Page 51 of If All Else Sails
“Hush, now. I may not sail, but your uncle and I spent our weekends and summers paddling a canoe up through the creeks and marshes around Fort Eustis,” Susan says, straightening her shoulders.
Fort Eustis...Was theirs a military family?I wonder. I can picture it suddenly—the vivacious woman in front of me as a girl. Her hair a lighter blond, sun-bronzed skin, a baseball cap on her head and an oar in her hand. Maybe a row of string friendship bracelets up her arm instead of pearls on her neck.
The mental image makes me ache. It also makes me like Susan all the more.
“We’d fish and bring home dinner for a week,” she adds.
Wyatt’s mouth tips up. “Who cleaned the fish, Mom?”
She points her fork at him. “Your uncle mostly. But Icouldhave. I just didn’t like it, and he was faster with a knife.”
Her voice breaks a little at the end, and suddenly the man they both lost is as present at the table as any of us. I want to say something,but no version ofI’m sorry for your lossseems like enough.
Plus, I suspect neither Wyatt nor his mother want to address it. They wear matching expressions—lips firmly pressed together, jaws tight, eyes focused on their food and only their food. I don’t know where to look, but I have a hard time keeping my gaze from Wyatt.
His mother recovers first. “Well,” she says brightly, as though hopping back in time before the last few minutes. “Surely, you’ll be back on your feet—no pun intended—before the summer ends and can make a trip. Even if it’s shorter and—”
“It’s fine,” Wyatt grumbles. “Excuse me.” Tossing his napkin into his chair, he grabs his crutches and makes a slow beeline to the bathrooms. Presumably.
I turn to Susan the moment he’s out of sight. I don’t even need to ask my questions. They’re clearly written all over my face.
Susan leans close and whispers conspiratorially as she grips my hand. “He won’t be gone long, so I’ll give you the abridged version.”
I don’t have time to ask,The abridged version of what?before she barrels on, still squeezing my hand like it’s the life raft keeping her afloat.
“Wyatt was very close with my brother. Big heart, bit of a hermit. You have to understand, Wyatt spent summers here, learning to sail. Doing...whatever my brother was into. Tinkering with cars, fishing, sailing. A lot like our summers growing up, I’d imagine.”
Again, I see past Susan’s designer clothes, diamond earrings, and manicured nails to a woman who grew up on an army base, catching dinner out of a creek.
All this raises more questions, though. Ones I don’t feel right asking.Questions about Wyatt’s mother and her transition from the girl she was to the wealth she wears now. Questions about why Wyatt spent his whole summers with his uncle, who, in her own words, was something of a hermit.
And a whole company of questions regarding the rest of Wyatt’s family: the brother and father who haven’t been mentioned. Not once. Silence in this case says more than words would.
I file my questions and concerns away to ponder later as Susan continues. Her eyes flick toward the doorway where Wyatt disappeared a few moments ago. The good thing about his crutches and boot is that he’s much easier to spot. And his size already makes him stand out in any room.
“Tom died a little less than a year ago. Left everything to Wyatt.” She pauses, her grip growing tighter. There is the slightest bit of moisture in her eyes before she blinks it away. “They had planned to sail down to Georgia together this summer. It’s a trip they do—or did—most summers.”
“Oh,” I say, a flood of emotions rising in my chest. I want to say more.I’m so sorryorThat’s so sad, but all the phrases within easy access are too easy. Too trite. So I simply squeeze Susan’s hand.
“Wyatt decided to go by himself. And then...”
“He got injured,” I finished.
She nods and purses her lips. I’m filled with a bone-deep sympathy for her, but even more for Wyatt, whose curmudgeonliness now seems to have a very relatable reason.
He lost someone close to him. Wyatt made special plans to honor him—and it hits me right in the feels to think of Wyatt alone taking the trip he and his uncle should have taken together—then got injured, which ruined everything.
No wonder he was wallowing and not taking care of himself when I got here.
“Which is why I’m so glad you’re here,” Susan says. “I can already see the difference you’ve made in his attitude.”
I don’t bother arguing that the only difference I’ve really made is forcing him to the hospital and to take his antibiotics. Barely.
She gives a little gasp and then says, “He’s coming. This conversation never happened.”
Faking a laugh, she presses a hand to her chest and looks believably normal, like she wasn’t just whispering secrets to me. Wyatt reaches our table, balancing his crutches carefully on the empty chair and scanning my face as though for clues.
Based on the look he gives me, he found some.
