I don’t remember much from right around the accident. I know they questioned that guy who thought he was your boyfriend. He was behind you that night. They thought he might have run you off the road. But in the end, they decided that you lost control of the car.
I don’t remember the police coming to the door. I don’t remember staying at Nicky Hashell’s house. I don’t remember the social workers. I don’t remember giving them the names I did. Where the shreds of my memory start to fuse is when Alice got there. She was one of the people I told them about. Alice and Martina. Alice dressed up to come and get me at Nicky’s. She had lipstick on. Her hair was set, and she had on a white blouse with red dots. She pulled me into her chest, and somehow she felt like home. She took me to a Burger King for dinner, and then we spent the night in a hotel down the highway.
I remember the plane ride back East. It was the second time I’d ever been on a plane. I remember staring at the shiny foil packets of peanuts, not eating them, but just rolling them around in my hands and looking out the window, seeing the tiny houses and the tiny cars. Seeing the world in miniature. Nothing looked real.
Before we got to Sandy Bank, Alice had warned me that the Water’s Edge was gone, but I didn’t really remember it anyway. They had torn it down just a couple of months before to build some single-families. Alice had gone in years before and saved all of our stuff. You have to be astounded at that, don’t you? Alice, who had no idea where we were or if she would ever see us again, filled boxes full of our things and kept them in her attic. That’s Alice, right? I keep hearing Mom’s voice. Salt of earth. She’s the salt of the earth. That’s mostly how I remember Mom—through snatches of her voice, glimpses of her face. But I remember you like I just saw you this morning.
I was only back in Sandy Bank for a couple of days before Stefan came. Alice opened the screen door one night and there he was, with a duffel bag in his hand, moths circling his head under the light. Alice nodded—she and Martina had been talking, so Alice expected him. But for me, well, I can’t tell you the relief I felt at seeing him. I rushed to him, and he brought me into his chest and put his hand on the back of my head. Then he folded onto me. I never heard him cry again, but I did that night. I had never heard a man break like that before. And it was so comforting to know that someone else missed you. Missed you like I did. Mrs. Pool let him sleep on the floor next to me. I suppose that was when I first understood that he was something more than your old boyfriend. That’s when I understood that Mrs. Pool knew it, too.
Stefan was the one who told me everything, but not for a long time. He stayed at Sandy Bank for the rest of that winter, then I went to Northton for the summer. We were on the boat and he was holding my hand and he asked me if I knew what the stars were. I looked up at them, and I said I thought that they were light. And he laughed, but it sounded sad. And he said that that was only part of it, that they were more than that. Then he told me that he loved you. And he always would. And that I was a part of both of you. That was all he said at first. Now he introduces me as his daughter without hesitation. But Patrick only told him the truth of it all when you died. Martina says that it took years for Stefan to forgive him for that.
I used to spend the school years in Sandy Bank, but Stefan would come down all the time. And he’d bring me up to Northton for summers and holidays, and I’d stay with Martina and Patrick. Stefan and I would walk together, and he’d tell me about when he first saw me. When you and I first appeared on his doorstep. He said I was wearing earmuffs and tights with holes in the knee. And then he’d stop, and I’d know he was remembering you. It was hard for him when you left, Mary. Harder than you realized, probably. I still remember that night—the night we left Northton. So does Stefan. He said that you left him a letter and that he read it over and over again, smoothing it flat, until the paper softened, until the words blurred. He said that after we left he didn’t know what was true or real anymore. He said that as far as he knew we just disappeared.
He has a girlfriend now, and I like her very much. Her name is Anna. They came to stay with Daniel and me for a week, and we were up late, talking and drinking martinis. He’d rest his hand on her shoulder and she’d smile at him. It’s good to see him in love, Mary. Martina once said she wasn’t sure he could be again.
On the last night of their visit, Anna went to bed early and Daniel followed. Then it was just Stefan and I on the deck. He patted the spot next to him, and I sat down. “Hi, Dad,” I said. I only ever called him that when we were alone. It has always felt like something just for us. He smiled, and his eyes went far away. And he reminded me of the time he was in Sandy Bank and the sea bass were running. Stan had caught a mess of them. Alice broiled them and the four of us sat on the porch eating off the same platter, our fingers smelling like lemon. Stefan asked where I got my nickname, and Alice let her head tilt to the side, and she told us a story.
She said it was right after I was born. You were standing on a jetty, just watching the water. A storm was coming, and the ocean was all gray chop. Mom had sent Alice down to come get you, to make you come inside, because the weather was turning so quickly. She said she could see you clearly and was shouting your name, but the wind was so loud and you were still so far that you weren’t responding. You were just staring into the water, statue still. When she got closer, she could see that you were soaked through. That your hair was stuck in curves against your shoulder blades. And that you were hunched forward, holding something in your arms. She called your name louder, but you still didn’t move. Alice had to climb all the way up onto the rocks before she could see that you were holding a little rabbit in your arms. You said you had seen it in the water and that it had almost drowned, that you dove in after it. No one knew how a rabbit ended up in the water, but there it was, helpless and vulnerable and in a place it shouldn’t be. And you saved it.
After that, you called me Bunny.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to have been edited by the wonderful Helen Atsma, whose intelligence, thoughtfulness, and vision have been such a pleasure. And Stephanie Rostan is the best kind of agent. Her advice has made me a better writer.
Thanks to my dear parents, Maureen and Peter Enderlin; my brothers, Jonathan Enderlin and Matthew Enderlin; my sisters, Jennifer Enderlin Blougouras and Erin Enderlin Bloys, who are always my first readers.