AS I WANDER AROUND PICTURESQUE WATERMARKthe next morning, I realize how utterly ridiculous I look in my full hair and makeup, not to mention my completely impractical shoes and fussy outfit. While I might have been here for less than twenty-four hours, the realization that I am coming off like some wealthy tourist bothers me. Somehow, it feels disrespectful to this beautiful town.
The couple at The Finicky Turtle bakery is covered in flour, wearing T-shirts, and they smile when they hand me the bag with bread and croissants. An older man at the small hardware and home goods store helps me find some household basics to get me through the next few days. He doesn’t seem the least self-conscious about the tufts of hair sticking out from his ears or the limp that makes him teeter from side to side as he walks. I admire that about him, how he’s so relaxed in what could be considered imperfections.
After I load some bags into my car, I hit the supermarket. It’s actually less of a true supermarket and more of a very upscale gourmet-food shop with amazingly overpriced sauces, but I amass a collection of bottles and jars to put into my pantry. I have no idea what I’ll do with them since I can’t really cook. The butcher wraps up steak and shrimp in plastic and brown paper, ties it with string, and then kindly repeats cooking instructions, trying to reassure me that I can make dinner without any disasters. I buy two bottles of wine, a red and a white, in case I need to console myself. I don’t really drink beer, but I also grab a six-pack of a Maine brew, supporting local businesses and all.
By the time I get back to my new home, I am exhausted and defeated. Part of me is wholly overjoyed at my freedom, bursting with a nearly manic sense of release that I do not have constraints and criticism and pathology bearing down on me at every turn. But right now, I am also completely lost and daunted at what I’ve done. Abandoning one’s life without a coherent, logical plan does not exactly breed security, especially for someone like me who has barely detectable confidence.
After I load groceries into the fridge, I literally roll up my sleeves and put on yellow gloves, and then I begin the long process of disinfecting this place. It doesn’t appear that anyone has rented the unit in ages, and there is not one inch that doesn’t need cleaning. I start with the kitchen.
A few hours later, when I’ve decontaminated as best as I can, I hear Sam beginning work on the deck and on the railing that nearly killed me. I don’t know whether to avoid going to my bedroom because he’s right outside those doors. He hasn’t been what one might call welcoming. Not that I blame him.
I barely have anything to unpack, but I put away the few things that I do have. I have a framed picture of me with my father and Amy that was taken only a few weeks before the car accident. I’ll never understand what happened that day, including the bits of conversation that I overheard between him and Amy or the way he made such a conscious decision to disappear from our lives. Amy and I never spoke of the accident or our father abandoning us, and I’m sure we never will. Our mother taught us how to expertly block out the past, and I’m trying hard to do that.
I set the photo on the mantel because I can’t help but feel a little comforted by the familiarity of two people who used to negate my mother’s atrocities. My father had the kindest eyes, a thought which now seems unbelievably ironic. Kind people don’t ditch their children. I move the frame facedown. I don’t have the heart to trash the photo, but I can’t look at what I’ve lost either. This is a nutty compromise, but it can stay on the mantel as long as I don’t have to look at it.
I mop and polish, and then I decide to be brave. Maybe it’s the fumes from the cleaning products that are making me aggressive, but I’m bothered that Sam was such a complete prick yesterday. Now that I’ve got gleaming wood and shiny appliances, I’m in a better mood.
It’s well past lunchtime, but I make a roast beef sandwich loaded with vegetables and a pretentious flavored mayonnaise that I bought this morning. I grab the six-pack of beer and balance the plate when I crack open the bedroom door.
Sam has removed the entire railing and is wearing a mask while he uses an electric sander at the far end of the deck. I try shouting his name a few times, but I can see that he’s wearing earbuds, and the sander is making too much noise. I stand awkwardly out of the sawdust blast and wait for him to notice me.
Eventually, he squats back on his knees and blows out air to clear his eyes, the dust around him settling slowly. At the sight of him, I immediately relax. I don’t care about yesterday or that he’s got the same cold look in his eyes now. Being in his presence is grounding, stabilizing, so I smile as I lift the plate and beer, questioning if he’s interested. With the back of his hand, Sam wipes sweat from his forehead, takes out his earbuds, and nods.
I step over a power cord and hand him the plate. “Thought you might be hungry and thirsty.”
“Thanks.” He scoots to the edge of the deck and hangs his legs off the side.
I take a breath and brazenly sit next to him. Sam shoots me a slightly irritated look, but I cast my gaze out at the water and ignore it. He says nothing as he takes a napkin from me, and we sit silently while he eats. When he’s finished half of the sandwich, I take a bottle from the six-pack and twist off the top. I pass it to him but don’t let go when he puts his hand on it.
Finally, his eyes are forced to meet mine. “Why are you smiling?” he asks.
I shrug. “I think I might be happy. Hard to know, considering how foreign that is to me, but I might be.”
He tugs on the beer, and I let go. His long hair falls back as he takes an extended swig, and I admire his solid jawline, the ruddiness in his cheeks from hours of work, and the fullness of his lips as he drinks. Sam’s wearing a worn sleeveless red shirt that’s drenched in sweat, and it’s impossible not to notice the definition in his arms. He is still the boy I knew from that one day, but he’s also now a man, one who I don’t know at all. I study him as he nearly inhales the beer. What’s clear is that something has happened to Sam Bishop because a hardness and bitterness about him is evident in everything he does. He reeks of pain and darkness.
I have my own pain to heal, but Sam’s is perhaps more jarring to me. Having seen the before and now seeing the after is difficult. He has hurt that is significant.
I open another beer for him and one for myself, and we sit without speaking for another fifteen minutes, dangling our legs off the side of the unfinished deck, while staring out across the ocean.
At one point, Sam slightly lifts his chin and points with the bottle. “Porpoise.”
I squint toward where he’s gesturing and see the figure bounding in the waves. I would never have been able to pick out the animal if he hadn’t shown me. My smile might be permanent. The porpoise travels out of sight, and I shift my eyes to the ground below.
At this time of year, the yard is just coming back to life. It’s not a huge garden under my feet, but what’s there is rather unusual. I can see five distinct dirt circles carved into the grass, each probably three feet in diameter. Something about Sam’s funny landscaping is quite charming, but I don’t ask him what he plans on growing there. I want to be surprised. A set of tiered flat stones creates a small path to a long dock that leads out over boulders and into the water, and I make a note to take a walk down there soon.
The silence between us might be uncomfortable for him—I don’t know—but it’s not for me. On this scraped-up deck with the water view and the evergreen frame, I am filled with peace. While Sam isn’t overwhelming me with conversation and enthusiasm, he hasn’t pushed me off the deck. So, there’s that, and I’ll take it.
“I gotta get back to work.” He returns the empty bottle to the cardboard box and wipes his hands on his jeans as he stands. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to finish up.”
“I’m sure it’s going to look great.” A breeze blows, and I raise a hand to my eyes. For a second, I think I see movement in the foliage near the dock, but then it’s gone. Clearly, my perceptions are still wonky, and I silently curse my mother for how I see ormis-see everything. “Is there a Laundromat here? I don’t have that much with me, so I’ll need to wash clothes soon.”
He checks my outfit, covered in dirt and cleaning products. “There’s a washer and dryer in the basement. The door is on the side of the house.” Sam replaces his earbuds and mask and reaches for the sander. He starts it up as I walk past, but then he turns it off. After a few moments, with his head still down, he says, “Thanks for lunch.”
“You brought me Wonder Woman socks, Bishop. It was the least I could do.”
Even though he refuses to look at me and even from behind the shield of his hair, I can see him smile.
It’s a start. And I wonder if he remembers more details of that day and if he remembers the way he took care of me and how I ran into his arms and how our teenage kiss was more than just that.
