Sometime tomorrow Ava will have to call her mother, tell her what transpired, and ask her advice.
But wait—no. Margaret knows nothing about being a stepmother, or even a father’s girlfriend. Drake doesn’t have children, and to Ava’s knowledge, Margaret never dated anyone else with children, or at least young children.
The realization dawns on Ava that she does know someone who has been through this. She does know a woman who had no choice but to parent a child not her own. Three children, in fact.
Mitzi. Ava needs to talk to Mitzi.
She could call, she supposes, but the conversation she wants to have would be far better broached in person. As Ava pushes the button for the seventh floor, she makes a decision. She will go home on Tuesday, home to Nantucket. She will go to Bart’s birthday party.
BART
The party has three saving graces. One is there will be plentiful alcohol; it is a Quinn party, after all. Two is there will be meat: tenderloin sandwiches, crumbled bacon at the mashed potato bar, passed pigs in a blanket, and more bacon wrapped around Nantucket bay scallops. Bart isn’t immune to the allure of good food. He has been living at the inn along with Mitzi and Kelley; he has been subjected to the watery spinach soup and the kale–egg white soufflé.
The third saving grace is that his siblings are attending. Patrick and Jennifer are leaving the kids behind in Boston so that they can enjoy an adult evening, and Ava is taking a half day off Tuesday and a personal day on Wednesday so that she can attend. Bart knows his siblings love him, but this party is wholly Mitzi’s idea, and… well, sometimes the elder Quinn children resist Mitzi’s ideas.
It does feel good to wake up on the thirty-first and be met with a purpose. It feels good to take a long shower, to shave, and to put on some nice clothes. Bart is wearing jeans, a white button-down shirt, a navy fleece vest, and his good Chucks, the black ones that Mitzi bought him for Christmas. She bought them without even knowing if Bart was alive or not.
He asks his mother if there is anything he can do to help. He is, after all, an able-bodied twenty-two-year-old Marine, still in pretty formidable shape despite everything. Both his parents treat him like a cracked vessel that must be handled gently or it will break in two.
And aren’t they right, in a way?
The only injury Bart sustained overseas was a puncture wound to his right cheek; he was attacked when he was trying to save Centaur’s life. “Take me, not him!” Bart had cried out. He had tried to pull Centaur from the grip of two Bely, the ones the Marines had nicknamed Grim and Reaper; one of them fought him off with a sharpened piece of rebar, which he caught just under his eye. It knocked him out cold, and when he came to, Centaur was gone.
The only other damage done was to Bart’s psyche. He rode high for about six weeks after his return to America. Everything was a cause for celebration: He was free! He was on Nantucket, with his family! Once he’d been captured, he’d lost hope of ever seeing Sankaty Head Light again, of seeing his mother’s eyes again, of seeing the Civil War monument at the top of Main Street or his childhood bedroom or the Atlantic Ocean again.
But then once the holidays passed and civilian life on Nantucket became his new normal, Bart started having nightmares about the Pit. His nightmares were followed by panic attacks during the day. There were times when he became convinced that Centaur was alive, as long as Bart… what? That was the terrifying thing: Bart didn’t know what he had to do to keep Centaur alive. He would lose control of his breathing to the point of hyperventilation. He would sweat, his vision would splotch, he would feel like he was about to pass out. Then reality would intercede. Centaur was dead. Grim and Reaper had marched him off to the Pit.
Bart shakes his head to clear it. See how easy it is to get trapped in the black grip of his mind?
“I don’t want you to see the space before tonight,” Mitzi says. “I want you to be surprised. So I’m going to leave now to take care of last-minute details. You can keep your father company.”
Okay, good idea. Bart has been meaning to have a conversation with Kelley, but his mother is always, always around, and now there are also hospice workers, two placid women who float around with nearly holy authority, like nuns. Bart is afraid of the hospice workers. They seem to know something about death that he doesn’t, and he knows a lot about death.
He knocks on his father’s door and peers in. His father is in bed, of course, listening to something on earphones. When Kelley sees Bart, he pulls an earbud out.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says. “I meant to tackle you and give you twenty-two noogies, but I think my tackling and noogie days are on hold for now.”
Bart breathes, blinks. He loves his father for keeping faith that the tackling and noogie days might return. “What are you listening to? Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Getting rested for tonight?”
“It’s a Danielle Steel novel,” Kelley says. “This one is called The Mistress. Want to have a listen?”
“Not really,” Bart says, but Kelley ignores him. He pulls the earphone jack out, and a man’s melodious, British-accented voice starts describing so-and-so’s sweeping desire.
Kelley pats the bed, indicating Bart should sit down, and Bart does so reluctantly. He doesn’t think he can tolerate Danielle Steel, even if it were narrated by John Cleese or Daniel Craig.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Bart says. “Something serious.”
Kelley smiles benignly, his eyes at half-mast. Bart knows his father is heavily medicated, but Bart also sees this as his only chance. Kelley isn’t going to get any better. His ability to comprehend isn’t getting any sharper. Bart reaches over and pauses the book.
This gets Kelley’s attention. “What’s wrong?” He jerks his head, and Bart remembers that Kelley can see him out of only one eye.
“I want to talk to you, Dad,” Bart says.
Kelley sinks back into his pillows and closes his eyes. “Of course, son. I’m sorry.”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve made a decision about my future.” Bart pauses. He hates the drama of the moment. He hates the circumstances—it’s his birthday, Kelley is dying—but he needs to say this. Say it!