Elin Hilderbrand - Barefoot - A Novel

Caroline Knox was gone—to her tennis lesson, Vicki thought angrily, though she was relieved. Melanie lay facedown on a towel, her face buried.

“I have to cal Ted,” Vicki said. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“This is al my fault,” Melanie said. “I am going to be a terrible mother.”

“No, Melanie,” Vicki said. “Do not say that. Do not think that.”

Vicki dialed home. Ted had promised to clean the attic and get someone to check for powder-post beetles. He would see Brenda’s cel phone number on the cal er ID, but he would have no idea what Vicki was about to tel him.

Four rings, then the answering machine picked up. Vicki’s own voice—happy, unconcerned—a voice from another time, before today, before her diagnosis. “You have reached the Stowe residence . . .” The message played in one ear, and in the other ear, Vicki heard the growl of the ocean, like some kind of animal ready to attack. The growl grew louder—something about the sound made Vicki turn. Just as Ted snapped the receiver up, saying in a breathless voice, “Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone. Hel o?” Vicki saw the ATV, the smug Top Gun smile of the summer policeman, and two little hands clasped around the policeman’s waist. She heard Melanie shriek. And then—a wave from the back of the ATV, like Blaine was the mayor in a parade.

“Mom!” he cried out. “Look at me!”

When Vicki woke up from her nap, Porter’s hand was on her breast and Blaine was curled under her left arm. They had fal en asleep immediately upon returning home from the beach; Vicki hadn’t even bothered to rinse off their feet, and now the sheets were sandy. The room was dark, though Vicki could see golden sunlight in the living room. She eased out of bed, then stood over her children and watched them sleep. In ninety harrowing minutes, her world had shattered and then, like magic, been made whole again. Blaine was alive and wel ; he’d wandered al the way down the beach throwing rocks into the water. He’d walked wel over a mile, the policeman said, but he didn’t seem upset or worried in the slightest.

“I’ve never seen such a brave kid,” the policeman had said. “And he’s got quite an arm. The Red Sox should sign him now.”

The tops of Blaine’s shoulders were sunburned. When he climbed off the ATV he suffered through Vicki’s whimpers and sobs of relief and the tightest hug of his life; then he showed her a handful of shel s and asked for his milk. Now, even with robust stage-two lung cancer and thirty-six hours until chemotherapy, Vicki felt like the luckiest woman on earth.

She tiptoed out and shut the door so the boys could sleep awhile longer. Melanie’s door was closed. She had slinked off once they reached home, apologizing again and again, until it was like a joke she’d told too many times. Vicki had done the best she could to assuage Melanie’s guilt, but she knew Melanie would flagel ate herself just the same. It’s my fault. I should have been . . . Vicki considered tapping on Melanie’s door. Don’t worry about it. You have enough on your mind as it is. Everything turned out okay. Vicki put her ear to the door and heard nothing. Melanie was probably asleep.

A note on the kitchen table said, Gone writing! From Brenda. Predictable. Brenda swore up and down that this summer would be about helping Vicki, but Vicki knew better. She flipped Brenda’s note over and started to make a grocery list. She wanted to walk to the market to get food for a proper dinner. They couldn’t continue to eat like French col ege students.

The phone rang, loud and grating. Vicki leapt to answer it before it woke the kids or Melanie.

“Hel o?”

A young female voice said, “I’m cal ing about the ad.”

“Ad?” Vicki said. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number.”

“Oh,” the girl said. “Sorry.” She hung up. Vicki hung up.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again.

“Hel o?” Vicki said.

“Hi,” the girl said. “I dialed real y careful y. 257-6101? The help wanted? For the babysitter?”

“Babysitter?” Vicki said.

“For the two boys in ’Sconset?” the girl said. “I live in ’Sconset and my parents want me to get a job this summer.”

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Vicki said. “But thanks for cal ing.”

“Too bad,” the girl said. “It sounded perfect for me. Not too hard or anything.”

“Thanks for cal ing,” Vicki said. She hung up. The house was silent. Vicki’s brain started to fizz and pop. Babysitter, two boys in ’Sconset, this number? Brenda had placed an ad for a babysitter and hadn’t checked with Vicki? And hadn’t breathed a word about it? Vicki flung open the fridge, hoping to find a cold bottle of wine. No such luck. She wasn’t supposed to drink anyway. What did Dr. Garcia say? Water, broccoli, kale, watermelon, blueberries, beets. But wine wasn’t cigarettes. Vicki opened the cabinets, marveling at her sister’s gal . She was farming out her own nephews!

The front screen door slammed. Vicki looked up. There was Brenda, looking like a supermodel in her bikini top and jean shorts. Holding a yel ow legal pad. It was her “screenplay”—a screenplay based on a book that only six other people in the world had ever read, a screenplay that had no prayer of ever being produced. And yet this endeavor was more important to Brenda than caring for Vicki’s children.

“What’s the face for?” Brenda said.

“You know what it’s for,” Vicki said.

Melanie could hear Brenda and Vicki fighting in the living room even as she lay across her supremely uncomfortable mattress with a down pil ow over her head. Her leg was throbbing; somehow in the midst of al the commotion over losing Blaine, she had acquired an angry sunburn. Her stomach was sour—she had kept nothing down al day, not even plain bread. And her heart was broken. Melanie pictured it as an apple: sliced down the middle, then into quarters, cored, skinned. She deserved it al , and worse. Yesterday she had fal en while holding the baby, and today she had failed at the simplest child-related task. Will someone keep an eye on Blaine? Make sure he doesn’t die, or vanish. But even that had proved too much. Before Peter announced his infidelity, before Melanie learned of the living being inside of her, she had held great visions of herself as a mother. She would buy only wooden toys and only organic produce, she would spend hours reading colorful children’s books with strong messages bought only from independently owned bookstores. She would never yel , never condescend, never pick a pacifier up off the floor, lick it and put it back into her child’s mouth. She was going to do it right. She certainly never imagined getting so caught up in the disintegrating state of her marriage that she lost track of a child completely, that she couldn’t say for certain whether or not that child had wandered away or drowned. It was, Melanie decided, al Peter’s fault, but the result of this thinking only intensified her urge to speak to him. It was almost a physical need, more pressing than being hungry or thirsty. She needed to talk to Peter the way she needed oxygen.

Since she returned home from the beach, she had cal ed him six times at the office, and al six times she had gotten his voice mail. His voice sounded cruel y jovial. “Hi! You’ve reached the voice mail of Peter Patchen, senior analyst for Rutter, Higgens. I’m either on the phone or away from my desk, so please leave a message and I’l cal you back. Thank you!”

The first message that Melanie had left was at 1:28 PM: Peter, it’s me. I’m on Nantucket with Vicki. I’m staying for the summer, unless you give me a reason to come home. What I mean is, I’m not coming home until you end things with Frances. Okay. Call me. You can call me at the number I left earlier, which is 508-257-6101—or you can call me on this cell phone, which belongs to Vicki’s sister. The number is 917-555-0628. I’d like you to call me, please.