Chapter Seven #2
Even though I was cramming all I could into my days and weeks, the year seemed to move slowly.
I was excited about attending the College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor, but my doctors continued to remind me that I had to restrict my physical activity and keep my log, checking my vitals and reporting anything unusual to them.
At times I felt as restricted as Jamie was feeling.
His good news was that the doctors decided not to operate again but to have him continue his therapy with a therapist visiting him twice a week on Birdlane; again, this was something Grandfather financed.
Jamie was reluctant to leave his house and be seen with his crutches, but I got him out to restaurants and up to the Crest from time to time.
His mood improved, but he still felt quite lost.
I found I wasn’t thinking about Kyle Wyman only when I was working on my painting or someone mentioned something about art.
His smile seemed to have imprinted itself on my mind.
For no reason at all, I’d look out at the sea from the high cliff at the Crest and think of him either on that yacht or smiling at me with that look of delighted surprise.
At first, I blamed it on my restricted life.
How many good-looking young men had I met?
My life had been school and whatever trip Mommy had taken me on, but with her gone and my father totally absorbed in his business, I was seldom taken anywhere.
I did visit shops in Bar Harbor, often accompanied by Anna, but her time was restricted with all the domestic duties she had.
Most of my high school girlfriends were a little, maybe very, afraid to do vigorous things with me.
I couldn’t blame them after my incident in art class.
I easily imagined their parents warning them not to have me do anything that could lead to a health issue they’d be blamed for causing.
I was convinced, however, that the reason for my looking for excuses for my infatuation with Kyle Wyman was the sense of guilt it brought along with it.
It was foolish, I told myself. All I’d done was discuss art with him and appreciate how he appreciated my work.
Who wouldn’t think about someone like that?
And look how much older than me he was… at least fifteen years.
I had never had a schoolgirl crush on anyone.
Jamie had just been there all the time. And pasting pictures of rock stars on my bedroom walls wasn’t anything I wanted to do.
I was usually silent when my girlfriends raved about this singer or that.
Maybe I should have been more like them.
Maybe I was growing up too fast. I could certainly blame that on my heart issue and how careful and sensible I was.
Was it possible to be too sensible? Was I wearing raincoats in the sunshine?
In a little less than four weeks, I would be celebrating my eighteenth birthday.
Most of my classmates who were looking forward to that lost some of their excitement when the national drinking age was raised to twenty-one, but with voting rights and other considerations, it was easy to think of yourself as more adult, more in charge of your life.
I couldn’t help but be jealous of them, even though they all thought that because of the family wealth, I should be the person to envy.
Truth was, since my diagnosis, I always felt people were scrutinizing me more, anticipating something.
To me, everyone was a few notches extra nice, almost as if they believed they had to tiptoe around me—everyone, that was, but my father, who treated illness and physical injuries as just minor annoyances, things that interrupted the flow of commerce.
“You were told what to do to take care of yourself; take care of yourself,” he said recently when I had moaned to myself about another blood test, another doctor’s visit. No matter how blue the sky, I always had that black cloud over my head.
One sunny afternoon in early May, I had come home early from school, not because of my health but because my last-period teacher was out and the class was going to be a study hall. I could get in a few extra hours at the cliff to work on my painting.
Suddenly, Grandfather’s car drove up, and he got out quickly. He was carrying an armful of bound papers and headed right for me, walking faster than usual, and not easily, either.
“Your father will be the death of me yet,” he began.
“He forged my signature on a demand letter that he sent to Jamie’s parents, cutting their contract because they haven’t delivered their allotted pounds of lobster and fish.
I had to spend half the day with our attorney keeping him out of jail and righting things with the Fullers.
Here,” he said, handing me the bound papers.
“This is a list of all our providers, distributors, et cetera, their contract information. In short, the essence of Baxter Fish Enterprises. I want you to have it, read it at your leisure. This is a family business; you’re a big part of the family,” he concluded, and then he turned and started back to the house before I could utter a sound.
He looked like he had just aged ten more years as he hobbled along.
From the looks of the sky, I knew we were in for a storm soon, so I put the papers in my basket and began wrapping up my painting and supplies.
I couldn’t stop thinking of the pain Jamie’s family had just endured.
Their costs could easily send them into bankruptcy.
I think it was my rage building against Daddy that made me move as quickly as I did, cursing and muttering to myself as I entered the house. After closing the door behind me, I struggled to put down my things safely so I could organize them.
The moment I felt it, I feared that Grandfather was going to blame himself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anna coming down the stairway. She was looking at me and suddenly started descending with total disregard for her own safety.
I often wondered what that moment before your death was like, that realization that in a second or two you would cross into darkness.
Would you be wondering if you were going to heaven or hell or just floating out into space?
Would you think at all about your body, any pain or ache, or would you somehow have stepped out of it?
I didn’t fall so much as I sank. It felt like I was melting down to my feet.
Maybe Anna prevented me from hitting the floor hard.
I don’t know. The sense of the world bouncing beneath me caused me to open my eyes and see long enough to realize I was being carried to a helicopter, there was an oxygen mask on my face, and Dr. Bush was at my side.
I didn’t know until later that Grandfather had a helicopter on constant call to take me to Bar Harbor.
It was especially important this afternoon, as the sea was already churning in anticipation of a storm.
I could feel myself being lifted toward the sky, heading to Bar Harbor, carried along like the Canada geese that flew in perfect formation, drawn by instinct to a place that was both familiar and distant.
I had a presence there; I was part of the city, of the lights and the tourists jabbering on the streets, my painting on the wall in the gallery, all of it waiting to welcome me, the place where I would either live or die today.
I closed my eyes.
Or, rather, they closed themselves.