Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

An hour or so later, India descended the stairs wearing her kimono.

“Sleep okay?” Birdie asked.

“Slept great,” India said. She accepted a cup of coffee from Birdie, and a dish of strawberries and kiwi fruit. “Kiwi,” she said. “Can you imagine what Mother would say if she saw us eating kiwi on Tuckernuck?”

Birdie bleated out a laugh.

“Remember how she used to read our grocery list over the CB radio to Chuck?” India said. “Remember the dog Chuck used to have when we were little girls? The one who used to ride on the bow of the boat? God, what was that dog’s name?”

“Queenie,” Birdie said.

“Queenie!” India said. She looked at Birdie. “Where is the delight in unearthing a golden nugget from our shared childhood? Is something wrong?”

Birdie dropped four circles of batter on the heated skillet. She had considered telling India about her troubles with Hank, but India knew Hank, India had dated Hank, and thus it wasn’t a topic she wanted to get into.

Instead, she said, “I’m worried about Tate and Barrett.”

“Worried?” India said. “What is there to be worried about? Those two are positively beautiful together. They’re like movie stars.”

Birdie flipped the pancakes. The tops were smooth and golden brown.

“Their relationship is moving awfully fast, it seems. And, well, you know, it’s a little bit make-believe. We’re leaving in two weeks. Tate will go back to her life and Barrett will go back to his. What’s happening now is a fantasy.”

“I’ll tell you what,” India said. “Barrett Lee is one hell of a fantasy.”

“And you know how Tate is,” Birdie said. “She’s as naive as a child. She doesn’t see that this thing with Barrett is just a summer romance. It’s not meant to last.”

This sounded harsh, even to Birdie’s own ears, but she meant it. Nothing lasted. The giddy, head-over-heels infatuation faded; it mellowed into something else. You got married, then divorced. Or your husband killed himself. Or your brain synapses became encased in gooey plaque and you started putting the frying pan in the icebox instead of in the cabinet where it belonged. “I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt,” Birdie said. “She has no idea what she’s doing.”

At that moment, Tate walked into the kitchen. Her face was red and sweaty from the exertion of the run, but then Birdie noticed her eyes were watering.

“Thanks a lot, Mom,” she said.

“Oh, honey, I…,” Birdie said. She scrambled mentally backward, wondering how much Tate had overheard. The pancakes started to smoke.

Tate said, “You’re just like Chess.”

Now it was Birdie’s turn to be astonished. She had never been likened to Chess, ever. “What?” she said.

“You don’t want me to be happy,” Tate said, and she bounded up the stairs.

That afternoon, Birdie returned to Bigelow Point with her cell phone. She told herself she wanted the walk; the exercise would be good for her, and the me-myself time would be good for her. When she reached the point, she called Hank. She had no expectations. He wouldn’t answer, she wouldn’t leave a message. Calling was fruitless. But she couldn’t not call. Not calling was, somehow, beyond her.

She dialed the number, then waited. The tide was low; the water was ankle deep. She was wearing her father’s hat, which protected her face from the beating sun. Could it protect her in other ways? She wondered if her father would approve of Hank. She decided the answer was no; he would not approve on principle. Her father had been a traditionalist; he had adored Grant.

The phone rang twice, three times, four. Predictable. Birdie waited for the sound of Hank’s voice on the voice mail. To hear his voice, even in the five-second recording, was worth the hour-long walk.

This is Hank. I’m not available. Leave a message.

The man spoke the truth, Birdie thought. He wasn’t available. She would not leave a message. She hung up. She gazed out at the water and thought what she always thought: Enough of this, Birdie! Move on!

She wished she hadn’t said anything to India about Tate that morning. She had been a mother for thirty-two years, and she was still making regrettable mistakes.

The phone sprang to life in her hand. It vibrated, it sang out its electric tune. She held it at arm’s length so she could read the display. It was Hank, calling her back.

She opened the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Birdie,” he said.

“Hello, Hank,” she said. The hand she held the phone in was shaking. This was a case of “Be careful what you wish for.” She had Hank on the phone, but she didn’t know what to say. She should have prepared something.

He said, “How are you?”

How are you? Was she supposed to answer that? What if she did answer that? What if she told him the truth? Would the world end?

“I’ve had an emotional couple of weeks,” she said. “It’s tough, you know, living with India and the girls out here in the middle of nowhere. Well, what’s tough is that we talk all the time, we have nothing to do but talk, and we strike nerves every once in a while and we backpedal, and… oh, jeez, you can imagine.”

Hank didn’t respond. Maybe he couldn’t imagine. What, after all, did he know of mothers with daughters, or sisters with sisters?

“And I’ve been missing you,” Birdie said. “I think about you far too often. I feel this longing, this aching-made worse by the fact that you don’t seem to miss me at all. When I called last week, you sounded uninterested. And then when I called you in the middle of the night, you didn’t answer. I left a message. Did you get that message?”

“I did,” he said.

“Where were you?” Birdie asked. “Why didn’t you answer the phone? I called four or five times.”

“I wasn’t at home,” Hank said. “I heard my cell phone ringing but I wasn’t in a place where I was free to answer it.”

“Are you seeing someone else?” Birdie asked. This was her biggest concern: that someone would steal Hank away. The world was filled with single women, and Hank was a desirable catch. Birdie pictured her rival as someone like Ondine Morris, the redheaded siren who had been after Grant all those years ago. Ondine Morris was both a golfer and a socialite, and when her husband lost all his money in the stock market crash of 1987, Ondine had pursued Grant shamelessly, despite the fact that she and Birdie were friends. Grant couldn’t have cared less about Ondine Morris; all women were extraneous to Grant, even those women with an eight handicap. But the threat of Ondine Morris or someone like her remained a specter to Birdie, always lurking.

“No,” Hank said.

“You can tell me if you are,” Birdie said. “I’ll understand.”

“I’m not seeing anyone else, Birdie,” Hank said. “But I have been preoccupied, and not very forthcoming, for which I apologize.”

“Well, be forthcoming now, please,” Birdie said. “Explain yourself.”

“It’s Caroline,” Hank said. He gave off a huge, heavy sigh. “She’s dead.”

Birdie gasped. “She’s dead? She died?”

“When you called that night, I was with her at the facility. They had moved her upstairs. I was asleep in a chair next to her bed, holding her hand. She had a massive stroke, they told me it was bad and I went, and she died on Sunday morning.”

“Oh, Hank,” Birdie said.

“We held the funeral on Wednesday,” he said. “The church was packed. I have enough casseroles to last me the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Birdie said. “I had no idea.” Never once had it occurred to her that something had happened to Caroline. Caroline had Alzheimer’s, and Birdie had assumed she would decline incrementally for years and years. For her to fall so dramatically wasn’t something Birdie had expected. Caroline’s death was certainly sad news, but her quality of life had been poor, and now Hank was free. There would be a period of mourning, maybe as long as a year, before Birdie would be officially introduced around, until she would meet Hank’s children and grandchildren, but it would be worth the wait.