Chapter 14
Nantucket Island
It was a few days after Remy’s diagnosis, and Darcy and her family were invited to a barbecue at Hilary’s place. “It’s been a weird summer,” Hilary said on the phone. “I think we need to come together and celebrate what we have before time slips away.” Darcy agreed.
Together, Darcy and Steven packed up their things for a day at the beach in front of Hilary’s place.
They packed swimsuits, bottles of wine, and plenty of snacks.
Remy sat quietly in the living room, watching them as Gavin bounced around exuberantly, making too much noise.
The contrast was startling. Darcy scooped Remy into a hug and prayed, again, that Remy would spontaneously get better, that this diagnosis was a fluke.
But she knew in her heart that that couldn’t be so.
Of course, they hadn’t told anyone about the diagnosis yet.
They wanted to get a handle on next steps, on what they planned to do about Remy’s deafness, before they made all the relevant phone calls and worried everyone sick.
Darcy especially didn’t want news of it getting to her mother in Europe.
Every time Sam called, there was euphoria in her voice.
She had endless stories about France, Brussels, and now Spain. She was having the time of her life.
Sometimes Darcy considered calling Rachelle to talk about Remy’s deafness. But she imagined it all falling on Rachelle’s “deaf” ears. Rachelle was too twisted up in wedding planning to care about anyone else, she knew.
When they pulled into the driveway, Hilary and Aria came out to greet them and help them carry everything in. Darcy clung to Remy, careful to keep her close. She was afraid that somebody would notice how odd she was acting and call her out.
“So glad you could make it!” Hilary said, hugging them both.
Out on the veranda, they greeted the rest of the Colemans who’d gathered for the day: Hilary’s husband Marc, who was feeling better today; Charlie and his wife and their kids and grandkids; Darcy’s stepfather, Derek, as well as his brother Patrick and his wife Sophie.
Sophie was Roland’s brother, Grant’s, granddaughter, which tied up their families neatly.
Sophie’s kids ran around on the sand, happy as clams, while Sophie and her sister Katrina gossiped and sipped iced tea, waving to Darcy and her family as they entered.
It looked like the Martha’s Vineyard Colemans hadn’t made it over, which was just as well.
Sometimes, when there were too many of them around, Darcy felt overwhelmed.
Burgers were cooking on the grill. Darcy was handed a plate with a cheeseburger and some homemade onion rings, which pleased her. She sliced everything up into smaller pieces so that Remy could eat from her plate, too. Gavin ate his burger faster than anyone else and asked for a second.
“He’s growing!” Hilary grinned. “I don’t know what it’s like to have a little boy. It must be crazy.”
Darcy laughed and said it was.
Under her breath, Hilary said, “I talked to your mom this morning. She said she thinks your grandmother snuck out of the apartment in Paris during the night.”
Although Darcy was preoccupied with Remy, she still felt her mouth drop. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.” Hilary laughed.
“Where did she go?” Darcy asked.
“She suspects that she snuck out to see a man,” Hilary said, speaking quietly so as to keep this gossip close. “Apparently, there’s a fan who comes to a lot of Mom’s readings. Some guy they met in New York.”
Darcy remembered the older gentleman she’d spoken to outside the bookstore, the one with the pipe.
She remembered how he hadn’t spoken to his children in years and felt a stab of worry.
Before she could verbalize it, Remy wiggled off her lap and sped after Gavin, down the steps and toward the beach below.
Darcy got up and called after Remy, forgetting that Remy couldn’t hear her.
Remy kept running after her brother, her face stern.
“The young ones love their older siblings,” Hilary said, as though that was that.
But Darcy didn’t like how fast Remy was running. In the water, some of the older Colemans were floating, splashing, and swimming around. It looked as though Remy wanted to join them, rather than join her brother.
“Remy!” Darcy screamed. But of course, it was no use.
And it was at that moment, as she scrambled for the stairs and hurried after her deaf daughter, that the full weight of everything pressed on Darcy’s chest. She burst into tears. She felt she couldn’t protect her daughter from the enormity of the world. She couldn’t handle any of it.
Right before Remy dove into the waves—despite not being able to swim herself—Sophie Coleman swept over to her and picked her up, saving her. She laughed and bounced the girl on her hip. “She’s a fast one!” she called to Darcy as Darcy approached.
But Darcy couldn’t stop crying. She took her daughter into her arms and clung to her so hard that Remy began to cry, too.
She could feel all the Colemans watching her from the beach and from the veranda above.
Embarrassment made her judgment feel cloudy.
Had she overreacted? She couldn’t remember. Her tears made Remy’s dress all wet.
Back upstairs, Hilary ushered Darcy and Remy into the dark kitchen, where she poured Darcy a mug of tea and watched her expectantly. It was as though she knew Darcy had something to share.
“I’m sorry I panicked like that,” Darcy said.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Hilary said. “But Darcy, honey. We’re family. You should tell me what’s going on, so I can help you.”
Darcy pressed her lips together. Remy was quiet, her cheeks red.
She knew she’d done something wrong. But how could Darcy tell her that?
How could Darcy begin to parent? She’d googled “sign language for toddlers,” but the idea of learning a language and also teaching that language to Remy boggled her mind. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this.
Finally, Darcy came out with the truth. She told Hilary about the diagnosis, about what might happen next. Hilary listened without showing panic on her face. But when Darcy was finished, Hilary said, “I think you should see someone, Darcy. To talk about this.”
“We already have a doctor,” Darcy said.
“A therapist,” Hilary corrected. “I think you should be thinking about your own mental health, as you navigate Remy through this. Steven should think about his, too.”
Hilary recommended a family therapist on the island, a woman in her mid-forties who’d helped Hilary through a few difficult times and was incredibly discreet. Darcy made an appointment for three days after the family barbecue. She feared the worst.
When she entered the office, she found a short and muscular woman waiting for her on a cushioned chair. The woman, Dr. Orson, got up and shook her hand. “Welcome, Darcy,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Darcy thought she’d seen this woman around the island before.
Maybe she’d seen her at the grocery store, or at the beach, or at a restaurant.
Maybe Dr. Orson had seen Darcy and Rachelle, giggling madly as they bopped around downtown together.
Maybe Dr. Orson already knew more about Darcy than Darcy knew about her.
Just as she had with Aunt Hilary, Darcy told Dr. Orson about Remy’s diagnosis and her fears for Remy’s future.
But not long after they’d begun their session, Darcy found herself talking about Rachelle, about how much she missed her sister, about how much she blamed her sister for leaving and never coming back.
“I feel like she split up our family,” Darcy breathed. “I hate that I blame her for that, but the blame is there, and it’s not going away.”
“When was the last time you spoke with Rachelle?” Dr. Orson asked.
Darcy considered this. “I’m pretty sure we talked on the phone after my grandfather passed away. Rachelle came for the funeral, but we didn’t speak very much. Everything was chaotic. My children were even younger than they are now, and I kept a wide berth.”
“Why did you stay away from her?” Dr. Orson asked.
Darcy considered this, crossing her ankles beneath her.
She remembered how sour and strange everything had felt, how her mother hadn’t been able to stop crying, how Grandma had handled everything like a champion, unable to let herself break down.
She remembered seeing Rachelle for the first time at The Jessabelle House, how she’d wanted to throw her arms around her and sob into her shoulder.
But Rachelle had looked like a stranger to her.
They’d hugged tepidly, and then they’d stepped away, assessing each other.
Darcy had asked about the flight. She hadn’t asked anything about Rachelle’s life in Rome, maybe because she didn’t want to know about anything that was pulling Rachelle away.
“She’s getting married,” Darcy answered instead. “To some Italian guy who none of us have ever met.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Sort of destroyed,” Darcy admitted. “We used to tell each other everything. I was involved in, like, all of her romantic problems. We gave each other advice about everything. When I started dating my current husband, I remember she got kind of weird about it? I think that might have been part of the reason she went to Italy in the first place.”
Darcy realized that she hadn’t admitted that to herself in a while, although she knew it was true.
They continued talking: about Rachelle and Darcy’s shared history, about the father they hardly spoke to, and about Darcy’s fears for Remy.
Eventually, Darcy heard herself say, “I’m worried that it’s already too late for Rachelle and me.
Maybe we can never mend our relationship.
I don’t think I’m invited to the wedding.
I don’t think she’ll ever want to hear from me. ”
“Have you considered reaching out to her?”
“Of course!” Darcy said. “But texting her via her social media profile feels so strange. It feels like we’ve never known each other. And I’m terrified she’ll ignore it, anyway.”
Dr. Orson considered this. “What about another way?”
“I don’t have her phone number anymore,” Darcy said. “She changed it.”
“What about a letter?” Dr. Orson suggested. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but I like old-fashioned. It gives you the space and time to think about what you want to say and how you want it to come across. And then, you can slip it into the mail and wait. There’s not as much pressure.”
But Darcy wasn’t sure. “I haven’t written anything by hand in a long time.”
“That might be all the more reason to do it,” Dr. Orson said. “There’s a different connection between the mind and the hand, I think. Maybe it’ll help you tap into your emotional side.”
Their hour was up. Darcy was relieved, as she felt as though Dr. Orson had squeezed her like a sponge.
But she thanked her and headed out to her car, wondering if she’d get up the nerve to write Rachelle a letter.
She already knew who she could send it to.
Diana March’s restaurant had an address listed on her social media channel.
She could send it there, and Rachelle would receive it.
But what on earth could Darcy tell her? What could bring Rachelle home?