Mystic Summer (31 page)

I put my hands over my eyes and take a deep breath. “But it does.”

I think back to that night in our apartment when we went through her old photo box together fondly—how vulnerable and teary Erika got talking about our past—and the way she remembered our friendship. I had always felt like the one in her shadow. It never occurred to me she might ever have had reason to feel the same about me. “Why now?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

“Because tomorrow is a big day, and I have my loved ones standing up for me. You're one of them, and I don't want you standing there with any regrets or any secrets. Being back here, in Mystic, and seeing Cam—I had to tell you. I'm sorry.”

I need time to absorb this. Suddenly the years of strained silence between Erika and Cam make sense. But the fact that Cam never told me, either, is another soft blow. “It was really shitty of you,” I tell her. I look her right in the eye as I say it.

“I know. But it was nothing, Mags. Cam only ever wanted you.”

I feel silly at how stung I am all these years later, but I can't help it. “I'm glad you told me,” I say finally.

“Do you forgive me?” Erika's eyes are wide and watery.

We were both nineteen. Drinking beers in our bathing suits on a sandy beach without a care in the world beyond ourselves. It was the perfect recipe for disaster.

“I don't want to hold this between us,” I tell her. But I'm still stinging from her confession.

Erika knows better than to hug me right now. She takes my dress bag and swings it over her tanned shoulder, her lips pressed tightly. “Thank you, Mags. It's the best gift you can give me.”

We meet the others, who, to my relief, remain completely unaware of our conversation, at the front of the store, where they're busy looking through the racks. The cashier rings up my alterations. “Let me,” Erika says, but I wave her away.

On the way out, she turns to me. “Are you still thinking about what I said?” she whispers.

“No, actually, I'm thinking about Lauren,” I tell her.

Erika looks relieved, but she gives this some thought. “That poor baby,” she says, finally. “What if Lauren leaves again?”

As I follow her out into the sun, it's a very different thought that rattles around my head:
What if she doesn't?

Outside, we loiter in the parking lot beside our cars. The sun is high and hot, the lunchtime hour fast approaching. “I'm starving,” Peyton announces. “But if I want to belt that dress tomorrow, I should stick to my diet.”

“Don't be silly,” Erika says. “Let's grab lunch while we're in town. My treat.”

I'm hungry, too. The bagel I grabbed earlier at the inn barely put a dent in it. “Mystic Pizza, for old time's sake?” I suggest.

Peyton drops her diet like a hot plate. “Let's go.”

“I'll drive,” Erika says. But as I start to follow them all toward her car, she spins around to face me. “Not you.”

“What do you mean? I'm starving.”

“No.” Her voice is as firm as her expression. “You have somewhere else to be.”

And then I know what she means. “Erika, I can't go back there.” It's
too much. And it's also her last afternoon with us as a single girl. Despite everything, I'm not harboring ill will. In fact, I have the sense of being somehow lighter. “I don't want to miss hanging out with you guys. Besides, I've got my own stuff to figure out with Evan.”

“It's been almost ten years. I think you need to figure this one out first.” Erika holds up her pinky finger. “Promise me you'll go.”

In the end, it's all the permission I need. I link my finger around hers.

T
his time, when I stand in Emory's doorway, Cam is not there. Nor are his parents. Or, thankfully, Lauren. Emory is sound asleep again, and I marvel at how pink her cheeks are. When I run my index finger down her arm she stirs and makes a little gurgly sound. Her long lashes flutter, and she sleeps on.

“Doesn't she look good today?” A nurse comes in behind me, and moves briskly to the IV pole. I notice as she taps the IV bag that her fingernails are painted fluorescent blue. She checks the fluids, makes a note, and comes around to check Emory's vitals. “What a little trouper, huh?”

“She sure is,” I say, stepping closer to the bed.

“Do you know where Mom and Dad are?” she asks, smiling brightly. “I have a new doctor's order for dosage that I want to go over with them.”

I falter. “Uh, no. I only just arrived myself,” I stammer.

“I'm here.” I turn at the sound of her voice, a voice I have never heard but cannot mistake. Lauren enters the room quietly, sets down her purse, and comes to stand beside me at the bed. The hairs on my arms rise, we are so close.

The nurse glances at me, uncertainly. “Would you like me to go over them now?”

“Yes, that's fine. I'll share them with her father.”

I'm flooded with the sense that I have been caught. Caught here, in Emory's room, by her mother. Listening to medical information that is intended for a parent's ear. And keeping vigil by a child who, no matter my interest, is not my own. I glance at Lauren out of the corner of my eye. Her eyes are fixed on the young nurse; it's as if I am not even present. But for some reason I remain at Emory's bedside, my fingers clenched on the stainless steel railing that has grown warm beneath my sweaty grip.

The nurse finishes her explanation and goes. We are left in the breeze of her wake, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at Emory. Lauren reaches down and adjusts the blanket over Emory's shoulders. Her arm, unlike my own, is deeply tanned and flecked with tiny blond hairs and freckles. She wears a silver cuff bracelet and a sporty diver's watch. When I brave a glance in her direction, I see her face is void of any makeup, her skin the color of a peach.

“Hi,” I say unevenly. “I hope it's all right I came to visit.”

It's not lost on me that I feel the need to ask her approval, a woman who while biologically connected has never had any custodial say over the little girl in question, but it feels respectful.

Lauren does not glance at me sideways, as I did. She turns fully to me, despite our close proximity. The tip of her nose is sunburned. “You're Maggie.”

I nod.

And that is all. She reaches past me to retrieve her bag from the chair, and proceeds to sit down in the corner. The same
corner where Mr. Wilder snored softly, exhausted, the last time I was here. Where is Cameron?

Lauren crosses her arms and leans back in the chair, her gaze turning to the window.

“Is Cameron here?” I ask.

“He's finishing lunch downstairs. Does he know you're here?” It's just a question. But the fact that I have to say, “No, he doesn't,” makes me uncomfortable. Cameron is not expecting me. I wonder if this matters to her.

Lauren looks like someone who spends all her time outdoors. Lithe and lean, she is exactly the sort of person I would look twice at on the sidewalk. Someone who would make me conscious of my freckled knees and unruly hair.

There is an air of cool assuredness about her—something disjointed in the confines of this hospital room. While I didn't really know what to expect of her, I imagined some level of sheepishness or awkwardness. Some fitting sign of a woman having returned, or having been summoned, to her own baby's bedside from across the country. But there is no sense of that.

“How is she doing?” I ask.

“Very well, actually. They've been able to break up the clot and move the blood flow out of her groin.” She comes to the bed and lifts the blanket, exposing Emory's legs. “See? The bruising is diminished.” Emory shifts, and I fight the urge to cover her back up. Eventually Lauren does.

“That's great news.” I offer a smile. “You must be relieved.”

She returns to the chair. “Of course. We all are.”

I can't help but notice her use of
we.
I wonder if Mrs. Wilder has this same sense.

And then Cam is with us. He is far more surprised to see me than Lauren. “Maggie? What are you doing here?”

At which Lauren looks at me expectantly. Despite her polite responses to my question, is she wondering the same thing?

“I had the afternoon free, and I wanted to see how she was doing.”

Cam glances over at Lauren. “Much better.”

Lauren stands. “The nurse came in.” I can tell she wants to share the information the nurse told her, and there is no reason for me to stand and listen. Emory is sleeping and doing well. I've heard what I came here for. But then she puts her hand on Cam's arm. “They've changed her dosage.”

It's all I need. “I'll leave you guys to talk,” I say. I pull my purse quickly over my shoulder and turn to Cam. “I'm so glad she's doing well. Please tell your folks I said hi.”

I glance at Emory once more. Her little lips are moving in a slow, dreamy sucking motion. It's the same sweet sound she made the night I babysat and fell asleep holding her in the rocking chair. “I think she's hungry.”

When I turn, Cam is smiling down at Emory. But Lauren is not; her gaze is fixed on me, and it has hardened. Emory stirs. She turns her head toward us, blinking, and kicks one foot out from beneath the blanket.

“I think you're right,” Cam says. He turns to Lauren. “Want to pick her up while I get the nurse?”

“I'll get the nurse,” she says, striding for the door.

I've said my goodbyes. And yet I can't bring myself to go. It's the first time I've seen Emory awake all week. Gingerly Cam moves the blanket aside and adjusts the IV tube. Careful
not to tangle it, he lifts her up out of the bed and nestles her in the crook of his arm. “Hi, sweet girl. Are you hungry?”

Emory is flushed, and her head wags back and forth impatiently. Cam laughs. “This feistiness used to make me panic. Now it's such a relief.”

I can only imagine. As Lauren returns with a nurse, I move to the doorway. Bottle in hand, the nurse checks the IV tube and helps Cam adjust her blanket. Emory lets out an impatient wail. “That's what I'm talking about!” the nurse says, looking pleased. “Let's get this girl her lunch.”

But instead of settling into the chair with her, Cam looks to Lauren. “Here, why don't I let you feed her this time?”

Lauren stiffens. “Oh, that's okay.”

But Cam repeats the offer. “It's fine, really. As soon as she latches on to the bottle, it's smooth sailing.” And before Lauren can object, he holds Emory out.

Emory is not having it, however. She's angry in the way only a hungry infant is, and she arches her back and cries. The nurse looks between them impatiently. “Let's get her going,” she says, “before she tires.”

All eyes rest on Lauren. “Here,” Cam says again, gently.

“I said no.” Lauren steps abruptly aside, leaving Cam a clear path to the chair.

“Okay, let's sit her down, Dad,” the nurse says. Her efficiency saves them, and Cam does as he's told. The focus becomes one of propping up Emory and positioning her tubes, and soon her plaintive fussing sounds are replaced with silence and the rhythmic
thwack thwack thwack
pull of the nipple.

“I'll be back in five to check on you,” the nurse says, keeping her eyes on Cam.

But he is looking at Lauren, who has moved to the window. The farthest reach of the room.

I follow the nurse out, feeling as if I've witnessed something too personal. Erika was wrong; it's too late to settle any business with Cameron now. In fact, the only business Cameron has is the two other people, besides me, in this room. It's time I stop inserting myself here. This time I don't interrupt them with a goodbye.

The elevators are slow to come up to the cardiac floor. When one finally does, I'm relieved to see the car is empty. Just as the doors closed someone calls, “Please wait.” Quickly, I punch the button to hold the doors. When they open I look up to see Lauren Peale.

The car stops on the next floor and a doctor steps in, between us. As we ride down, I wonder where Lauren is going. Emory is still working on her feeding. The car stops again, on the next floor, and the doctor exits. It's nearly agony standing side by side in silence.

The cafeteria is one floor above the lobby. At the last second she reaches past me and hits the button. The elevator stops abruptly. When I turn, her cheeks are streaked with tears. During the labored pause as the elevator doors open, I hear her say it.

“I'm not a monster.” And then she's gone.

A
wave of clapping erupts, and I join in, a beat too late. Erika and Trent have finished their toast to all the guests at the rehearsal dinner. We're seated outside on the shaded upper decks of the Oyster Club, in what locals call the “Tree House,” overlooking the Mystic River. Trent's parents have reserved all the Tree House for our party, and despite the lush leafy coverage and the salty breeze wafting across the decks, I'm flushed.

“I need a drink of water,” I say, rising from the bridal party table. Dinner is over, but I've barely touched my plate. Evan has finally given up trying to get me to, and has helped himself to several of my oysters.

I'm still troubled by the ride over. Evan had picked me up at my house. It was early, still, so I asked him if we could take a quick drive along the back roads. We drove past the library and my old elementary school, places I wanted to point out to him and he seemed grateful to see, but soon he worried that we'd be late to dinner and suggested we head back to town. On the way back, along River Road, I asked him to pull over.

“Now?” he'd asked, glancing nervously at the clock.

I pointed to the stately white house up ahead. “I want to show you someplace special,” I said.

“But we're going to be late.”