Chance Harbor (15 page)

When the kids were small, they used to split the trip into two days of travel. They counted themselves lucky on the first day if they made it as far as Saint John, an industrial city with historic brownstones, Gothic stone churches, and a harbor full of ships and cranes. More often they didn’t make it past Bangor, Maine. There, Andrew always insisted on staying in one of the cheap chain hotels near the airport and eating take-out Chinese because he hated that city.

Any way they did it, though, Maine was always the leg of the journey that Eve dreaded. M
AINE, THE
W
AY
L
IFE
S
HOULD
B
E
, or M
AIN
E, THE
V
ACATION
S
TATE
, read the highway signs and bumper stickers, but she and Andrew had a different slogan to describe that endless hypnotic tunnel of pine trees and toll booths: “Maine, the Infinite State.”

“Well, what’s it going to be?” Eve asked Catherine and Willow as they set out from Newburyport on Sunday morning. “Twelve hours straight on the road, or do we want to spend the night in Saint John?”

“Do hotels allow dogs?” Willow asked.

“Some do.” Eve glanced in the rearview mirror at her granddaughter and smiled. “We’ll find one, if that’s what you want.”

“I’d rather drive straight through, since I can only realistically take a few days off from work,” Catherine said. “But do you feel up to that, Mom?”

Eve shrugged. “Sure. I’m an old hand at this. And I’ll have plenty of time to rest after you leave me up there. I’m just grateful that you were willing to make the trip.”

“All right, then,” Catherine said. “I vote that we drive straight through. What about you, honey? You okay with that?” She turned around to look at Willow.

Eve glanced in the mirror again and saw that Willow had taken the puppy out of its box and was cradling it on her lap now. The dog nodded with its eyes half-closed, like one of those bobblehead animals people put in the rear windows of their cars. “I don’t care. As long as we stop and give Mike a pee break.”
Mike?
Eve mouthed at Catherine.

Catherine shrugged.

They stopped every few hours to walk Mike and stretch their legs. They’d hit that September sweet spot between beach traffic and leaf peepers. The road yawned empty. Even the Maine rest stops, with their moose statues and fast-food counters, were virtually tourist free except for a few adventurous seniors in campers.

Eve felt a familiar prickling of grief as she watched one elderly couple emerge from a Winnebago. One had a cane, the other a walker. She and Andrew had joked about selling their house in Massachusetts one day and touring the country in one of those things, making up names for their camper that would drive the girls crazy: “The Wayfarers,” “The Vagabonds,” “The Gypsy Wanderers.”

As they got back on the road, Eve tried to clear her mind of everything but the driving. Otherwise her brain might seize with worry over the breakup of Catherine’s marriage, or shut down with grief because this familiar highway was conveying her back to Chance Harbor, where it was impossible to escape her memories of Andrew and their life together.

She and Andrew used to agree that every person carries a landscape inside them. Andrew’s was Prince Edward Island, with its secret pink coves and tidy Victorian farmhouses, its flowering white potato fields and bright lupine, the dark red cliffs and sparkling water views.

“Your landscape is so much more complicated than mine,” Andrew had told Eve once while they were lying in bed at the Chance Harbor house after making love. He’d traced his fingers lightly down her throat; between her breasts and to her navel; then slowly, agonizingly, between her legs, making her draw a sharp breath of pleasure. “You, my darling wife, are nothing at all like an island. You’re like the Merrimack River where it opens into the ocean: all dark water and unpredictable tides and hidden marshy inlets, sweet in some places and salty in others.”

“You make me sound awful,” Eve had complained.

“Ah, you misunderstand me.” Andrew took her into his arms, pulled her close. “What I mean is that you’re as mysterious and mighty and useful as a river wide enough to transport goods and people. I will never get tired of exploring you.”

“That’s fine,” she’d said. “Just one thing. Don’t ever call me ‘wide’ again.”

He’d laughed.

Eve had been dreading this return trip to the island. Even with Catherine and Willow to help her, she didn’t know where she’d find the strength to finish clearing out the Chance Harbor house, much less actually make that phone call to a Realtor to put it on the market. Selling the house felt like selling part of herself.

This was selfish of her, perhaps, asking for Catherine’s help at a time like this. But maybe having these immediate, physical tasks could help both of them grieve the multiple losses of the past few years.

Catherine was leaning her head against the window with her eyes closed, but Eve didn’t think her daughter was asleep. She was probably pretending in order to avoid conversation. That was fine. What would she say to her daughter anyway?

They arrived in Brewer by noon and ate at the Eagles Nest, another of their traditions. Lobster rolls for her and Catherine, a grilled cheese for Willow. The dining room jutted out over the Penobscot River. The sky was a brilliant blue. Below it, the water frothed in gleaming black-and-white pools around rocks with so much light gray lichen that they looked covered in lace.

Willow finished eating first and went out to walk the dog while Catherine and Eve split a slice of apple pie and drank their coffee. “It’s so strange, being here without Dad,” Catherine said, her eyes on the river, tracking a bald eagle circling over the spiny fir trees lining the opposite bank.

“I know. He’s the one who brought me to this restaurant the first time,” Eve said. “Feels like a hundred years ago. I didn’t think I could ever set foot in this place without him. But it feels surprisingly normal because you and Willow are with me. Thank you, honey.”

“Quit thanking me, Mom! I know I’m miserable company.” Catherine put her fork down and sighed. “I met her, you know. That’s what finally convinced me to make this trip.”

“Who?” Eve asked, then realized. “Oh! And?”

“Nola is everything a man could want: young, sexy, and rich.”

“She won’t be sexy for long,” Eve felt compelled to remind her. “That girl will be an overwhelmed teen mother soon, poor thing.”

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for her!” Catherine hissed.

“I know this is difficult for you. But that girl is just a confused child. I do feel sorry for her. And for Russell. On some level, he must know he’s making a terrible mistake.”

Catherine shook her head so hard that her silver earrings flashed in the sun. “Russell and this girl don’t deserve one drop of your sympathy. You’d understand that if you met her, Mom. I hope to God I never have to see the evil little bitch again.” She slapped down a twenty-dollar bill and stood up. “See you outside.”

Eve stared, openmouthed, as Catherine slammed the door of the restaurant on the way out, rattling the glasses in their plastic racks by the drink machine.

•   •   •

Willow stared out the car window, glad she was in the backseat while Catherine and Nana talked about boring things, like what furniture to keep and what Realtor to call.

She couldn’t believe they were selling the Chance Harbor house. It was so stupid. Nana was always so happy there. Everybody was.

But maybe Nana couldn’t be happy there anymore. Willow got that. She didn’t know if she could be happy in their Cambridge house again, either. Funny. She’d never really felt like Russell was her dad. But ever since he’d moved out, she missed him as much as she hated him. He’d been nicer to her than almost any other guy.

In some ways he was like Mike. Willow glanced down at the puppy, fondling its little triangle ears. She’d named the puppy for him because Mike was her real dad. She was sure of it! Mike was Mom’s roommate in one of their apartments. The last good guy Mom was with. Maybe the only one.

Mike was tall and had wavy hair like hers. He was an artist like Willow, too. He had to be her dad, even though Mom always said no.

“It’s okay,” Mike told Willow once. “I would be honored to be your father and guide you through the rocky mountains, thorny thickets, and winding rivers of childhood and adolescence.”

Mike always talked like that: funny and formal. Like a character in a book. He wore capes and top hats because he worked as a magician. She’d watched him perform at a few birthday parties for kids and loved watching him make doves fly out of a hat, grab a coin from behind somebody’s ear, and twist balloons into swords.

Mike had taught her about colors and had given her a set of real watercolors in tubes. He showed Willow how art was everywhere: a picture of a house shutter, blue paint peeling right off it, could be as beautiful as a rainbow.

Then Mike had disappeared, saying, “Sorry, my little forsythia blossom, but your mom and I have agreed to disagree about her lifestyle.” He gave Willow two art books and his own expensive camera before he moved out of the apartment, but Mom had sold the camera. She’d said she needed the money for food, but Willow knew better.

“Where’s my dad going?” Willow had begged Mom to tell her, crying so hard that she was gasping and choking. But Mom pushed her away and curled up in a ball of misery on the couch, a joint in one hand. “He’s not your dad. He’s nothing to us,” Mom said. “You need to forget about Mike. Pretend he’s dead—why can’t you? That’s what I do when guys leave.”

But Willow had never forgotten Mike, or the fact that she had a father. A good one. If Mike only knew Mom was dead, Willow knew he’d come back, but so far she’d tried everything to find him and it hadn’t worked.

They were finally on that roller-coaster road between Bangor and Calais. Willow tried to ignore her lurching stomach and stared out the window at the trees. She’d been to Chance Harbor only in the summer, except one time at Thanksgiving, when the snow had blown everywhere and the road had disappeared out from under them. Now, in mid-September, some of the trees looked like they’d been dipped in red and gold paint.

The blueberry fields and marshes were starting to turn different shades of red and orange, too. Willow silently recited the colors for red she’d learned from her art classes: magenta and crimson, scarlet and burgundy, salmon and cherry, carmine and claret. She loved how nature had this whole unbelievable paint box.

“Did Mom used to like going to Chance Harbor?” she asked.

It was only when Catherine’s head whipped around that Willow realized she’d actually spoken the question aloud; she’d meant to just wonder it in her head. She slouched in the seat. Catherine was doing a lot of blowing up lately. Scary. And she’d hate it that Willow had mentioned Zoe, especially since she’d called her “mom.” Willow knew how much Catherine wanted to be her real mom.

Nana glanced at Catherine, then met Willow’s eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled. That was Nana for you: always trying to save the day. “Yes, your mom was always happy at Chance Harbor,” she said. “Zoe was meant to live in the wild.”

“What do you mean?” Willow was excited to hear anybody say stuff about her mom. Nobody ever talked about her.

“Your mom used to say that Chance Harbor was the one place she felt safe,” Nana said.

“Odd. She got into just as much trouble there as anywhere else,” Catherine said to the window.

“Yes,” Nana agreed. “But a healthier trouble, if there is such a thing.”

“Like what?” Willow hadn’t dared ask questions about her mom for years.

“Well, she loved jumping off that bridge at Basin Head with your grandfather,” Nana said. “She did backflips and everything.”

She had told her that before, but Willow loved hearing it again. She imagined her mom balancing up there on the bridge railing, where the sign said “Do Not Jump,” and hurling herself into the river rushing below. Willow had been brave enough to jump off the bridge only once. The river carried you so fast into the Northumberland Strait that it felt like you were being washed out to sea. Instead, you ended up on a sandbar and waded back to shore, watching out for those green crabs that liked to nip your toes.

“What else did Mom do?” Willow asked.

She could hear the smile in Nana’s voice. “Let’s see, now. Every morning Zoe would take her bike out before the rest of us were even up. She rode all over the island by herself on those clay roads. I think she knew every tree and field. Or she’d go down to the beach and hunt for sea glass. Zoe used to make me crazy because she insisted on crossing the inlet and walking all the way to East Point. I don’t know how many times we had to rescue her because she got trapped by the tide coming in.”

“She was so brave,” Willow said, awed.

“She was a thoughtless maniac,” Catherine said. “God. Can’t we talk about something else?”

Nana gave her a look that would have made Willow cry, it was so mean, but said, “All right. Let’s wait and talk about this on the island, shall we?”

Willow sat back in the seat, determined to think about her mom the way Nana described her. Fierce. Unafraid. Not like she was that last year before she went away—always sleepy, her arms bruised and scratched.

They crossed the border and drove through New Brunswick along the Bay of Fundy, stopping at Tim Hortons for a dinner of sandwiches and doughnuts. Willow slept for a while, then woke as they reached the Confederation Bridge. It stretched like a drawing sketched in charcoal, arching up to meet the sky.

The bridge went on for miles. Then they were on Prince Edward Island, arriving as the sun bled along the edges of blue sky.

They continued driving toward the easternmost tip of the island. At last they reached Saint Peter’s Bay, where the mussel socks were laid out in tidy white rows, glowing like white marbles floating on the water in the purple dark. Half an hour later, they were pulling up in front of the yellow house with its steep roof and the sign that read C
HANCE
H
ARBOR
even though all of the neighbors complained and said it should read C
HANCE
H
ARBOUR
, the way everyone in Canada spelled it.