mean, before my great misuse? When I had my babies, did I choose my unhappiness over them?
I was an only child, so I was always wandering around bored and nosey. Once, I overheard my mother talking about me to Louise in the kitchen.
Such a pill, my mother said. I can’t do anything to cheer her up.
Well, sighed Louise. They say you can only be as happy as your unhappiest child.
Ugh, said my mother. With Juliet, I’m doomed.
So I say, All right, crew. Mommy wants a swim. Anyway, it’s time for lunch. So we are going to heave-to.
Yay! Sybil says, clapping. What’s that?
I look at Juliet, leaning against the cabin top, tugging on a hank of her own hair. That means we are going to—
I know what that means, she snaps.
You do?
Yes. I read all those books you gave me. You—she squints, recalling. You backwind the jib. You stall the boat.
Holy crap, Juliet, I say. I’m impressed.
Good job, Mommy!
I’m not saying I can do it, she says.
The truth is we don’t need to heave-to in order to swim off the boat in this light wind. But I have promised myself I would make her practice. She should know these things.
Well, I say, first, we’ve got to turn her head to wind.
What wind? mutters Juliet.
I laugh, but when Juliet doesn’t move, I go ahead and bring the boat around myself.
Finally, Juliet comes to the helm. I hand it over, stand behind her. She tenses but doesn’t elbow me in the gut or anything. I explain how we are going to take her through the eye, like in a normal tack, but we won’t release the jib. We’ll let it back to windward. Then the sails will cancel each other out.
We both stare up at the sails. The jib fills backward across the foredeck.
Look, says Sybil. The jib is inside out!
Slow, slow, I say to Juliet. There. Can you feel the loss of steerage?
Yes.
Right there. Feel it stall? Lock the wheel right there.
We step apart. Like from a burn.
Very well done, I say.
She looks at me hard for a moment. She shucks off her shirt. She’s wearing a bikini top I’ve never seen her wear before. My pulse quickens.
Remember we can still drift, honey, I say. You have to tie yourself to the boat. Take the flotation device.
She looks back at me over her shoulder.
Of course, she says, tucking it under her arm. What do you think, I’m crazy?
* * *
—
I remember driving in the country that fall. With Gil. It was easy, he said, to nick up to Vermont from New York State. Cross the border into Vermont and everything’s prettier. The same barns and farmhouses but these are freshly painted. And the hay bales are neater. The cows are washed. Why in the world would you let your ten-year-old daughter go on such long drives with a man that is not her father? That part of the story is beyond me. I guess because he’d showed up in a real pinch and that made him reliable. Plus, he did the honorable thing and put a ring on Louise. Of course, everyone assumed he was my father. Is it all right if your daughter tries one? said a lady holding shards of maple candy. I loved maple candy. I loved the wet, sugary grit of maple candy, cut into leaves. She’s not my— Gil stopped. A flash of shame came across both their faces, the lady with the plate, and Gil. That’s when it lodged itself into me. My psychic splinter. My brain yet grows around it. (People do live with that, with shrapnel in their bodies. Muscle envelops the foreign object, like a nail in a tree.) Sure, she can have a piece, Gil said finally. You want