Sometimes the edge of a panic attack will sneak up on me like a villain in a horror movie. It will lurk behind the shower curtain, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It’s like I can feel the edge of it, threatening me in the periphery. Other times, it rolls inunannounced. Those are the worst ones, relentless and vicious as weather.
Right now, I can feel the burgeoning signs: the perspiration above my lip, tingling in my hands, dizziness, dark clouds infringing on my vision. I take slow, deep breaths like Rose taught me until it begins to dissipate.
I stay like that for several minutes, waiting for a second wave of puke, but it doesn’t come. Still, I let myself slump there an extra few minutes, alternating between staring at my phone and the white ceiling fan, until Mom appears in the doorway.
“Lily-pad,” she says cheerfully, not commenting on my current state. “You have to get up, the renters are arriving soon.”
Rose is wearing a crisp white dress. Her hair is curled and shiny, her makeup fresh and dewy. She looks like the sun, and when she sees me, practically hugging the toilet, she just laughs. “Well, you’ve looked better.”
“I’ve felt better,” I groan back.
Something about my tone must alarm her, because her expression shifts. “Are you okay?”
I try to get up, still dizzy, and force a smile. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her, just like I did last night. I don’t want her to worry.
Rose looks contemplative. “I know you’re in rough shape, but are you still able to help me deliver the renters’ welcome baskets?”
“Sure,” I say. “Of course, but why do you need me for that, again? I’m happy to help, but I’m not sure I’m the best welcoming party.”
“It’s cuter this way,” Rose says. “It’s part of our charm as a mother-daughter duo. Much cuter than an old lady like me showing up alone. And, since I’m letting you stay here all summer rent-free, I get to parade you around town. It’s only fair.”
I roll my eyes at the “old woman” comment. Rose is only fifty and looks more like forty.
“Fine, fine. Anything for my dear mother… Also, how are you not hungover?”
“Years of experience.” Rose winks.
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing outside in the garden waiting. I’ve managed to make myself presentable by slicking my hair back into a low bun and throwing on a simple blue dress I borrowed from Rose. I always jokingly refer to her closet as the “Nantucket mall,” because of how often I go shopping in there.
It’s warmer than yesterday but the air still has a bite to it. Mom has a bouquet of white lilies and roses in one hand and a set of keys on a shell key chain in the other. I’m holding a wicker basket filled with a sampling of treats from all over the island: chocolate-covered cranberries from Aunt Leah’s, Triple Eight blueberry vodka from Cisco Brewers, a fresh loaf of herb bread from Something Natural, sugar-covered donuts from Downyflake, and a cozy beach towel that reads “Nantucket Beach Permit” across it.
The garden is Lottie’s masterpiece. The rose-covered arches and lush garden have practically become a fixture of the island’s tourism. Right now, only a few early buds have begun, but by the middle of summer, pink roses climb up a trellis on the street side, engulfing the roof. In the front are flowers of all kinds: white hydrangea bushes, perennials with funny names like Vision in White astilbe, buddleia, daylilies, foxgloves, and peonies. A rose of Sharon hedge and honeysuckle bush provide a leafy wall of privacy from the street.
In Lottie’s absence, Rose has maintained it on her behalf. It’s all she can do to keep away the deer that circle the place like burglars, considering it their own private dining room. She has also made several significant renovations to both of the cottages, preparing the smaller one as a rental.
Rose painted the old warped cabinets in the rental unit a cheery light yellow. The countertops have been replaced with marble. Afleur-de-lis tile backsplash in French blue sits in front of the new white stovetop.
It is designed like an art exhibit, the colors carrying you from one room to the next. The blue continues into the living room, a harmony of light and dark juxtapositions with painted plates hung on the wall. It’s like the garden is inside the house. It’s the antithesis, the antidote, to the trend of minimalism, the plain cookie-cutter beach houses that have become the norm.
The extra rental income has been essential, allowing Rose to save up for when she eventually opens her own private practice.
In the corner of our living room, Rose designed a nook into the wall so Lottie could take her coffee and read by the window when she got too sick to go on her daily walks on the beach. A wood-burning stove sits beside it. Everything about the place sings warmth.
To finish it off, I painted a mural in Lottie’s former bedroom: a sprawling, decadent image of the flowers outside in full bloom. I included a small image of Lottie bending over in the garden, tending to her peonies in the corner. When Lottie first saw it, she wept, which made me cry, too.
The only missing touch is its name. On Nantucket, it’s a maritime tradition to name your house. The oldest accounts start in the late 1600s, but the practice became especially popular after the War of 1812 when privateers, enlisted to help fight the British, became pirates. To curb the problem, a maritime law was passed requiring all US vessels to be named. When the rocky shoals of the island led to shipwrecks, these quarterboards washed ashore, and people would grab them from the beach and use them as decoration for their homes.
Today, carved names hang above the entrances of almost every house in ’Sconset. Lottie never got around to naming the cottage,although the three of us played around with various ideas for years, each one more ridiculous than the last. With Lottie gone, neither of us has had the heart to revisit the conversation. For now, it remains nameless, which feels oddly poetic, since after Lottie’s passing, the two of us have been lost ourselves, ships without a name or a destination.
A taxi appears on the road, and out walks a handsome man in his early fifties. He has fluffy black hair with subtle streaks of silver running through it. He has stubble on his chin and looks tan and active. In his arms are two canvas and leather duffels.
What happens next is too confusing for my brain to process. When this man, the renter, sees my mom, he drops his bags immediately to the ground.
“Rose?”
I look at my mom, but her face is strangely empty. All of the usual, subtle micro-expressions wiped clean and replaced by the singular emotion of shock.
“What are you doing here?” Rose’s voice is strained, choked sounding.
