JULY
TWENTY-FIRST
“I’m going down to the water,” Blythe calls into the house and then leans forward on the deck’s wooden railing. Even with all the trees, there is still an amazing view of the ocean cove, the water sparkling in the mid-afternoon light. And she loves that briny smell, especially strong now, at low tide. The stink always makes her younger brother, James, wrinkle his nose, but she breathes it in with pleasure.
“Have fun at the clam graveyard hour!” James shouts. That’s what he calls low tide. Blythe’s repeated explanations that the smell has nothing to do with dying clams, and, that in fact, the clams are just fine and perfectly alive, does nothing to make him like it any better. Or understand her love for it.
The truth for his sour attitude, she thinks, is that James is still pissed that she was the one to choose their vacation house from the list of possible rentals her parents printed out.
It didn’t seem worth being pissy about. It was only for two weeks, after all. Once the fourteen days were up, Blythe’s family would finally be able to move into their new summerhouse in Bar Harbor, a house called The Stone’s Throw, where the current owners were taking longer than expected to pack up their things. The delay was a surprise and put Blythe’s parents in an awkward spot; by mid-July, it was virtually impossible to find any place to rent near popular Bar Harbor. That’s how they ended up in Chilford, a couple of hours south, in an old house.
Luckily, it turned out to be a fine substitute vacation home for the place in Bar Harbor, and they settled in right away.
Blythe knows that fun, easy vacations aren’t easy to come by for most families, but hers pulls them off every time. She knows that’s mostly because her parents walk that magic line between being involved in her life and giving her space to grow up on her own. Plus, her brother is pretty damn great, too. It seems like she and James should fight more, given that she is seventeen and he is fifteen, but they don’t. He is levelheaded, disciplined, and reasonable—many things that she is not. But under that cool exterior, he is kind. Truly, incredibly, deeply kind. And miraculously modest, considering that he is the top-ranked soccer player in Massachusetts. She is definitely the more carefree and sillier of the two, but James seems to appreciate that about her. They are a good pair.
“Hey, James! Jamie!” she hollers. “The dying clams want to say hello to you! Come down to the beach with me!”
“What? My God, quit yelling, you nut.” Her brother slides open the screen door and puts his hands on his hips. “We’re on a relaxing vacation. Soft voices, calm attitudes.” He half smiles, and the spark in his eye tells her that he is most definitely in a good mood.
“Come swimming! It’s a perfect blue-sky afternoon. There’s a dock not too far out that we can swim to.”
“I just scarfed down a massive sandwich. Later, okay? I’ll have to work off the six pounds of food I ate.” He pats his muscled stomach. He is a good-looking kid, Blythe knows, yet so far he has resisted the nearly incessant phone calls and overall interest from swooning girls. Soccer is his priority. “You shouldn’t swim that far alone, though,” he continues. “Take the boat, and I’ll watch you from up here.”
“Okay, Mr. Responsible. You can rescue me if I start to drown. I’m no hotshot soccer star, but I can swim well enough.” It’s true. She is a good swimmer. Her strokes and form might not be pretty by swim team standards, but she is capable of handling herself in even rough ocean water. All of her general athletic failings don’t seem to matter in the water. She feels strong in the water and, more than that, she just loves the feeling of buoyancy. Nothing compares to being cradled and moved by the force of the ocean. You just have to be aware of its power. “Never forget,” her father had once said, “the current, the tides, the waves … they are all smarter than you are. They are in charge. It’s your job to listen. Don’t ever stop listening.”
Her father was right. And so Blythe always listens to what the water tells her. “Fine, fine, stay here. I’ll be back in a bit. Wanna do steamers and lobsters for dinner? I saw a guy on the side of the road with a seafood shack. We can cook for Mom and Dad!”
“You got it,” he says, smiling. “Have fun.”
The path from the house to the shore runs under tall evergreens and is lined with feathery ferns. Blythe likes the way the leaves tickle her legs and how the rocky terrain makes her take her time getting to the water. She wants to slow down in general while here. This Maine vacation will be the calm before the storm. College applications are ahead of her in the fall, her senior year of high school: SATs and then forms, interviews, and freak-outs. Matthews is her top choice, obviously. Her parents met there, and aside from that cool aspect is the plain truth that it is an excellent college. She doesn’t want to go to an overpopulated university where she’d get lost in a sea of students. Frat parties and campus chaos are not her thing. Matthews is going to be her school. It has to. She even has on a frayed Matthews T-shirt right now. The pale blue lettering is chipped in more places than she can count and the red background is now closer to pink, but she doesn’t care how ragged the shirt is. It is her favorite. The Wisconsin winters would suck, obviously, but the beautiful campus and dynamic professors would make up for that. Blythe sort of hates that she will have to put down on her application that both her parents went there, because she wants to get in on her own merit, but she also isn’t entirely above using that connection if it can guarantee her an acceptance. If that’s what gets her in, then she will just have to validate the shit out of their decision to admit her once she’s there.
The thought of all the work that lies ahead of her makes her even more determined to enjoy every minute of the summer. Which is pretty easy to do, considering the house has its own section of private beach. Blythe much prefers this shell-covered shoreline and cold, rough water to the perfectly smooth white sand and warm aqua water at tropical resorts. Maine feels real to her and much less showy. The boulders that are covered in seaweed, the barnacle-encrusted tide pools, and the salty air that invades every pore of her body: they are what make Maine special.
She walks to the end of the narrow dock and tosses her things into the old rowboat that is tied up. She throws on the still-damp orange life vest and easily starts rowing out to the square floating dock that rocks with the waves, her boat bouncing playfully in the water. Blythe loves being around people, but she likes her privacy almost as much and adores how this dock is like a private island in the middle of the cove. She reaches it a few minutes later and clambers on top of it, situating herself on her towel. At three thirty in the afternoon, the sun is still strong, but a slight chill from the cold water blows over her. She has her bathing suit on under her clothes, but she will try to warm up in the sun before she dives into the Atlantic. She kicks off her sneakers and removes her shorts, but keeps on her shirt.
Blythe lies down on her stomach and rests her head on her crossed arms. The sound. Oh, the sound of small waves lapping against the dock is hypnotic, and the sun burning on the back of her legs is nicely tempered by the ocean air. Bliss. The dock rocks under her, and she gives herself up to the will of the ocean, succumbing to the unpredictable rhythm of the water and her daydreams.
After what could be hours or minutes, Blythe isn’t sure which, she lifts her head, her content mood broken, but by what, she doesn’t know. She looks around. The rowboat is still tied to the dock. Nothing is amiss. She shakes her head. Blythe scans the shore to her right and studies the houses. Some are too far back or too shielded by foliage to see, while others are clearly visible. It’s funny, she thinks, the mix of tiny, somewhat rundown houses set next to clearly more expensive, nearly palatial properties.
Movement on the opposite shore makes her look straight ahead. Someone is walking slowly where the water hits the land. She props her chin on her hands. From this distance it is hard to see the figure clearly, but she guesses that it’s a boy about her age. He’s tall, with dark hair peeking out from under a red baseball hat. He has on tan cargo shorts, and no shirt or shoes. And he is carrying two buckets, one in each hand. She watches as he plods slowly through the sand, wades a few feet through the heavy low-tide mud into the ocean, and then empties the water-filled buckets. He pauses a moment, tips his head back, and stands still. Maybe taking in the spectacular day? Or maybe something else.
The boy leans over and refills each metal bucket with water. Slowly he stands and brings the pails to his side and begins walking, obviously weary, back down the shoreline where he’d come from. He keeps his arms slightly bent at the elbows, flexing his muscles to keep the buckets from hitting his legs. When he reaches what is probably the end of his property line, he plods back into the water and dumps his buckets again. For ten minutes, Blythe stares entranced as he repeats this ritual over and over. What on earth is he doing? Does he have some sort of compulsive disorder that required him to repeat mundane acts over and over until his brain is satisfied? Although she would hardly call this activity mundane. Buckets of water are heavy, even for someone with his strong build, and the repetition had to be tiring him out. Perhaps it was some kind of physical conditioning exercise? He could be a sports nut like her brother. She continues staring.
Twenty minutes must go by. His pace remains the same, but his physical pain is easy to see. He has to be hurting. She stands up and brings her hand to shield her eyes.
Ten more minutes.
Stop, she whispers. You have to stop now. It’s too much.
Who knows how long he’d been doing this before she noticed? This is insane. But the boy keeps going, focused and unfailing in his routine. Even when he stumbles and spills half of a bucket, he continues.
Jesus, stop! she pleads silently. Put the buckets down. You’re going to pass out. What the hell are you doing?
Finally he pauses, turning his back to her as he looks toward the trees. Holy shit. His back is badly sunburned. If she can tell from this distance, it is definitely bad. It must hurt like hell, or at least it will later. He continues looking toward the trees for a bit, craning his head to the side. Looking for something? Someone? He drops the buckets and leans over, bracing himself with his hands on his legs. Catching his breath, for sure. The boy moves toward the water, looking down as he wades in a few feet. He seems to be shaking his head.
When he raises his head, Blythe finds herself clearly in his sight. She should probably be embarrassed, having been caught staring at this stranger, but she isn’t. She takes her hand from her eyes and stays where she is. The boy is looking right at her. His exhaustion, his sadness, his hopelessness, they all travel over the water and rip through her. Something is very wrong here.
She lifts her hand and gives him a tentative wave. He returns the gesture.
Blythe cups her hands to her mouth. “Hi.”
“Hi, back!”
“Are you … okay?”
He puts his hands on his hips and looks off to the side for a second before answering. He calls back, “Yes. I’m fine.”
“What are you doing?” She tries to feign curiosity rather than concern. “With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”
She can see him laugh. “Sort of!” he yells.
“You’ve got a terrible sunburn. You should put on a shirt.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, really. It’s bad.”
“I’m gonna be all right. Promise.”
“Is that your house? Please just go grab a shirt.”
He glances behind him. “I can’t. I shouldn’t … I can’t really talk. I’ll be fine.”
Blythe frowns. “I’ll give you mine. I can row it over to you.” She crouches down and starts to untie the boat from the dock, but he stops her.
“No! Don’t do that!” The alarm in his voice is startling and worrisome. He looks behind him again and then back at her. “Just … no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She can feel her heart pounding as she stands back up.
They stand silently. She can’t take her eyes off him. Desperation and exhaustion radiate from this boy. Blythe is afraid to move, afraid he’ll drop to his knees if she breaks away. So she holds their unspoken exchange. Whatever this is, it isn’t forever. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. She is nodding to him. I’m here. I’m right here.
Finally he says, “I have to keep going.”
Blythe is unable to speak for a bit. She doesn’t want him to keep going. She doesn’t understand what is going on, but everything about this feels off. Dangerous.
She nods. “If you say so. I’m going to stay with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m going to. I want to.”
“Thank you.” She thinks that she hears his voice break. He picks up the metal buckets and begins pointlessly filling them and transporting water from one side of the shore to the other. She knows precisely how hard it is to walk through the heavy wet sand at low tide. Your feet sink in deep, making each step trying and draining. It can be fun if you are digging for clams, even funny when you lose a shoe to the thick sludge. This? Whatever this boy is doing, this is not fun. He only pauses once to slowly take something from the bucket and set it a few feet deeper into the ocean.
Near tears, Blythe peels off her shirt. She looks around for a solution, since he’s made it so clear she should not row to him. Then it hits her: the life vest. She sits down with it. It takes a few minutes, but she manages to tie her Matthews shirt and her water bottle to the vest by using the straps. She moves to the end of dock, her toes hanging off the edge, getting as close to him as possible. Blythe throws the life vest as far as she can. “The tide is coming in,” she yells.
The boy looks her way as he walks.
“I’m not leaving you.” Now her voice nearly breaks.
He nods again.
Blythe sits down and tucks in her knees to her chest. No, she will not leave him. So for the next hour and a half she stays, willing some of his hurt to come her way. She would take this away from him if she could, somehow share whatever this is. For minutes at a time, she closes her eyes, sending him strength.
This will not break you. This will not break you.
He isn’t crying, so she doesn’t either. The battle against tears is one she almost loses several times. He is consistent, steady now. Brave. The only time that he stops again is when her life vest reaches him. She holds her breath as he struggles to untie the shirt and water bottle. His hands must be weak and trembling. He clumsily gets the wet shirt over his head, peeks behind him to the trees, and then downs the water. He raises the bottle in her direction as thanks.
Later, when he has completed his … goal? job? … he suddenly hurls both buckets off to the side, slamming them into sea-worn boulders. The sound echoes across the water, making Blythe flinch. He paces erratically, almost manically, for a minute, and then turns to her and raises both hands into the air, his palms held high, fingers spread.
Blythe raises hers, too, reaching out to him as though she is pressing her hands against his. She folds her fingers as if they could fall between his as he follows her movement. The boy moves his hands over his heart, and she does the same.
Blythe grins.
He just kicked a little ass.
He nods almost imperceptibly and then slowly turns and begins to wearily walk away from the water and back to his house.
The glow Blythe feels from their connection fades once the boy is out of sight, and a new restlessness sets in. She can’t relax.
After rowing back and tying up the boat, she takes the path to the house, pausing on its deck for a last look at the cove. One of the deck’s lounge chairs beckons, and she falls into it, staring out at the water and feeling exhausted.
A few minutes later, she hears James’s steps coming toward her across the creaky wooden deck. “You ready to go? I saw you come back a while ago. What are you doing out here?”
The lounge chair is digging into her back, but she still doesn’t move.
“Blythe? You okay? What are you looking at out there?”
“What? Oh yeah.” She keeps her focus across the cove. “Just looking at the water. The whole view.” She closes her eyes for a moment and then pulls herself away. “Sure, let’s go.” She stands up.
“You’re going to need to put on something over your bathing suit. I’m not letting you drive me around town half dressed. Besides, it’s going to get cold soon. You know how the nights are up here.” James looks around. “Where’s your Matthews shirt?”
“Oh. That. I don’t have it … .”
“What do you mean? You lost it? How could you lose it?” He frowns as he unzips his own sweatshirt and hands it over. “That’s your favorite shirt.”
“Thanks.” Blythe slips her arms through the sleeves and fiddles with the zipper.” It’s okay. My shirt … found a new home.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” She smiles at him as they head into the house. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re a really good brother. I love you. And I love our family.”
James fakes a serious look. “Are you dying? What’s wrong with you?”
She laughs. “Shut up. Seriously, we’re lucky.”
“Does this mean that you’ll let me drive?” James swipes the car keys from the counter and dangles them in front of her.
“Hell, no, you’re not driving.” She snatches the keys from him. “Not only do you not even have a learner’s permit, but I wouldn’t trust you to get us through that narrow rut that’s passing as a driveway.”
“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “Let’s go get dinner and hope this roadside seafood shack of yours doesn’t sell us clams that land us in the ER.”
“That’s the spirit!” She holds open the front door.
“Blythe?”
“Yeah?”
He puts one hand on top of her head and messes up her hair. “Even though you won’t let me break the law in what is really a minor, minor way, I love you, too.”
Blythe sighs. “God damn it. Fine. You can drive. Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad.”