35. Thirty-five
The showers we take when we get to the rental house are so long that we run out of hot water twice. I splurge on a bath in the claw-foot tub and want to spend the entire three weeks there.
Exhausted, we order pizza. The whales and puffins and lobsters will have to wait for another day.
“So, I never asked you guys what you found at the visitor’s center earlier. Anything fun we need to add to our list?”
I drop a slice of mushroom on my plate.
Marin clears her throat, and Finn gives her a long look before they both turn to me.
“Actually, Mom, we did.”
“Okay.” I wipe my face with a napkin and narrow my eyes towards them. “And? Don’t keep me waiting all day here, people. If there’s something cool to see, I want to see it already.”
“Well, the thing is, it’s a wilderness experience.”
My eyes widen, and I drop my pizza on my plate.
“Oh no!” I shake my head adamantly. “We just got out of a camper you told me you were sick of, and you want to do a wilderness experience? What does that even mean? I want to hike in Acadia National Park and then sleep in this bed right upstairs.”
I point to the ceiling.
“Well, the thing is, Mom, it’s not for you.” Marin says, twisting the napkin in her lap.
“What are you even talking about, Marin? Finn?”
My eyebrows pinch.
Finn hands me a pamphlet.
“There’s an Acadia Wilderness Experience. It’s for fourteen nights for teens ages fifteen to seventeen. A guide would take us out and teach us about foraging, building shelters, fishing, and tracking. We get to make a canoe even. And then there’s an option to learn to sail if we wanted at the end.”
The blood drains from my face as I open it. Teens out acting like Bear Grylls, smiling in every picture I flip over like they are living their best lives.
“But what about the whales? And puffins?”
My eyes burn with everything this implies.
“Well, we might get to see them, and you could obviously still go on the tours here. We wouldn’t be gone the whole time—just two weeks. We’d have a few days together after.”
“Marin, you want to do this? I mean, Finn, I’m not surprised—but you?” My ears are ringing as I try to process this information.
“Being up in Bethel, Mom, it made me appreciate it out here. I’ll admit, sleeping in a handmade shelter if it rains doesn’t sound appealing, and I would never do it alone, but I don’t know, doing it with Finn sounds, I don’t know, fun. Like one of those experiences people talk about years later as being a source of inspiration, you know?”
Her words make me dizzy, but I also understand them deep in my bones.
I’ll never be able to say no to them, not after stealing their summer and dragging them around this country like a crazy woman who broke out of the local asylum. They want to do this, and I’m going to let them. It might wreck me, but I’ll do it.
I shove down every emotion that wells up in me with several hard swallows and long blinks.
“Is there space?” I ask. “I mean, this seems really last minute.”
“They had two brothers back out last minute, so those spots are ours if we want them,” Finn says between bites of pizza.
“When would you leave?” I ask, thumbing through the pamphlet again, reading about the skills and invaluable lessons they will learn in their two weeks.
“The day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow.
I nod, waiting for the burn in my eyes to subside. All I can say is, “Let’s get you signed up.”
Marin and Finn explode with words of gratitude and hugs and high-fives. For the first time in my life, my heart somehow fills while flattening. A paradox.
I can survive two weeks without them just like they survived the last year, watching me move through this world like a ghost. I can do this.
I’ll still be in Bar Harbor. The puffins and whales and lobsters won’t care if I’m alone or not—though now I realize I don’t care about most of what we had planned. It was for us, not me.
I watch Marin and Finn as they point to different pages and talk wildly. They are growing up. As much as I need time with them, they need time without me.
There’s no choice. I celebrate with them.
“It says here you have to dig a hole for your toilet.” I wave the pamphlet at them and smile genuinely. “I can’t wait to hear those stories.”
***
It”s a scramble to get everything done the next day.
Large backpacks, canteens, lighters, several pairs of socks, good hiking shoes, some sort of all-in-one pan thing, and a pocketknife.
Finn will thrive, I know that, but I still can’t believe Marin is going through with this.
“Are you sure about this, Marin?” I ask in the sock aisle.
She laughs. “Mom, I know, I just… it’s hard to explain. We are going to come back from this jaunt across the country, and everyone will see instantly how different you are. Not just your clothes and your hair, but you. You’re happy. You went out on a date and made cocktails. Even Finny is less of an asshole. But me? I haven’t done anything. I’m still just happy Marin that loves everything. I just want… I want to push myself the way you have.”
Her eyes search my face for approval—I give it to her wholeheartedly and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “I love you, Marin, always and forever,” I say into her hair. “I hope you don’t get eaten by a bear.”
She laughs then drops four pairs of socks in the basket.
***
The visitor’s center for Acadia National Park is buzzing with teens and parents at 8AM.
“Take a picture, Mom,” Marin says. “Finny and I at our last ever summer camp.”
She laughs, and Finn rolls his eyes as she hooks an arm around his neck.
After signing a few papers at the registration desk, I give them both hugs.
“Please don’t cry, Mom. I can see it coming from a mile away.”
Finn’s voice is a groan as his eyes dart around to make sure nobody sees me getting emotional.
“I would never.” I say, water already lining my eyes. “I love you both, I’m proud of you, and I’ll see you in two weeks.” I grab Finn’s arm. “Take care of her, okay?”
He smiles, giving me another hug, and lightly says, “Maybe.”
I laugh despite the emptiness I feel.
“Love you, Mom!” They call as they disappear into a sea of teens ready to set off on an adventure out in the woods with oversized packs on their backs.
Then, I’m alone.
No kids.
No camper.
No plan.
I remember when my kids were demon-driven toddlers—I would have given a limb to get time alone. Now the empty house that isn’t mine is so loud with silence I’m scared my ears will bleed. I’ve never known a quiet like this.
I fill the clawfoot tub with steaming hot water, bubbles, and pour myself a glass of breakfast wine.
Staring at the ceiling as the warm water washes over me, the bubbles pop under my fingers, and I blow out a breath.
When I drop my head back and look at the ceiling, for the first time since we ruined that poor moose’s life, I think of Ethan. He hasn’t called, texted, or emailed me to explain why he left without saying goodbye.
Every sip of wine reminds me of the taste of him.
As much as I don’t want to think about it, I wonder what he’s doing. Is he on a date? Probably not at 9:30 in the morning. Unless he stayed the night with a woman.
Nope.Not letting my mind go there.
I close my eyes and slide under the water, letting the warmth wrap around me and wash all the sadness away.
When I finally pull myself out of the tub, I wipe the condensation off the mirror and stare at my reflection.
I trace the lines of my face with my finger and try to see who I was before they were there. When I was young and na?ve. When the idea that life might not work out the way I planned was an impossible notion.
I see her, but not really. Life isn’t designed to keep us the same versions of ourselves.
My eyes land on the gold ring that dangles around my neck—the last reminder that keeps me clinging to a life I’m never going to have again while stopping me from moving any further into a new one.
When Travis died, it was as if I was forced awake from a sweet dream I didn’t know I was having—the gold band a constant reminder I can never go back to it.
I can’t keep wearing it. If I do, I’ll keep considering him every time I feel it on my flesh. It’s not that I don’t want to remember him, I do desperately, but I know I’ve taken it too far.
I don’t just remember him—I live for him.
Marin was right when she told me I’ve changed. With every breath I take, I feel I’m different from the person who set out on the road at the beginning of summer. I think of Travis when I see airplanes and watch Finn do something exactly like him, but somewhere out on the road, I stopped looking for him. I delight in the times I catch glimpses of him, but I’m no longer mourning the moments I don’t.
I unclasp the necklace and drop it on the counter.
I have an idea.