high, inches over the baseboard. It’s
a foot of water or more. Probably more.
“This house has been here for more than sixty years, and there’s never been water in it,” says Calvin, the first to speak.
He crouches down to inspect the walls, and the water sloshes around his pants. He says, “It’s starting to recede. But the
waterline? It was over the outlets. See that? Those will have to be replaced. Evangeline and Scarlett, don’t touch anything.”
“Everything will have to be replaced,” says Jordan. “Look at the furniture! All of Mom’s things.” There’s water halfway up the legs of
the coffee table, and past the legs of the couch, and soaking part of the end tables, the plant stand, the cord for the standing
lamp.
“Probably the refrigerator and dishwasher too,” says Austin from the kitchen. “If the insulation got wet, you’re not going
to be able to repair.”
“And the cabinets,” says Kara. “These are oak, right?” Calvin nods.
“I’m going to see how our neighbors did,” says Calvin. He goes outside and comes back fifteen minutes later with a full report.
The Zimmerman house next door is newer, built to code and FEMA regulations, set higher, with a raised deck instead of a patio.
No water. On the other side of them, the Prescotts had gone to see their grandchildren in Maine, inadvertently leaving their
slider open by two inches. It’s even worse at the Prescotts’. Many of the homes have rocks flung upon the lawns, patio furniture
that has blown over.
Calvin’s phone rings. It’s Nikoletta, on FaceTime. She wants to see how the house is. Calvin walks around with the phone,
showing her. “Oh, no. Oh, no,” Nikoletta says as Calvin makes the rounds. They hear her say things like rot and wood floors and immediate mold remediation. “We can’t sell this,” the girls hear her say, and they look at each other, eyes wide. “We cannot sell this home right now.
Calvin, while you talk to your insurance, I’m going to make some calls. I’ll be in touch.” As quickly as she appeared on the
screen, she is gone.
“We never finished the storage room,” says Mae.
“You never started the storage room,” points out Jordan. “Natalie and I did it all.”
“True,” says Mae, remorselessly.
The Shipman girls troop out to the garage to look at all of the things they had dragged out and organized and never finished dealing with. The three carefully separated piles are now one wet sloppy pile. There will be no donating and no keeping. It will all have to go. Everything will have to go.
The rain stops. The tide recedes, as it always does eventually. Instead of spending Saturday evening eating dinner out so
they can keep the house tidy for the open house, the Shipman family spends early Saturday evening eating dinner out because
the first floor still has water in it and they have no power and Calvin has been on hold with the insurance company for what
feels like years. Finally he is able to leave a message and is waiting for a call back.
They gate the dogs in the dry upstairs and take two separate cars to Flatbread in Portsmouth, where there is power, and where
they order way more pizza than they need, and also the salads with the secret dressing, and beer for Calvin and Kara and Austin,
and wine for Jordan, Natalie, and Mae. They order the organic sodas for Scarlett and Evangeline, a very rare treat indeed. Caspian has his own sippy cup with the last of the Hillside Haven milk. The mood is somber, but laced with giddy relief.
They are all okay; they are here, together, a family without a structure, which is infinitely preferable to a structure without
a family.
While they’re waiting for their food Calvin’s phone rings and he goes outside to take the call. When he returns, he gives
them the update. The flood insurance adjusters will be out as soon as possible to assess the damage, but in the meantime the
Shipmans should begin the process of throwing out ruined rugs and furniture, removing the wet drywall. “Looking on the bright
side, we already have a dumpster.”
“A layperson can remove drywall?” Jordan asks. “I can’t imagine doing anything in my place, I just call the super.”
“Of course,” says Natalie. “Drywall isn’t a big deal. Right, Austin?” She and Austin have done many things to their house in Hillside Haven over the years (videos available for viewing with the proper search terms). “You just cut it out a foot above the waterline.”
“I can’t believe you know that,” says Jordan. “You are such an enigma!”
Natalie shrugs and takes another piece of pizza.
Calvin pops his new glasses on top of his head and rubs his temples. “We’ll have to get contractors in for the floors and
the baseboards,” he says. “And electrical. And haul out the appliances. It’s a lot.” He looks tired and a little bit old,
sitting in front of his pizza, his beer mostly untouched. “I’m not sure how I’ll manage this from Lenox. I’m teaching the
summer social sciences program, and Kara is due back at work.”
“Maybe I could stay—” Mae begins.
Then Calvin’s phone rings again, and Nikoletta Realtor flashes on the screen. “Sorry, excuse me,” says Calvin. He steps out once more. They can see him walking back and forth in
front of the restaurant, raking his hands through his hair. When he returns, he sits and says, “Okay, everyone. Here’s the
deal. We need to wait to see what kind of settlement we get from insurance.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly.
When Natalie drops her napkin and bends to pick it up, she sees that her father and Kara are holding hands under the table.
Five days ago this sight would have filled her with an unspeakable rage, but now she’s sort of glad that Calvin has someone’s
hand to hold. “And then. Well. What Nikoletta is suggesting is . . .”
The sisters look at each other, alarmed. Why can’t Calvin finish a sentence? Is he having a stroke? “Go ahead,” says Jordan.
Calvin clears his throat. “You have to understand that this isn’t how I wanted things to go. But Nikoletta suggests that we
sell immediately to a developer who will demo to the foundation and rebuild.”
Even the kids seem to understand the import of this moment—even Caspian, who is sitting in Austin’s lap. He puts down his sippy cup and casts his saucer eyes around the table.
Mae is the first to speak: “But that’s so soon. It won’t be Mom’s house anymore.”
“No,” agrees Calvin. “No, it won’t.”
“And we won’t be selling to a family,” says Mae.
“You knew whoever bought it was probably going to tear it down,” Jordan points out.
“Yeah, eventually. But I thought maybe they’d live there for a little bit first. I pictured little girls in our rooms. I know
that doesn’t make sense. But it’s what I pictured. That’s what made me feel better about it.”
“I pictured little girls too,” admits Natalie.
“If I’m being honest,” says Calvin, “I did too. But I don’t think we have much of a choice here. To remediate flood damage
in a house that will only get more destroyed by the next flood—it doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t,” agrees Austin, and one by one they join in. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t.
The server clears the plates and pizza pans and brings the check. Calvin puts his credit card down, and for a few long moments
nobody says anything.
Jordan speaks first. “First thing I would do if I were rebuilding is no more wood floors. I’d do slate in the kitchen, then
those faux-wood floors made of ceramic throughout.”
“Geez, Jordan,” says Mae.
“What?”
“The body isn’t even cold.”
“There are some fantastic wood alternatives out there,” says Austin experimentally, and after a time Natalie joins in. “I
always thought a breakfast nook would be nice. You know? Like we have at Hillside. The kids love it.”
Mae shoots daggers at Natalie with her eyes, then Kara says, “A raised deck would be lovely. With one of those built-in grills, maybe? An outdoor kitchen?”
They can see all of the emotions cross Mae’s face. They watch her come around. The Storm is passing, and they wait for her
to speak. Finally, she says, “If I was rebuilding anyway, I’d get one of those walk-in dog bath things. You know, to get the
sand off before they track it in the house.”
They all agree that this is an excellent idea.
They ate so early that there’s plenty of daylight left when they get back, and the Shipman girls want to walk in the direction
of the flagpole, just the three of them. Maybe all the way to the Beach Club. It’s decided that Calvin and Kara will take
the kids for a walk in the other direction, while Austin checks out the water level inside the house.
“Can we look for a whale on the beach?” asks Scarlett.
“I hope you don’t find one,” says Natalie. “That would be really bad news for the whale. There’d be no way to get it back
to sea.”
“A dolphin, then,” amends Evangeline.
“Same deal.”
“Maybe some crabs that can make their way back to the water as soon as they need to,” suggests Mae, and they agree that, yes,
crabs would be okay; they’ll look for crabs.
Kara reaches her hand down, and Caspian stretches his up, and off they go, a funny permutation of a family.
On the way to the Beach Club, there’s more detritus, more people examining their homes or picking through what the receding tide left on the beach.
The air feels clean and clear, like the bad parts have been swept away with a broom.
And there, arching across the sky out over the ocean, as perfectly placed as it would be in a child’s painting, is the most beautiful rainbow.
They all see it at the same time. Because, as they were instructed their whole lives, they remembered to look at the sky.
“You can’t tell me that isn’t Mom,” says Mae.
“Oh my god,” says Natalie. “Never. That’s such a cliché. Mom would never come back as a rainbow. She’d come back as, I don’t
know, like, a sandpiper or a seal or a surfboard or something. Something more interesting.”
“Natalie’s right,” says Jordan. “Mom hated clichés.”
“You guys are wrong,” says Mae. “That’s our rainbow. That’s Mom.”
Mae waves at the rainbow and says, “Hi, Mom.” She looks at her sisters expectantly.
“Really?” asks Jordan. Mae nods. “Okay. Fine. Hi, Mom,” says Jordan. They both turn to Natalie.
Natalie sighs.
“Go ahead,” says Mae.
“Hey, girl,” says Natalie, nodding at the rainbow. She feels silly, but she does it for Mae.
“I wish she left us a letter,” says Mae.
“What kind of letter?”
“With, like, life advice, the way moms do in a movie.”
“We were there when she died,” points out Jordan. “Why would she also have written a letter?”
“To remind us not to put our drinks down at the bar.”
“Not to dry an untreated stain.”
“That thank-you notes are not optional.”
“I think we know the advice,” says Jordan. “Now we just have to live it.” Then she squints down the beach, where a gray blur
is visible, running in wild circles, and asks, “Is that Leo?”
“It looks like him. Somebody let him out!” Natalie cries. “Oh, no, I bet it was Austin, he didn’t know any better, I’m sorry,
Mae!”
“It was probably Kara,” says Jordan. Then she says, “Sorry. I forgot I’m nice now. It probably wasn’t Kara.”
“It’s okay,” says Mae, although it really isn’t okay. If Leo gets in a situation he can’t handle, if he finds another dog
on the beach and goes after it, if he gets above threshold, as Hal would say, thirty seconds could undo all of the hours of careful training Mae has put in over the last week.
She inhales, and on her exhale she yells, “Leo, COME!”
No dog’s recall is perfect when the whole world beckons, that’s just a fact. Mae learned from Hal that the recall word is
not to be overused, because if you let a dog ignore you too many times you have poisoned the cue and your dog won’t listen when you really need him to.
(“Be careful not to poison the cue.” —Hal Miller.)
Mae has been so careful with her recall word! She doesn’t think she has poisoned the cue, but of course you never know. All
you can do is hope.
Always offer something enticing, Hal would say. Always be the best option.
She sees Leo’s head turn toward her and watches his body still, watches him pause, considering. One way to freedom, but also
to uncertainty, unpredictability, possibly danger. The other way to home. Mae calls one more time, and one more time is all
it takes for Leo to run toward her as fast as he can, ignoring anything he passes on the way, sliding like a baseball player
into the most beautiful sit in front of Mae.
It’s a perfect recall.
“Good boy, Leo,” says Mae. She’s so happy she could cry. She takes off her belt and fashions it into a leash to hook around
his collar. “Good, good, good boy. The best boy.”
They start back. How many times have they walked this beach in the past? So many times. So many! They were little girls on this beach, and preteens, and teens, and young adults, and now here they are, the girls from the
photos, the girls from the memories, the girls from yesterday and today and tomorrow. Here they are, the Shipman girls.