Page 78 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

Betsy took in the image of her sisters, her mother, and herself, the four of them like shiny pearls packed together on a newly strung necklace. Maybe this was when they returned to each other for good. For the first time in Betsy’s entire adult life, she thought:I want to read every book with my sisters and mother, and I want to hear everything they have to say about what it means to come into yourself, to live on your own terms, to raise your hand and say I am here, and I matter.

Her mother wanted the best for her. This reminded Betsy of all the subjects this conversation had taken them away from. It felt like there were cotton balls lodged in her throat when she said, “Can we stop talking about the book for a second?” Her stomach grumbled; she reached under the napkin for a cracker. “We own this house in Nantucket, and if we sell it, we can pay off the other half of the loan Dad took out and secure the Vineyard house for good.”

“You can’t kick that woman out. Charge her rent.” Her mother drank down the last third of her wine. “It’s her home. I didn’t like what your father did, but I do empathize with his decision to help her.”

Betsy stuffed another Triscuit in her mouth. “We had a feeling you’d say that.”

Louisa opened a small notebook she’d carried to the table earlier, the notepad containing a diagram they drew of the land on the ferry that morning. “That’s why we have an alternate plan. Betsy and I went to Nantucket’s town records office, and we looked at the boundarysurvey. The house, while modest, sits on three acres of land.” They could subdivide the lot into three, one-acre parcels, and sell two of them for a sum large enough to pay off half of the loans their father had taken out on the summer house. Then Melody could stay on her third of the property in the house and pay them a market rent. It was a fair plan; one they felt their mother couldn’t argue with.

Virgie threaded her fingers on the table, her nostrils flaring, the latter a telltale sign that she was uncomfortable. “Fine,” she said. “But I want no part of it. I will not speak to her.”

“It’s okay. We’ll do all the talking.” A surge of joy rushed into Betsy, and she and her sisters took turns wrapping their arms around each other, the reality that the house would remain in their family sending a carousel of happy emotions through them. With or without their mother’s memoir, the house was theirs for good.

Their mother rose and joined in the revelry, picking up her granddaughter and hoisting her on her hip. “But I’m still writing my book, girls. I will let you read it before it goes to print, but I need you girls to understand that my story is not your story. You could write a different version of the same exact events, and they would still be true.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

With her mother typing steadily in her study the following morning, Betsy trudged up the crooked stairs and knocked on the door. Louisa and Aggie had taken the kids to the playground so Betsy could talk to her mother on her own.

“Good luck,” Aggie whispered before they left, kissing Betsy on the cheek. “Emphasize all the good. Mom likes to know that there’s a way out.”

At Betsy’s knock, her mother called out, “Come in.”

Let’s hope this isn’t the biggest regret of my life, she told herself.

Betsy’s appointment with the midwife was tomorrow. Was it naïve to think that her mother might come with her? Just because she’d decided to have the baby didn’t mean she wasn’t scared.

Her mother sat behind a typewriter at her desk, her glasses falling down her nose.

“Hi, Mom. Can we go for a walk?”

Her mother typed a few more words, then said. “Five minutes?”

Betsy waited on the porch, her hands clammy and warm. She decided in the midnight hours, while nibbling on saltines in the dark,that she would tell her mother the entire story from beginning to end. How she hadn’t been looking for a boyfriend at all. How she was trying to do well in school, but life had thrown her a curveball.

The front door clicked open, and Virgie emerged in her huarache sandals, flowing skirt, and straw hat. Betsy nearly blurted out her news, but just as quickly lost her nerve. Instead, she smiled, the corners of her mouth trembling. Walking down South Water Street, mother and daughter remained quiet, her mother sensing that this wasn’t her conversation to begin. They strolled to Lighthouse Beach, kicking off their sandals and moving toward the water, sitting side by side on the sand.

Her mother watched two children digging sandcastles down the beach. Betsy needed to begin. Her body grew hot and her mind sputtered in stress. “I’m going to go back to Columbia this fall. I want to finish. I decided that I truly want to be a psychologist.”

There was pride in her mother’s look. “I’m happy to hear that. And I’m sorry for what I said about you trying to go back in time. I’m so proud of you, Betts. My precious little Betsy.”

Betsy flinched, the words bringing a wave of sour memories. “Do you remember when you would tell Dad about something you didn’t like that I was doing, and you’d say to him, ‘your precious Betsy.’ It always felt so awful, like a part of you hated me.”

This took her mother by surprise, and she jostled Betsy in a playful manner. “Hated you? I’ve never hated you.”

Her mother leaned her head back, letting the sun blanket her face as she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she leaned closer to Betsy, her voice steady. “But I have been thinking of our family a lot lately, writing this memoir, and there is something I want to say. I’m sorry if I splintered this family with my work. That I made you girls feel like you needed to take a side: me versus Dad. All these years I thought I was only doing good for you girls, but there was an unintended outcome. I alienated you. Your father and I were just…”

It was easy for Betsy to fill in the blank. “Complicated.”

Her mother smiled. “To say the least. But I shouldn’t have let that come between me and you. You know that I couldn’t imagine my life without you, even when you drive me so batty I could scream. I could never let you go.”

“Mom?” Betsy knew she sounded scared.

Her mother was still smiling. “Yes?”

“I’m having a baby.” Betsy made fists in the sand, letting the words lodge into her mother’s brain. “I know it’s not what you expected from me, and it’s certainly not what I expected of me. But here’s what I know: I don’t want to fly airplanes or go to the moon. I don’t want to argue before the Supreme Court like Louisa or run marathons like Aggie. I want to help people with their problems, and I want to be a mom and I want to come back to this small little island and teach my boy how to hunt for minnows and sail a boat and dig for clams in Sengekontacket Pond. Maybe having a small life isn’t good enough for you, and maybe it will be a big mistake for me, but it’s all I want right now.”

There were shells by Betsy’s toes, small slipper shells with smooth backs and pretty fronts, and she stared at them because she was terrified to look up. Her eyes were damp, and she was upset at how badly she needed her mother to say something. Anything.

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