Forget Me Not (4 page)

Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The next morning I wake up in a slump. First I mess things up with JFK, then I push Tina even further away, and what if Mariel and JFK really start liking each other? I know Mare’s my friend, but she’s gorgeous. I don’t want her over at my boyfriend’s house, even if it is just to visit his mother.

It’s only four a.m. Sunday. Bramble United Community, BUC, rhymes with luck, is at eleven. I wonder who the new minister is? Whoever it is won’t ever replace Sulamina Mum. Mum was my first friend in Bramble, almost like another mother to me. I miss her, but I couldn’t be happier that she and Riley finally got together. They were high school sweethearts, separated by the war, and time, and geography, but I worked a bit of Cape-cupid matchmaking
magic, and the two of them got together. All I did was nudge Mum until she wrote him a letter. Her words did all the rest. Never underestimate the power of a letter.

I flick on the light by my bed and open up today’s book,
True Believer
, by Virginia Euwer Wolff. I had scanned the cover in Nana’s store and it looked good. I open to the first page:

“
My name is LaVaughn and I am 15. When a little kid draws a picture it is all a big face and some arms stuck on. That’s their life. Well, then: You get older and you are a whole mess of things, new thoughts, sorry feelings, big plans, enormous doubts, going along hoping and getting disappointed, over and over again…
”

Nice, I’m hooked already. I like when an author writes in “first person.” It lets me feel like I’m right inside that character, feeling all the things she’s feeling.

I read for a half hour or so, and then remember I need a new quote for the Bramble Board. I reach for Emerson. Old Ralph’s quite the quotable guy. Here’s a good one:

“
The only true gift is a portion of yourself.
”

That sounds like something Sulamina Mum would say. She always had a subtle, or sometimes not-so-subtle, way of reminding us to “get out of our selves” and focus on others, finding ways to serve. Sam calls that “community rent.” Just like you pay rent for housing, you should pay rent to your community, too, by giving a portion of your time or money or talents to help others.

This past spring I wrote an editorial letter to the
Cape Times
about the shortage of affordable housing on the Cape—seeing Mariel’s living conditions made me look into the issue—and my small letter sparked something big. It inspired a recently retired couple, the Barretts from New Seabury, to set up a fund to help build homes for low-income families. My “talent” was writing the letter. Sam says words can have a powerful effect. Think about the book
Charlotte’s Web
, and those two little words: “some pig.”

If Mum was here, she’d say, “Nice job with that letter, Willa, but what are you going to do next?
Hmmm
, you have a big, long summer ahead. What, two whole months at least, right? The work is never done, little sister. Don’t go hiding your light like an ostrich in the sand. Go find your next way to shine.”

I look at the clock. Five
A.M.
Maybe I’m not too late for the sunrise. I jump out of bed, pull on shorts and a shirt. Grab my journal and a water bottle in the kitchen, toss them in the wicker basket on my bike outside, and take off quick for the beach.

It’s dark and quiet, like I’m the only person awake in the world. Then a bird sings down to me from the telephone wire above and I realize I’m not alone. As I near the water, a soft mist coats my face. The sky is filmy and cotton candy pink.

When I reach the beach, I look out at the horizon.
Yes.
I’m not too late. And,
good
, no one else is here. I sit on the top step and stare out at the scene before me. Beauty, beauty, everywhere…The sea is calm, silver colored, flat like a mirror, peaceful. How silly to be so scared sailing with JFK. And Mariel, look at how she snorkeled without fear. I wonder what it would be like to see that whole other world beneath the waves. I bet it’s beautiful.

A fish tail breaks the surface, then bobs back underneath.
Ouch.
Something bit my neck. I slap it. A tiny black bug.
Ouch
, another bit my head. I scratch. Then there’s a bunch of them all around my face. Oh, great. I flap my hands. It doesn’t make a difference.
Ouch.
I wish I had bug spray.

Down below, a little black-capped tern, one of the endangered birds, hovers in the air above the water, searching for food. It flaps crazily in the air, fighting the wind, trying to stay in place, hovering like a helicopter waiting to land. It spots its prey and nose-dives into the water, then comes right back up again, empty beaked.
Sorry, little tern.

Now the sky is a palette of pinks and purples, getting brighter and brighter. It’s almost time.
Ouch
, I slap my leg. If I can just withstand these stupid bugs. I scratch and scratch. And then, there it is. A sliver of sun, like a salmon.

Good morning, new day. Thank you.

As it rises, the sun casts a red line across the water to me, closer and closer until it reaches the shore, bearing a sheath of sparkling rubies. I close my eyes and scoop up the jewels, locking them safe in my memory.

I open my eyes and open my journal, writing fast to capture this moment.

It was worth the bug bites. That’s the way life is. There is good and bad in everything. You can either focus on the annoying things you have no way of controlling, or cast your gaze upon the glory of a bright new amazing day, hours of delightful possibility, stretching out like a summer before you.

I read over what I wrote. It doesn’t do the sunrise justice at all. Such powerful beauty in nature, and then I try to capture it and it sounds so small.

I flip off my sandals and walk. The cool sand feels good beneath my feet. I take deep breaths, in and out, in and out. I think about JFK and Tina and the pet spa. Knowing how she feels about animals, I’m not sure how to break the news to my mother. I let all these worries wash over me and then out to sea with the waves. I can’t imagine a better way to start a day. Watching the sunrise and walking the beach. I’m a “lucky duck,” as Nana would say.

Out on the end of the Spit, the area where the bird people were stringing the posts yesterday, there is a new sign. A large, pay-attention sign.

AREA CLOSED

Threatened Birds Nesting

If birds are disturbed, parents may leave the nest, subjecting eggs and young to exposure and possible death.

Entering this area is a violation of state and federal law.

These rare birds, their nests, and eggs are protected under Massachusetts and federal laws.

Persons may be arrested and fined for killing or harassing or in any way disturbing birds nesting in this area.

Massachusetts Audubon Society

Just there, a few feet ahead of me, a piping plover is giving two babies a flying lesson out over the waves. I stand for a moment, watching. How beautiful they are. I wonder what Sam found out about that nasty flyer someone put on the Bramble Board.

I turn and head back along the water. I slip on my sandals, walk up the stairs. I think about Tina questioning Mariel about being on this beach, like she didn’t have a right to be here. When I get to the top, I look out at the scene one last time.

The sky is white now, the sun a blazing yellow yolk. Like a perfectly poached Sunday brunch egg at the Bramblebriar Inn.

When I get home, I take out the silver box on the porch and grab the letters I need to change the Bramble Board. T, H, E, O, N, L, Y, T, R, U, E, G, I, F, T…

I stick on the letters and step back to read,

“The only true gift is a portion of yourself.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Shasta daisies Sam planted around the base of the Bramble Board are smiling up at me. I pick one and lift the sunny yellow center to my nose. I pluck the petals:
he loves me
,
he loves me not
,
he loves me
,
he loves me not…
Suddenly, I have this strange feeling that someone is watching me.

I look over at my old house, soon to be the Sivlers’ pet spa. Was that a curtain moving upstairs? I keep an eye on the second-floor window, which was my mother’s bedroom. It’s probably one of the renovation workers, painting or something. But who would be working this early in the morning? On a Sunday? That’s weird.

I stand there staring for a few seconds. No more movement at the window. I’m sure I must have imagined it. I shake it off, toss the flower, and run up the stairs to make a cup of tea before church.

I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

As we’re walking to BUC, I tell Sam about the endangered birds sign I saw posted out on the Spit.

Bramble United Community is a place where all people are welcome, no matter your background, no matter your beliefs. We come together once a week “to be grateful.” Our former minister, Sulamina Mum, used to say the only prayer you ever need is just two words long:
Thank you.

Jew, Catholic, Baptist, Buddhist, Atheist, Agnostic, or whatever “ist” you ist or isn’t, we all share a common belief in the goodness of the human spirit, a gratitude for our lives, and a sense of responsibility to the greater world community.

“I asked around town yesterday, Willa,” Sam says, “but I couldn’t find out anything about that plover
flyer. Probably just somebody’s strange idea of a practical joke. I don’t think it’s anything more than that.”

“But why did they post it on our Bramble Board?” I say.

“Because the board is Bramble’s center of ‘buzz,’” Sam says.

“Buzz” is way too corny for a father to be saying, but I don’t roll my eyes.

“It’s like what the inn guidebooks say about us,” Sam says. “People read the Bramble Board to get inspired and to find out what’s cooking around town.”

“Cooking” is even cornier than “buzz,” but I let Sam slide.

BUC isn’t very crowded. Lots of locals vacation off-Cape in the summer to escape the clogged roads and crowded restaurants. Some people, especially those near the shore, rent their houses out to tourists in the summer.

Up at the pulpit, in a fancy black robe with a red velvet collar, is Dr. Theodore J. Deadham of Harvard Divinity School, “most recently of the First Unitarian Universalist Society of Boston.” When he looks our way, I smile at him. He doesn’t smile back.

Dr. Deadham reads his entire sermon in a loud, booming voice, without ever pausing to look at us. It’s the worst service ever. That man found five ways to remind us he was from Harvard in the first five minutes, but didn’t say anything I will remember. He might have the smartest brain on the planet, but he didn’t move my heart at all.

I try to be open-minded, and openhearted, really I do—Mum would have demanded nothing less—but Dr. Deadham was so puffed up with his own self-importance, I fully expected him to sprout peacock feathers at any given moment. Blue, green, yellow, red.

“We should at least give him the benefit of a second chance,” Sam says quietly as we congregate in the gathering space for bagels and donuts.

Sam is a teacher, so you have to forgive him. I think teachers are genetically wired to be kind and encouraging.

“Completely uninspiring” is my mother’s more callous critique.

“Brainiac-boring” is Tina’s two cents.

“Certainly an intelligent, well-read man” is my good friend, our librarian, Mrs. Saperstone’s assessment, “but he unfortunately doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor.”

“I will reserve judgment until I’ve heard him speak
again,” says Dr. Swaminathan, my English teacher at Bramble Academy. See what I mean about the genetic wiring? Dr. Swammy, who’s such an amazing teacher, is just back from India. Sam filled in for him while he was away. It was cool having Sam as my teacher. I was so proud. I kept looking around the classroom, wanting to say, “Do you all realize this man is my father?”

“What did you think of Dr. Deadham, Willa?” Sam says as we’re walking home.

“On a scale of one to ten, compared to Mum, I guess I’d give him a two.”

“Two’s too generous,” Nana says. “But, that’s the last we’ll be seeing of the Doc, anyway.”

“What do you mean, Nana?”

“I did a quick check-in with the other members of the BUC Board of Directors and there was an overwhelming consensus. We test out ministers and vote before we formally offer a candidate the position. This is a plum job, Willa. We’re a great community here in Bramble. You know that. We won’t settle for anything less than the best. We broke it to Dr. Dead gently. I bet he’s halfway home to Beantown as we speak.” Beantown is our nickname for Boston.

“I love you, Nana.” I hug her, laughing.

We stop in front of Sweet Bramble Books. Nana lives upstairs from the store.

“Can you come by later, Willa?” Nana says. “I’m gearing up for the vote and I need your help.”

Nana’s not talking politics. She’s talking taffy. Saltwater taffy, that is. I’m her official “taste tester” for trying out new flavors each season.
Cape Cod Life
magazine does a readers’ “best of” survey. Nana’s neck and neck with Ghelfi’s of Mashpee for “Best Sweets on the Upper Cape.” She wants to win best bookstore, too, but there are so many other good bookstores, that would be tough. No way is she going to beat them. So with the “best of” survey, we’ve got all our eggs in the candy basket, so to speak.

“Ghelfi’s has a gorgeous new window display, just for taffy,” Nana says, all worried, “and they’ve got slick new ads boasting their fifty-two varieties of taffy, the largest selection of any candy store on the Cape. How can I compete with that?”

“Let me think about it, Nana,” I say. “I can’t come today, but I’ll come first thing tomorrow, promise.”

Just recently, my mother has officially claimed Sunday as “Family Day.” When we get back to the inn, Mom checks to make sure everyone has shown up for work and that there are no pressing issues she has to attend to.

“Go, Stella,” Darryl says, sweetly shooing my mother away from the front desk. “It’s your day with your family. Go, enjoy.”

I’m fairly sure my mother read something in one of her trusted business magazines about the importance of scheduling a “family activity” every weekend. Last Sunday we took the ferry out to Nantucket, the island where Mom and Sam eloped to. Such a pretty place, so romantic. I’m glad I got to see it.

I don’t mind “Family Day,” but today all I want to do is see JFK and make sure he’s not mad at me anymore. And Tina, I need to talk to Tina. And Mariel. What audition was she talking to JFK about?

“So what’s the plan, ma’am?” Sam says to my mother with a smile.

“A bike ride on the Rail Trail?” Mom suggests, consulting a paper that is probably her summer “to do” list of family activities.

“Sounds good,” Sam says, patting his stomach. “I could use some exercise. Couldn’t resist a second helping of the filet mignon last night. Okay with you, Willa?”

“Sure,” I say, “but just not all day. There are some things I need to do later.”

Sam and Mom look at each other and smile.

“Teenagers,” my mother whispers, shaking her head.

I roll my eyes to myself. Lately, I’m starting to feel like a bit of an outsider. Mom and Sam are united, a team—“Let me talk with your father first,” or “Let me just run this by your mother.” We’re all on the same field. But they’re on one team, and I’m on the other.

The Cape Cod Rail Trail is a network of paved bike trails that run through some of the nicest nature you’ve ever seen. After the railroads stopped running on the Cape years ago, someone had the excellent idea to pull up the tracks and pave over them. The Rail Trail starts in Dennis and weaves through forests and fields, along marshes and cranberry bogs, past harbors and ponds (that’s what we call lakes), through towns and villages, past country stores and ice cream places, all the way out to Wellfleet.

Sam puts our bikes on the rack of his car and we drive to a Rail Trail parking lot.

As we get on our bikes, I see Sam wink at my mother and my mother smile back at him. They are so in love. I can’t help but think about the baby they lost. It would have been nice to have a little brother or sister. I’ve
been an only child my whole life. Maybe Aunt Ruthie and Spruce will have kids. Then I’ll have cousins or saplings or something.

“I’ll race you,” Stella shouts, and we’re off.

I love this family.