table, broke into a trot, and I got set to catch her if she leapt. But no, she barreled past me. “Look,” she called. “A boat!”
I was turning to look when the ferry’s horn blasted; I felt the sound churning in my chest.
Paula, unfazed, honked back to the boat. “Baaaa,” she sang. “Baaaa. Where will they sail, Mãe? To Brazil?”
Debora laughed. “Much too far. No. Just Martha’s Vineyard. Want to go and see? Should I take you?” She indicated the door out to the deck.
“No,” said Paula. “Him.” She pointed at me, grinning.
My kingdom for a little girl’s grin!
“Delighted to,” I said. I reached for Paula’s hand. Then, catching the flare of a jealous glance from Stu, I tried to quash the joy of being chosen. I opened the door. “Find us in a few.”
At first Paula clung to me, startled by the salt air’s slap. “Hey,” I said, sheltering her, “it’s okay. See the people?” A few hardy passengers, despite the day’s chill, clustered on the ferry’s top deck. “See? They’re saying hi to you. Wave back!”
Paula, emboldened, wriggled from my grip and twirled a small dance of salutation.
“There you go,” I said. “That’s a big brave girl.”
“Watch,” she called. “Watch me.” Now she struck a model’s pose, arms shaped to match the ferry’s prow.
I did watch, but what I saw was overlaid with memory: my mom and me (at Paula’s age? no, a few years older), one summer, riding the Vineyard boat.
Why were we, the two of us alone, on the ferry? I had heard her offering a reason to my dad: something about a species to be seen in Chappaquiddick, a juvenile something-or-other. Mom had been a teacher—junior high biology—but stopped working after she got pregnant. Less because she could than because she couldn’t not: what would all the other wives in Newtonville have said? Now, with the three of us kids safely out of diapers, she had found new outlets for her passion: secretary of the Sandy Neck Preservation League, organizer of weekend walks for birders down from Boston.
But where were her binoculars today, her battered field guide? She’d brought only her sunglasses. Her son.
“Oh,” she said when I asked her. “Oh, Pat. I’m so sorry.”
Sorry for what? What did I care? Birds were only birds.
“I told him,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “I told him this was crazy, bringing you.”
“ Dad told you to bring me?”
“No, honey. Not him. You couldn’t . . . you’re too young to get it.”
I didn’t get it—not yet—but still, my backbone shrank.
At the Oak Bluffs terminal I stood to disembark, but Mom took my palm again. “No,” she said. “No, let’s just go home.”
And so we sailed back, across the torpid sea.
Why on earth, if she had planned a lover’s tryst, bring me? As cover, was the easy answer. To head off Dad’s suspicion, making me a pawn in her deception.
Today, though, braced against the same stinging breeze, gearing up to have my own child, I could finally understand the opposite possibility: maybe she had brought me so she wouldn’t take the risk—a grapnel that would keep her tied to home. Maybe that was part of why she’d had us kids, to start with.
Funny: all my life, I’d been bent on blazing a different path, but maybe, in the end, I followed in her footsteps. Did Debora’s old teacher’s scheme allow for this exception? Someone who ran away from things but also, in that running, turned back?
Debora herself had run—had sprinted —from her past, but now seemed to be her world’s still point: the gravity that held Paula close.
Jesus Christ. Paula . Where was she?
I whipped around but didn’t see her. Shit. My knees went soggy. Scanning left, then right—still nothing. And so I turned, with terrible cold logic, to the water, looking for some sign of aftermath.
That’s when I heard, “Hey. Hey! Get away from me.”
I traced the words to Paula, who crouched beneath a table, guarding something
I was turning to look when the ferry’s horn blasted; I felt the sound churning in my chest.
Paula, unfazed, honked back to the boat. “Baaaa,” she sang. “Baaaa. Where will they sail, Mãe? To Brazil?”
Debora laughed. “Much too far. No. Just Martha’s Vineyard. Want to go and see? Should I take you?” She indicated the door out to the deck.
“No,” said Paula. “Him.” She pointed at me, grinning.
My kingdom for a little girl’s grin!
“Delighted to,” I said. I reached for Paula’s hand. Then, catching the flare of a jealous glance from Stu, I tried to quash the joy of being chosen. I opened the door. “Find us in a few.”
At first Paula clung to me, startled by the salt air’s slap. “Hey,” I said, sheltering her, “it’s okay. See the people?” A few hardy passengers, despite the day’s chill, clustered on the ferry’s top deck. “See? They’re saying hi to you. Wave back!”
Paula, emboldened, wriggled from my grip and twirled a small dance of salutation.
“There you go,” I said. “That’s a big brave girl.”
“Watch,” she called. “Watch me.” Now she struck a model’s pose, arms shaped to match the ferry’s prow.
I did watch, but what I saw was overlaid with memory: my mom and me (at Paula’s age? no, a few years older), one summer, riding the Vineyard boat.
Why were we, the two of us alone, on the ferry? I had heard her offering a reason to my dad: something about a species to be seen in Chappaquiddick, a juvenile something-or-other. Mom had been a teacher—junior high biology—but stopped working after she got pregnant. Less because she could than because she couldn’t not: what would all the other wives in Newtonville have said? Now, with the three of us kids safely out of diapers, she had found new outlets for her passion: secretary of the Sandy Neck Preservation League, organizer of weekend walks for birders down from Boston.
But where were her binoculars today, her battered field guide? She’d brought only her sunglasses. Her son.
“Oh,” she said when I asked her. “Oh, Pat. I’m so sorry.”
Sorry for what? What did I care? Birds were only birds.
“I told him,” she said, and squeezed my hand. “I told him this was crazy, bringing you.”
“ Dad told you to bring me?”
“No, honey. Not him. You couldn’t . . . you’re too young to get it.”
I didn’t get it—not yet—but still, my backbone shrank.
At the Oak Bluffs terminal I stood to disembark, but Mom took my palm again. “No,” she said. “No, let’s just go home.”
And so we sailed back, across the torpid sea.
Why on earth, if she had planned a lover’s tryst, bring me? As cover, was the easy answer. To head off Dad’s suspicion, making me a pawn in her deception.
Today, though, braced against the same stinging breeze, gearing up to have my own child, I could finally understand the opposite possibility: maybe she had brought me so she wouldn’t take the risk—a grapnel that would keep her tied to home. Maybe that was part of why she’d had us kids, to start with.
Funny: all my life, I’d been bent on blazing a different path, but maybe, in the end, I followed in her footsteps. Did Debora’s old teacher’s scheme allow for this exception? Someone who ran away from things but also, in that running, turned back?
Debora herself had run—had sprinted —from her past, but now seemed to be her world’s still point: the gravity that held Paula close.
Jesus Christ. Paula . Where was she?
I whipped around but didn’t see her. Shit. My knees went soggy. Scanning left, then right—still nothing. And so I turned, with terrible cold logic, to the water, looking for some sign of aftermath.
That’s when I heard, “Hey. Hey! Get away from me.”
I traced the words to Paula, who crouched beneath a table, guarding something
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