mother was about to make almost two hundred dollars giving hugs? Huh. Maybe she was onto something.
“You’re all very welcome here,” she said. Holy crap, there was Amy, who’d dated Sullivan Fletcher in high school! She needed a hug from my mother? And Mrs. Downs, who had the best example of resting bitch face I’d ever seen. I worried for my mother; Mrs. Downs seemed like the type to bite the head off a baby polar bear and eat it. Mr. Dobbins, the first selectman of Scupper Island for the past twenty years. A widower, if I wasn’t mistaken.
A thought occurred to me.
My mother needed a man.
“Does Gran have a special someone?” I whispered to Poe.
“A what?”
“A boyfriend?”
“Oh, Jesus, Nora. No.”
“I think we should find her one.”
Poe’s phone buzzed, and she stood up and went into our room, closing the door. I guess we weren’t going to bond over making fun of hug therapy.
I sighed, then turned my attention back downstairs. This was the same spot where Lily and I would spy from on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus to come. We never did manage to stay awake.
A yearning for my sister squeezed me so hard I couldn’t breathe for a second. My skinny little sister of the milky-white skin and big blue eyes, who used to always be so affectionate, always touching me in some way—snuggled at my side or holding my hand or with her arm around my shoulders, her sweet, sleepy smell that made my heart swell with love every time.
Lily. My little flower.
How had we lost that? How had so many years passed without us being close?
My mom started talking, jolting me out of my memories.
“Welp, you’re all here for hug therapy, so let’s get stahted.” Mom’s accent thickened. “Amy, sweethaht, ovah heah.” I saw slim legs clad in skinny jeans and ballet flats make their way over to my mother’s sturdy Naturalizers. I tilted my head down, making my collarbone flare with pain, but I had to see.
Yes. My mother was hugging a human. It was a long hug, too. “You’re a good person,” she said. “You’re a nice girl.”
Actually, Amy had been a raging bitch—Queen of the Cheetos—who’d made my mother’s daughter utterly wretched, but hey. Maybe people changed. Probably not, but still.
They were still hugging. Amy was getting more affection in this hug than I’d gotten from my mother in the past twenty years. Was I jealous? You bet your life I was.
“What’s her deal?” I whispered to the dog. He didn’t know, either.
Mom released her, and Amy sniffled and moved toward the kitchen.
Next up was Mr. Dobbins. “Bawb. You’re a good man. You have a good haht.” He bent down to hug my sturdy mother, and she hugged him tenderly, firmly.
This was really freaky. Maybe it was the Vicodin. Maybe I should cough up twenty bucks and get a hug, too.
I looked at Boomer, who lowered his head to lick my hand. Nah. Who needed a mother when I had the male version of Nana from Peter Pan? Plus, I was pretty sure that somewhere in the mother’s handbook, it said your kids shouldn’t have to bribe you to get hugged.
My mother moved through the crowd, hugging people and telling them nice things. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Roseline that I was either hallucinating on painkillers, or my mother was offering hugs for twenty dollars apiece in our living room.
Video or it didn’t happen, was her answer.
Mr. Dobbins came back for another.
Yep. My mother needed a man. It seemed very clear. Maybe this was for her sake, too. Alone all these years (Hello, guilt, how’ve you been?). And since I was here on the island for the summer, I might as well find her someone. Why not, right? Another text to Roseline. Am going to find my mother a boyfriend.
Don’t make rash decisions while on powerful narcotics, she responded. Go to bed.
I was pretty dizzy. And while I did want to see my mother tuck some people in with blankies on our old couch and chairs, I also knew I was too jealous to watch.
The day after hug therapy, I took a little crutch walk, as I’d been doing, a little farther every day. The sun was hard and bright, the oak trees topped with fuzzy, pale green buds, and the salty air filled my lungs and woke parts of my soul I’d forgotten about. Sure, Boston was on the water, but it wasn’t like this. Here, the air was both clean and alive with scents, sometimes thick with the promise of rain, sometimes carrying smells of pipe tobacco—presumably from Burke Hollawell, a lobsterman from my childhood (and potential bae for my mother?). Last week, I got a whiff of blueberries—somewhere, a pie was fresh out of the oven. And always, the smell of pine.
I hobbled to a rock at the shore and sat down to catch my breath. Boomer ran up, smiling his doggy grin, and dropped a pinecone at my feet. “Oh, good boy!” I said and threw it. He bounded off, forgot his mission and chased a squirrel into a tree.
I slid out of the backpack straps, took out my water bottle and drank. Then I dug out a notebook and pen and started writing to my sister.
Dear Lily,
I hope things are going okay for you. I don’t know if Mom or Poe told you, but I’m back on the island for a while after I had a little accident. Poe and I are sharing our old room. You’ve done an amazing job raising her. She’s really great and smart, and I love talking to her.
Well, that would be a lie. I tore off the sheet, crumpled it up and stuck it in my bag.
Dear Lily,
I’m back on the island for a while, and I want you to know I’ll try to keep an eye out for Poe. Even though you stopped answering my emails and texts and letters, I still love you and will try to help Poe in any way I can.
Too condescending, with that healthy slosh o’ bitterness. I crumpled up that one, too.
Dear Lily,
You’ll never guess where I’m sitting right now. Lookout Rock. I’m back on Scupper for a while and will probably spend a few months here; I took a leave from the hospital after I got banged up in a car accident. Home is the same. Mom’s bird is trying to kill me. Kind of creepy, the love they share.
A cormorant just popped up in front of me, then slipped back under the water. The ocean is choppy today, making lots of noise against the shore.
Mom and Poe are doing well. I hope you are, too.
Love,
Nora
That one I could send. At least I had an address for her now. Washington State Women’s Correctional Facility.
