He squeezed my shoulder on his way past my chair. “You’ll figure it out, Sis.”
My parents walked him out. When I heard him zip up his coat I called, “Drive safe!” A moment later, the front door closed.
My parents had artfully avoided talking to me about work for the last two weeks. Now that blissful, avoidant bubble had burst.Should I go back?
What would it be like when I did?
I reached for the cookie tray but pulled my hand back. My stomach was chock full of dread now, thanks to the images of me walking back into Peters & Dowling’s NYC offices in a few months flickering through my mind. I didn’t have room for anything else.
Later that night, my mom and I lounged in the dining room with glasses of red wine. My dad was watching a college hockey game in the other room that wasn’t quite close enough to draw me in there with him.
“I have an idea for you to think about,” Mom said. “You know your father and I love having you here, and you can stay as long as you want. But I was thinking, maybe you should spend the rest of the spring and summer in one of yourotherfavorite places.” Mom raised her eyebrows at me.
“The Vineyard?” Enthusiasm crept into my voice.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” I adored Martha’s Vineyard. My grandmother had hada house on the island off the coast of Cape Cod since before I was born, and Mom used to take me and Drew there every single summer growing up. I have so many fond memories of going to the beach, walking into town for ice creams and candy, riding our bikes everywhere.
“And not to pressure you, but it would be a huge help to me and your father to have someone there with Mimi. Since your grandfather died, I think the house has been a lot for her to manage on her own. As you know, your father and I have run ourselves into the ground every summer going back and forth to take care of her and the house.”
“I don’t hate the idea.” The last few years, I’d only managed to squeeze in a quick weekend on Martha’s Vineyard each summer because of work. I missed it.
“Think about it. You don’t have to decide right now. We’ll visit in July and periodically throughout the summer, like we always do.”
I didn’t need to think about it for long. I closed my eyes and transported myself to the top of the fisherman’s pier in downtown Edgartown. I pictured the white and wooden boats moored in the harbor, little Opti sailboats crossing in between the Chappaquiddick ferries, the sun reflecting off the blue waves. When I imagined the steady wind that always blew through your hair up there, my decision was made. A summer on Martha’s Vineyard, without a crushing amount of corporate legal work hanging over me like a black cloud, wasexactlywhat I needed.
“Hey, Dad!” I called into the other room. “Wanna go buy a car with me tomorrow?”
I’d need one on the island.
8
The massive white and black ferry rocked in the spring waves as I drove the pre-owned, low-mileage sedan I bought three days ago up the car ramp. The inside of the car was still chilled from the gust of wind that burst through the window when I gave the attendant my passenger ticket: one-way to Martha’s Vineyard.
It was the first time I’d seen the ferry terminal in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, with little to no car traffic, and even fewer walk-on passengers. It was also the first time I’d ever traveled to the island before Memorial Day.
After I parked the car, I made my way up to the little onboard galley, bought a beer, and settled into a seat by a window. I’d normally sit outside on the deck and let the cleansing ocean wind whip over my face. But today the cool temperature, gray sky, and choppy, dark waves kept me inside. I took my current romance novel out of my bag—my fifth since I started the medical leave—but I didn’t open it. This journey typically inspired a sort of childlike excitement as I pictured trips to the beach and the boutiques in town, and anticipated the taste of handmade ice cream and lobster rolls on buttered, grilled buns. But this time, sipping mybeer and looking out at the water, part of me felt just as listless as the crashing Atlantic waves.
Crushed shells and gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled into the driveway at Mimi’s house. My tasks until Mimi arrived in mid-May were to open up the house, get it ready, and get settled in myself. A surge of nostalgia washed over me as I looked at the home. Weathered shingles covered the whole facade. Black trim surrounded the windows, and a black door stood in the center. It hadn’t changed in thirty years.
I grabbed a bag and the key and headed inside. The door swung open, and a familiar smell filled my nostrils. But it was quieter than usual. I flicked on the lights. Like the outside, everything inside was the same: blue couches, nautical artwork, worn, dark wood cabinets in the kitchen. Collages of family photos filled gold standing frames on almost every surface. The oldest Drew or I were in any of them had to be about twelve. The bookshelf in the living room overflowed with my grandfather’s well-loved paperbacks—all mysteries and thrillers. I’d have to read some of those this summer, too.
I followed the directions my dad wrote out on a note before I left, turning on the water and the heat and checking the basement for leaks.
Upstairs, I shook out the sheets I found in the linen closet and put them on the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two guest rooms, following my mother’s lifelong advice to“always make the bed first because you’ll be too tired later.”
I organized the handful of groceries I bought on the way here in the fridge, cracked another beer, and plopped on the couch.
Now what?
I drummed my manicured fingers on the dark wood coffee table until I finally gave in and opened that romance novel, readyto escape into another person’s story for a few hours as a break from worrying about my own.
The next morning I woke up so early it was dark out when I opened my eyes. I’d had a nightmare that I had to explain to my law school professors why I wasn’t working right now. I pushed the damp hair sticking to my forehead to the sides and sat up. My hand wrapped around my neck, feeling the pulse thrumming under the warm skin, faster than it should be. It was a familiar but (thankfully) increasingly infrequent occurrence in the mornings.
Still, the dream cracked open some of the mental floodgates I’d forced shut over the last few weeks.Was I a quitter? I worked so hard in high school and college and law school, and then I just couldn’t hack it? How come some people can? Are they just smarter than I am? More dedicated?
At least the virtual counseling my primary care doctor recommended when she signed my medical leave paperwork was starting tomorrow. That should help. And Mimi would get here next weekend. Then I wouldn’t be alone with my thoughts anymore.
