Page 18 of The End of Summer

Within weeks, they were head over heels in love with each other.

Graduation loomed over both of their heads that spring, and Annie Myers planned to move back home to the Cape and work under her father’s purview on projects for the Provincetown Cultural Council, but alas, Andrew Andrews couldn’t stand the thought of losing her to distance. It was bad enough making his way from the west side of Manhattan up to Westchester via mass transit; there was no way he could tolerate a five hour schlep up to the Cape on a regular basis. So, in an act of desperation, on what was to be her last night in New York, Andrew Andrews proposed to Annie Myers. “Make me the happiest man in the world, Annie. Marry me, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

She said yes. And he kept his promise.

Two weeks later, once the fanfare of their respective graduations had died down, Andrew Andrews moved in with the Myers family in Provincetown. Annie’s parents – my Gigi and Papa – wouldn’t allow the lovebirds to live under the same roof, but as luck would have it, they had a guest cottage on their property that they were happy to allow him to stay in, in exchange for help with the grounds. My dad was eager to assist with landscaping, cleaning the gutters, washing the windows, basically anything that would keep him in good stead with my Papa. He began applying for jobs and just after Labor Day, he took the written exam for an entry-level position as a police officer in nearby Eastport. He was selected for a live interview, and then a second round interview with the chief.

When Andrew Andrews got the job, the Myers family celebrated with a traditional New England clam bake, the last of the season as it was almost October of that year. Andrew and Annie began the search for houses in Eastport. “It’s important to live where you serve,” Andrew said. "Nobody will care more about keeping this town safe than the people who live here.” With the help of the (then) Chief, the pair found an adorable, if somewhat dilapidated, beach cottage west of route 6, just three blocks from Last Encounter Beach off Sarasota Road. Annie was entranced by the scent of the bayberry and salt air, and Andrew saw the full potential the cottage could offer with a bit of effort and elbow grease. He would refinish the wide-planked pine floors, lay a new roof, get new kitchen appliances, replace the rotted drywall, fix the outdoor shower, and repaint the living room and bedrooms. Thus was born his project for the next three months.

Annie Myers became Annie Andrews in a small church ceremony on December 23rdat St. Peter the Apostle Church in P-Town. The reception was held down the street at the Provincetown Inn, and Andrew Andrews’ parents came all the way from Brooklyn to watch their eldest son take his bride. The old photographs in my parents’ attic depict what I would imagine was a rager in the late 1990s. Guests donned plastic sunglasses and glow necklaces in a festive conga line, and my aunts and uncles sipped unseasonal frozen cocktails with paper umbrellas in them. The happy couple took a picture kissing under the inn’s mistletoe which still sits on my mother’s dresser in a teakwood frame to this very day. By all accounts, the affair was small, sweet, and genuine, much like my parents.

In lieu of a honeymoon, they moved into their Eastport home on Christmas Eve, as my mom wanted nothing more than to wake up that Christmas morning in her new home with her husband by her side. Dad bought a tree off a lot on Route 6 the same day he moved all their boxes from P-Town to Eastport, and it filled the cozy house with the scent of pine. They each placed one, single wrapped gift under the undecorated tree and opened it the next morning by the fireplace. My dad gave my mom a piece of pottery he made for her at a ceramics workshop offered by the Truro Center for the Arts – an ashtray-type thing to hold her jewelry. He stamped her name in it with block letters, and it too is a permanent fixture on my mother’s dresser, right next to the mistletoe photograph.

My mother’s gift to my father was an even bigger surprise: it was a framed photograph of her holding a positive pregnancy test.

I’m sure you thought that they were virgins until marriage, right? Well, first of all, ew. I still don’t like thinking of them as human creatures capable of reproduction and such. But also, no. They were young and in love, and as gross as it is, it’s also really kind of sweet. Their wedding was far from a shotgun situation; my mom didn’t even realize she was pregnant until just a week before the nuptials. She wrongly assumed she missed her period due to the stress of the wedding, bless her heart.

Unlike their sweeping romance, pregnancy was not all roses and sunshine for my mother. She managed to escape morning sickness, so she incorrectly assumed that would equate to an easy coast through the remaining trimesters as her little belly grew to be the size of a lobster pot. She suffered from endless exhaustion paradoxically met by an inability to sleep. Insomnia plagued my mother for the last eight weeks of my gestation, and in the rare moments when she was able to nod off, night terrors awaited her. The doctor ordered bedrest, and one could only laugh at the irony. Still, when her water finally broke, my poor mother was so physically drained that she couldn’t push, and after laboring for 22 hours, I was born via C-section.

Once I was delivered, the drugs they gave my mom induced a sleep so deep, legend has it, she was out for almost two whole days. Well, those two days scared the very life out of my father, who spent his time beside her, periodically checking her pulse, learning from the kind nurses how to change my diaper and bottle feed me. Mom would rouse when hospital personnel came to check her vitals and change the dressing on her lower abdomen. The lactation consultant asked her if she wanted to try nursing, and she did, but when I didn’t take to it the first time, my father suggested she continue sleeping. She held me briefly, always nodding off as the rhythm of our heartbeats merged into one.Thump, thump, thump.We were together, the three of us. A family. And she could finally relax enough to drift away into a long-awaited rest.

On the third day, my mother woke up, achy and sore, with rock-solid, swollen breasts. It was then that we were able to begin nursing, which helped my father calm down a bit. He treated my mom like a casualty of war, and to this day, he’ll tell you the experience scarred him. Andrew Andrews is good in a crisis unless the crisis involves his family. And because they loved each other as much as they did, my mother agreed that they would stop at one child.

With boundless gratitude for their blessings, my parents and I left the hospital an unbreakable unit. It’s been that way ever since.

In elementary school, I was the pigtailed little policeman’s daughter. In middle school, I was the orthodonture-clad Chief’s kid. Nobody messed with me, not that there was much to mess with. I was friendly, artsy like my mom, serious like my dad. Honor roll student. I joined my local 4-H club and learned about our town’s affinity for brussels sprouts, among other local agriculture. I was in my high school’s productions ofGrease,Bye, Bye Birdie, andMamma Mia. I played softball. Babysat. During my senior year, I got a volunteer gig at the Boys & Girls Club down in Hyannis, and it was there that I realized how much I loved working with children. I wrote about it in my college essays. And then, much to my father’s chagrin, off I went to UMass to pursue my teaching degree.

This is not to say that my dad didn’t want me to be college-educated. He knew the only way to do that was to leave, but he was sad to see me go. Sentimental. Four years without me after 18 as the Trusty Trio made him wonder at how quickly time could pass. When I returned home, he was overjoyed. “The Cape needs good teachers,” he said, ever an advocate for my future. Even when the pandemic hit, he was okay with me waitressing, as long as I was safe and healthy. He helped me move into my apartment, background checked the guys I dated, and always looked out for my well-being.

To say he would be less-than-pleased with the idea of his baby girl working at a place where her ass cheeks were barely covered by a children’s sized pleated skirt would be the understatement of the century.

So keeping it hidden is, obviously, a critical component of this whole scheme.

We used to have Sunday dinner together. Dating back to when I was really little, it was kind of a sacred tradition in my house. Mom would make us a beautiful meal – like, holiday-worthy – and the three of us would gather at the table around 4:00 p.m. and feast. If it was summertime, we’d eat outside on the back deck. Dad would grill up kebabs or skirt steak or chicken cutlets and Mom would make every manner of salad-based side-dish you could imagine: potato salad, pasta salad, quinoa salad, a robust Greek salad or strawberry summer salad. When I got old enough to cook, I’d bake brownies as a dessert. Always the same Duncan Hines box-mix brownies, but my Dad would take a bite and tell me they were the best he ever tasted. Wintertime Sunday dinners always included some carb-heavy, casserole dish: lasagna, beef stroganoff or chicken au-gratin, that sort of thing – and yes, still with the salad and always, the brownies.

I had to back out of Sunday dinners a long time ago, on account of my job at the pub. My parents understood that weekend evenings are really important for tips. The best servers get those shifts, and because I work really hard in everything, I even worked hard to be a great pub waitress. Once they realized Sunday nights would no longer work for my crazy schedule, my parents switched our weekly gathering to Sunday mornings. So, instead of dinner people, we became brunch people.

Thankfully, I can keep the brunch schedule going with the new job. I don’t have to get to get to Cosmo-pole-itan until later in the afternoon for the tow-lot pickups, so the mornings are still free. Even if I’m exhausted from being out late, I can still make it up to my parents’ house for a 10:00 a.m. brunch date, brownies in tow (because that is the expectation, regardless of whether or not they go with my mom’s quiche).

But it’s obvious I’m tired. Mom’s like a bloodhound when it comes to my health. They both are, really.

Allow me to present Exhibit A: last week’s brunch.

The menu included a spinach and artichoke frittata, ham croissants, a fruit platter, and locally sourced cranberry juice. And my brownies, which I made super last minute and which were definitely a little undercooked, on account of me pulling them out of the oven early (so I wouldn’t be late). I was wearing running shorts and a t-shirt. Flip flops. Sunglasses on my head to keep my messy hair out of my face. I opened the door, holding the tray of brownies with my potholder-clad hands, and I kid you not, I was greeted with, “Hi, baby. What happened to your leg?”

Mom took the brownies from me and set them on the counter. I dropped my potholders next to them and wrinkled my brow. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your left leg. The inside thigh – it’s covered in bruises,” she said.

Fuck.It didn’t even dawn on me to wear body makeup over my pole bruises. “Um, I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t even realize that was there.”

Dad walked in and gave me a hug. “Hiya, buttercup.”

“Look at her leg, Drew.”

“It’s nothing,” I insisted.

“It’snotnothing. Look,” she replied.

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