Chapter Five Rose
The birds beat me to the punch the next morning. I can hear their chirping as the morning light trickles in.
There must be a robin’s nest outside. Lottie used to keep a bird-watching book on the living room coffee table.
She would draw the birds she noticed in the garden, chronicling their colors and feathers, and including a list of interesting facts about the species in the margins.
Lily and I used to love scrolling through the book every now and again, marveling at Lottie’s talent, those bright shades and sharp, clean lines.
Lottie said that after my mother’s death, she appeared to her as a blue jay, which always struck me as odd seeing as how I both couldn’t imagine my mother as a bird for obvious reasons and have also heard that blue jays have a sort of negative reputation for being aggressive.
But Lottie believed in stuff like that—past lives, reincarnation, marriage—the more outrageous, the better.
“People are so quick to limit themselves,” she would say. “It is easier to shrink the world than it is to expand your mind to wonder.”
Lottie said profound statements like that in complete, eloquent sentences, and then a minute later, as if a spell had been broken, she would laugh at herself and shrug.
“Well, what do I know!” she would say, surrendering her philosophy to a small smile.
Lily and I called these moments of profound wisdom “Lottie-isms.” They became our guiding principles.
I often wonder if the bird-watching book is what first sparked Lily’s love for art: all those hours watching, mesmerized as Lottie created something out of nothing, as if by magic.
Drawing was never Lottie’s main passion—she had wanted to be a writer when she was a girl—but she had an eye for it nonetheless.
It’s seven a.m., and I’m sure Lily is still asleep. She never wakes up before ten on the weekends. I’m the opposite. The early morning is when I feel most at peace. Before the rest of the island awakens, Nantucket is mine and mine alone.
We left the car downtown overnight so no one had to be the designated driver.
Now, it’s my responsibility to take the local bus, the Wave, back to where we left it.
Otherwise, it will surely get towed. The new renters will be here at noon and everything has to be perfect for their arrival.
I stretch and rise out of bed, beginning to get ready.
I stop by Lily’s room, peering through the door she left ajar. There she is: unconscious, peaceful. Her curly red hair splayed across the pillow, tangled anew.
My baby.
“She’s not a baby anymore,” said Josie last night when Lily was at the bar buying drinks. I was telling her about the Henry run-in, warning her not to mention the subject.
“You can’t protect her from everything,” she said.
It was like telling me to let Lily tumble over a cliff.
Abandon her to the wolves. Of course, I know Lily isn’t a baby anymore.
I trust her. I trust the woman she’s becoming, but every time I look at her face, it’s as if I’m seeing all the versions she’s ever been lined up at once, like some sort of matryoshka doll.
I blink and there she is at fifteen, seven, and five.
Her cheekbones less angular, her eyes wider, but her mirth as wicked as ever.
A text pops up on my phone, letting out a beep. It’s the man from last night, William.
I was charmed to meet you, it reads. Dinner soon?
I suppress a shudder at the word charmed. It’s so formal, over the top. When I met William, he brought the back of my hand to his mouth and gave it a quick kiss. It was like watching a cheesy adaptation of a Regency novel, one of Lottie’s favorites.
I spare another glance at Lily, content in her dreams, before continuing to get dressed for the day.
I hate that she’s going through a rough time, but I also cherish having her here, safe and cozy in her bedroom, where she belongs.
I grab a Post-it and write her a note in case she wakes up before I’m back.
Out the door, I begin to walk to the bus and mull over the idea of saying yes to William.
When I found out Lily was returning home, there was a part of me that was thrilled.
Raising her alone was hard, but more often than not, we were partners in it.
She was my companion, my buddy. I often wished I had someone to share the lows of parenthood with and shoulder the challenges, but I also had the joys all to myself.
We created a life together, a life we were proud of, and we still had Lottie.
When Lily left for college, I dropped her off, unpacked the car, and then sat in the university parking lot for a few minutes, catatonic.
Her absence was a physical presence, a shift in the atmosphere.
The air whistled with the sound. For the first time in my life—in all my loneliness—I felt truly alone.
Then Lottie told us she was sick. I packed up our small house in New Haven and came back to the island.
I haven’t left since. Nantucket has been a lifeline.
With Lottie’s help, I built another life for myself here: a community, friends, a career, purpose.
I made myself whole again. I didn’t let Lily see my devastation over her absence.
I didn’t let her know about my loneliness.
Having her momentarily back brings me joy, another bonus summer for us where we’ll be together all season.
And yet, I also know she is going to leave.
It’s inevitable: It’s what’s natural and right.
During the pandemic, we got used to living together again, but kids are supposed to leave their parents.
Parents are supposed to be okay with that. However, now Lottie is gone, too.
Where does that leave me?
The streets are narrow around here with no sidewalks, and cars keep passing, forcing me into neighbors’ yards.
Lottie’s cottage—now my cottage, I suppose, although it’s difficult to think of it that way—is situated one block away from the start of the famous bluff walk, a long trail that curves between the edge of the cliff and through the flower-lined yards of residents to the beach.
A flagpole stands in the center of the cobblestone-lined rotary.
Beyond it, the tiny town that constitutes Siasconset, affectionately referred to as ’Sconset village by the islanders.
Compared to downtown, it’s nothing, but this area of the island will always have my heart.
It feels as if you’re stepping into another era, where neighbors chat over morning coffee and the mail carrier knows your name.
There’s a market that sells milk, eggs, pantry items, pastries, fresh vegetables, and homemade ice cream. There’s the post office, and a sandwich shop called Claudette’s with a reliably long line. There’s a liquor store, a restaurant, and a clothing shop smaller than a walk-in closet.
That’s it, but as a preteen, I thought it was the whole world. I loved the autonomy of being able to walk into the village to buy my own ice cream or run an errand for my aunt. It made me feel like an adult, back when it was still thrilling to feel like an adult.
Maybe I also love this area because it’s the place I first met him.
Of course, that didn’t last. It’s been over thirty years since we’ve laid eyes on each other. But here, with the island frozen in time, I can still imagine him strolling by, solid as fog.
“Hi, Rose!” one of my neighbors calls out to me, waving. She’s tending to the flowers in her yard. I wave back.
It was a close call with Lily last night.
I’m not even sure why I don’t want her to know about it, except that talking about him makes it all feel more real somehow, ever present.
Lily has never shown such an interest in my past before.
Maybe it’s the reappearance of Henry, or the loss of her job, or the fact that she’s now the same age I was when I had her, but the questions threw me for a loop.
Every time she asked me about my past relationships, my heart jolted and shrank.
It’s pathetic, really, that he’s still the first person I think of when someone asks me about love.
After all these years, I can’t shake him loose.
I look at my phone again.
Charmed. William was “charmed” to meet me.
There are parts of William that remind me of James, Lily’s father: his clothing, the polished, overpruned manner in which he spoke. But William was also nice. There was a degree of uncertainty, awkwardness, that warmed me.
“Can I buy you a refreshment?” William asked last night, almost bowing.
“A refreshment?” I repeated, amused. “That’s a little formal for a place like this.”
All of the Gazebo’s drinks are served in plastic cups. The most complicated item on their menu is a mix of cranberry, Red Bull, and vodka.
William looked down at the creaky floor. “Can I buy you a drink?” he corrected.
I felt bad then. Lottie used to joke that I can see the good in anyone, even a murderer. She also told me, “Just because you can see the best in someone doesn’t mean they deserve your empathy.” Still, it was challenging not to find William’s deference, his desire to please, well… charming.
Besides, as Josie pointed out, he’s not exactly bad looking either. And it has been a very, very long time since I’ve been on a date.
The gray shingled cottages are close enough together that it’s impossible to avoid glimpses of their residents through the open windows: a middle-aged couple washing dishes at the sink, a young girl reading a book on the wicker couch of a screened-in veranda. Life everywhere.
An older woman in a crisp button-down is painting on her front porch balcony, capturing the light bouncing against the water in the distance. The sight makes my chest expand and then constrict. Why does everyone look so like Lottie these days?
I pause on the side of the street to read the text again.
I have several notifications from clients of mine asking to reschedule or venting about a relationship of their own.
I love my work. I’m not like Lily or Lottie.
Where they receive inspiration from turning inward, I receive mine by looking out at others in my practice as a therapist. When I see something click with a client for the first time, that’s when I feel most aligned in my purpose.
Still, there are days like this—days when I feel my personal resolve tempered—when I wish there was someone besides Lily I could lean on, too.
Maybe “charmed” isn’t such a bad word. There are loads of worse ones. Yes, William’s silver hair was a little too overgelled, but hey! At least he has hair.
There were men I dated when Lily was younger, but I was always careful to keep our lives separate unless it became serious, which it never did. No one was ever significant enough to introduce her to. Or maybe I just never let it get that far.
Even though she seemed okay with the idea last night, Lily doesn’t need to know yet about this either: I don’t want to worry her until it’s solid. Josie said she’s not a baby anymore, but I’ve always done my best to protect her.
When Lily was born, I remember the first emotion being incomprehensible joy.
Here was this tiny miracle in my arms, red and squealing.
And then the next emotion immediately tumbled along: pure terror.
Before Lily, I had fears, and worries, and hopes, but there was an elasticity to my life.
If something bad should happen to me, the world would keep spinning.
My dad didn’t need me; neither did my sister.
And my mother was gone. But now I had Lily, and Lily needed me, and everything, absolutely everything, took on a newfound precariousness.
I suddenly understood those stories of mothers lifting up cars, pumped with adrenaline, to save their children trapped beneath.
It was like before motherhood, I had been floating, swept every which way, and now I had this anchor tethering me to earth. To be a mother is to be in constant fear. Did I do enough? Did I mess her up? Will she be okay?
The panic attacks Lily has been having worry me.
Even though they’ve been occurring less frequently since she left that awful job, I still worry that any sudden movement—any change—could set them off again.
How is it that I can help my clients with their problems, but I can’t seem to reach my own kid?
The bus arrives, letting out a puff of steam.
Dinner on Wednesday? I type to William.
My thumb hovers over the message for a moment before I press send.
What’s one more secret, after all?