Hold Still (19 page)

Maybe she'd ask him to carry her home, to let her climb up onto his back and wrap her arms over his shoulders, to lay her whole self against him and rest. “Congrats,” she said.

Her mother shook her head. She handed the cooler of snacks to Ben, who repositioned his soccer bag across his chest, over one shoulder, and took the cooler with both hands. The last bits of ice and water swished and clunked inside.

Her mom took hold of Ellie. She brought her face up close. “What's
wrong
with you?” she said.

Mommy
. She wanted to sit her down and crawl into her lap and never leave her. She wanted to tell her she was sorry for everything,
sorry that she'd turned out to be the girl that she'd turned out to be.

“Nothing,” said Ellie. It came out slower than the first time. She dragged out the vowels. It might have been the only word she knew.

“El, listen,” her brother says. “Call her, okay? Call her and tell her everything is wonderful. Tell her the kid's a brat, but you're making it work. You're so happy to be near the water. Annie's great. Whatever. Just let her think that you're okay. And then just be okay, all right? You're a mile from the beach and all you have to do is play with a five-year-old all day. Life's just really not that hard. Just don't fuck this up.”

Ellie's quiet, tearing a piece of paper into tiny thumb-sized pieces, then rolling them into tight balls with her fingers on her desk.

Ellie knows nearly from the beginning the mistake she's made, not knowing enough, pretending, flirting with the boy behind the desk in the collared shirt and hat, the sunglasses resting on its brim, with the red face and small flakes of skin peeling off his nose, so that he would let her take one of the sailboats out without his help. She has to sign a waiver and pretends she's Jack's mom, another thing the boy allows himself to be convinced is true. His eyes wander down Ellie, from her forehead to her feet. She wears cutoff shorts and a beige tank top. She has on her black bikini underneath. He says he'll take her through a quick refresher, but she doesn't want him to come with them. She thinks if she can show Jack this he'll warm to her, maybe, finally. If he likes her, it will prove something sure.

Ellie hasn't cleared this trip with Annie. It's only her third day alone with Jack. Annie's starting to get ready for the fall rush and Jeffrey's patients have begun to come back from their summer camps. The seasonals and tourists have begun to filter in. The only other time besides the bookstore, Jack alternated between silent petulance in his room with his bugs and asking to call his mother. But they've spent this morning discussing different sailing tactics. Jack has made a list about lines and gibes, sheets, mainsails, jibs, and tacks.

He lit up at the mention of their maybe going sailing. Ellie was trying to convince him of her knowledge, telling him stories of sailing with her mom when she was small. It's been years now, but she remembers the water in her eyes and the burn of lines between her fingers.

Jack's small arms quiver in her grasp as she slips the life jacket over his shoulders and snaps him in. “Nor?” he says.

“We're good,” she says. “Don't worry.” Without thinking, she kisses him—the first time that she's done this—on the top of his head. He smiles and Ellie feels that she's accomplished something great.

The sail flops as she uncovers it and pulls the lines. Her arms reach up, one and then the other, full fists pulling down, old metal ratcheting up and up, as sweat trickles slowly between her shoulder blades. The sail jerks into place and fills a moment with a rush of wind; Jack sits quietly near the boat's front, hands holding both sides of his life jacket, his eyes steady on the sail. The red-faced boy comes out, hat off and sunglasses pulled down, and helps to push them from the dock. Ellie holds the tiller straight and then slowly turns it—the weight of it sluicing through the water is exactly as it was when she was small.

They drift slowly from the dock out toward the channel. They
tack once, and though it's certainly imperfect, and Jack squeals in fear as the boat dips and lifts, they right themselves and his knuckles eventually hold less tightly to his side of the boat. For a second, Ellie feels full with her own competence. A gust hits them once and the boat dips, water splashing at them, and Jack's body lurches forward, his face almost falling on the metal wheel that controls the centerboard. But Ellie stays steady, loosening the sail until it luffs and the boat sits flat again. Her forearms and her hands burn with the weight of holding the tiller and the sail.

Usually, her mom would steer. Her mom would hold the mainsail too and El and Ben would split turns loosening and pulling in the jib. But she's settled into the feel of both the line that tightens the mainsail and the tiller working in her hands at the same time. It's almost less frightening, being in control. She smiles over at Jack, as he seems to settle in his seat, watching the thin red telltales fly back straight against the sail.

They hit a little enclave on the other side of the inlet; the wind is light and they practice turning, catching puffs of wind and moving swiftly for small stretches, then letting the sail luff again and trailing their hands in the water as they drift. Jack begins to shout instructions to her as she lets the wind catch in the sail again. They've been researching all morning, and he remembers all the proper terms. She calls out to warn him each time she tacks. He calls back in response. She lets him hold the tiller briefly, then they watch together as the sail fills and the boat heels hard with a strong puff that Ellie's seen headed toward them, picking up speed, Jack holding tight to her.

She's sitting lower in the boat to keep one hand on Jack but she can't see as well as if she were sitting on the rail. They slip into the channel. Ellie isn't practiced enough to keep an eye out for the powerboats. The wind fills the sail once more. The boat heels,
dipping farther down than it has since they've been out together. A wave of water washes in the right side of the boat, and Jack's face transforms to shock as his lower half is drenched. Ellie stops, wanting to reach for him, wanting to pull the boat back flat, but not sure how. She grabs hold of the tiller, but she turns too quickly and another puff fills the sail before she's able to loosen it. The boat dips hard and suddenly, its edge nearly going underwater, and Ellie watches, too afraid to move, as Jack tips out of the boat.

Ellie dives in after him and the boat falls behind her, the sail slapping hard against the water, then filling slowly and dipping down. She keeps her eyes on Jack. She's only under for a minute. She opens her eyes wide—they sting—and there he is, the bright yellow of his life jacket bobbing a few feet from where she is; Ellie scoops Jack into her arms. He isn't frantic; he looks confused and scared, but too surprised to have reacted yet. They're in the channel and there are boats coming at them from both sides and Ellie waves, screaming loudly to be sure the people in the boats see them, and finally, bobbing up above the water, Ellie keeping hold of him, Jack begins to cry.

Winter 2013

T
hings devolve quickly after Caitlin's pronouncement. Maya watches as her food seems to age years over a period of minutes, wilting and congealing, looking suddenly inedible, when just an hour before it had seemed the most nourishing assortment that she'd ever seen. No one's touched their plate now for a while. Maya gets up and attempts to clear the table before Caitlin tries to stop her. And though Caitlin motions effusively and begs a couple times for Maya to stop, she finally acquiesces and Maya has a brief respite, washing and drying dishes, putting away the pots and dishware for which she can find the proper place.

The conversation has fragmented. Charles sits close to Caitlin, on the edge of his chair, leaning toward her, his legs crossed. The color rises in Caitlin's cheeks and she looks impossibly young, lovely, even. Her eyes look larger with her hair pulled off her face and she smiles easily, not thinking about the shape her face is making, not considering the things she says before
she speaks. Alana has moved to the bed again to feed the child. Maya, holding a rag and a large green pot, watches as Alana cups her breast with her right hand, and cradles the child in the crook of her left arm. Vivian has a dark shock of hair and wears a yellow purple-polka-dotted onesie. Her hand is wrapped around her mother's pinkie as she nuzzles into her and latches on.

Bryant sits back in his chair and sips the scotch he brought. A book, Maya thinks, a book. It's more than a child because it might outlive one, because it will stay still once it's out in the world. But then the book has no chance to ever be anything other than the thing it is right now.

“You didn't have to do this.” Caitlin spreads both her arms, smiling. She's close to Maya, suddenly, and Maya starts, setting down the pot.

“I wanted to,” Maya says.

“Well . . .” Caitlin looks down. She takes the pot and places it on top of the refrigerator. “Not much room,” she says.

“I didn't know you and Charles were so close,” Maya says. This is wrong. Not what she meant to talk about. Caitlin's hair has wilted and a sweat-wet chunk of it sticks to the right side of her face.

Caitlin stands very close to Maya. She's picked up the dishrag and starts drying as Maya washes the last dishes from the sink. Their fingers touch as Maya passes her a white ceramic plate.

“I was sort of in love with him awhile,” Caitlin says.

Maya pulls a pan from the stove and lets the water scald her as she scrubs. She remembers the day in her office, Caitlin's unraveling, all the tears, the way that Maya'd talked and talked to calm her down.

“I was in love with an idea of him that's probably not real.”

“You dated?” Maya wonders how this sounds. She thinks she feels Caitlin harden at the shape of Maya's words.

“No. No,” Caitlin says.

The man she'd spoken of then had been tactful in his disinterest. Caitlin had felt worse, in fact, she'd told Maya, for the delicacy with which he'd declined. Maya watches the thickness of Caitlin's ankles underneath her smock dress, the awkward way her shoulders slump as she curves her toweled hand around a pan.

“I'm more of an admire-boys-from-afar, live-life-vicariously-through-books-and-other-people kind of girl anyway,” Caitlin says.

Maya smiles. She wants to take care of her again, to hold her close, to straighten her shoulders and wipe the hair out of her face.

Caitlin shakes her head. “We're better as friends.”

Maya's quiet, grabs another dirty dish. It's possible that Caitlin doesn't remember that day, could hardly recall all the things they've shared.

“I've been making people up my whole life,” says Caitlin. She smiles this smile Maya thinks of as specifically hers. Caitlin's cheeks rise in gorgeous mounds as her lips turn up. She's put on mascara for the occasion—it's clumped into the corners of her eyes, and there's a faint smudge of black on her left cheek, her whole face damp from sweat. Maya wants to wet her thumb under the sink and brush her fingers over Caitlin's face. She runs her hands over her own face instead and loosens her hair from its clip. She pulls it back tight against her head and higher, and tries not to glance back at Charles, who, she knows, is watching them.

“Maya,” says Caitlin. She grabs her arm, which surprises both of them.

Maya stays still, the sponge warm and wet in her hand.

“You should go to her,” she says.

Maya's not sure whom she means at first. She backs away.

“You have to get her out,” Caitlin says.

Maya turns briefly toward the sink and sets the sponge down. She's not used to this from anyone but Stephen.
Ellie
, she thinks,
Ellie
, like a shock straight through her brain. She looks down at Caitlin's toes; she nods.

“I'm sorry,” Caitlin says. She crosses, then uncrosses her arms. “It's not my business,” she says. “I'm sorry,” she says again.

Maya still can't speak, grabs hold of the counter, finds her wine.

Caitlin shakes her head, maybe wanting to start over. “I wanted . . .” she says. “It was important to me.”

“Honey,” Maya interrupts her. She needs to take control again.

“It means a lot to me, you being here.”

Caitlin grabs Maya again, this time with both hands, below the elbows, their faces very close. Maya squeezes back. They stand, not quite embracing, not quite willing to let go.

“I can't wait to read it, sweetie,” Maya says. “I'm so very proud of you.”

Summer 2011

I
t's a long time before Annie speaks to her. They've been home and both Jack and Ellie have showered. Ellie has stayed alone in her small room. She avoided looking at herself as she walked by the full-length mirror, put on long cotton pants and an oversized sweatshirt, though it's still a hundred degrees, thick and humid, just outside her room. She has sat quietly on her bed and tried to keep her mind from whirring. She's tried to read the book her mom sent, but then failed and stared up at the ceiling as she listened to Annie cook, Jeffrey come home. The hours pass in which they must eat, then put Jack to bed. No one comes to invite Ellie to join. She hears murmuring, loud for a minute, then quieter, then the whole world is silent for a long, long while.

Annie knocks on Ellie's door.

She looks like she's been crying. She's still wearing the crisp linen pants and silk shirt she wears when she goes into the restaurant, and Ellie feels useless and absurd, so small. She sits back in the corner of the bed. Annie sits across from her. She's brought
her a plate of food, the fish and pasta Ellie'd listened to her cook. Ellie takes it and sets it down beside her on the bed. She says thank you and peels off a small piece of fish. Annie firms her lips.

“I lost him once,” says Annie. Ellie looks down at her feet, where there are still grains of sand from when they sat out on the beach after they'd been brought to shore. She'd left her flip-flops on the boat. She and Jack drove home barefoot in bathing suits, with the towels wrapped around them that the boy with the hat and peeling nose had given them before he went out in a rubber-rimmed dinghy to try to save the boat. “I was at the grocery store and he was wandering behind me. You know how he gets distracted.” She shakes her head. Ellie stays still. “I was alone with him all the time then.” Her memory takes her far from Ellie now and Ellie doesn't mind it. “And it doesn't matter how much you love him, you know? He still drove me insane. It was one of those days, and I was counting the seconds till Jeff would be home to relieve me. I didn't even need anything at the grocery store, but I couldn't be alone with him anymore. And then all of a sudden he was gone, and I couldn't breathe, because it felt like I'd wished it, you know? I went to that kiosk thing and had them call for him. He was three and knew his name—he thought it was cool, being called over the loudspeaker—and we found him right away. But those seconds . . .” She looks up at Ellie then and Ellie leans away, startled to be sitting so close.