Page 3 of Summer People
I will not call my father and ask for help. I will not call my father and break down.
I can do this.
“She’s very cute. I’m guessing she’s tired,” I say, trying to affect a sense of calm. They’re the ones with the screaming child. It’s got to be stressful.
“She doesn’t sleep,” the mother mutters as she slides into the middle seat beside her husband. Then, as I settle beside her, she leans over and says, “I hate flying. Always get sick. Do you think you’ll need your puke bag?”
Fuck. My. Life.
Fifteen hours later, my Uber driver, who smells like marijuana and dirty socks, rounds the corner into Boothbay, and relief like I’ve never experienced before washes over me.
I missed the helicopter my father arranged by fifteen minutes, one of my bags was lost, and I haven’t made arrangements to get to the island, but just the sight of the ferry has my eyes stinging with emotion.
The last time I was here, I was just a little girl. Six years old and excited for the summer ahead and the time with both of my parents.
I know now that my father took that summer off because he and my mother knew it would be her last.
As I step out of the Uber and inhale the dewy spring air, I can practically feel my mother standing beside me. Her phantom presence is the reminder I need to straighten my shoulders and change my mindset.
She would have handled today’s string of nightmares with nothing but grace. I don’t remember a lot, more like snapshots of who she was, but she always wore a smile.
With that memory in mind, I force one onto my lips, thank the driver, who hands me the suitcase and carry-on I didn’t lose, and head across the street toward the ferry.
Two steps off the curb, I jump back, narrowly missing the car that swerves around me, horn blaring.
“Watch where you’re going, lady!”
My entire body sags. So much for Maine hospitality. I shake off the negative thought, look both ways, and continue forward.I will not let one person’s bad attitude get me down. I’m almost there. I can see the ferry…pulling away from the dock.
“No! Please, wait!” Dragging my suitcase behind me, I rush forward, waving my hand in a pathetic attempt to get the ferry captain’s attention.
It’s no use. The boat gives a loud blast of the horn, and then it’s spinning away from the dock and toward the horizon.
“You will not cry. You will be fine.” My words are a little less certain this time, but I’ve made it this far. I can hang on to mycan-do spirit for a little longer. When I get to the cottage, I can scream into my pillow, but not a second before that.
As I approach the blue booth with a cheerful puffin and a smiling whale painted over the open window, another fragment of a memory flits through my mind—my mother, father, and me standing outside this very booth, huge smiles on our faces.
I take it as a sign and inhale all the positivity I can as I step up to the attendant. He’s got gray hair, a toothy smile, and ruddy cheeks.
“Hello, sir. I need a ticket for the next ferry to Monhegan Island.”
“One ticket for ten a.m.? Yes, ma’am.” He turns to the relic of a computer on the counter.
“Oh, no,” I say with a bright smile. “I need one for the next ferry leaving today.”
“You just watched today’s last one leave,” he replies, like he didn’t just steal my last bit of hope.
My stomach sinks. “That can’t be possible. It’s only three o’clock,” I force out, voice cracking. “Doesn’t anyone need to get there for the weekend? There isn’t a late Friday night?—”
He shakes his head. “Nope. The only boat going out to the island tonight is the one that’ll pick up the trash.”
I slap my credit card down on the counter. “I’ll take it.”
He frowns. “You’ll take what?”
“A ticket on the”—my voice wobbles—“trash ferry.”
“Oh, that wasn’t an option. I was just telling you—wait, aren’t you that?—”
