“Never!” Lolly said. “It would be like erasing a year from my life.”
After a few seconds, Lauren called, “Found a place,” and began thumping a few square inches of open glass on the back passenger window.
The lifeguard adhered the new beach pass and said, “That’ll be sixty bucks for another year at Scoops Beach.”
Lolly unzipped her jacket and reached into the top of her swimsuit, her hand disappearing, going deep into the unknown, as if she were a magician.
“Here we go,” Lolly said happily, pulling out a wad of damp, crushed bills. “Let’s just say my piggy bank has lost some of its oink over the years.”
Arden’s face turned red, but Lauren and the lifeguard laughed.
As Lolly began to pull away, the lifeguard yelled, “We all love you, Lolly! Have a great day at the beach with your family.”
Lolly waved back and guided the Woodie down the narrow sand-covered road—people honking, yelling, and waving as if she were the queen of England—until she found a faraway parking place in a back row near a dune.
“We can probably get you a handicapped sticker, Mom,” Arden said without thinking, popping open the trunk.
“Never!” Lolly said defiantly. “Now, make me a pack mule. Start piling it on, Lauren.”
This was a game Lauren and Lolly used to play: After a day at the beach when she was little, Lauren would become so worn out and sleepy that Lolly would have to carry her and all the beach gear back to the Woodie. And she did, piling towels over her neck, chairs onto her back, all while carrying Lauren, beach bags, and a cooler.
Lauren spent a few weeks every summer with her grandmother, while her father worked endless hours and her mother worked to make him happy by creating the perfect home, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect life. Lolly taught Lauren how to have fun, to relax, to be a kid, even for a short while. When Arden divorced, she began to work every minute and every summer. Lauren felt guilty leaving her mother alone and began to fade from her grandmother’s life like a late August sunset.
Lauren began to pile four towels onto Lolly’s neck until she looked as if she were wearing a brace.
They really bonded in the times I wasn’t there, Arden thought. I didn’t spend enough time with either of them.
Lolly began to walk—ever so slowly, like a camel from Lawrence of Arabia—across the sand-covered parking lot and boardwalk.
Arden’s heart leaped in her chest. “Mother! Stop right there! You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“My mind may not always be willing,” Lolly said, turning around, windblown sand dancing around her ankles, “but my body is.”
Arden shook her head, and she and Lauren hurriedly grabbed coolers, umbrellas, and lounge chairs while stuffing magazines and books into beach bags, shuffling in flip-flops to catch up with Lolly, just as she found a place near the water.
Lolly flicked a giant beach towel that read “LAKE MICHIGAN—UNSALTED!” into the breeze and settled it onto the sand, before sitting dramatically and posing, like Lana Turner. “I’m down!” she laughed. “And I may not get up again!”
Lauren laughed and pretended to kick sand at her grandmother, who screamed in protest, before the two began to slather lotion onto one another, leaving Arden to set up camp. Arden positioned two striped umbrellas against the sun, laid out sheets and towels, anchoring them with coolers and flip-flops, set out books and magazines and lotions, before arranging snacks in a row on a separate towel.
Lolly and Lauren stopped and looked at Arden. “Someone has to do it, Mom. Someone always has to do it,” Arden said.
Arden’s words hung in the wind and then drifted away, like one of the nearby seagulls. Lolly smiled tenderly at her daughter. “You never give anyone else a chance to do it, my dear.”
Arden smiled at Lolly, but her mother’s words made Arden think of her job. She had to orchestrate everything there, too.
Out of sight, out of mind, Arden thought, suddenly panicking and reaching into the beach bag to retrieve her cell. I’ll just check my email quickly in case there was an emergency.
“Darn it!” she said after a few seconds. “There’s no reception down here! I forgot!”
“This isn’t your office, Mom,” Lauren said. “It’s the beach. We’re supposed to have fun, remember?”
Lauren grabbed a little radio from the beach bag and found a crackly station playing country music.
Strains of Trisha Yearwood drifted into the lake wind, and softly intermingled with the voices of beachgoers and the lapping of the water. A young boy ran by on the beach, ahead of his mother, and plopped onto the sand. The mother handed him a sand bucket, and he began to dig.
Lauren was right, Arden thought, looking at the little boy and smiling. Lauren used to do the same thing years ago.
Arden thought about Lauren’s words and felt guilty that her daughter had taken on so much responsibility so young.