Elin Hilderbrand - Barefoot - A Novel

This sounded like a simple idea, but it took forever to get ready to leave. The children had to be changed into bathing suits and slathered with lotion. (Skin cancer!) Brenda found plastic sand toys, bleached white by the sun, in a net bag in the shed. The toys were covered with years of dust and cobwebs and had to be rinsed with the hose. Then, lunch. Vicki suggested, for the sake of ease, picking up sandwiches at Claudette’s, but Brenda insisted on a picnic hodgepodged together from the bizarre ingredients she had brought home from the market: bread and goat cheese, figs and strawberries. At the mention of these provisions, Melanie gagged and ran for the bathroom. Vicki and Brenda listened to her throwing up as they folded the beach towels.

“Try not to upset her,” Vicki said.

“She’s pretty sensitive,” Brenda said.

“She’s going through a lot,” Vicki said.

“ You’re going through a lot,” Brenda said. She stuffed the towels into a mildewed canvas tote that had belonged to Aunt Liv. “What are we going to do on Tuesday, when I take you for your port instal ation? The doctors said it would take al morning. There is no way she can handle both kids by herself al morning.”

“Sure she can.”

“She cannot. I could barely do it myself. And, I hate to bring this up, I mean, I’m happy to help with the kids and al , that is why I’m here, but I was hoping to get some work done this summer. On my screenplay.”

Vicki took a breath. Brenda was so predictable, but maybe only to Vicki. Vicki heard Ted’s words: Your sister says she wants to help, but she won’t help. She’ll be too busy reading to help. That was how it always went. When Vicki and Brenda were children, Brenda had been excused from al kinds of chores—setting the table, folding laundry, cleaning her room—because she was too busy reading . Even if it was only the newspaper, when Brenda was reading, it had been considered sacrilegious to ask her to stop. Buzz and El en Lyndon had done a thorough (if unintentional) job of labeling their girls: Vicki was the go-getter, organized and hardworking, whereas Brenda had been blessed with the kind of rarefied genius that had to be coddled. Although Brenda was only sixteen months younger than Vicki, nothing was expected of her. She and her “great mind” were tiptoed around like a sleeping baby.

Melanie came out of the bathroom, wiping at her lips. “Sorry,” she said. “Can I just have a piece of bread, please? With nothing on it?”

“Sure,” Brenda said. “My pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Okay, Vicki thought . Okay?

The morning sparkled. Vicki, Brenda, and Melanie rambled down the streets of ’Sconset toward the town beach. Vicki was carrying Porter, who kept sticking his hand into her bikini top and pinching her nipple. She had tried to give him a bottle that morning, but he threw it defiantly to the floor.

Then he lunged for Vicki, fel out of the high chair, and bumped his head on the table. Tears. The subsequent fussing over Porter made Blaine irate

—he proceeded to march out the front door and urinate on the flagstone walk. Lovely.

Vicki removed Porter’s hand from her breast. “Sorry, buddy.” Brenda was up ahead schlepping the beach bag with towels and lotion, the net bag of plastic sand toys, the cooler with lunch and drinks, two beach chairs, and the umbrel a. Melanie was wearing her wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a leather purse. Brenda had caught Vicki’s eye when Melanie emerged with the purse as if to say, Who the hell takes a purse to the beach? As if to say, I’m loaded down like a camel traveling across the Sahara and she’s got a little something from Coach? Vicki almost suggested Melanie leave the purse behind—there was nothing to buy—but she was afraid she’d scare Melanie away. Melanie hadn’t even wanted to come to the beach; she’d wanted to stay in the cottage in case Peter cal ed.

Melanie was also attempting to hold Blaine’s hand. She grasped it for five seconds, but then he raced ahead, into the road, around the corner, out of sight. Vicki cal ed after him and removed Porter’s hand from her breast. So much of parenting was just this mind-numbing repetition.

They al fol owed Brenda on a shortcut: between two houses, along a path, over the dunes. They popped out a hundred yards down from the parking lot, away from the clusters of other people and the lifeguard stand. Brenda dropped al her stuff with a great big martyrish sigh.

“I hope this is okay,” she said.

“Fine,” Vicki said. “Melanie?”

“Fine,” Melanie said.

Brenda set up the umbrel as and the chairs, she stuck Porter in the shade next to the cooler, she spread out the blanket and towels and handed Blaine a shovel, a bucket, and a dump truck. He dashed for the water. Melanie pul ed one of the chairs into the shade and took off her hat. Porter crawled over to the hat and put it in his mouth. Melanie made a sour face. Vicki snatched the hat from Porter and he started to cry. Vicki dug through the beach bag and handed Porter a spare pair of sunglasses. Immediately, he snapped off one of the arms.

“Great,” Brenda said. “Those were mine.”

“Oh, sorry,” Vicki said. “I thought they were an extra pair.”

“They were my extra pair,” Brenda said.

“I’m sorry,” Vicki said again. “He was eating Melanie’s hat. He’s like a goat.”

“Wel , we can’t have him eating Melanie’s hat, ” Brenda said. “It’s such a beautiful hat! Better he should break my sunglasses. Look at them, they’re useless.”

“Were they expensive?” Vicki asked. “I’l replace them.”

“No, no,” Brenda said. “I don’t want you to worry about it. They’re just sunglasses.”

Vicki took a deep breath and turned to Melanie.

“What do you think about the beach?” Vicki said. She wanted Melanie to be happy; she wanted Melanie to love Nantucket. She did not want Melanie to think, even for a second, that she had made a mistake in coming along.

“Do you think Peter’s trying to cal ?” Melanie said. She checked her watch, a Cartier tank watch that Peter had given her after the first failed round of in vitro. “Should I cal him at work? He goes in sometimes on Sundays.”

He doesn’t go to the office on Sundays, Vicki thought. He’s just been telling you he goes to the office when really he spends Sundays with Frances Digitt making love, eating bagels, reading the Times, and making love again. That was what a man who was having an affair did on Sundays; that was where Peter was this very second. But Vicki said nothing. She shrugged.

Brenda cleared her throat. “Vick, are you taking the other chair?”

Vicki looked at the chair. Brenda had hauled it; she should sit on it.

“No. You take it.”

“Wel , do you want it?”

“That’s okay.”

Brenda huffed. “Please take it. I’l lie on my stomach.”

“Are you sure?” Vicki said.

“Sure.”

“Should I cal Peter at work?” Melanie said.

More breathy-type noises from Brenda. She pul ed out her cel phone. “Here. Be my guest.”

Melanie took the cel phone, set it in her lap, and stared at it.

Vicki heard a shout. She looked down the beach. Someone was waving at her. No, not at her, thank God. She settled in the chair.

“Wil someone keep an eye on Blaine?” Vicki asked. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.”

“I’d like to try and write,” Brenda said.

“I’l watch him,” Melanie said.

“You’re not going to cal Peter?”

“No,” Melanie said. “Yes. I don’t know. Not right now.”