“No,” Ainsley says.
“Me, either,” she says. She hasn’t been able to eat since Edie’s call. “Let’s go do this, then.”
Ainsley nods. She gazes out the window. “It’s so pretty here,” she says.
“That it is,” Harper says.
It’s one of those clear blue days that seem to have been made for the Vineyard. The heat and humidity are gone: everything has a crisp edge. How many days like this has Harper taken for granted? Someday she, too, will die. Fish will die, Ainsley will die, the baby inside Harper will die. It’s a grim train of thought, but it’s not nearly as daunting as what lies ahead. Harper has to see Edie and, in her own way, say good-bye to Brendan.
In Edgartown, Harper obeys every traffic law and speed limit; she lets a driver from Tisbury Taxi go in front of her at the triangle. There is, she thinks, a first time for everything. She can’t have Drew or anyone else from the Edgartown police pulling her over. She drives down Main Street, Ainsley oohing and aahing over the Old Whaling Church and the Daniel Fisher house, then Harper pulls in line for the On Time III, even though the line is longer by two cars than the one for the On Time II. But Harper is avoiding everyone she knows, including Indira Mayhew, the ferry master on the On Time II.
She puts down the window to buy a ticket.
“Long time, no see, my friend.”
Harper turns. Indira is here, working on the III.
“Hi,” Harper says. “Yes, I’ve been away.”
“Anywhere good?” Indira asks.
“Nantucket,” Harper says.
“You poor child,” Indira says, then she smiles. “I’m kidding. My father used to love taking our boat over to Tuckernuck. And on rare occasions we went to the big island. I remember Cokes and oyster crackers at the Anglers’ Club.”
“It’s good to see you,” Harper says. When the light turns green, she drives onto the ferry.
“Are you okay?” Ainsley asks.
“No,” Harper says.
Chappaquiddick has changed. It used to bring Harper a sense of peace and love—now she feels sadness and regret. Brendan! she cries out in her mind.
She feels it’s her fault.
When she passes the entrance to Mytoi, her heart keens. She continues down Chappaquiddick Road until she reaches the Donegal residence.
Edie is expecting her. She is sitting on the old-fashioned bench swing on her front porch, and when Harper pulls in, she stands.
Harper gets out of the car. Ainsley follows, bringing Fish on a leash.
“Edie,” Harper says. “I’m so sorry.” She embraces the tiny woman at the top of the porch stairs, then she turns to introduce Ainsley.
“My niece, Ainsley,” she says. “And this is Fish.”
“Fish,” Edie says, and she bends down to stroke Fish under the chin. “Brendan used to talk about Fish all the time. I admit it took me a while to figure out that Fish was a dog.” Edie smiles sadly at Ainsley. “My son got things mixed up at times.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ainsley says.
Edie nods, lips pressed together so tightly they look bloodless. “Would you like to take Fish for a walk on our beach?” she asks her. “I’d love to spend a few minutes with your aunt alone.”
“Absolutely,” Ainsley says.
“You can just follow the path around the house,” Edie says.
Ainsley leads Fish down the porch steps and around a robust pink hydrangea bush—the Strawberry Sundae variety, Harper notes, because she still has a landscaper’s sensibility.
“Shall we walk to Mytoi?” Edie asks.
Harper nods, then holds Edie’s arm as they descend the stairs.
“This is no one’s fault,” Edie says. “Not mine and certainly not yours, so if you’re harboring any guilt, I want you to let it go.”
“I should have been here,” Harper says. “I should have come when you called.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Edie says. “Brendan’s accident left him damaged, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he was still intact enough to realize how damaged he was. He knew he was limited, and he hated it. He said it was like his mind was in a straitjacket. He would look at his feet and know what movements he needed to make to tie his shoes, but he couldn’t get his hands to cooperate. We were lucky he lasted as long as he did.”
“Where did he get the pills?” Harper asks.
“One of his friends,” Edie says. “Or former friends. They all did drugs, those surf boys.”
Harper nods. True enough. “I didn’t know that Brendan still talked to any of those guys.”
“Every once in a while, one of them would check in,” Edie says. “Spyder and Doobie, mostly. They would call after I’d bumped into them at Cronig’s. Seeing me made them feel guilty.”
“They loved Brendan,” Harper says. “We all loved Brendan. Worshipped him, back in the day. He was so much better than anyone else. He was a demigod. I remember being so flattered that he even knew my name, years and years ago, back when I worked at Mad Martha’s. And then…” Here Harper censors herself. She wants to be honest with Edie, but not so honest that she ruins the moment. “And then after his accident… I mean, I knew he wasn’t the same, but I was still… I don’t know… I guess you’d say starstruck at first. Here was Brendan Donegal, who had won so many titles and traveled to so many countries, who had surfed with Kelly Slater and John John Florence, and he was suddenly accessible to me.” Harper swallows. Does this sound awful? Does it sound like she was somehow happy that Brendan had his accident because it gave her a chance to be close to him? “I soon came to love and appreciate the person Brendan had become. After a while, I forgot that Brendan the surfer even existed. His past didn’t matter. My past didn’t matter. That was the gift of being with Brendan. He kept you in the moment.” Harper closes her eyes. It’s hot; the pond is still; the coffee is strong; your eyes are sad. Every Wednesday afternoon and every Sunday morning were theirs, together.
Come back. Please.
They are at the entrance to Mytoi now, and both of them hesitate.
“I donated money here in his name,” Edie says. “There will be a bench or a sculpture—I haven’t decided what exactly. But I wanted something here on Chappy that would honor him, that I can visit, that you can visit.”
“That’s a beautiful idea,” Harper says. “Have you changed your mind about a service?”