“Would the Arnolds be there?” I asked pointedly.
“No, they’re in… I’m not sure actually, possibly Africa, although in July? That seems odd. You’d think it would be too hot to safari in July, but then who knows? It’s the other side of the world. Aren’t their seasons different?”
“I have no idea. Listen, Ma, do you think they’d let us? That actually sounds like a great idea.”
She shrugged. “I can give you Deb’s cell phone number.”
“Can you call them?” I suggested hopefully. I had no desire to talk to Deb. Who knew what she’d say? The call would surely be awkward. Most of my conversations with acquaintances were awkward.
Mom paused, clearly thinking along the same lines.
I put a hand to my forehead. “I’ve been through so much…”
Mom rolled her eyes. “There will be an expiration date on this, you know.” She dug through her purse for her cell phone.
“Really? At some point, you’ll stop having sympathy for me and my kids whose father ran away and possibly died? That seems kind of heartless.”
Mom swatted me on the arm and dialed Deb’s number, stepping inside to talk to her. Almost a full half-hour later she emerged, shaking her head. “That woman never stops. Yes, they’re in Africa, and no, it’s not hot. In fact, it’s their winter! Isn’t that neat?”
“Neat. What about the house?”
“Oh, Deb doesn’t care. It’s not baby-proofed. She was a little concerned over breakables. But they aren’t renting it this year because they’re going to be in Africa for three months. But I can go over to their house tomorrow—the one here in Clinton—and pick up the Brigantine key.”
“Really? That would be fantastic!” I wondered why we had never done it before—Greg and I with the kids, as a family. I had actually never even thought about it. We’d always traveled for our vacations—North Carolina, Florida, and once, Maine.
I planned the trip for the following week, from Monday until we decided to come home. Probably a week or less, I figured. I packed and loaded the van with everything from bread and peanut butter to dishes, pots and pans, towels, bathing suits, and sunscreen. The doors to the van barely shut, and by the time we pulled out of the driveway, I was exhausted. We spent the first hour singing songs that all had the same lyrics, “We’re going to the beach!” with different melodies as dictated by Hannah.
During the second half of the trip, which in total turned into three hours due to traffic—Who goes to the beach on a Monday?—I turned on the DVD player because I ran out of songs to turn into the “Going to the Beach” song. When we pulled into the driveway of the Arnolds’ ranch a block from the ocean, I was so tired, all I wanted to do was nap. But since the kids had both slept during the third hour, they clamored for the beach right now.
I got everyone in bathing suits and lathered up with sunscreen, and we walked the block down to the public beach. Hot sand sank beneath our feet as we walked. Two other families were there, and I dropped our blankets, umbrella, and chairs between the two setups. I smiled and nodded a brief hello. Pulling the blanket tight, I anchored it with our bag and the cooler, then surveyed the area. The water lapped gently, and my cautious mothering side noted the lack of any real waves, only small swells advancing and receding.
The salt air was invigorating, and I inhaled deeply, feeling the heavy humidity in my lungs. The girls took their buckets and shovels to the water’s edge, and I dragged my chair down after them. As I watched them dig in the sand, talking to each other in their own private language, I was surprised to realize I was crying. Tears fell freely down my cheeks. Free from anger and hate, I would periodically have moments where I simply missed Greg. I wasn’t missing having a husband, or my kids having a father, but I missed the person he was, or at least the person I had known. I still believed I fundamentally knew him. I thought that when he buried Hannah in the sand last year and spent a half hour pretending she was lost and calling for her, even going as far as jumping in the ocean to look for her, causing her to giggle incessantly, that he wasn’t pretending, that he was being himself. And I still loved that part of him. I knew that despite his sometimes serious and sullen moods, of the two of us, he was the sillier one. And our kids would have become better people if he was still in their lives.