why he’d been more distant than usual since I got home, speaking to me in monosyllables, some low-grade resentment always simmering beneath the surface.
I sank down onto the sand, feeling impossibly alone. Why wasn’t I going to this bonfire with friends? Or out with Adam, who’d invited me to see Panama, the Judge, and the Preacher play at the Woodshed—my favorite local band, my favorite local bar. Instead, I’d opted to stay home and help my mother, and this was the first time I’d become aware of a lacuna between the life I was living and the one I wanted to live. I no longer understood the point of the charade. Everyone, it seemed, was in on Malabar’s secret. Brenda for sure. Adam, though that was my fault. Possibly Peter. And now, worst of all, Charles—although apparently, he’d chosen to accept his friend’s denial for the sake of maintaining his own dignity. Was Lily the only one still in the dark?
I’d be leaving for college in just a few days, I reminded myself. My next escape would come soon enough.
Behind me, Ben was already halfway up the bank of stairs to our house, bucket in one hand, net in the other. In a few minutes, he’d be showing Malabar our catch, all those whitebait frantically darting around the pail, and her reaction would be pure delight. This was my mother’s favorite kind of dish to prepare, simple and dramatic. As soon as the cocktail hour was under way, she’d swirl hot oil and butter around a skillet. Then she’d grab a fistful of still-wriggling minnows, coat them in seasoned flour, and sprinkle them evenly around the sizzling-hot pan, where they’d curl into crispy, golden Cs. Speed was key—whitebait were best served piping hot with salt.
Out on the water, Peter lowered his motor and yanked hard on the pull cord; the engine sputtered to life. His boat, a canary-yellow skiff that he’d bought when he was fourteen, was his most prized possession. He maneuvered it carefully through the moorings and past the low-wake zone to the channel, then he accelerated. My brother was a beautiful sight, with his muscular legs set apart, one foot slightly forward for balance, his knees bent to absorb impact, leaning his body into the turns, feeling the tug of the current beneath his feet through the metal of the skiff’s hull. Something shifted inside of him when he was on the water. He seemed to stand outside of time, lost to it, completely free and at peace.
As my brother sped off without looking back—raced away from me, from our mother, from all the crazy machinations going on in our home—my old friend waved, her fingers waggling absurdly. I felt a pang of envy that somehow Peter had succeeded where I’d failed. He’d put a healthy distance between himself and the madness. He’d managed to grow up, get the girl, and move on, whereas I remained stuck in the scrum of our childhood.
Then Peter’s boat turned, and the afternoon sun glinted off its wake, illuminating the skiff from behind—and there it was, a single, powerful word emblazoned in bold black letters across the stern: M A L A B A R.
I waded out into the bay, past the clumps of eelgrass where crabs scuttled away and starfish clung to rocks, until I reached the drop-off. There, I took a huge breath and dived down to the hard bottom. Whatever the surface conditions, it was always calmer below. The water pressed against my ears, creating an insistent silence. I crossed my legs and tried to sit on the ocean floor, a game I’d played since childhood. I fanned my hands and released the air from my lungs to combat my buoyancy, a losing battle. As I felt myself tilt and start to ascend, I kicked off the ground and surged toward the surface. I’ll be gone from here soon, I thought, shooting through the billow of my hair toward the sunlight.
Ten
I arrived at Columbia in the fall of 1984 ready to start life anew. My relationship with Adam had reached its logical conclusion, and although he’d show up in New York a couple of times, he soon headed home to Kansas. At college, I intended to create a whole new identity for myself, to obtain some distance from the girl I used to be, a girl so consumed by her mother that she hardly knew where her mother ended and she began.
College was going to be about me.