Marissa
Maybe it’s all the unfamiliar noises keeping me up.
I’ve forgotten how loud nighttime in the Poconos can be, with its chirping katydids and hooting owls.
The rustle of animals moving through the forest, snapping twigs and crunching dry leaves beneath their feet.
These sounds were a soothing summer lullaby when I was a kid.
But now I’ve been gone too long, and it all feels foreign.
I’ve gotten used to my quiet neighborhood, perched high on the winding roads where traffic is blessedly absent and the only sound is a rare coyote at night.
Or maybe it’s the ever-present mom guilt. My brain started its nightly review of worries as soon as I slid beneath the covers, narrating them in Don LaFontaine’s voice like an old-school movie trailer.
With a frustrated sigh, I fling back the quilt, slide my feet into a pair of sandals, and tiptoe out into the hallway and down the stairs.
The mountain air is cool and refreshing as I step onto the back patio. The ambient noises are even louder here, yet somehow more peaceful. The golden glow of fireflies flickers across the yard. Beyond it, moonlight glitters on the lake.
The warped wooden planks groan beneath me as I make my way to the edge of the dock.
I slip off my shoes, setting them neatly beside me, and then dangle my bare feet over the edge.
The moment my toes graze water, I feel myself transform, shedding every new identity I’ve acquired over the years.
I’m no longer a mom, or an ex-wife, or a “whatever happened to her” celebrity.
I’m just me again. Marissa.
It’s hard to believe how much time has passed since I last sat here.
A lifetime, really. I only made it back to the lake house once after I landed my role on Little LLC.
At first, the issue was scheduling. We filmed over the summer to ensure we’d have new episodes for the fall.
Every year, I promised my grandmother that it was temporary, that I’d be back the following summer.
But one year rolled into the next, and even when the show ended, I still managed to find excuses.
A therapist once told me I avoided coming back because I didn’t want my parents’ divorce tainting my happy childhood memories.
Things between them were already tense when my mom and I moved to California, and they got worse every summer until they fell apart for good.
Avoiding a place that once brought me so much joy was a defense mechanism, the therapist insisted.
It was easier to preserve those bittersweet family memories than accept we’d never make new ones.
I suspect it’s why I never brought Rocky here, either.
Subconsciously, I didn’t want to spoil my rose-tinted memories with the grittiness of reality. Nostalgia is a powerful drug.
I think I also worried that nostalgia had warped my recollections. What if the lake wasn’t as perfect as I remembered it? Fortunately, that concern feels unwarranted. Sitting here, I feel the same sense of peace I did as a kid. Only now, there’s one important thing missing: my grandma.
We saw Grandma Judy a few times throughout the year, but we only got to spend long stretches of time together in the summer.
She is in the backdrop of every summer memory: flipping French toast on the griddle, waving to me from an Adirondack chair, cheering loudly as I jumped off inflatables with the neighborhood kids.
And even though she was my mom’s mom, she never took a side in my parents’ divorce.
That’s just who she was: loving, fair, clear-headed.
Wanting the best for everyone, including me.
All she wanted was to spend time with us.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over me as I consider how infrequently I visited her during her last years.
I know I was busy with my own kids, especially Levi.
But I could have made time. I should have made time.
My grandma was so proud of my career. I wonder what she’d make of my decision to put it on the back burner to focus on my kids.
She never got to make that choice herself.
Her husband, my grandfather, died when my mom was five, so Grandma was a single mom who needed to support her family.
She built a network of friends and neighbors, put herself through night school, and worked as a librarian for over thirty years.
Even after retiring, she was still a frequent library patron. One of my favorite summer activities was going to the library with her the day after arrival and checking out an armful of books. She’s one of the reasons I’m a lifelong reader.
“You need to read a lot if you’re going to be an actress,” she always told me. “Reading helps you get into someone else’s head. Walk in their shoes, understand different feelings and experiences. Plus, you’ll need strong reading skills for all those scripts.”
I can’t help but wonder if she’d think I’ve failed to live up to my potential.
I wasn’t one of Little LLC’s biggest stars, but I worked steadily after it ended, and landing the role of Felicia Fox changed everything.
After that, job offers were flying in. But just when my career was taking off, I got pregnant with Isla.
I was posed to become “The Next Big Thing,” and suddenly I was relegated to “New Mommy” and “Rocky Ramirez’s Wife” and Reddit threads about leading ladies who disappeared from the spotlight.
I don’t regret staying home with my kids while they were little. But Levi is starting kindergarten this year. At this point, what’s really holding me back?
Maybe I’m just scared. I left Hollywood on a career high. Is there anywhere to go but down? Then again, maybe fear is just an excuse. Maybe the only thing standing in my way is me.
Something about being back at the lake feels like a sign, though. Like the stars have finally realigned to give me the jump-start I need. I can’t help but feel like my grandma is watching over me, like she knew the only way I could create a fresh start was by going back to the beginning.
A yawn escapes me, and I register how late it’s getting. Reluctantly, I gather my shoes and head back inside.
It isn’t until I climb back into bed that I realize the path’s loose stone has been neatly resealed.
I wake up slowly to slits of sunlight filtering through the bedroom blinds. The first thing I’m aware of is the sharp point of an elbow in my side. This isn’t new: I usually wake up to find my kids curled up beside me. And between the two of them, they have thirteen elbows.
The second thing I’m aware of is that I’m not in my own bed. This is new. I blink the room into focus and that’s when I remember that I’m not in LA. I’m at Grandma Judy’s lake house.
My lake house, I remind myself.
But a transition of ownership doesn’t change the fact that this is still my grandma’s bedroom.
It looks the same as it always has, all done up in pale yellows, cream, and blue.
The wrought-iron bed is topped with a blue damask quilt that smells faintly of mothballs, and there’s a coordinating fabric-lined valance above the window.
A row of framed needlepoints hang on the floral wallpaper, which is sun-faded and curling in the corners.
My grandma might be gone, but it still feels wrong to wake up here, like I’m trespassing somehow.
An interloper. I should still be down the hall, waking up in the wood-paneled bedroom where I tucked in my own kids last night.
One of the warm bodies beside me shifts, reminding me that my kids are no longer in that wood-paneled room.
Luckily, I’m used to waking up beside them.
They started creeping into my bed soon after Rocky moved out.
I thought it was strange at first, since it wasn’t like he was usually there anyway.
Most of the time he was on location, which took him away for weeks or even months.
But they registered the permanence of his absence, so when they crept in late at night, I figured it would last for a few weeks, tops.
They needed to adjust to the change. Besides, I didn’t want to kick them out.
I wanted to be a safe space, a steady presence who would never disappear.
But I never thought the habit would last this long, and now I’m not sure how to break it.
I press my lips to the top of Isla’s head, inhaling the comforting scent of her strawberry shampoo. She rolls over, sleepy-eyed, and blinks me into focus.
“Mommy, I’m tired,” she groans.
“Me too,” I say. “The first night in a new place is always the trickiest.” There’s an understatement.
Because I got to bed so late, my eyelids feel swollen and achy, and I am in desperate need of coffee.
Still, I plaster on a mask of positivity, because both kids are looking at me right now, waiting for me to set the tone for the day, and I need to make sure I start us off on the right foot.
“Guess what?” I ask, imbuing my voice with as much cheer as I can muster. “It’s the first day of summer vacation and we’re getting to spend it at one of my favorite places. You’re going to love the Poconos just as much as I did when I was a kid.”
Isla looks skeptical, but I catch that trace of apprehensive excitement behind her eyes again. It’s the same look she had when she first saw the lake. Disappointed as she is about the change in our summer plans, I know part of her wants to believe me.
“Who’s hungry?” I ask. Isla immediately perks up, and Levi starts bouncing happily on the mattress. I grin in response. “Me too. I’m going to make us the same breakfast my grandma always made me on the first day of summer: French toast!”
The two of them leap from the bed and into the hallway, where I hear them tumbling down the stairs. I stretch, then follow sleepily behind them. What I wouldn’t give to have that level of youthful energy first thing in the morning.