Sometimes, Doughnuts
sometimes, doughnuts
She stopped by the Downyflake on her way home and bought a dozen doughnuts and an apple croissant for herself. She knew from experience that when a crisis arose, doughnuts were always a good idea. The house was quiet when she entered. Someone—probably Daphne—had tidied up after breakfast. Blythe took a cup of coffee and her croissant out to the back porch and sat listening to the birds. It would be hot later. A great day for swimming. If Bob was with Celeste, Blythe didn’t need to be there. She could focus on the children. The first chore would be talking to Brooks. But really, should she? What could she say? When Aaden left for Ireland, Blythe had cried her heart out every day, but her parents barely tried to console her.
“You’re young,” they said. “You’ll get over him.”
And she had, hadn’t she?
Her phone pinged. It was Roland, and she was delighted to emerge from the swamp of her thoughts.
“Hello, Blythe. How are you? How is our patient?”
“I’m well. I saw her briefly this morning and she was sleeping.”
“If you return to the hospital at any time today, I’d be grateful for a ride. I’m on Lily Street, not far from your house.”
“Of course. Want to go now?”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“See you then.”
When she pulled into the driveway at Roland’s house, he was standing on the front porch, waiting for her. He was a tall man, slightly hunched by age, and still handsome. He’d dressed carefully in khakis and a button-down shirt.
They greeted each other, he buckled into the car, and Blythe headed toward the hospital. Roland sat very straight, but his face was strained.
“Are you okay, Roland?”
“Oh, you know, just worried about Celeste.”
“She’s strong. She’ll recover.”
“I hope so. If I may say something, Blythe…”
Blythe laughed. “Now you have to say something!”
Roland shifted uncomfortably, straightening his seatbelt. “Celeste told me that when Bob and Kate and you and all her grandchildren were safe and settled, she wouldn’t mind dying.”
“Oh, my God!” Blythe wheeled the car into the emergency parking lot so fast the tires squealed. “Roland, why was Celeste talking with you about dying ?”
Roland chuckled. “Blythe, old people are always talking about dying. Like, have you bought your plot at the cemetery yet? What do you want on your headstone?”
“Isn’t that…I don’t know…morbid?”
“It’s being prepared,” Roland said calmly.
Blythe slotted the minivan in between two other cars and killed the engine. She stared at the older man sitting next to her and forced herself to concentrate on him, on his careworn face with wrinkles and creases and hair sticking out of his ears and his nose. Age spots dotted his face and hands. She could tell by his bright blue eyes and his easy smile that he had been movie-star handsome when he was younger.
Roland reached over and took Blythe’s hand. “Dear girl, Celeste and I have both had full lives. We’re more worried about being a problem for our children than we are about dying.” He grinned, as if telling Blythe a joke. “Celeste has written in her will that what she wants engraved on her headstone is ‘I Had a Great Time . ’?”
Blythe burst into tears. Roland unsnapped his seatbelt and moved closer to Blythe, hugging her against him, one arm holding her close while he slowly smoothed her hair as she cried into his shoulder.
Blythe choked out a sound that was half-laugh, half-cry. “I don’t want Celeste to die,” Blythe blubbered. “I need her. My children need her.”
“I know,” Roland said quietly.
When she was all cried out, Blythe said, “Thank you, Roland.”
He said, “You’re welcome, Blythe.”
As they left the car and walked toward the emergency entrance, she said, “If Celeste lives, I hope you marry her.”
Roland laughed. “Let’s go one step at a time, shall we?”
And then they were through the sliding glass doors, searching for the desk, noticing the number of chairs filled with people.
A teenage boy was vomiting into a brown paper bag.
“Oh, that takes me back to my youth,” Roland said.
At that, Blythe smiled.
Blythe and Roland walked through.
Bob and Kate were in the hall, speaking with Dr. Margrave.
Blythe and Roland joined them.
“Her temperature is normal and we’ll continue to give her IV fluids,” the doctor was saying. “But her blood pressure is high and her heartbeat is unsteady. We’ve put her on beta-blockers and anticoagulants. She shows every sign of returning to normal, but we need to take care of her for a few more days.”
“What can we do?” Roland asked.
“For now, we can only wait. Let her rest and recover.” Dr. Margrave caught a nurse’s eye and went off to confer with her.
A door at the end of the corridor opened. Kate’s husband, Jack, came toward them.
“How is she?”
“They need to keep her another day,” Kate wailed.
Blythe watched Jack fold his arms around Kate and felt a stab of jealousy but also a spark of happiness. She was glad Kate had someone to hold her at a time like this.
—
Blythe left the hospital and returned to her house again.
It was quiet. She headed for the kitchen. All the doughnuts had been eaten. For some odd reason, that made her happy.
She checked her messages. Aaden texted that he had to be at a meeting in Boston and he’d be in touch with her later.
Nick had called. Hope all is well. XO
The perfect message, not needing anything from her. Plus, the XO was very nice.
She went into the kitchen and read the messages on the chalkboard.
Holly: going to Carolyn’s
Teddy: tennis
Daphne: nature walk
Brooks: I’m walking to Main Street to buy some fresh fruit and veggies from the farm trucks for all of us today. Thank you for the doughnut.
Ah, Blythe thought. He knows he’s in trouble.
Miranda was probably in her room, talking on the phone to her best friends about Brooks’s treachery.
She made herself a glass of iced tea. Was she actually here, alone, with some free time? She would call Nick.
Then Miranda drifted like a ghost into the room.
Blythe stood up and hugged her daughter.
“Hi, sweetie,” Blythe said.
“Hi, Mom.” She collapsed, letting the weight of her body fall on Blythe.
“How are you?”
“Okay. I cried so hard last night I vomited.”
“Oh, Miranda. You need to eat. Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Scrambled eggs with cheese, then.” Blythe lifted her small skillet onto the stove. She melted plenty of butter, broke open two eggs, stirred them, adding sprinkles of cheddar cheese and salt and pepper. When they were done, she set them in front of her daughter. “Eat.”
Miranda slumped forward. Listlessly, she lifted a forkful of eggs to her mouth. “Really good, Mom. Thank you.”
Blythe put two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster and set out the butter dish and the jar of Aunt Leah’s cranberry honey. Blythe spread the two pieces with butter and honey and put them in front of her daughter.
“I’m tired, Mom. I think I’ll go back to bed.”
“Miranda, wait. At least finish your eggs.”
Tears welled in Miranda’s eyes. “I can’t, Mommy. I just need to sleep.”
“One more bite,” Blythe coaxed, as if Miranda were four again and refusing her green beans.
Miranda took the smallest bite of eggs any human had ever eaten. She pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks, Mom.” She trudged back to the hall and up the stairs.
“You’re welcome,” Blythe said to the empty air.
Blythe had eaten the apple croissant this morning, which seemed eons ago. She ate the eggs and both pieces of toast and put the dishes in the dishwasher, then took a glass of iced coffee out to the porch.
Amazing, she thought, how summer had taken a nosedive. Celeste in the hospital, Miranda’s heart broken, Bob and Teri keeping secrets from each other.
Restless, Blythe called Kate to ask how Celeste was.
Kate’s answer was brief. “No change. She’s sleeping.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Blythe said. She felt like returning to her own bed and sleeping until everyone was well again. But household chores never stopped, and today she was glad. As she scrubbed and vacuumed and loaded clothes into the washer and dryer, she felt optimistic, as if she was doing something to organize and heal life.
That afternoon, as she stretched out on the living room sofa, her phone pinged. It was Nick, puffing slightly.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m walking on the moors. I didn’t realize how extensive this area is. And how varied. I can stand anywhere and see beach grass and blueberry bushes and a carpet of wildflowers extending into the distance.”
“That’s beautiful, Nick. All the deer and rabbits must have come out to lie at your feet.”
“Why, yes, that’s true, and blue butterflies are landing on my shoulders.”
“Have you climbed to see Altar Rock?”
“I have. Quite a view.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m standing on a dirt road. Next to me is a kind of deer path through bushes, and I see water on the other side.”
“I think I know where you are, Nick.” Blythe sat up on the sofa, shoving cushions behind her. “Stoop down and go through the little tree tunnel and tell me what you see.”
“Okay, then.”
She heard the rustling of bushes growing next to the road, blocking out any sight of the pond on the other side.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m standing on the edge of a large pond filled with water lilies!”
“Oh, that’s my favorite pond. Isn’t it beautiful!”
“I’ve been reading about this island. The Wampanoag believed that whales could swim under the island and surface in these ponds.”
“I would love if that happened,” Blythe said.
“Did you come out here when you were younger?”
“I came out with my grandmother. She always made a delicious lunch and she put it in a wicker basket. When we found a good spot, she would open the basket and set out real china plates and teacups and silverware and napkins.”
“It sounds like lunching with Queen Elizabeth.”
Blythe laughed. “It was like that.”
Nick said, “I’d like to pick a water lily for you, but I don’t know how deep this water is.”
“Don’t!” Blythe shrieked. “You’d be arrested by the conservation foundation.”
“Okay, I’ve shuffled back onto the dirt road. Which way should I go now?”
Blythe relaxed against her cushions and gave her own unique directions. It felt so good to make someone happy.
She’d just said goodbye to Nick when she heard footsteps.
“Mrs. Benedict?”
Blythe turned. Brooks stood a few feet away, and he looked nervous.
As well he should, Blythe thought.
“Hi, Brooks,” she replied, keeping her voice friendly. “If you haven’t had lunch yet—”
“I’ve had lunch, thank you. I wondered if I could speak with you a minute.”
“Of course. Sit.”
Brooks took a chair facing her. She didn’t smile.
Brooks bowed his head for a moment, then faced her full on. “I think I did something really stupid and Miranda is angry with me and I don’t know how to fix it.”
Blythe studied the beautiful creature sitting in front of her, a gorgeous young man with an adolescent mind. Some theorized that the male of the species never grew out of the adolescent mind. She thought there might be some truth to that.
She kept her voice level. “I don’t think Miranda is as angry as she is sad.” Blythe didn’t want to say heartbroken . “Disappointed.”
He flinched. “She told you.”
“Yes. She was very upset.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I want to apologize, but she won’t speak to me. I’ve texted and called her and she won’t answer. I don’t know when she leaves her room. I don’t want to sit outside her door and wait for her like a stalker.” His voice broke when he spoke. “I don’t know what to do.”
He was such a good guy, really, Blythe thought. Still, he had to figure it out himself. She didn’t write self-help columns.
“I can’t speak for Miranda,” she said. “But I’ve assured your mother that you’re welcome to stay here for the entire summer and that stands. You’re welcome to stay here and eat with us and all that.”
“That’s super nice, Mrs. Benedict. I’ll talk to Miranda…I’ll try to talk to her. I’m so sorry and I want to make it up to her.”
“That’s between you and Miranda.” Blythe didn’t want to know any more details about their intimate relationship. She said, “I assume you have enough money to pay for tickets to movies and so on.”
“Yes, absolutely.” Brooks shifted in his chair. “Can I still eat lunch at the snack bar at the club?” Before Blythe could answer, he blurted, “I mean, thank you very much for letting me stay here for the summer. I’m very grateful. Maybe sometime I could treat you and the family to dinner?”
Blythe had seldom seen a guy look so miserable, and she liked him for it. And it had been only a kiss.
“It would be very nice if you treated us to dinner sometime, Brooks. Yes, you can eat at the snack bar. And I have an idea. Do you play tennis? Do you like to sail?”
His eyes lit up. “I haven’t sailed but I’d like to. And I’m not very good at tennis.”
“All right. Let’s sign you up for some lessons at the club. Tennis and sailing. All right?”
Brooks nodded, amazed. “I can pay for the lessons.”
“Nonsense. Let’s go to the kitchen. My laptop is there.”
She unfolded from the sofa and led the way. Sitting companionably next to Brooks, she opened her laptop. Together they organized a full schedule of lessons for him for the rest of the summer.
“You’d better get ready,” she told Brooks. “First tennis lesson is in an hour. I assume you have white shorts, shirt, and tennis shoes.”
“I do. I’ll go change. And thank you, Mrs. Benedict. Thank you so much.”
She could see that he almost hugged her but instead blushed scarlet.
“You’re welcome. And this should keep you out of trouble.” She gave him a look she often gave her children, a warning wrapped around affection.
Brooks nodded and went up the stairs, two at a time, to his very small room.
—
The next morning, Celeste was allowed to come home. Bob and Teri returned to Boston. Kate moved in with Celeste for a few days to help her, because she was supposed to rest.
Blythe stopped by that afternoon to see Celeste. She brought flowers from her backyard, already trimmed and placed in a glass vase, and a box of chocolates, and several glossy entertainment magazines.
Celeste met her at the door.
“Where’s Kate?” Blythe asked.
“She’s gone out to Bartlett’s for food and wine. And yes, it’s fine for me to be left alone. In fact, I prefer it that way. No, I don’t mean you should leave. I just don’t enjoy people hovering. ”
“Well, then, look what I’ve brought you. It seems the rogue of the royal family is in the news again.”
Celeste laughed. “Just what I need.”
Blythe made iced tea for them to sip while they skimmed the new gossip. For a while, Blythe didn’t worry about her children, but after she kissed Celeste goodbye and walked home, the worries came flocking back, landing on her shoulders like squawking crows.
—
Over the next week, life returned to almost normal. Daphne spent the days with Lincoln. The other children played tennis and sailed and swam, coming home to shower and devour whatever Blythe had set out for them. Celeste returned to her normal healthy self.
One morning, it rained. Everyone slept late. It was almost nine when Blythe pulled on sweatpants and a big shirt and went to the kitchen for coffee.
She was shocked to see Brooks sitting at the table, a plate of toast in front of him, his head bent over his iPhone.
Before she could say anything, Brooks said, “I’m sorry I’m still here, Mrs. Benedict. My tennis lesson was canceled because of the rain and I think my sailing lesson will be canceled, too. I’m just trying to find where I can go…I’m checking on what time the library is open.”
Blythe poured a cup of water and popped a recyclable pod of coffee into her Keurig. “Brooks, you don’t have to stay away from here every minute. I appreciate that you’ve made yourself mostly scarce, but I don’t want you to feel homeless.”
“I’m still sleeping here. I’m just trying to stay away because I know—”
A door slammed in the upstairs hall. Footsteps padded down the stairs. Blythe and Brooks froze as they saw Miranda enter the room. She looked like a Victorian consumptive, pale and weak, with tangled hair and stained pajamas. She had dark rings under her eyes.
“Miranda.” Blythe crossed the space between them, intending to hug her daughter, but Miranda lurched backward, as if seeing a monster.
“What is he doing here?”
“You know that Brooks is staying with us for the rest of the summer. I’m sure I told you that.” Blythe kept her voice level, not harsh, not soft. Factual.
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “If he’s staying here, I’m leaving. I’ll go sleep at Grandmother’s house.” Miranda’s lips trembled. “Then I’ll be with people who love me.”
Blythe flinched. “Come on, Miranda, don’t be that way. You know I love you.”
“Oh, really? You love me? Not when you let that jerk stay here even though he’s a total douche and still you choose him over me!” Miranda was shaking with anger.
Desperately, Blythe said, “Miranda, please. Let’s go in the living room and talk about all this.”
Miranda stepped back. “You think you’re such a great mom! You even think that Daphne goes to Maria Mitchell every day.”
“What?”
“Mom, she’s smoking pot with Lincoln. She’s a total pothead. And you are so clueless. You make me sick.” Miranda turned her back on Blythe and raced up the stairs. Her door slammed shut.
Blythe glared at Brooks. “Is Daphne really smoking pot?”
Brooks had gone white. “Maybe?”
“Maybe? What kind of answer is that!” Even as she spoke—shouted?—she knew she was taking her worry out on him, and before he could speak, Blythe said, “I’m sorry, Brooks. Please, go to the library. You can come back anytime. I just need a minute.”
“Sure, yeah, of course.” Brooks jumped up, put his plate and coffee cup in the dishwasher, grabbed his phone, and hurried out into the rain, as if afraid Blythe was going to detonate.
Blythe sank onto a kitchen chair and buried her face in her hands. It wasn’t so much that Daphne had been smoking pot as the fact that she had lied to Blythe every single day of the summer.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Blythe looked up to see Miranda there, fully dressed, with her backpack bulging.
“I’m going to go live with Grandmother,” she announced.
“Oh, honey.” Blythe rose. “Please sit down and talk to me.”
“Why? You chose Brooks over me! Teddy has Dad and Daphne has you and Holly has Grandmother. I don’t have anyone. But at least I can live someplace where Brooks can’t be!”
“Miranda, you can’t upset your grandmother. She just had a heart attack.”
Miranda skidded around to face Blythe. “I won’t upset her at all. I’ll be happy and fun and helpful. Because I’ll be away from you.”
Blythe watched her oldest child walk to the front door and leave.
Leaning against the refrigerator door, she cried quietly, overwhelmed and confused. Bob and Teri would return soon to stay with Celeste for their two-week vacation. They’d have the four children live with them then.
Blythe could leave. She could run away, fly to Ireland, or just go back to her Boston house and lie in bed eating ice cream for two weeks. Let Bob handle Daphne and her lies. Let Miranda escape from her terrible mother. Let Bob deal with everything.
But Blythe couldn’t leave. She needed to talk to Daphne, to find out what in the world was going on with her. She needed to make peace with Miranda. She needed to help Miranda deal with a broken heart.
Blythe understood so well what it meant to have a broken heart.
Raindrops were pattering against the windows. Gray clouds obscured the sunlight.
Dante had said, “In the middle of the journey of my life, I came to myself within a dark wood, where the straight way was lost.”
That was how Blythe felt now.
“Oh, God,” she said out loud, “can I possibly be more melodramatic?”
She wiped her eyes and tied on an apron and began cutting up vegetables for the slow cooker. It was a perfect day for stew.
While the stew was simmering, Blythe made chocolate chip cookies. The aroma lured Teddy and Holly from their sleep. They decided that they wanted to stream a movie.
She took the last sheet of cookies from the oven and let them cool. At her desk, she sat in her little computer nook and tried to work on her lesson plans for her seventh-grade English class, but after a while, she gave up.
She fussed around in the kitchen, not sure what she wanted to do next. The rain had stopped, but the day was cloudy. She didn’t care. She felt cloudy, all buffeted around by her family’s needs. Brooks returned and stayed just long enough to change into his tennis whites. When he told her goodbye, she hoped she would be free for a while.
How did she get here, in the middle of all these problems? And she’d agreed to teach again, to jump right into the middle of an entire trampoline of more problems?
She walked upstairs, entered her room, and locked the door. She fell onto her bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep. She was too worried, especially about Celeste and Miranda.
Her phone pinged. Nick.
“Are you in Boston now?” she asked.
“I am.”
“How is it?”
“Hot, congested, noisy.”
“You’d better come back to Nantucket.”
“I will, as soon as possible. How are you?” His voice, so silky and baritone, soothed all her ruffled nerves.
“Truthfully? I’m tired and anxious and tired of being anxious.” Blythe began to cry, not harsh quaking sobs, but sweet clear tears that drifted down her cheeks. It was as if her full, crowded heart had opened and spilled out so much emotion she could breathe again. “Sorry,” she snuffled.
“Take your time,” Nick told her. “You have a lot going on.”
His sympathy made her cry harder. “I’m not usually so weepy.”
“You don’t usually have days like this.”
“True.”
“I wish I could come over and hold you.”
His voice was so warm, like a quilt wrapped around her. Like an embrace. “Oh, I wish you could, too.”
“But I can talk all night if you want,” Nick said.
At that, she smiled. “What would we talk about?”
“Maybe Tear Water Tea. ”
“Oh, I loved that book! We still have it at home. I read it so many times to my children.” Blythe realized she was smiling. “That was exactly what I needed to hear. Are you perfect, Nick?”
“Yes, actually I am,” Nick joked. “Although if I admit that I’m perfect, does that mean I’m egotistical and not perfect?”
“But if you say you’re not perfect, and you are, does that make you a liar and therefore not perfect?”
Blythe closed her eyes as a sense of comfort spun through her while she and Nick talked nonsense with each other, which was, in a way, almost as good as if he were right there, holding her.
They talked on lazily, about favorite childhood memories, and grandparents, and vacations, good and bad. Blythe didn’t know how long they talked, but when they finally said goodbye, she wanted to call him back immediately, just to hear his voice.