Ocracoke 1995
Actually, when I’m being honest, my secret life really began when I was
fifteen and my mom found me on the bathroom floor, green in the gills, with my arms wrapped around the toilet bowl. I’d been barfing every morning for the past week and a half, and my mom, more knowledgeable about such things than I was, raced to the drugstore and made me pee on a stick as soon as she got home. When the blue plus sign appeared, she stared at the stick for a long time without saying a single word, then retreated to the kitchen, where she cried on and off for the rest of the day.
That was in early October, and I was a little more than nine weeks along by then. I probably cried as much as my mom that day. I stayed in my room clutching my favorite teddy bear—I’m not sure my mom even noticed that I hadn’t gone to school—and stared out the window with swollen eyes, watching buckets of rain pour onto foggy streets. It was typical Seattle weather, and even now, I doubt there’s a more depressing place to be in the entire world, especially when you’re fifteen and pregnant and certain your life is over before it even had a chance to begin.
It went without saying that I had no idea what I was going to do. That’s what I remember most of all. I mean, what did I know about being a parent? Or even being a grown-up? Oh, sure, there were times when I felt older than my age, like when Zeke Watkins—the star player of the varsity basketball team—spoke to me in the school parking lot, but part of me still felt like a kid. I loved Disney movies and celebrating with strawberry ice cream cake at the roller rink on my birthday; I always slept with a teddy bear and I couldn’t even drive. Frankly, I wasn’t even all that experienced when it came to the opposite s*x. I’d only kissed four boys in my entire life, but one time, the kissing went too far, and a little more than three weeks
after that awful barfing-and-tear-filled day, my parents shipped me off to Ocracoke in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a place I didn’t even know existed. It was supposedly a picturesque beach town adored by tourists. There, I would live with my aunt Linda Dawes, my father’s much older sister, a woman I’d met only once in my life. They’d also made arrangements with my teachers so I wouldn’t fall behind in my studies. My parents had a long discussion with the headmaster—and after the headmaster spoke to my aunt, he decided to trust her to proctor my exams, making sure I didn’t cheat and that all my assignments were turned in. And just like that, I suddenly became the family secret.
My parents didn’t come with me to North Carolina, which made leaving that much harder. Instead, we said our goodbyes at the airport on a chilly November morning, a few days after Halloween. I’d just turned sixteen, I was thirteen weeks along and terrified, but I didn’t cry on the plane, thank God. Nor did I cry when my aunt picked me up at a rinky-dink airport in the middle of nowhere, or even when we checked into a dumpy motel near the beach, since we had to wait to catch the ferry to Ocracoke the following morning. By then, I’d almost convinced myself that I wasn’t going to cry at all.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
After we disembarked from the ferry, my aunt gave me a quick tour of the village before bringing me to her house, and to my dismay, Ocracoke was nothing like I’d imagined. I guess I’d been picturing pretty pastel cottages nestled in the sand dunes, with tropical views of the ocean stretching to the horizon; a boardwalk complete with burger joints and ice cream shops and crowded with teens, maybe even a Ferris wheel or a carousel. But Ocracoke was nothing like that. Once you got past the fishing boats in the tiny harbor where the ferry dropped us off, it looked…ugly. The houses were old and weather-beaten; there wasn’t a beach, boardwalk, or palm tree in sight; and the village—that’s what my aunt called it, a village
—seemed utterly deserted. My aunt mentioned that Ocracoke was essentially a fishing village and that less than eight hundred people lived there year-round, but I could only wonder why anyone would want to live there at all.
Aunt Linda’s place was right on the water, sandwiched between homes that were equally run-down. It was set on stilts with a view of the Pamlico Sound, with a compact front porch, and another larger porch off the living
room that faced the water. It was also small—living room with a fireplace and a window near the front door, dining area and kitchen, two bedrooms, and a single bath. There wasn’t a television in sight, which left me feeling suddenly panicked, though I don’t think she realized it. She showed me around and eventually pointed out where I would be sleeping, across the hall from her room in what usually served as her reading room. My first thought was that it was nothing like my bedroom back home. It wasn’t even like half my bedroom back home. There was a twin bed wedged beneath a window along with a padded rocking chair, a reading lamp, and a shelf crammed with books by Betty Friedan, Sylvia Plath, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Elizabeth Berg, in addition to tomes on Catholicism, Saint Thomas Aquinas, and Mother Teresa. Again, no television, but there was a radio, even if it looked a hundred years old, and an old-fashioned clock. The closet, if you could call it that, was barely a foot deep, and the only way I would be able to store my clothes was to fold and stack them in vertical piles on the floor. There was no nightstand or chest of drawers, all of which made me suddenly feel like I was visiting unexpectedly for a single night, rather than the six months intended.
“I love this room,” my aunt said with a sigh, setting my suitcase on the floor. “It’s so comfortable.”
“It’s nice,” I forced out. After she left me alone to unpack, I plopped down on the bed, still in disbelief that I was actually here. At this house, in this place, with this relative. I stared out the window—noting the rust- colored wooden planking on the neighbor’s house—wishing with every blink that I’d be able to see Puget Sound or the snow-capped Cascade Mountains, or even the rocky and rugged coast I’d known all my life. I thought about the Douglas fir and red cedar trees, and even the fog and rain. I thought about my family and friends who might as well have been on another planet, and the lump in my throat grew even bigger. I was pregnant and alone, marooned in a terrible place, and all I wanted was to turn back the clock and change what had happened. All of it—the oops, the barfing, the withdrawal from school, the trip here. I wanted to be a regular teenager again—hell, I would have taken being just a kid again instead of this—but I suddenly remembered the blue plus sign on the pregnancy test, and the pressure began to build behind my eyes. I may have been strong on the journey, and maybe even up until then, but when I squeezed my teddy bear to my chest and inhaled her familiar scent, the dam simply burst. It wasn’t a
pretty cry like you see in Hallmark movies; it was a raging sob, complete with snorts and wails and quivering shoulders, and it seemed to go on forever.
* * *
About my teddy bear: she was neither cute nor expensive, but I’d slept with her for as long as I could remember. The thin coffee-colored fur had worn away in patches, and Frankenstein stitches held one of her arms in place. I’d had my mom sew on a button when one of her eyes had popped off, but the damage made her seem even more special to me, because sometimes I felt damaged, too. In third grade, I’d used a Sharpie to write my name on the bottom of her foot, marking her as mine forever. When I was younger, I used to bring her with me everywhere, my own version of a security blanket. Once, I’d accidentally left her at Chuck E. Cheese when I’d gone to a friend’s birthday party, and when I got home, I cried so hard I actually puked. My dad had to drive back across town to retrieve her, and I’m pretty sure I held on to her for almost a week straight after that.
Over the years, she had been dropped in mud, splashed with spaghetti sauce, and soaked with sleep drool; whenever my mom decided it was finally time to wash her, she’d throw her in the laundry along with my clothes. I’d sit on the floor, watching the washer and dryer, imagining her tumbling among the jeans and towels and hoping she wouldn’t be destroyed in the process. But Maggie-bear—short for Maggie’s bear—would eventually emerge clean and warm. My mom would hand her back to me and I’d suddenly feel complete again, like all was right in the world.
When I went to Ocracoke, Maggie-bear was the only thing I knew I couldn’t leave behind.
* * *
Aunt Linda checked on me during my breakdown but didn’t seem to know what to say or do, and apparently she decided it was probably best to let me sort through things on my own. I was glad about that, but kind of sad, too, because it made me feel even more isolated than I already did.
Somehow, I survived that first day, then the next. She showed me a bicycle she’d bought at a garage sale, which looked older than I was, with a cushy seat big enough for someone twice my size and a basket on the front hanging from massive handlebars. I hadn’t ridden a bike in years.
“I had a young man in town fix it up, so it should work fine.” “Great” was all I could muster.
On the third day, my aunt went back to work and was out of the house long before I finally woke. On the table, she’d left a folder filled with my homework, and I realized that I was already falling behind. I hadn’t been a great student even in the best of times—I was middle-of-the-pack and hated when my report cards came out—and if I hadn’t cared much about acing my classes before, I was even more apathetic now. She’d also written me a note to remind me that I had two quizzes the following day. Even though I tried to study, I couldn’t concentrate and already knew I was going to bomb them, which I promptly did.
Afterward, maybe because she was feeling even more sorry for me than usual, my aunt thought it might be a good idea to get me out of the house and drove me to her shop. It was a small eatery and coffee bar that offered a lot more than just food. It specialized in biscuits that were baked fresh every morning and served either with sausage gravy or as some sort of sandwich or dessert. Beyond breakfast, the shop also sold used books and rented out video cassettes; shipped UPS packages; had mailboxes for rent; offered faxes, scanning, and copies; and provided Western Union services. My aunt owned the place with her friend Gwen and it opened at five in the morning so the fishermen could grab a bite before heading out, which meant she was usually there by four to start baking. She introduced me to Gwen, who wore an apron over jeans and a flannel shirt and kept her graying blond hair in a messy ponytail. She seemed nice enough, and though I only spent about an hour in the shop, my impression was that they treated each other like an old married couple. They could communicate with a single glance, predicted each other’s requests, and moved around each other behind the counter like dancers.
Business was steady but not booming, and I spent most of my time thumbing through the used books. There were Agatha Christie mysteries and westerns by Louis L’Amour, along with a good-sized selection of books by best-selling authors. There was also a donation box, and while I was there, a woman who’d come in for coffee and a biscuit dropped off a small crate of books, almost all of them romance novels. As I riffled through them, I thought to myself that if I’d had less romance in August, I wouldn’t be in the mess I was in right now.
The shop closed at three during the week, and after Gwen and Aunt Linda locked the doors, my aunt took me on a longer, more extensive tour of the village. It took all of fifteen minutes and didn’t change my initial
impression in the slightest. After that, we went home, where I hid out in my room for the rest of the day. As weird as the room was, it was the only place I had some privacy when Aunt Linda was home. When I wasn’t half-assing my way through my schoolwork, I could listen to music, brood, and spend way too much time contemplating death and my growing belief that the world—and especially my family—would be better off without me.
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of my aunt either. She had short gray hair and warm hazel eyes, set in a face deeply lined with wrinkles. Her gait was always hurried. She’d never been married, never had children, and sometimes came across as a little bit bossy. She also used to be a nun, and even though she’d left the Sisters of Mercy almost ten years ago, she still believed in the whole “cleanliness is next to godliness” thing. I had to straighten up my room daily, do my own laundry, and clean the kitchen before she got home in midafternoon as well as after dinner. Fair enough, I suppose, since I was living there, but no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed to do it right. Our conversations about it were usually short, a statement followed by an apology. Like this:
The cups were still damp when you put them back in the cupboard. Sorry.
There are still crumbs on the table. Sorry.
You forgot to use 409 when you cleaned the stovetop. Sorry.
You need to straighten the covers on your bed. Sorry.
I must have said sorry a hundred times the first week I was there, and the second week was even worse. I bombed yet another test and grew bored by the view when I sat on the porch. I eventually came to believe that even if you stuck someone on a fabulous tropical island, the sight would get old after a while. I mean, the ocean never seems to change. Whenever you see it, the water is just there. Sure, the clouds might shift around, and right before sunset the sky might glow orange and red and yellow—but what fun is watching a sunset if there’s no one to share it with? My aunt wasn’t the kind of woman who seemed to appreciate such things.
And by the way? Pregnancy sucks. I was still sick every morning and sometimes it was hard to make it to the bathroom in time. I’d read that some women never got sick at all, but not me. I’d barfed forty-nine
mornings in a row and I had the sense that my body seemed to be going for some kind of record.
If there was a plus side to the barfing, it was that I hadn’t gained much weight, maybe only a pound or two by mid-November. Frankly, I didn’t want to get fat, but my mom had bought me the book What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and as I reluctantly thumbed through it one evening, I learned that a lot of women put on only a pound or two in the first trimester, which made me nothing special. After that, though, the average weight gain was about a pound a week, right up until delivery. When I did the math— which would add twenty-seven more pounds to my smallish frame—I realized that my six-pack abs would probably be replaced by a keg. Not, of course, that I had six-pack abs in the first place.
Even worse than the barfing were the crazy hormones, which in my case meant acne. No matter how much I cleaned my face, pimples erupted on my cheeks and forehead like constellations in the nighttime sky. Morgan, my perfect older sister, never had a pimple in her life, and when I stared in the mirror, I thought that I could give her a dozen of mine and still have skin that looked worse than hers did. Even then, she’d probably still be beautiful, smart, and popular. We got along okay at home—we were closer when we were younger—but at school she kept her distance, preferring the company of her own friends. She got straight A’s, played the violin, and had appeared in not one but two television commercials for a local department store. If you think it was easy being compared to her while I was growing up, think again. Toss in my pregnancy, and it was pretty clear why she was far and away my parents’ favorite. Frankly, she would have been my favorite, too.
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I was officially depressed. That occurs in approximately seven percent of pregnancies, by the way. Between barfing, zits, and depression, I’d hit the trifecta. Lucky me, right? I was falling further behind in school and the music on my Walkman grew noticeably gloomier. Even Gwen tried and failed to cheer me up. I’d gotten to know her a little since our first introduction—she came to dinner twice a week—and she’d asked me whether I wanted to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She’d brought over a small television and set it up in the kitchen, but even though I’d practically forgotten what a TV looked like by then, it wasn’t enough to entice me from my room. Instead, I sat alone and tried not to cry while imagining my mom and Morgan making stuffing or baking pies in the kitchen and my dad in the recliner, enjoying a
football game. Even though my aunt and Gwen served a meal similar to what my family usually had, it just wasn’t the same, and I barely had any appetite.
I also thought a lot about my best friends, Madison and Jodie. I hadn’t been allowed to tell them the truth about why I’d left; instead, my parents had told people—including Madison’s and Jodie’s parents—that I’d gone to live with my aunt in some remote place because of an urgent medical situation, with limited telephone availability. No doubt they’d made it sound like I’d volunteered to help Aunt Linda, being that I was such a responsible do-gooder. Lest the lie be discovered, however, I wasn’t supposed to speak with my friends while I was gone. I had no cellular phone—few kids did back then—and when my aunt went to work, she would bring the cord from the home phone with her, which I guess made the limited telephone availability part as true as the urgent medical situation part. My parents, I realized, could be just as sneaky as I, which was a revelation of sorts.
It was around that time, I think, that my aunt began to worry about me, though she tried to downplay her concerns. As we were eating Thanksgiving leftovers, she casually mentioned that I hadn’t seemed particularly chipper lately. That was the word she used: chipper. She’d also eased up a little on the tidiness thing—or maybe I was doing a better job of cleaning, but for whatever reason, she hadn’t been complaining as much recently. I could tell she was making an effort to engage me in conversation.
“Are you taking your prenatal vitamin?” “Yes,” I answered. “It’s yummy.”
“In a couple of weeks, you’ll see the OB-GYN in Morehead City. I set up the appointment this morning.”
“Swell,” I said. I moved the food around my plate, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t really eating.
“The food has to actually go in your mouth,” she said. “And then you have to swallow it.”
I think she was trying to be funny, but I wasn’t in the mood, so I simply shrugged.
“Can I make you something else?” “I’m not that hungry.”
She brought her lips together before scanning the room, as if searching for magic words that would make me chipper again. “Oh, I almost forgot to
ask. Did you call your parents?”
“No. I was going to call them earlier, but you took the phone cord with you.”
“You could call them after dinner.” “I guess.”
She used her fork to cut a bite of turkey. “How are your studies going?” she asked. “You’re behind in your homework and you haven’t been doing that well on your quizzes lately.”
“I’m trying,” I answered, even though I really wasn’t.
“How about math? Remember that you have some pretty big tests coming up before Christmas break.”
“I hate math and geometry is stupid. Why does it matter whether I know how to measure the area of a trapezoid? It’s not like I’m ever going to need to use that in my real life.”
I heard her sigh. Watched her cast about again. “Did you write your history paper? I think that’s also due next week.”
“It’s almost done,” I lied. I’d been assigned to do a report on Thurgood Marshall, but I hadn’t even started it.
I could feel her eyes on me, wondering whether to believe me.
* * * Later that night, she tried again.
I was lying in bed with Maggie-bear. I’d retreated to my room after dinner, and she was standing in the doorway, dressed in her pajamas.
“Have you thought about getting some fresh air?” my aunt asked. “Like maybe going for a walk or bike ride before you start doing your homework tomorrow?”
“There isn’t anywhere to go. Almost everything is closed for the winter.”
“How about the beach? It’s peaceful this time of year.” “It’s too cold to go to the beach.”
“How would you know? You haven’t been outside in days.” “That’s because I have too much homework and too many chores.”
“Have you thought about trying to meet someone closer to your own age? Maybe make some friends?”
At first, I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “Make friends?” “Why not?”
“Because no one my age lives here.”
“Of course they do,” she said. “I showed you the school.”
The village had a single school that served children from kindergarten through high school; we’d ridden past it during the tour of the island. It wasn’t quite the single-room schoolhouse I’d seen in reruns of Little House on the Prairie, but it wasn’t much more than that, either.
“I guess I could head to the boardwalk, or maybe hit the clubs. Oh wait, Ocracoke doesn’t have either of those things.”
“I’m just saying that it might be good for you to talk to someone besides me or Gwen. It’s not healthy to stay so isolated.”
No doubt about it. But the simple fact was that I hadn’t seen a single teenager in Ocracoke since I’d arrived, and—oh yeah—I was pregnant, which was supposed to be a secret, so what would be the point anyway?
“Being here isn’t good for me, either, but no one seems to care about that.”
She adjusted her pajamas, as though searching for words in the fabric, and decided to change the subject.
“I’ve been thinking that it might be a good idea to get you a tutor,” she said. “Definitely for geometry, but maybe for your other classes, too. To review your paper, for instance.”
“A tutor?”
“I believe I know someone who’d be perfect.”
I suddenly had visions of sitting beside some ancient geezer who smelled of Old Spice and mothballs and liked to talk about the good old days. “I don’t want a tutor.”
“Your finals are in January, and there are multiple exams in the next three weeks, including some big ones. I promised your parents that I’d do my best to make sure you don’t have to repeat your sophomore year.”
I hated when adults did the logic-and-guilt thing, so I retreated into the obvious. “Whatever.”
She raised an eyebrow, remaining silent. Then, finally, “Don’t forget that we have church on Sunday.”
How could I forget that? “I remember,” I finally muttered. “Perhaps we could pick out a Christmas tree afterward.”
“Super,” I said, but all I really wanted was to pull the covers over my head in the hope of making her leave. But it wasn’t necessary; Aunt Linda turned away. A moment later, I heard her bedroom door close, and I knew
that I’d be alone the rest of the night, with only my own dark thoughts to keep me company.
* * *
As miserable as the rest of the week was, Sundays were the absolute worst. Back in Seattle, I didn’t really mind going to church because there was a family there named the Taylors with four boys, all of them from one to a few years older than me. They were boy-band perfect, with white teeth and hair that always looked blow-dried. Like us, they sat in the front row— they were always on the left while we were on the right—and I’d sneak peeks at them even when I was supposed to be praying. I couldn’t help it. I’d had a massive crush on one or the other pretty much as long as I could remember, even though I never actually spoke to any of them. Morgan had better luck; Danny Taylor, one of the middle ones, who at the time was also a pretty good soccer player, took her out for ice cream one Sunday after church. I was in eighth grade at the time and desperately jealous that he’d asked her, not me. I remember sitting in my room and staring at the clock, watching the minutes pass; when Morgan finally got home, I begged her to tell me what Danny was like. Morgan, being Morgan, simply shrugged and said that he wasn’t her type, which made me want to strangle her. Morgan had guys practically drooling if she so much as walked down the sidewalk or sipped a Diet Coke in the food court at the local mall.
The point is, back home there was something interesting to see at church—more specifically, four very cute somethings—and that made the hour pass quickly. Here, though, church was not only a chore but an all-day event. There was no Catholic church in Ocracoke; the nearest one was St. Egbert’s in Morehead City, and that meant catching the ferry at seven in the morning. The ferry generally took two and a half hours to reach Cedar Island, and from there, it was another forty minutes to the church itself. The service was at eleven, which meant we had to wait yet another hour for it to begin, and the mass lasted until noon. If that wasn’t bad enough, the ferry back to Ocracoke didn’t leave until four in the afternoon, which meant killing even more time.
Oh, we’d have lunch with Gwen afterward, since she always came with us. Like my aunt, she also used to be a nun, and she considered attending services on Sundays the highlight of her week. She was nice and all, but ask any teenager how much they enjoy eating lunch with a couple of fifty-odd- year-old former nuns, and you can probably guess what it was like. After
that, we’d go shopping, but it wasn’t fun shopping like at the mall or the Seattle waterfront. Instead, they’d drag me to Wal-Mart for supplies—think flour, shortening, eggs, bacon, sausage, cheese, buttermilk, various flavored coffees, and other baking stuff in bulk—and after that, we’d visit garage sales, where they would search for inexpensive books by best-selling authors and movies on videocassette that they could rent to people on Ocracoke. Added to the late-afternoon ferry ride, all of that meant that we wouldn’t get back to the house until almost seven, when the sun had long since set.
Twelve hours. Twelve long hours. Just so we could go to church.
There are, by the way, about a million better ways to spend a Sunday, but lo and behold, as Sunday morning dawned, I found myself standing at the dock in a jacket zipped to my chin, stamping one foot and then the other while the frigid air made it appear as though I were smoking invisible cigarettes. Meanwhile, my aunt and Gwen were whispering to each other and laughing and looking happy, probably because they weren’t slinging biscuits and serving coffee before the crack of dawn. When it was time, my aunt pulled her car onto the ferry, where it crammed alongside about a dozen others.
I wish I could say that the ride was either pleasant or interesting, but it wasn’t, especially in winter. Unless you enjoyed staring at gray skies and even grayer water, there was nothing to see, and if the dock had been freezing, riding on the ferry was fifty times worse. The wind seemed to blow right through me and after less than five minutes outside, my nose started running and my ears turned bright red. There was, thank God, a large central cabin on the ferry where you could escape the weather, complete with a couple of vending machines offering snacks and places to sit, which was where Gwen and my aunt hung out. As for me, I crawled into the car and stretched out on the back seat, wishing I were anywhere else and thinking about the mess I’d gotten myself into.
The day after my mom had me pee on a stick, she brought me to see Dr. Bobbi, who was maybe ten years older than my mom, and the first nonpediatrician I’d ever seen. Dr. Bobbi’s real name was Roberta, and she was an OB-GYN. She’d delivered both my sister and me, so she and my mom went way back, and I’m pretty sure my mom was mortified by the reason for our visit. After Dr. Bobbi confirmed the pregnancy, she set me up with an ultrasound, to make sure the baby was healthy. I pulled up my shirt,
one of the technicians put some goop on my tummy, and I was able to hear the heartbeat. It was both cool and utterly terrifying, but what I remember most was how surreal it felt and how much I wished that all of it was just a bad dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. Because I was Catholic, abortion wasn’t even an option, and once we learned the baby was healthy, Dr. Bobbi gave us the talk. She assured both of us that I was more than mature enough physically to carry the baby to term, but emotions were a different story. She said I was going to need a lot of support, partly because the pregnancy was unexpected, but mainly because I was still a teenager. In addition to feeling depressed, I might feel angry and disappointed as well. Dr. Bobbi warned that I was also likely to feel alienated from friends, making everything harder. Had I been able to check in with Dr. Bobbi now, I would have told her, check, check, check, and check.
With the talk ringing in her ears, my mom brought me to a support group for pregnant teenagers in Portland, Oregon. I’m sure there were the same kinds of support groups in Seattle, but I didn’t want anyone I knew to accidentally find out, and my parents didn’t want that, either. So, after almost three hours in the car, I found myself in a back room at a YMCA, where I sat in one of the fold-out chairs that had been arranged in a circle. There were nine other girls there, and some of them looked like they were attempting to smuggle watermelons by hiding them under their shirts. The lady in charge, Mrs. Walker, was a social worker, and one by one, we introduced ourselves. After that, we were all supposed to talk about our feelings and our experiences. What actually happened was that the other girls talked about their feelings and experiences, while I simply listened.
Really, it was just about the most depressing thing ever. One of the girls, who was even younger than me, talked about how bad her hemorrhoids had gotten, while another one droned on about how sore her nipples were before lifting her shirt to show us her stretch marks. Most but not all of them continued to attend their various high schools, and they talked about how embarrassed they were when they had to ask their teacher for a hall pass to go to the bathroom, sometimes two or three times during the same class period. All of them complained how their acne had gotten worse. Two of them had dropped out, and though both said they planned to go back to school, I’m not sure anyone believed them. All had lost friends, and another had been kicked out of her house and was living with her grandparents.
Only one of them—a pretty Mexican girl named Sereta—still spoke with the father of the child, and aside from her, none intended to marry. Except for me, all of them planned to raise their babies with the help of their parents.
When it was over, as we were walking toward the car, I told my mom that I never wanted to do something like that again. It was supposed to be helpful and make me feel less alone, but it left me feeling exactly the opposite. What I wanted was to simply get through this so I could return to the life I had before, which was the same thing my parents wanted. That, of course, led to them making the decision to send me here, and though they assured me that it was for my own good—not theirs—I wasn’t sure I believed them.
* * *
After church, Aunt Linda and Gwen dragged me through the lunch/shop-for-supplies/garage-sales routine before heading to a graveled lot near a hardware store, which held so many Christmas trees for sale that it resembled a miniature forest. My aunt and Gwen tried to make the experience fun for me and kept asking my opinion; for my part, I did a lot of shrugging and told them to pick whatever they wanted, since no one seemed to care what I thought anyway, at least when it came to decisions about my life.
Somewhere around the sixth or seventh tree, Aunt Linda stopped asking, and they eventually made the selection without me. Once it was paid for, I watched as two guys wearing overalls tied the tree to the roof of the car, and we climbed back in.
For whatever reason, the ride back to the ferry reminded me of the ride to the airport on my last morning in Seattle. Both my mom and my dad had seen me off, which was kind of a surprise, since my dad had barely been able to look at me since he’d learned I was pregnant. They walked me to the gate and waited with me until it was time to board. Both of them were really quiet, and I wasn’t saying much, either. But as time inched forward toward the departure, I remember telling my mom that I was afraid. In truth, I was terrified to the point that my hands had begun to shake.
There were a lot of people around us and she must have noticed the trembling, because she took my hands and squeezed them. Then she led me to a less crowded gate, where we could have some privacy.
“I’m afraid, too.”
“Why are you afraid?” I asked.
“Because you’re my daughter. All I do is worry about you. And what happened is…unfortunate.”
Unfortunate. She’d been using that word a lot lately. Next, she’d remind me that leaving was for my own good.
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
“We’ve talked about this,” she said. “You know it’s for your own good.”
Bingo.
“I don’t want to leave my friends.” By that point, it was all I could do to choke out the words. “What if Aunt Linda hates me? What if I get sick and I have to go to the hospital? They don’t even have a hospital there.”
“Your friends will still be here when you get back,” she assured me. “And I know it seems like a long time, but May will come more quickly than you realize. As for Linda, she used to help pregnant girls just like you when she was at the convent. You remember when I told you that? She’ll take care of you. I promise.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“She has a good heart,” my mom said, “or you wouldn’t be going there. As for the hospital, she’ll know what to do. But even in the worst-case scenario, her friend Gwen is a trained midwife. She’s delivered lots of babies.”
I wasn’t sure that made me feel any better. “What if I hate it there?”
“How bad can it be? It’s right on the beach. And besides, you remember our discussion, right? That it might be easier in the short run if you stay, but in the long run, it will surely make things harder for you.”
She meant gossip, not only about me but about my family as well. It might not be the 1950s, but there was still a stigma attached to unwed teenage pregnancies, and even I had to admit that sixteen was way too young to be a mom. If word got out, I would always be that girl to neighbors, other students at school, the people at church. To them, I’d always be that girl who got knocked up after her freshman year. I would have to endure their judgmental stares and condescension; I’d have to ignore their whispers as I walked past them in the hallways. The rumor mill would churn with questions about who adopted the baby, about whether I ever wanted to see the child again. Though they might not say it to me, they would wonder why I hadn’t bothered to use birth control or insist that he
wear a condom; I knew that many parents—including friends of the family
—would use me as an example to their own children as that girl, the one who’d made poor decisions. And all this while waddling the school hallways and having to pee every ten minutes.
Oh yeah, my parents had spoken with me about all of it more than a few times. My mom could tell, though, that I didn’t want to revisit it, so she changed the subject. She did that a lot when she didn’t want to argue, especially when we were in public.
“Did you enjoy your birthday?” “It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“I barfed all morning. It was kind of hard for me to get excited.”
My mom brought her hands together. “I’m still glad you had a chance to visit with your friends.”
Because it’s the last time you’ll see them for a long, long time, she didn’t have to add. “I can’t believe I’m not going to be home for Christmas.”
“I’m sure Aunt Linda will make it special.” “It still won’t be the same,” I whined.
“No,” my mom admitted. “It probably won’t be. But we’ll have a nice visit when I see you in January.”
“Will Daddy come?”
She swallowed. “Maybe,” she said.
Which also means maybe not, I thought. I’d heard them talking about it, but my dad hadn’t committed to anything. If he could barely look at me now, how would he feel when I was doing my best to impersonate a female Buddha?
“I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“Me too,” she said. “Do you want to visit with your dad for a while?”
Shouldn’t you be asking him if he wants to visit with me? But again, I kept quiet. I mean, what was the point? “It’s okay,” I said. “I just…”
When I trailed off, my mom offered a sympathetic expression. And, strangely, despite the fact that she and my dad were shipping me off, I had the sense she actually felt bad about it.
“I know there’s nothing easy about any of this,” she whispered. Surprising me, she reached into her purse and handed me an envelope.
It was filled with cash, and I wondered whether my dad knew what she was
doing. It’s not as though my family had extra money lying around, but she didn’t try to explain. Instead, we sat together for another few minutes until we heard the boarding announcement. When it was my turn, both my parents hugged me, but even then, my father glanced away.
That was almost a month ago, but it already felt like a different life entirely.
* * *
It wasn’t nearly as cold on the ferry back as it had been in the morning, and the gray skies had given way to an almost shiny blue. I’d chosen to stay in the car for a while despite the fact that the supplies we’d picked up made stretching out on the back seat impossible. I was trying to play the martyr as neither Aunt Linda nor Gwen seemed to understand that Christmas tree shopping notwithstanding, Sundays were still the worst.
“Suit yourself,” my aunt had said with a shrug after I’d declined their offer to join them in the cabin. She and Gwen had hopped out of the car, climbed the steps that led to the upper level, and quickly vanished from sight. Somehow, even though I was uncomfortable, I was able to fall asleep, finally waking after an hour. Turning on my Walkman, I listened to music for another hour until my batteries finally went dead and the sky turned to black, and after that, it wasn’t long before I grew cramped and bored. Through the window, beneath the glowing ferry lights, I could see a few older men congregated outside their cars, looking exactly like the fishermen they probably were. Like my aunt and Gwen, they eventually made their way to the cabin.
I shifted in the seat and realized that nature was calling. Again. For the sixth or seventh time that day, even though I’d barely had anything to drink. I’ve forgotten to mention that my bladder had suddenly transformed from something I hardly ever thought about into a hypersensitive and highly inconvenient organ, one that made knowing exactly where to find a bathroom imperative at all times. Without warning, the cells in my bladder would suddenly start vibrating hysterically with the message You’ve got to empty me right this very second or else!, and I’d learned that I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Or else! If Shakespeare had tried to describe the urgency of the situation, he probably would have written, To pee or not to pee…that is NEVER the question.
I scrambled out of the car, hurried up the steps and into the cabin, where I vaguely noticed my aunt and Gwen chatting with someone at one of the
booths. I quickly found the bathroom—thankfully, it was unoccupied—and on my way back out, Aunt Linda motioned for me to join them. Instead, I ducked my head and exited the cabin. The last thing I wanted was another conversation with adults. My first instinct after descending the steps was to head back to the car. But the martyrdom wasn’t working and the batteries in my Walkman had died, so what was the point? Instead, I decided to explore, thinking it would kill some time. I figured I had probably half an hour to go until the ferry docked—I could already see the lights of Ocracoke in the distance—but unfortunately, the tour wasn’t much more interesting than the Pamlico Sound. There was the aforementioned cabin in the center, cars parked on the deck below, and what I guessed was the control room where the captain sat above the cabin, which was off-limits. I did notice, however, a few empty benches toward the front of the boat, and with nothing better to do I made my way there.
It didn’t take long to figure out why they were empty. The air was icy, the wind felt like it was stabbing my skin with little needles, and even though I buried my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I could still feel them tingling. On either side, I noticed small breakers in the dark ocean water, little flashes that seemed to sparkle, but the sight of those tiny waves made me think about him, even though I didn’t want to.
J. The boy who got me into this mess.
What can I tell you about him? He was a seventeen-year-old surfer from Southern California with beachy good looks, who’d spent the summer in Seattle with a cousin who happened to be a friend of one of my friends. I first saw him at a little get-together in late June, but don’t start thinking it was one of those kinds of parties with absent parents and rivers of booze and marijuana smoke drifting from beneath bedroom doors. My parents would have killed me. It wasn’t even at a house—it was at Lake Sammamish—and my friend Jodie was a friend of the cousin, who brought J along. Jodie convinced me to go, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but once I arrived, it took me all of about two seconds to notice him. He had longish blond hair, broad shoulders, and a deep tan, which was almost impossible for me to attain; my skin preferred to mimic a bright red apple when exposed to the sun. Even from a distance, I could see every single muscle in his stomach, like he was some sort of living human anatomy display.
He was also hanging out with Chloe, a senior from one of the public high schools I vaguely recognized but didn’t know, who was equally gorgeous. It was clear they were together; Nancy Drew that I was, I couldn’t help but notice, since they were making out and basically hanging all over each other. Even so, that didn’t stop me from checking him out as I sat on my towel the rest of the afternoon, in much the same way I ogled the Taylor boys at church. I admit, I’d gone a little boy-crazy in recent years.
It should have ended there, but strangely, it didn’t. Because of Jodie, I saw him on the Fourth of July—that one was a nighttime party because of the fireworks, but there were a lot of parents there—and then again a couple of weeks later at the mall. Each time, he was with Chloe and he didn’t seem to notice me at all.
Then came Saturday, August 19.
What can I say? I’d just seen Die Hard: With a Vengeance with Jodie, even though I’d already seen it once before, and afterward, we went to her house. This time, her parents weren’t home. The cousin was there, along with J, but Chloe wasn’t. Somehow, J and I ended up talking on the back porch, and miraculously, he seemed interested in me. He was also friendlier than I’d expected. He told me about California, asked me about my life in Seattle, and he finally mentioned in passing that he and Chloe had broken up. Not long after that, he kissed me, and he was so gorgeous, things just got away from me. Long story short, I ended up in the back seat of his cousin’s car. I didn’t set out to have s*x with him, but probably like everyone my age, I was curious about the whole thing, you know? I wanted to know what the big deal was. Nor did he force me. It just kind of happened, and the whole thing was over in less than five minutes.
Afterward, he was nice about it. When I had to leave to meet my eleven
p.m. curfew, he walked me to the car and kissed me again. He promised to call me, but he didn’t. Three days later I saw him with his arm around Chloe, and when they kissed, I turned around before he could see me, my throat feeling as though I’d just swallowed sandpaper.
Later, when I learned I was pregnant, I called him in California. Jodie got his number from the cousin, since J hadn’t given it to me, and when I told him who I was, he didn’t seem to remember me. It was only when I reminded him about what happened that he recalled our time together, but even then, I had the sense that he didn’t have the slightest clue what we’d talked about or even what I looked like. He also asked why I was calling
with a kind of irritated tone, and you didn’t need a perfect SAT score to know he had no interest in me at all. Though I’d intended to tell him that I was pregnant, I hung up the phone before the words could come out, and I’ve never spoken to him again.
My parents know none of this, by the way. I refused to tell them anything about the father, or how nice he’d seemed at first or even that he’d forgotten me entirely. It wouldn’t have changed anything, and by then I already knew I’d be giving the baby up for adoption.
You know what else I haven’t told them?
That after that phone call with J, I felt stupid, and as disappointed and angry as my parents were with me, I felt even worse about myself.
* * *
While I was seated on the bench, with ears already red and my nose beginning to run, I saw a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. Turning, I spotted a dog trotting by with a Snickers wrapper in its mouth. It looked almost exactly like Sandy, my dog back home, only a little bit smaller.
Sandy was a cross between a golden and a Labrador retriever, with a tail that never seemed to stop wagging. Her eyes were a soft, dark caramel, full of expression; had Sandy tried to play poker, she would have lost all her money because she couldn’t bluff. I could always tell exactly what she was feeling. If I praised her, her gentle eyes would shine with happiness; if I was upset, they were full of sympathy. She’d been in our family for nine years— we got her when I was in the first grade—and for most of her life she’d slept at the foot of my bed. Now she usually slept in the living room because her hips weren’t so good and the stairs were hard for her. But even though she was getting white in the muzzle, her eyes hadn’t changed at all. They were still as sweet as ever, especially when I cradled her furry head in my hands. I wondered if she would remember me when I moved back home. Silly, of course. There was no way that Sandy would forget me. She would always love me.
Right?
Right?
Homesickness made my eyes moisten and I swiped at them, but then my hormones surged again, insisting that I MISSED SANDY SOOO MUCH! Without thinking, I rose from the bench. I saw Imitation Sandy trotting toward a guy seated near the edge of the deck in a lawn chair, his legs
stretched out in front of him. He wore an olive-green jacket and beside him, I noticed, was a camera mounted on a tripod.
I stopped. As much as I wanted to see—and yes, pet—the dog, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to engage in stilted conversation with the owner, especially once he noticed I’d been crying. I was about to turn away when the guy whispered something to the dog. I watched as the dog turned and trotted to a nearby garbage can, where it popped onto its rear legs and carefully deposited the Snickers wrapper.
I blinked, thinking, Wow. That’s kind of cool.
The dog returned to the guy’s side, settled, and was just about to close its eyes when the man dropped an empty paper cup onto the deck. The dog quickly rose, grabbed the cup, and put it into the garbage before returning. When another cup was dropped about a minute later, I couldn’t help myself.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
The man turned in his seat and it was only then that I realized my mistake. He wasn’t a man, but rather a teenager, maybe a year or two older than I was, with hair the color of chocolate and dark eyes flickering with amusement. His jacket, made out of olive-colored canvas with intricate stitching, was strangely stylish, especially for this part of the world. When he raised an eyebrow, I had the uneasy feeling that he’d been expecting me. In the silence, I felt a burst of surprise at the thought that my aunt had been right. There actually was someone my age around here, or at the very least, someone my age who was on his way to Ocracoke. The island wasn’t entirely composed of fishermen and former nuns, or older women who ate biscuits and read romance novels.
The dog, too, seemed to evaluate me. Its ears perked up and it wagged its tail hard enough to thump the guy’s leg, but unlike Sandy, who loved everyone immediately and intensely and would have trotted over to greet me, this dog turned its attention back to the cup, quickly repeating its earlier performance, once more putting it into the garbage can.
Meanwhile, the guy continued to watch me. Even though he was seated, I could tell he was lean, muscular, and definitely cute, but my whole boy- crazy phase had pretty much died the moment Dr. Bobbi spread that goop on my tummy and I heard the heartbeat. I let my gaze fall, wishing that I’d just gone back to the car and regretting I’d said anything at all. I’d never been good at eye contact except at slumber parties when I was having a staring contest with my friends, and the last thing I needed was another boy
in my life. Especially on a day like today; not only had I been crying, but I hadn’t worn any makeup, and I was dressed in baggy jeans, Converse high- tops, and a down jacket that probably made me look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
“Hi,” he finally ventured, breaking into my thoughts. “I’m just enjoying the fresh air.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I continued to focus on the water, pretending that I hadn’t heard him and hoping he wouldn’t ask if I’d been crying.
“Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Great, I thought. Even though I didn’t want to talk to him, I didn’t want him to think I was an emotional wreck, either.
“I’m fine,” I asserted. “I was at the front of the boat and the wind made my eyes water.”
I wasn’t sure he believed me, but he was nice enough to act like he did. “It’s pretty up there.”
“There’s not much to see once the sun goes down.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “The whole ride has been pretty quiet so far.
No reason to even reach for the camera. I’m Bryce Trickett, by the way.”
His voice was soft and melodic, not that I cared one way or the other. Meanwhile, the dog had begun to stare at me, its tail thumping. Which reminded me of the reason I’d spoken up in the first place.
“Did you train your dog to throw out garbage?”
“I’m trying to,” he said before breaking into a smile, dimples flashing. “But she’s young and still working on it. She ran off a few minutes ago, so we had to practice again.”
My attention was fixed on those dimples and it took me a second to retrieve my train of thought. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why train your dog to throw out the garbage?”
“I don’t like litter, and I didn’t want any of it blowing into the ocean.
It’s not good for the environment.”
“I meant why don’t you just throw it out?” “Because I was sitting down.”
“That’s mean.”
“Sometimes the mean justifies the end, right?”
Ha ha, I thought. But actually, I’d walked right into the stupid pun, grudgingly acknowledging that it was kind of original as far as puns went.
“Besides, Daisy doesn’t mind,” he went on. “She thinks it’s a game. Do you want to meet her?”
Even before I could respond, he said, “Break,” and Daisy quickly rose to her feet. Walking over, she curled around my legs, whining, her tongue lapping at my fingers. Not only did she look like Sandy, she felt like her, and while I stroked her fur, I was transported back to a simpler, happier life in Seattle, before everything went sour.
But just as quickly, reality came rushing back and I realized that I had no desire to linger. I offered Daisy a couple of final pats and put my hands in my pockets while trying to think of an excuse to leave. Bryce was not deterred.
“I don’t think I caught your name.” “I didn’t tell you my name.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But I can probably figure it out.” “You think you can guess my name?”
“I’m usually pretty good,” he said. “I can read palms, too.” “Are you serious?”
“Would you like a demonstration?”
Before I could answer, he gracefully rose from his chair and started toward me. He was a little taller than I’d expected, and lanky, like a basketball player. Not a center or forward like Zeke Watkins, but maybe a shooting guard.
When he was close, I could see flecks of hazel in his brown eyes, and again I noticed the trace of amusement in his expression that I’d seen earlier. He seemed to scan my face, and when he was satisfied, he motioned to my hands, which were still buried in my pockets. “Can I see your hands now? Just hold them faceup.”
“It’s cold.”
“It won’t take long.”
This was weird and getting weirder, but whatever. After I showed him my palms, he leaned closer to them, concentrating. He held a finger up.
“Do you mind?” he asked. “Go ahead.”
He traced his finger lightly over the lines in my palms, one after the other. It struck me as strangely intimate, and I felt a little unsettled.
“You’re definitely not from Ocracoke,” he intoned.
“Wow,” I said, trying to keep him from knowing how I felt. “Amazing. And your guess probably has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve never seen me around here before.”
“I meant that you’re not from North Carolina. You’re not even from the South.”
“You might have also noticed I don’t have a Southern accent.”
Nor did he, I suddenly realized, which was strange, since I thought everyone in the South was supposed to sound like Andy Griffith. He continued to trace for another few seconds before pulling his finger back. “Okay, I think I’ve got it now. You can put your hands back in your pockets.”
I did. I waited but he said nothing. “And?” “And what?”
“Do you have all your answers?”
“Not all of them. But enough. And I’m pretty sure I know your name.” “No, you don’t.”
“If you say so.”
Whether he was cute or not, I was done with the game and it was time for me to go. “I think I’m going to go sit in the car for a while,” I said. “It’s getting cold. Nice meeting you.” Turning around, I took a couple of steps before I heard him clear his throat.
“You’re from the West Coast,” he called out. “But not California. I’m thinking…Washington? Maybe Seattle?”
His words stopped me in my tracks and when I turned, I knew I couldn’t hide my shock.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“How did you know?”
“The same way I know you’re sixteen and a sophomore. You’ve also got an older sibling and I’m guessing it’s…a sister? And your name starts with an M…not Molly or Mary or Marie, but something even more formal. Like…Margaret? Only you probably call yourself Maggie or something like that.”
I felt my jaw drop slightly, too stunned to say anything at all.
“And you didn’t move to Ocracoke permanently. You’re only staying a few months or so, right?” He shook his head, breaking into that smile again. “But enough. Like I said earlier, I’m Bryce and it’s nice to meet you, Maggie.”
It took a few seconds before I was finally able to croak out, “You could tell all that from looking at my face and my palms?”
“No. I learned most of it from Linda.”
It took me a second to figure it out. “My aunt?”
“I visited with her for a little while when I was in the cabin. She pointed you out when you walked past our table and she told me a little about you. I’m the one who fixed your bike, by the way.”
As I peered at him, I vaguely remembered my aunt and Gwen talking to someone in the booth.
“Then what was all that stuff about my face and my palms?” “Nothing. Just having fun.”
“That wasn’t very nice.”
“Maybe not. But you should have seen your expression. You’re very pretty when you have no idea what to say.”
I almost wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. Pretty? Did he just say that I’m very pretty? Again, I reminded myself that it didn’t matter one way or the other. “I could have done without the magic trick.”
“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
“Why would my aunt tell you about me?” And, I wondered, what else
had she told him?
“She wanted to know if I was interested in tutoring you. I do that sometimes.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “You’re going to be my tutor?” “I haven’t committed to it. I wanted to meet you first.”
“I don’t need a tutor.” “My mistake, then.”
“My aunt just worries a lot.” “I understand.”
“Then why doesn’t it sound like you believe me?”
“I have no idea. I was just going on what your aunt told me. But if you don’t need a tutor, that’s fine with me.” His grin was relaxed, his dimples still in place. “How do you like it so far?”
“Like what?”
“Ocracoke,” he said. “You’ve been here a few weeks now, right?” “It’s kind of small.”
“For sure.” He laughed. “It took me a while to get used to it, too.” “You weren’t raised here?”
“No,” he said. “Like you, I’m a dingbatter.” “What’s a dingbatter?”
“Anyone who isn’t originally from here.” “That’s not a real thing.”
“It is around here,” he said. “My father and my brothers are dingbatters, too. Not my mom, though. She was born and raised here. We’ve only been back for a few years.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward an older-model truck with fading red paint and large wide tires. “I’ve got an extra chair in the car if you want to sit. It’s a lot more comfortable than the benches.”
“I should probably get going. I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me at all. Until you showed up, the ride was fairly boring.”
I couldn’t exactly tell if he was flirting, but uncertain, I said nothing at all. Bryce seemed to take my lack of an answer as a yes and went on.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll get the chair.”
Before I knew what was happening, the chair was angled toward the ocean beside his, and I watched as he took his seat. Suddenly feeling a bit trapped, I made my way toward the other chair and seated myself gingerly alongside him.
He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Better than the bench, right?” I was still trying to digest how good-looking he was and that my aunt—
the former nun—had set all this up. Or maybe not. The last thing my parents probably wanted was for me to meet anyone of the opposite s*x ever again, and they’d probably told her that, too.
“I guess. It’s still kind of cold.”
As I spoke, Daisy moseyed over and lay down between us. I reached toward her, giving her a quick pat.
“Be careful,” he said. “Once you start petting her, she can get kind of insistent that you never stop.”
“It’s okay. She reminds me of my dog. Back home, I mean.” “Yeah?”
“Sandy’s older and a little bigger, though. I miss her. How old is Daisy?”
“She turned one in October. So I guess she’s almost fourteen months now.”
“She seems very well trained for being so young.”
“She should be. I’ve been training her since she was a puppy.” “To throw garbage away?”
“And other things. Like not running off.” He turned his attention to the dog, speaking in a more excited tone. “But she’s still got a ways to go, don’t you, good girl?”
Daisy whined, her tail thumping.
“If you’re not from Ocracoke, how long have you lived there?” “It’ll be four years in April.”
“What could have possibly brought your family to Ocracoke?”
“My dad was in the military and after he retired, my mom wanted to be closer to her parents. And because we’d had to move a lot for his job, my dad figured it was only fair to let my mom decide where to settle down for a while. He told us it would be an adventure.”
“Has it been an adventure?”
“At times,” he said. “In the summers it’s a lot of fun. It can get pretty crowded on the island, especially around the Fourth of July. And the beach is really beautiful. Daisy loves to run out there.”
“Can I ask what the camera is for?”
“Anything interesting, I guess. There wasn’t much today, even before it got dark.”
“Is there ever?”
“Last year, a fishing boat caught on fire. The ferry diverted to help rescue the crew since the Coast Guard hadn’t arrived yet. It was very sad, but the crew was unharmed and I got some amazing photos. There are dolphins, too, and if they’re breaching, I can sometimes get a nice shot. But today I really brought it for my project.”
“What’s your project?”
“To become an Eagle Scout. I’m training Daisy, and I wanted to get some good shots of her.”
I frowned. “I don’t get it. You can become an Eagle Scout for training a dog?”
“I’m getting her ready for more advanced training later,” he said. “She’s learning to be a mobility assistance dog.” As if anticipating my next question, he explained, “For people in wheelchairs.”
“You mean like a seeing-eye dog?”
“Sort of. She needs different skills, but it’s the same principle.” “Like throwing out the garbage?”
“Exactly. Or retrieving the remote control or the telephone handset. Or opening drawers or cabinets or doors.”
“How can she open doors?”
“You need a handle on the door, not a knob, of course. But she stands on her hind legs and uses her paws, then nudges the door the rest of the way open with her nose. She’s pretty good at it. She can open drawers, too, as long as there’s a cord on the handle. The main thing I have to work on is her concentration, but I think part of that is probably her age. I hope she’s accepted into the official program, but I’m pretty sure she will be. She isn’t required to have any advanced skills—that’s what the formal trainers are for
—but I wanted to give her a head start. And when she’s ready, she’ll go to her new home.”
“You have to give her away?” “In April.”
“If it were me, I’d keep the dog and forget the Eagle Scout project.” “It’s more about helping someone who needs it. But you’re right. It’s
not going to be easy. We’ve been inseparable since I got her.” “Except when you’re at school, you mean.”
“Even then,” he said. “I’ve already graduated, but I was homeschooled by my mom. My brothers are homeschooled, too.”
Back in Seattle, I only knew one family who homeschooled their children, and they were religious fundamentalists. I didn’t know them very well; all I knew was that the daughters had to wear long dresses all the time and the family put up a huge nativity scene in their front yard every Christmas.
“Did you like it? Being homeschooled, I mean?” “Loved it,” he said.
I thought about the social aspect of school, which was far and away my favorite part of it. I couldn’t imagine not seeing my friends.
“Why?”
“Because I could learn at my own pace. My mom’s a teacher and since we moved around so much, my parents thought we’d get a better education that way.”
“Do you have desks in one of the spare rooms? With a chalkboard and a projector?”
“No,” he said. “We work at the kitchen table when we need a lesson.
But we do a lot of studying on our own, too.”
“And that works?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“I think so,” he said. “With my brothers, I know so. They’re very smart. Scary smart, in fact. They’re twins, by the way. Robert’s into aeronautics and Richard’s into computer programming. They’ll probably start college when they’re fifteen or sixteen, but academically, they’re already prepared.”
“How old are they?”
“They’re only twelve. Before you get too impressed, they’re also immature and do stupid things and they drive me crazy. And if you meet them, they’ll drive you crazy, too. I feel I have to warn you about that in advance so you won’t think poorly of me. Or them, so you know how smart they really are, even when they don’t act like it.”
For the first time since I’d spoken to him, I couldn’t help smiling. Over his shoulder, Ocracoke was looming ever nearer. All around us, people had begun to wander back toward their cars.
“I’ll keep that in mind. And you? Are you scary smart?”
“Not like they are. But that’s one of the great things about being homeschooled. Usually you can get your work done in two or three hours, so you have time to learn about other things. They’re into the sciences, but I like photography, so I had a lot of time to practice.”
“And college?”
“I’ve already been accepted,” he said. “I start next fall.” “You’re eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” he said. “I’ll be eighteen in July.”
I couldn’t help thinking he seemed a lot older than I was and more mature than anyone at my high school. More confident, somehow, more comfortable with the world and his role in it. How that could happen in a place like Ocracoke was beyond me.
“Where are you going to college?”
“West Point,” he said. “My dad went there, so it’s kind of a family thing. But how about you? What’s Washington like? I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
“It is. The mountains are amazing and there’s a lot of great hiking, and Seattle is definitely fun. My friends and I see movies and hang out at the mall, things like that. My neighborhood is kind of quiet, though. A lot of older people live there.”
“There are whales in the Puget Sound, right? Humpback whales?” “Of course.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Lots of times.” I shrugged. “In sixth grade, my class took a field trip on a boat and we were able to get pretty close. It was cool.”
“I’ve been hoping to see one before I leave for school. Supposedly they can be spotted off the coast here sometimes, but I’ve never been that lucky.”
Two people walked past on either side of us; I heard a car door slam behind me. The boat engine groaned and I felt the ferry begin to slow.
“I guess we’re almost there,” I observed, thinking the trip seemed shorter than usual.
“That we are,” he said. “I should probably get Daisy in the truck. And I think your aunt is looking for you.”
When he waved behind me, I turned and saw my aunt approaching. I prayed that she wouldn’t wave or make a scene, letting everyone on the ferry know that I’d met the guy she’d wanted to be my tutor.
She waved. “There you are!” she called out. I felt myself sink lower in my chair as she drew near. “I looked for you in the car but couldn’t find you,” she went on. “I see you’ve met Bryce.”
“Hi, Ms. Dawes,” Bryce said. He rose from his chair and folded it up. “Yeah, we had the chance to get to know each other a little.”
“That’s good to hear.”
In the pause, I had the sense that both of them were waiting for me to say something. “Hi, Aunt Linda.” I watched Bryce put his chair in the bed of his pickup, and I took it as my cue to stand. After folding mine, I handed it over, watching as Bryce placed it in the truck before lowering the tailgate. “Hop up, Daisy,” he said. Daisy rose and leaped into the back of the
truck.
I could feel my aunt watching him, then me, then both of us at the same time, unsure what to do, before she must have remembered her pre-nun years, when she was probably closer to normal, with regular feelings. “I’ll just wait in the car for you,” she said. “Nice visiting with you, Bryce. I’m glad we had a chance to catch up.”
“Take care,” Bryce responded. “I’m sure I’ll be in for more biscuits this week, by the way, so I’ll see you then.”
Aunt Linda eyed both of us before finally turning to leave. When she was out of hearing range, Bryce faced me again.
“I really like Linda and Gwen. Their biscuits are the best I’ve ever had, but I’m sure you already know that. I’ve been trying to get them to share
their secret recipe, but no dice. My dad and grandfather grab a few every time they head to the boat.”
“The boat?”
“My grandfather’s a fisherman. When my dad isn’t consulting with the DOD, he helps out my grandfather. Repairing the boat and equipment, or actually going out on the water with him.”
“What’s DOD?” “Department of Defense.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure what else to add. It was hard to reconcile the idea that a consultant with the DOD actually chose to live in Ocracoke. By then, however, the ferry had stopped and I heard car doors slamming and engines rumbling to life. “I guess I should be going.”
“Probably. But hey, it was great talking to you, Maggie. Usually there’s no one even close to my age on the ferry, so you made the trip that much more enjoyable.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to stare at his dimples. I turned away and, surprising myself, I suddenly felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment that our time together had come to an end.
* * *
I waited until the last minute before getting into the car because I didn’t want to be confronted by questions, which was something I was used to from my mom and dad. What did you talk about? Did you like him? Can you imagine him teaching you geometry and editing your papers if needed? Did I make the right choice?
My parents would have been all over me. On almost every school day right up until barf-day—or pee-on-a-stick day, whatever—they always asked me how school went, like attending classes was some sort of magical, mysterious production that everyone would find fascinating. No matter how many times I simply said that it was fine—which really meant Stop asking me such a dumb question—they continued to ask. And honestly, aside from fine, what was I supposed to say? They’d been to school. They knew what it was like. A teacher stood up front and taught stuff that I was supposed to learn in order to do well on tests, none of which were ever any fun.
Now lunch, that could sometimes be interesting. Or when I was younger, recess might have been something to talk about. But school? School was just…school.
Thankfully, my aunt and Gwen were chatting about the sermon we’d heard in church, which I barely remembered, and obviously, the ride took only a few minutes. We drove to the shop first, where I helped them unload their supplies, but instead of dropping Gwen off, we brought her with us to my aunt’s house so she could help us haul the Christmas tree inside.
Despite my pregnancy, and despite them being older ladies, we were somehow able to muscle it up the steps and prop it in a stand that Aunt Linda retrieved from the back of the hall closet. By then, I was kind of tired and I think they were, too. Instead of decorating right away, my aunt and Gwen got busy in the kitchen. Aunt Linda made fresh biscuits while Gwen heated up yet more Thanksgiving leftovers.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, and I cleared my plate for the first time in a while. And, maybe because Bryce had said something about them, I realized the biscuits were tastier than usual. As I reached for a second one, I saw Aunt Linda smile.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m just glad you’re eating,” my aunt said. “What’s in these biscuits?”
“The basics—flour, buttermilk, shortening.” “Anything secret in the recipe?”
If she wondered why I cared, she didn’t let on. She cast a conspiratorial glance at Gwen before facing me again. “Of course.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a secret,” she said with a wink.
We didn’t talk more after that, and once I finished doing the dishes, I retreated to my room. Outside my window, the sky was filled with stars and I could see the moon hovering over the water, making the ocean glow almost silver. I slipped into my pajamas and was about to crawl in bed when I suddenly remembered that I still had to do the paper on Thurgood Marshall. Grabbing my notes—I’d at least gotten that far—I started the actual writing. I’d always been okay at writing—not great, but definitely better than I was at math—and had gotten through a page and a half when I heard a knock at the door. Glancing up, I saw Aunt Linda poke her head in. When she noticed I was doing homework, she lifted an eyebrow, but I’m sure she immediately thought it was better not to say anything lest my progress come to a screeching halt.
“The kitchen looks great,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for dinner.”
“It was just leftovers.” She shrugged. “Except for the biscuits. You should call your parents tonight. It’s still early there.”
I eyed the clock. “They’re probably eating dinner. I’ll call them in a little bit.”
She quietly cleared her throat. “I wanted to let you know that when I spoke with Bryce, I didn’t tell him about…well, your situation. I just said that my niece had come to stay with me for a few months and left it at that.”
I hadn’t known I’d been concerned about that but felt myself expel a breath of relief.
“Didn’t he ask why?”
“He might have, but I stuck to the subject of whether he’d be willing to tutor you.”
“But you told him about me.”
“Only because he said he needed to know something about you.” “If I want him to be my tutor, you mean.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And not that it matters, but he’s the same young man who fixed your bicycle.”
I already knew that, but I was still pondering the prospect of seeing him day after day. “What if I promised to catch up on my own? Without his help?”
“Can you? Because you know I can’t help you. It’s been a long time since I was in school.”
I hesitated. “What should I say if he asks me why I’m here?”
She thought for a moment. “It’s important to remember that none of us is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. All we can do is strive to be the best version of ourselves as we move forward. In this case, if he asks, you can tell the truth or you can lie. It really comes down to the kind of person you want to see when you look in the mirror.”
I winced, realizing I should never have asked a former nun about morality. Unable to counter her words, I returned to the practical issue. “I don’t want anyone to know. Including him.”
She gave me a sad smile. “I understand. But keep in mind that pregnancy is a difficult secret to keep, especially in a small village like Ocracoke. And once you start showing…”
She didn’t need to finish. I understood perfectly. “What if I don’t leave the house?”
Even as I said it, I knew how unrealistic that was. I took the ferry with others from Ocracoke to church on Sundays; I’d need to see a doctor in Morehead City, which meant more ferry rides. I’d been in my aunt’s shop. People already knew I was on the island, and some might be wondering why. For all I knew, Bryce was already speculating. They might not think pregnancy, but they’d likely suspect I was in trouble—whether with my family, with drugs, with the law, or something else. Why else would I have arrived out of the blue in the middle of winter?
“You think I should tell him, don’t you?”
“I think,” she said, drawing out her words, “that he’s going to find out the truth, whether you want him to or not. It’s just a matter of when and who tells him. I think it would be best if it came from you.”
I stared out the window, unseeing. “He’s going to think I’m a terrible person.”
“I doubt that.”
I swallowed, hating this, hating all of it. My aunt remained silent, allowing me to think. In that way, I had to admit, she was way better than my parents.
“I guess Bryce can be my tutor.”
“I’ll let him know,” she said, her voice quiet. Then, clearing her throat, she asked, “What are you working on?”
“I’m hoping to be done with the first draft of my paper tonight.” “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re an intelligent young lady.”
Tell my parents that, I thought. “Thanks.”
“Is there anything you need before I turn in? A glass of milk, maybe? I have an early day tomorrow.”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Don’t forget to call your parents.” “I won’t.”
She turned to leave before coming to a stop again. “Oh, another thing— I was thinking we could decorate the tree tomorrow night after dinner.”
“Okay.”
“Sleep well, Maggie. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I said. The phrase came automatically, like it did with my friends, and later, when I was talking to my parents and they asked how
I was getting along with Linda, I realized it was the first time we’d ever said the words to each other.
