Chapter Nine
The week after Leo leaves, a Wednesday, before I can even go to the clinic for blood work, I get my period.
It’s not a surprise, not exactly, but I feel this lost hope more than I do the others.
Because I know I am running out of time.
With my biological clock, yes, but also with Leo.
We haven’t talked about anything since that night at Broad Beach, and the weight of that—of this silence between us—feels like an elephant on my chest. I have no idea how we’ll move forward.
I peel myself off the bathroom floor, and by Friday I’m hauling four suitcases and Pea’s crate up the driveway and into Broad Beach.
Marcella greets me on the other side. “Honey,” she says. “Are you sure about this?”
I feel a familiar jolt of irritation rocket through me. I point to the duffel in my hand. “It’s a little late for that,” I say. “Place is rented.”
Sylvia appears in the doorway. She elbows Marcella. “Oh, what do you know, you’ve been cramping my style for sixty-nine years. Out of her way!”
I see Marcella take a step back, a flash of something cross her face. I hug Sylvia, as Marcella takes the crate out of my hand.
“Oh,” Sylvia says. “You brought her.”
“What was she supposed to do?” Marcella says. “Leave her?”
Sylvia has never much cared for animals, specifically cats. But there are no allergies to speak of in our family, and for the most part, Pea keeps to herself. My mother loves her—I think because Sylvia never let her have a pet of her own when she was younger.
“Upstairs,” Sylvia says. “And watch the walls! I just had them repainted.”
I take the steps up to my childhood bedroom.
The walls are covered in family portraits.
Black-and-whites of the older generations and full color as the years turn on.
Sylvia and Mom on the beach; me holding a fish on a dock at the Jersey Shore, that summer we decided to trade one sand for another.
Dad and I on our boards, our fingers in shakas.
They are all in mismatched, wood-peeling frames.
It’s impossible to keep anything new with this much sunlight—eventually even the glass starts to bleach.
I pop the door at the top of the stairs open with my elbow.
Inside it’s like a time capsule. My things aren’t there anymore—Sylvia loves clutter but not junk (her words), but everything else is exactly as it always was.
There’s my brass bed, Laura Ashley yellow floral sheets and curtains that once matched but are now so sun-soaked you can barely see the outline of a print.
It smells musty and salty—exactly the scent of home.
Marcella follows me up, sets Pea’s crate down and opens the door. The cat stretches and then disappears.
“We probably won’t see her again all summer,” I say.
“That’ll thrill Grandma.” Marcella sticks her hands on her hips and surveys the room. “Can I get you anything?”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m just going to unpack.”
She leaves, and I drop my suitcases and flop myself down on the bed. The springs creak—unused to weight.
I take out my phone and hit Leo’s number. It’s the third time I’ve called today, and I’m not expecting him to answer, so it’s a nice surprise when he does. He was kind and gentle when I got my period, but I feel the distance between us—all the things we can’t take back.
“Hey,” Leo says. “You make it out?”
“Just got here.”
I walk to the window and peel the curtain back. The sun is shining high overhead—it’s noon at the beach. I can feel the outside calling, practically mocking me to get out of the stuffy house.
Through the phone I hear the sounds of Manhattan traffic. “How’s your day been?” I ask.
“Just coming up for air. We’ve been location scouting since seven. Did you know there’s a private library uptown where the books have grown into the walls? It’s all outside; they’re covered in ivy. It’s apparently one of the wonders of Manhattan.”
He seems engaged, excited. I’m glad. That’s what he should feel if we’re spending this summer apart. That the job is worth it.
“No idea,” I say. “I didn’t even know there were wonders of Manhattan.”
“Apparently. It was incredible. We should do that in our house.”
Leo is always talking about this fictional home we will have someday. This three-million-dollar house in West Hollywood with a full backyard and a fireplace and now an outdoor library.
I hear a car honk loudly, and the sound of a siren going by. “Hang on,” he says. “Just waiting for them to pass.”
After another moment, the noise dies down.
“This place is a maniac,” Leo says.
I imagine him, jeans and a T-shirt, a week’s worth of stubble and sweat stains, lumbering through the streets of Manhattan. Leo belongs in the Pacific Northwest with a beer and sixty-two-degree temps.
“What are you going to do tonight?” I ask.
“A few of the crew are posting up at a bar in Midtown. Thought I’d join them for a pint.”
Leo’s British sneaks in sideways. He uses knackered and the trash can is always the bin.
“That sounds fun,” I say. “Call me after.”
“Will do. Love ya.”
He hangs up before I can reciprocate.
I toss the duffel and suitcases into the closet without opening them, pull on a blue Nike one-piece bathing suit from where it lives in a drawer, and pad downstairs.
My mother is in the kitchen chopping lettuce leaves from the garden. The most cooking she does is the kind that doesn’t involve a stovetop or oven. She assembles. “Going for a swim?” she asks me. She doesn’t look up.
“We’ll see. I might just take a walk.”
I think about inviting her, but she looks busy.
“Do you want a wet suit? Your father has a million. The water is freezing right now.”
“This is hardly freezing.” I pop a cherry tomato into my mouth from a bowl that sits on the counter. “I have a spring suit around here somewhere. I’ll find it.”
She blinks and looks at me, shakes her head. “Whatever you want.”
My relationship with my mom has always been like a dance I haven’t quite memorized.
We move around each other, sometimes together, often stumbling away or stepping on each other’s toes.
I used to look at people who were best friends with their mothers and wonder what that would be like—to feel so universally and wholly understood by another person.
I know she loves me, but love is given, easy.
I have never been certain she likes me—that she doesn’t judge every decision I make through a lens of why.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, and slip out the back door. I see her watching me through the glass with curiosity and something else, too. Something that feels… heated. I turn my back on her before I can place it, and take the stairs down.