The First Time She Drowned (27 page)

AUGUST COMES HOT
and buggy, but with a hint of autumn in the concentrated blue of the sky and the wisps of chill that sometimes slip off the ocean. It’s a week before school starts again, my job is over for the summer, and I am with Gavin, who is now almost nine. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the hospital, and I keep looking at him, can’t believe how tall he has gotten, how much we resemble each other.

We have abandoned our beach towels by the lifeguard stand to roam the jagged coastline together, looking for seashells. Gavin is not so much interested in the shells as he is in avoiding the water, which I have been trying to get him into all day, and which he has thus far refused to enter.

He is visiting me here while my parents fight their last and most ugly battle with each other in divorce court back in Pennsylvania. I never thought my father would actually go through with a divorce, but I guess I’m not the only one finding unexpected strength. Who knows, maybe that’s the ripple effect of change.

My father and I talked briefly, cordially, when he dropped Gavin off at my dorm, and though I still haven’t forgiven him for everything that’s happened, it’s a start.

Gavin will be living with him now, while Matthew will be moving home after college to live with my mother. Gavin and I
do not talk about any of this. Instead we talk about his fear of drowning, which may be hereditary, or may just be a side effect of growing up in a family like ours.

I tell him about the first time I went in the ocean, when Matthew called to me from the water, “Come in! It’s no fun by myself!” and I, so afraid, still said yes, answered the call of one love and found, in the Atlantic, another. I tell him how I never imagined all the joy that was just beyond my fear.

Gavin listens intently and smiles. He likes these stories about me and Matthew, about a gentler time in the history of our family, when we were all still connected in some way, when the shadows weren’t quite so long. And maybe too he likes to know that there can be meaning in relationships even when they are imperfect or—as is the case with my mother and me—impermanent. That what matters most is what we choose to take away from these relationships. From Matthew, for instance, a love of the sea.

We step over thick manes of seaweed that have been pushed by the tide onto the sand. Gavin tells me that he recently saw Wade Mattell, home from college and playing basketball at the elementary school playground, that Wade says hi.

I smile at the thought. Make a note that I should call him one of these days, spend time remembering not just the bad memories but also the very best of my past.

Something catches my eye between the strands of seaweed. I stop and bend down. Pick up a perfect white conch shell. I hold it to Gavin’s ear and tell him to listen.

“Is that really the ocean?” he says doubtfully.

“Some say it’s the ocean. Some say it’s the sound of your own heartbeat.”

“What do you think?” he says.

I smile. “I think it’s both.”

I brush off the sand with my thumb and put the shell in my beach bag. I will bring it with me, give it to Zoey.

Gavin and I return to our beach towels, where the sun is melting the wax off the two surfboards—mine, and the one I’ve rented for Gavin.

“Whaddaya say? You want to take this baby for a ride?” I’m no great surfer yet, but I think I’m steady enough to help someone else learn.

He shakes his head, agreeing only to stand at the water’s edge and watch. I reapply wax to my board and then his, just in case. Together we head down to the shoreline.

The ocean is yellow green up close and cool and tingly on my hot skin. The waves are small and silky. I wade out up to my waist and then turn to Gavin on the sand. He waves at me and I wave back.

“Come in!” I call.

He shakes his head no.

“Please!” I say. “It’s no fun by myself!”

A smile forms on his face as he recognizes the words I’ve chosen. He looks over his shoulder at the safety of the beach, and then turns back to me and shrugs with helpless resignation. A minute later he has the other board and is wading out to me, moving tentatively forward, like he’s walking on glass.

I move toward him, trying not to smile too widely, knowing it will embarrass him and send him back to the shore. He makes funny, disturbed faces as he pushes seaweed out of his way or steps on something strange. I can see the fear evaporating from his eyes as the unknown becomes known. He climbs onto the board and starts to paddle.

He reaches me, breathless, looking around in wonder at where he is in the world. I flip myself over like a seal, and he follows my lead, the two of us slippery and graceful and at home. We emerge laughing and shaking the wet out of our hair, then climb back up on our boards.

The sun is almost white and bounces off the water, off the sand, out of the sky. From the outside breakers someone waves to me and I squint to see who, and then before my brain can even register it, my stomach turns liquid like the sea is sloshing inside of it.

“What are you, a mermaid?” Chris calls to me from across the ocean.

“What are you, a dork?” I call back.

He laughs and then adjusts his board as the biggest wave in the set comes his way. He catches it with ease, showing off as he carves the face, teasingly spraying me with his wake as he rides past. When he is done, he looks back to make sure I’ve been watching. I give him a thumbs-up, and his wide-open grin is all the reassurance I need.

“Your turn!” he challenges. “Let’s see what you’ve got, O’Malley.”

A wave approaches. Smaller than the last, a good learning wave for Gavin.

I turn to him. “Ready?” I say. I signal for him to turn his board toward the beach as I turn mine. “Now paddle,” I say. “Paddle!”

But he is instinctual, a born waterman, already paddling. I give his board a little push into the wave before I start paddling for it myself. The ocean catches us both, lifts us together, side by side in motion.

“Jump up!” I say, and he wobbles to his knees before finally climbing to his feet. I throw my arms into the air, look over at Gavin and smile at his smile.

The sun is ours.

The Atlantic breaks.

And we ride it, we ride it, we ride it.

Catherine Drayton, my brilliant agent at Inkwell Management, for your wisdom, good humor and faith in me. You are a force and a writer’s dream.

Liza Kaplan, my tireless editor, for your passion, vision and insight. I’m so glad my manuscript found you. Also, my amazing publisher, Michael Green, for challenging me to dig deeper, to Talia Benamy for your cheerful assistance, and to everyone at Philomel and Penguin for all the hard work required to make this book happen.

Dylan Kletter, my beloved brother, for your sage counsel and support.

Amanda Fredericks and Marti Daniel Moats, two of my oldest and dearest friends, for countless reads, endless cheerleading and daily comic relief.

John Tashjian for bringing so much fun into my life and for answering the call of every crisis with my three favorite words: “I’m on it.”

Melinda Rennert Mizuno for insisting I should write a book, then waiting until I was finished to tell me she was kidding; Ruth Brown for a lifetime of laughter; Jackie Poper, Dan Lane, Dave Hollenbeck, Kathy Conlon Grim, Suzie Paxton, Frank Dino and Dr. David Neer for various forms of kindness and encouragement; Lori Barnett for refusing to let me drop her English class in
eleventh grade no matter how hard I tried; Jen E. Smith for the early advice and help; Cassandra Austin, Erika Ross and Rita Augustine for the wise critiques; and Sophie Smith, who sat on my lap through the early drafts.

Finally, and most important, David Zorn, my first and most-trusted reader, for your patience, humor, gentleness and love. You will always be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Thank
you.

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