ANDI AND JAKE . . . Jake and Andi . . .
I whispered their names as I sat by my bedroom window. It was as if by doing so, somehow time could be magically altered and it would once again be that summer: the summer of ’65, when everyone’s lives changed forever.
I’d been aware of them back then, but, on this island, who hadn’t? Their love shone too brightly, too purely, to be ignored, soaring like a fiery comet across our northern sky. It made us feel good just to watch them walking down the street, holding hands. Or, if we were lucky, we might catch a glimpse of them standing beneath the street lamp, arms wrapped around one another.
They caused older folks to smile and reminisce about their first loves and made kids like me long for something we were too young to understand. Our island became a better place because of them, giving us all a renewed hope for the future.
I was just a little kid that summer, eight going on nine, too young to know about love. But I was old enough to recognize that whatever Andi and Jake had was something special . . . something most folks only wish they could attain, but never really quite reach.
But, then, in an instant, it was over. She was gone. Folks whispered about what happened that late summer night . . . the night they rushed her to the mainland. I’d asked my mom about it, but she’d hushed me, saying it was none of my business. I didn’t find out until I was well into my teens, and then it was too late.
And Jake? Well, after she disappeared, he wasn’t the same either. He didn’t smile quite as broadly anymore or laugh quite as loud. And, in a couple years, he was gone, too. Off to college and then to California, where he made a name for himself with his writing. I bet there wasn’t a home on the island that didn’t have one or two of his books sitting prominently in the bookcase. He’d made us proud and no matter how far he went or how long he stayed away, in our minds, he would always be one of us.
But Jake and Andi weren’t the only ones whose lives were altered that summer. It was a season of change and even innocent kids like me weren’t immune.
I got my turn on Labor Day. I was riding my bike down on the east end, on my way to the picnic always held on the lawn by the Parish House. I was alone, my folks having gone on ahead to help set things up.
I was riding on the right side of the road when a car came screeching around a corner. The driver hit a greasy patch, lost control, and skidded right into me. I was thrown from my bike and landed in the cemetery on one of the granite headstones, my spinal cord severed.
It was later discovered that the driver, a summer person, had been drinking and tested way over the legal limit. But like I said, this was 1965 and things were a might looser back then. Mothers Against Drunk Drivers wasn’t even founded until 1980, so the guy got off with a reprimand and went on his merry way, back to Massachusetts or wherever the hell he’d come from.
I wasn’t so lucky. I was left paralyzed from the waist down . . . confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Not a good thing for an almost nine-year-old boy. Not a good thing for a twenty-nine-year-old man either.
My mother tried to make the best of it, but my dad couldn’t handle things. He took off the year I turned twelve, leaving Mom and me to make do on our own.
Those teen years were hard ones. Getting on and off the ferry to make it to school on the mainland was difficult with the wheelchair and I became bitter and resentful watching all my classmates playing sports, going to dances, dating, and doing all those other things teenagers do.
My senior year, I convinced Mom to let me finish up my studies from home and, eventually, I did get my GED.
But I remained bitter and angry at the hand I’d been dealt and kept to myself, not leaving the island except for the rare doctor or dentist appointment. My mom took care of me and never complained, despite my bouts of depression and my often foul temper.
Days drifted by slowly and I took up watercolors during the winter months, producing seascape after seascape. My mother said I was good and wanted me to take the paintings to a gallery in town, but I refused. My wretched condition was my prison and, feeling sorry for myself, I wouldn’t allow even the smallest reprieve.
In the summer months, I put my paints aside and turned my days to silent observation. I know some on the island whispered about me, calling me a “peeping Tom,” but I didn’t care. I lived my life vicariously, sitting by my bedroom window, high-power binoculars clutched in my hand.
The house next door to us was known by locals as “The Sloane Cottage.” Why it was called that, I don’t know. I don’t think there’d been a Sloane in residence for a hundred years or more. The house was a regular rental during the summer season and it was usually occupied from mid-June through the end of August. It was the place Andi and her family stayed that fateful summer.
In the years after my accident, I got to know its other occupants well. I watched them come and go, observing their laughter and tears. I wallowed in their misery and rejoiced in their happiness as I tried, for a short time, to forget the loneliness that fueled my life.
And so, it went. The seasons changed and the years passed by, one melting into another. At least that’s the way it was until this year. This summer, like that fateful one long ago, was to be a season of change.
It was mid-June, 1985, and I was approaching my thirtieth birthday. The day was cool and I was sitting in my wheelchair when I heard a car pull into the driveway of the cottage next door. Out of habit, I took my binoculars from the dresser drawer and wheeled myself over to the window.
I got there and peered through the lens just as the car’s passenger door opened and a woman stepped out. She wore a scarf on her head, but pulled it off as soon as she was free of the vehicle. Leaning over, her shiny auburn hair fell freely to her shoulders.
I was mesmerized. There was something about her . . . something familiar.
Laughing, she mounted the porch steps and then glanced back over her shoulder to say something to a little boy who was climbing out of the backseat. Her blue-grey eyes flashed with amusement as she spoke.
I leaned back in my chair, astonished. It was Andi!
I held my breath, wondering if I were hallucinating, then peered through the window again, re-focusing the binoculars.
I wasn’t wrong. It was Andi and she was as beautiful as I remembered . . . as beautiful as I had envisioned her over the years in my dreams.
The rest of the day, I stayed glued to my perch by the window, absorbing all the minutia of her arrival.
Over the next two weeks, I watched and waited, hoping something would happen to solve the mystery of her reappearance after so many years. Her family seemed so ordinary—no arguments, no passion—just plain people living their lives. And, that’s the way it was, day in and day out. Until July 2nd, that is.
On that day, a man approached the cottage, walking slowly up the porch steps. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties: a good-looking guy with dark brown hair, worn just a little too long. I saw him hesitate before knocking on the door and thought for a moment that he might run away. But he didn’t.
Instead, he turned and looked my way, taking a deep breath. Then, obviously having steeled himself, moved once again to the door and began to knock.
I recognized him immediately. It was Jake—back on the island for the first time in a more than a decade—coming to see Andi.
Jake and Andi, Andi and Jake.
I leaned forward, binoculars pressed to my face, watching as she opened the door. The cottage had a large picture window in front and, through it, I could see them standing by the breakfast bar, talking. Andi’s husband shook hands with Jake, then went out the back slider to the deck. Their young son followed, leaving Andi and Jake alone again.
Every muscle in my body tensed as I trained my eyes on them. There was no way I could hear what they were saying, but as student of body language, I could sense the heightened emotion of the moment.
Andi left the room briefly, returning with a book. She handed it to Jake, who signed it and gave it back to her. With my high-powered lenses, I caught sight of what looked like a tear sliding down her cheek as she read whatever it was he had written. I held my breath, sure that they were on the brink of something . . . something so big . . . .
But, then, abruptly, it was over. Andi turned her head toward the slider and yelled something and, when she returned her gaze to Jake, her eyes no longer held that special light. She forced a smile then walked him to the door.
Jake left shortly thereafter and I wondered what, if anything, had transpired between them.
I was still thinking about this late that night when I was getting ready for bed. It was a warm evening and I opened the window that overlooked the Sloane cottage to let in the cool sea breeze. I was pulling down the covers, preparing to heft my leaden legs into bed, when I heard the screen door to the cottage slam.
Curious, I wheeled myself to the window.
The night was dark, the moon hidden behind a cloud. All I could see was the soft glow of a cigarette near the rail to the porch.
As I strained to see, the clouds, as if to accommodate my desire, parted and the moon shone down, illuminating her.
It was Andi, sitting on the porch rail. She was wearing a bathrobe, her feet bare. She took a drag off her cigarette and then leaned back against the porch post, closing her eyes.
I don’t know how much time passed as she sat there in the moonlight, but, finally, she straightened up and with one hand, wiped her face. Then, she stubbed out her cigarette and started toward the door.
I sighed, putting the binoculars in my lap. It was time for bed. I started to turn my chair, but somehow couldn’t pull myself away from the window. One last look, I told myself.
Andi was still on the porch, one hand on the door, her head turned, looking over her shoulder at the lamp post at the end of the lane. I picked up the binoculars again and stared at her.
The night was quiet, the only sound to be heard was that of some crickets chirping away somewhere in the dark. It seemed as if Andi were holding her breath. I waited wondering what it was she was looking for.
Then, suddenly, she moved . . . returning to the porch rail. She gripped it tightly as she leaned forward, her eyes glued to that damn lamp post.
I followed her gaze. At first I saw nothing; the street was deserted. Then, out of the shadows, a figure emerged.
He stood under the street light, a lock of hair hanging in his eyes, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. After a moment, he leaned back against the post, as if waiting for someone or something to happen.
I looked back toward the Sloane cottage just in time to see Andi virtually fly off the porch, her long robe flapping in the breeze behind her. She moved so swiftly her bare feet barely touched the ground, oblivious to the rocks and crushed clamshells that peppered the unpaved lane.
She came to an abrupt halt about two feet from him, balancing precariously on the balls of her feet, arms waving around her as she tried to maintain her balance.
They stared at each other.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward, taking her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, as if to wipe away tears. I saw his mouth form one word and, while I couldn’t make it out, I knew what that word was.
Andi.
The corners of her mouth lifted and she grinned at him, responding in kind.
Jake.
He smiled at her and then his face grew serious. Their eyes met, communing silently. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and let his lips touch hers . . . softly, gently, and with what I was sure was love.
They kissed for what seemed forever under the soft glow of that street lamp . . . then, she lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck while, at the same time, his arms went around her waist, pulling her close.
I put my binoculars in my lap again and backed my wheelchair away from the window, knowing that whatever came next was not for me to see. It was for them and them alone.
I wheeled myself over to the nightstand and I put the binoculars away in the drawer. My “watching” days were over.
Taking a deep breath, I glanced back at the window, tempted, to see . . . to know the outcome of their story.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I reached up to brush my hair out of my eyes and was surprised to find my cheeks wet with tears.
Wiping them away, I felt something building in me . . . an emotion that I thought had died forever on Labor Day, 1965, on a road at the east end of Cutter Island. This feeling was so alien, my first instinct was to let it die.
But I didn’t.
Instead, like a seed planted in darkness that finally feels the warmth of the sun’s rays, I let it grow.
I opened the bedroom door and wheeled myself to the living room where my mother, who often had difficulty sleeping, sat alone reading. When she heard me approach, she looked up.
“You okay, Sammy? You need something?” she asked, softly.
“No, Mom,” I replied. “What say this weekend we split this island and go to Cape Elizabeth? I hear there’s a big art show down there and it might be fun.”
My mother stared at me, surprised.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m good. No, that’s not right. Actually, I feel great. So, what about the weekend? We could stay at one of those places by the shore. You know, the cabins. Maybe even catch us some rays while we’re there or go clamming.”
She smiled. “I’d like that. Maybe even have ourselves a lobsta roll or two while we’re there.”
I nodded, laughing. “And, while we’re stuffing our faces, maybe we can talk about that doctor in Boston you’ve been trying to get me to see. You know, the one who thinks he can get me outta this chair.”
Her eyes widened. She had been trying to convince me to go to this doctor for two years. He was a specialist in spinal cord injuries and had had some successes. But I’d always brushed it off; telling her it was nothing more than a pipe dream and a waste of money.
“You sure?” she asked. “It’s a long shot. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. You know, as folks say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
She stared at me, clearly uneasy with my change in disposition. “You been drinking, Sammy? Doin’ drugs?”
I laughed and leaned forward so she could smell my breath. “No, Mom. I’m cool. I’ve just been doing some thinking. We only get one chance on this planet and, the way I see it, I’ve been wasting mine. I want to change that, starting today.”
She took a deep breath, reaching out to take my hand.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
“Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow, Cape Elizabeth. Now, you get some sleep. It’s late.”
I kissed her on the cheek and wheeled myself back to my room. Before I got into bed, I looked one more time at the window and, for a moment, was again tempted to look out and see if they were still there under the street lamp.
But I didn’t.
Whatever happened between them now would remain unknown. After all, it was their lives . . . their journey. I had my own life to worry about now . . . my own journey . . . a journey I was eager to embark on.
Profoundly weary, I lay my head down on the pillow, amazed again at the feeling that was bubbling up inside of me. . . .
Hope.
THE END