“Can we play Chutes and Ladders?” Nadine asked.
“Hannahs going to stay and have dinner with you,” said Jim. “She’ll put you to bed, et cetera.” Hannah was the first nanny, a young Irish woman who gazed at Nadine and said “You poor wee one” all the time.
“Daddy,” said Nadine, “can we play Chutes and Ladders?” “One round,” said Jim, “then it’s the bathtub for you.” Jim and Nadine rarely ate together on weeknights after that potpie. Hannah was followed by Hillary, Clare, and then Laura. Sometimes Nadine heard her father come home after she had gone to bed. He would open a can of beer–Nadine could hear the pop of the tab–and sit in front of the television. Many mornings, Nadine found him asleep in his easy chair, still dressed. She would climb into his lap, and he would let himself hold her. She rested her head on his shoulder and made her hair spread across his face. He breathed deeply, and Nadine knew that he still loved her, though when he woke, he pushed her away, saying, “Off me now, monkey.”
Nadine loved Sunday, when Jim brought her to dinner at The Captain Kidd. They walked into town and ate scallops by the fireplace or at a table overlooking Eel Pond. The walks from their house to town were Nadine’s favorite times. Jim would ask her about her homework, offer suggestions. All week, she thought of funny stories to tell him. And when the sidewalk narrowed, he took her hand.
Nadine stood in front of the house for a moment, then drew a breath and walked across the lawn, her boots making footprints in the snow. She treaded gingerly up the front steps, felt the icy doorknob. She tried the handle: the house was locked. Now that Jim had found Gwen, 310 Surf Drive was empty. Gwen had tried to convince Jim to sell it, she told Nadine, but he had resisted, saying he wanted to wait for the market to pick up.
Snow crunched as Nadine made her way to the back sliding glass door. As always, it was unlocked. Nadine flipped the light and looked around the kitchen. The fireplace was clean, the cabinets empty. She moved through the high-ceilinged dining room to the staircase. The house smelled familiar, a faded fragrance of talcum powder and wood smoke.
In the second-floor foyer, Nadine fumbled in the dark for the cord that would bring down the steps. She found it and yanked. The ceiling door protested with a rusty groan. Nadine climbed the steps to the turret.
The circular room was lit with a soft glow. This had once been the place where a woman would sit and watch the horizon for her husband’s–or son’s–ship to sail home after years at sea. As a child, Nadine dreamed of being the one on a boat, heading toward adventure and away from her lonely house.
She sat in the rocking chair by the bookcase, where Ann had loved to spend evenings reading. Outside the window, waves crashed to shore. Nadine knelt on the floor and ran her fingers over her mother’s books until she came to The Lying Days by Nadine Gordimer. On the back of the book was a picture of an elegant woman with gold hoop earrings and twinkling eyes. Ann had named Nadine for the author of her favorite book, a story of a South African girl trying to find her place in the world.
The book was scribbled in, a few pages folded down. Nadine opened it. On page 366, her mother had underlined, “I’m so happy where I am.” Nadine was surprised to find, when she read the book herself, that the narrator speaks this line on the eve of her departure to Europe. The narrator accepts “disillusion as a beginning rather than an end: the last and most enduring illusion.” But Ann had not underlined that realization.
“I guess I won’t get to see the whole world,” Ann had said in the hospital, her violet eyes luminous in her sunken face. “But you’ll see it for me, won’t you? Send postcards to me in heaven.” Nadine accompanied her mother to all the chemotherapy treatments, and grew to hate the chicken soup stench of the hospital, the sickly people, the useless fight against death.
“Is Mommy going to be okay?” Nadine asked her father the last, long night.
“Don’t ask questions,” said Jim hoarsely, “and I won’t have to lie to you.”
Nadine rubbed her tender wrist. She heard footsteps coming up the turret stairs, and dropped the book. A voice rose: “Nadine?” It was Lily, walking up with effort. When she appeared, she smiled. “I knew it,” she said.
“Hey,” said Nadine.
“Your dad called me,” said Lily. “He thought I might know where to find you.”
Nadine shoved the book back in its place, but Lily sat down heavily on the floor and said, “Nadine Gordimer?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” said Nadine.
“I’m not,” said Lily. “It’s freezing.”
Nadine sighed. “Fucking Gwen,” she said.
“She’s all right,” said Lily.
“Please,” said Nadine. “Have you seen the holiday outfits?”
“She means well,” said Lily.
“I just don’t belong here,” said Nadine. “I never have.”
“I’m here, though,” said Lily.
Nadine put her head on Lily’s shoulder. When Lily reached for her hand, their fingers laced together. They sat in silence, watching Vineyard Sound.
Eight
Nadine spent a sleepless night on Lily’s couch. Dennis, flushed from cans of Budweiser, had sat with his giant hands covering his knees and told Nadine which septic systems in town his company had installed. “And underneath the coffee shop?” he said. “Wait till you hear this, Nadine.”
One baby or another screamed all night long. By morning, Nadine was on the edge of a nervous breakdown. In a bathroom covered with celebrity magazines and plastic bath toys, she combed her hair with her fingers and tried to make a plan. She had to get back to her quiet apartment in Mexico City. Bo burst in and screamed, “Nadine going peep in the potty!”
“I’m going to need some time by myself,” said Nadine. “Okay, honey?”
“Nadine going poop in the potty!” cried Bo, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Without thinking, Nadine tried to push the door closed, but Bo’s fingers were in the way. He looked at his hand, stunned, and then began to wail.
“Oh, shit,” said Nadine. “I’m really sorry, Bo. Can this be a secret?”
Lily came upstairs, carrying a basket of clean laundry. She looked at Nadine quizzically, then put down the laundry and gathered Bo in her arms. Bo sobbed, “Nadine go peep in the potty! Nadine hurt me!”
Nadine stood and pulled up her pants. “Time for me to head on out,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Hank, as Nadine sat on an examining table in a borrowed T-shirt and jeans. “Did I hear you correctly? You want money for a bus ticket?”
“I need to get to Logan,” said Nadine, “and they don’t take credit cards at the bus station.”
Hank crossed his arms and leaned back against a counter lined with glass bottles of tongue depressors and Q-tips.
“Anyone going to meet you at the airport?” he asked.
“Sure, yes. I don’t need to remind you, Hank, but I am an adult.”
“I don’t need to remind you, Nadine, but I don’t have to give you bus fare.”
“Fine,” said Nadine, sliding off the table. She turned