Fifteenth Summer Read online

  Depending on the year the photo was taken, Granly’s hair was either closely cropped or sproinging out wildly, but it was always the exact same glinting-penny red as mine. That’s because when I was little, Granly snipped a lock of my hair and took it to her hairdresser.

  “Nobody could get the color right until you came along,” she told me after one of her triumphant trips to her salon. “Now I have the same hair I had when I was a girl. You should save some of your hair for you to use when you’re old and gray like me. Red hair is really difficult, Chels.”

  “It is difficult,” I agreed with a sigh. Of course, I’d meant it in a different way. I hated that my hair was as bright as a stoplight. I cringed when people assumed I had a fiery temper or was as hilarious as an I Love Lucy episode. And I resented Granly’s Anne of Green Gables law (that law being that a redhead in pink was an abomination and completely undeserving of gentleman suitors).

  So I kept my hair long, the better to pull it back into a tight, low ponytail or bun. And if I fell for a coral shift dress or peppermint-colored circle skirt at one of my favorite vintage shops, I bought it—Anne Shirley be damned.

  Before Granly died, my hair had felt simply like an inconvenience, like being short or needing glasses. But now it seemed like this precious legacy, one I wasn’t worthy of.

  Thinking about this in the backseat of the car made me feel short of breath—not from carsickness but from panic.

  To put it as bluntly as my dad had that morning in January, Granly’s death had freaked me out. I knew that she was gone. I knew she was never again going to call me just to tell me some random, funny three-minute story. I knew that we’d never again pick her and her enormous, bright green suitcase up at the airport.

  I knew this, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. It just didn’t feel possible that someone could exist and then—poof—not.

  That was why I hadn’t wanted to look at Granly in her casket before her graveside funeral service.

  And it was why I really didn’t want to spend this summer in Bluepointe.

  We’d never stayed at Granly’s cottage without her. The cottage was Granly.

  When I was little, Granly had also had an apartment in Chicago. That’s where my mother grew up, spending weekends and summers at the cottage.

  Granly’s apartment had been filled with masculine mementos of my grandfather, who’d died before I was born. There’d been a big leather desk chair and serious Persian rugs and a half-empty armoire that had smelled like wood and citrus, like men’s aftershave.

  But Granly had decorated the cottage all for herself, and eventually she’d decided to live there full-time. The walls were butter yellow and pale blue, and the floorboards were bleached and pickled, as if they’d been made of driftwood. Every wall was a gallery of picture frames. She’d hung the same family portraits that we had in our house in LA, plus oil paintings, nudes drawn with breathy wisps of red Conté crayon, arty black-and-white photos, and, in the breakfast room, paint-blobbed kindergarten artwork by Hannah, Abbie, and me. She’d picked the fanciest frames of all for our “masterpieces.” It was a gesture that had seemed kind of goofy when Granly was alive. Now that she wasn’t, I cried every time I thought about her framing those sloppy paintings.

  But apparently I was the only one who felt that way. My parents spent most of the drive through Nebraska debating whether to keep or sell the cottage, as if the decision should be made purely on the basis of property taxes and the cost of a new roof.

  And when we were deep in Iowa, Hannah gazed out at the wall of cornstalks that edged the highway, and laughed suddenly.

  “Remember Granly’s garden?” she said.

  “You mean the petting zoo?” Abbie replied with a laugh of her own. “Oh my God, it was like Granly sent engraved invitations to every deer and rabbit within a five-mile radius. ‘Come eat my heirloom radishes!’ They loved it.”

  “Well, it was her own fault,” my dad said from the front seat. “She refused to build a fence or use any of those deer deterrents.”

  “Coyote pee!” Abbie snorted. “I mean, can you imagine Granly out there in her Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, spraying the stepping stones with coyote pee?”

  “She wouldn’t admit it, but you know she loved watching those deer walk by her window every morning. They were so pretty,” Hannah said. “She didn’t even like radishes. She just liked the idea of pulling them up and putting them in a pretty basket.”

  My mom shook her head and laughed a little. “That was so Granly.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said quietly. “I didn’t know Granly hated radishes. How did I not know that?”

  Hannah shrugged lightly, then closed her eyes and flopped her head back. Clearly the subject of Granly’s radishes didn’t make her the slightest bit sad.

  Meanwhile I was biting my lip to keep myself from bursting into tears.

  I knew this was what we were supposed to do. We were supposed to talk about Granly and “keep her memory alive.” Mrs. Berke had said that to me after Granly’s funeral, before giving me an uncomfortable, hairspray-scented hug.

  I didn’t want to forget Granly, but I didn’t really want to think about her either. Every time I did, I felt claustrophobic, the same way I feel every time I get on an elevator.

  It’s a well-known fact in my family that I’m a mess on an elevator. My ears fill with static. I clench my fists, take shallow breaths, and stare intently at the doors until they open. When they do, I’m always the first one off. Then I have to inhale deeply for a few seconds before resuming normal human functioning.

  I wondered if this whole summer in Bluepointe would feel like that. Without Granly there, would I ever be able to take that deep breath and move on?

  We spent most of Illinois in silence because we were so hot. And cranky. And completely sick of each other. Hannah had even consented to skipping the Ojibwa museum in favor of just getting to Bluepointe—and out of the car—as soon as possible.

  Just when I started contemplating something seriously drastic—like borrowing my mother’s needlepoint—we began to follow the long, lazy curve around Lake Michigan. We couldn’t see the lake from the expressway, but we could feel it there, waiting to welcome us back.

  I’d always preferred Lake Michigan to the ocean. I liked that it was a moody, murky green. I liked that it was so big that the moon mistook it for an ocean, which meant it had waves. But not loud, show-offy Pacific Ocean–type waves. Just steady, soothing, unassuming undulations that you could float in for hours without feeling oversalted and beaten. Lake Michigan was like the ocean’s underdog.

  As we drove through Gary, Indiana, which was riddled with paper mills that spewed sulfurous plumes of smoke, I daydreamed about jumping into the lake. It would wash away the ickiness of too many fast-food french fries and too many gas station restrooms.

  I pulled a pen and a little notepad out of my backpack. Lethargically I flipped past page after scribbled-on page until I found a blank one.

  Gary, Indiana, I wrote in green ballpoint. Our motto is, “The Smell of Rotten Eggs Is Character-Building!”

  What’s it like to live with that smell in your pores, your tears, your breath? What’s it like to smell a smell so much that you don’t smell it anymore? But then you take a trip. You go to Chicago for the weekend. You go camping in the woods. You go to summer camp in Iowa, where the air smells like fresh corn. And you come back and realize that your hair, your clothes, the sheets on your bed, you, smell like Gary, Indiana.

  I flipped my notebook closed and tossed it back into my pack. Then I breathed through my mouth until we reached Michigan.

  Finally we pulled up in front of Granly’s squat, shingled house on Sparrow Road and all limped out of the car. As my sisters groaned and stretched, I was stunned by the sudden wave of happiness that washed over me. The air smelled distinctly Bluepointe-ish—heavy and sweet with flowers, and pine needles, and the clean aftertaste of the two-blocks-away lake.

  I trom
ped up the pea gravel drive to the screened-in front porch, where everything looked just the same as it always had. It was neatly furnished with deep-seated wicker rockers and a couch, lots of glass lanterns, and a big bowl full of shells from the lake.

  My mom, already in to-do mode, bounced a big roller suitcase up the steps and joined me in the screened porch. She gave me a big grin before turning the knob of the front door.

  It didn’t turn.

  It was locked.

  Of course it was. My parents had probably locked the house up after the funeral. It made sense.

  Mom shook her head and grinned at me again, but this time her smile was tight and her eyes looked a little shiny. She fumbled with her key chain for a moment before finding the right key.

  Even though part of me didn’t want to go into the cottage, I took a deep breath and went to stand next to my mom at the door. I pressed the side of my arm lightly against hers as she unlocked it.

  Maybe it’s mean to say, but it kind of helped me to realize that my mom might be in even more agony than I was at that moment, that she needed my support as much as I needed hers.

  Mom opened the door, and I followed her in.

  The air in the cottage felt still and stale, so my mom briskly started opening windows. I rolled her suitcase to the tiny bedroom my parents always used, then wandered back to the living room up front. I let my eyes skim over the framed watercolors of beach scenes and cozy cabins. I peered at the crowd of family photos on the mantel. I kicked off my flip-flops and padded across the nubbly braided rag rug and . . . continued to feel surprisingly okay!

  Outside, Hannah was struggling to pull a big bag of shoes out of the back of the car, while Abbie lurched toward the house, dragging another suitcase behind her.

  She spotted me through the open door and scowled.

  “Why are we doing all the unpacking while you just stand there?” she said. “You’re not allowed to crack one book until you’ve helped us unload.”

  I stomped to the screen door and said, “You’re not the boss of me.” Which made me feel about ten years old. But it was true! I couldn’t not say it.

  I also couldn’t get away without helping, so I shuffled my feet back into my flip-flops and began hauling stuff from the car to the cottage.

  I think we were all glad for the distracting bustle of unpacking. While Mom organized dry goods in the kitchen and Dad lined our beach shoes up on the screened porch, Abbie, Hannah, and I crammed into our room. Abbie and I were in the bunk beds, and Hannah had the twin bed near the window, with the slightly faded flower curtains Granly had bought at a local antiques shop.

  “It’s nice to be here,” Hannah said, sounding as surprised as I felt.

  “Well, yeah!” Abbie said. “Thirty hours in that car plus two nights in icky motels. It’s cruel and inhumane, if you ask me.”

  “That’s not what she meant,” I said, frowning at Abbie.

  Abbie looked down at her feet.

  “I know what she meant,” she said quietly.

  That also made me feel better. So I hadn’t been the only one freaking out about coming to the cottage. And I wasn’t the only one feeling half-guilty, half-happy to be here.

  I headed to the kitchen to see if Mom had unpacked the bread and peanut butter yet. As I passed through the breakfast room, my gaze fell on the shelves holding Granly’s egg cup collection.

  Some people collect silver spoons or snow globes. Granly collected egg cups. Egg cups in graduated sizes painted like Matryoshka dolls. Egg cups shaped like rabbits, guinea pigs, and a mama kangaroo. (The egg sat in her pouch.) Egg cups made out of jade-colored glass and crackle-glazed ceramic and whittled wood.

  Granly and I had had a breakfast ritual. She would boil water and put white bread in the toaster while I pondered the hundred or so egg cups. I would agonize over the choices. Did I want the shiny blue striped cup or the minimalist white one with the funny mustache? The cup bedazzled with pink jewels (always a popular choice, especially during my tween years) or the one made of hammered pewter?

  By the time I’d made my decision, Granly would have fished our eggs out of the water and cut our buttered toast into narrow strips.

  Then, pretending we were in a Jane Austen novel, we’d carefully tap, tap, tap the caps off our shells with tiny teaspoons and scoop the egg out in tiny bites, occasionally dipping our buttery toast strips into the yolk.

  The secret I never told anyone was this: I did not like soft-boiled eggs. They were jiggly and runny in a way that made my stomach turn just a little bit. But I ate them with Granly (and with lots and lots of toast) because I loved the ritual of it. And I loved the just-us-ness of it. (Abbie and Hannah had made no secret of their loathing for soft-boiled eggs, so they never joined us.)

  And, of course, I loved those egg cups, just as much as Granly did.

  Looking at them now, I tried to remember which one Granly had bought on her trip to Moscow, and which was from Norway. Had Grandpa given her the Make Way for Ducklings cups for their anniversary or her birthday? Which had been her favorite?

  My answer to each of these questions was, I don’t know.

  And now, I realized as tears began to roll down my cheeks, I never would.

  I turned abruptly and headed for the back door. I slammed through it, swiping the tears from my face.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Granly’s vegetable garden. It looked awful—so overgrown with weeds that I could barely see the neat brick border. The laminated signs Granly had made—TOMATOES, CUKES, SQUASH—had faded and tipped over.

  I quickly turned away from the garden. That put me on the stepping stones, which led me to the road. A left turn would take me to the lake—a right, to town. And even though diving into the lake might have felt delicious, at that moment there was something else I needed even more.

  I turned to the right.

  “Uh, Chels?” my dad called from the screened porch. “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m going to the library,” I announced, hoping he couldn’t hear the choke in my voice. “You didn’t let me bring my books, and . . . and I need some.”

  My dad cocked his head and gave me a long look. I saw him lean toward the front steps, on the verge of coming over. If he did, he’d be close enough to see my pink-rimmed eyes and to say those dreaded words: “Want to talk about it?”

  But here’s the thing about my dad.

  He may not get that his bad puns are really, really bad.

  He may not understand that showing up somewhere in the right outfit is much more important than showing up on time.

  But the guy lives with four women, and he knows when one of them needs to be left alone.

  So he waved me off and said, “Be back before six. I’m cooking tonight.”

  I felt myself choke up again, partly because I was grateful to my dad and partly because I’d just pictured Granly’s chair in the dining room.

  How could I possibly eat next to Granly’s empty chair?

  At the moment it didn’t seem to be an important question. Thinking about those soft-boiled eggs had killed my appetite.

  A mile later I stood in front of the Bluepointe Public Library, sighing wearily.

  I’d been coming to this library since I was a kid, but every summer it was freshly disappointing.

  I wanted all libraries to be made of ivy-covered stone bricks, with tall, arched windows and creaky wooden floorboards. I wanted quiet, romantic staircases and window seats where you could read all day.

  Bluepointe’s library had none of these things. It was a squat single story, and it was made of sand-colored concrete that left scratches on your skin if you brushed up against it. The floors were covered in forest-green carpeting.

  But the worst part about this library was its hours, in that there were hardly any of them. The place seemed to be open about four hours each morning. This being the afternoon, it was locked up tight.

  I shoved my hands into the pockets of my cutoffs and found a couple scr
aps of paper I’d scribbled on in the car, as well as a wad of crumpled dollar bills that I’d forgotten about. I’d stuffed the money into my pocket that morning, thinking I’d want it for snacks on the road. But there are only so many stale corn nuts a girl can take, so I’d never used it.

  I decided that if I couldn’t get myself a book, at least I could get something cold to drink. The wooded road that led from the cottage to town had been shady and breezy, but now the sun felt scorchingly strong.

  I headed for Main Street.

  This was the one part of Bluepointe that looked just like it should. The storefronts all had big plate-glass windows and striped awnings, and above them were loft apartments owned by artists who hung burlap curtains in the windows and made sure everyone had a good view of their easels.

  The first shop I passed was Ben Franklin, a this-and-that store that sold dusty stuff that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, like quilting supplies and shower caps and rainbow-colored glue that you could blow into balloons with a little red straw.

  I smiled at the inflatable rafts, buckets, and shovels in the window. The store had the exact same display every summer. Each year it just grew more yellowed and saggy.

  I also loved Estelle’s, the art gallery a few doors down.

  All the artists in town sold their stuff at Estelle’s, except for the rotating roster of people that Estelle had decided to feud with. That was her thing. She loved to throw people out of the gallery, shaking her fist at them and making a big scene.

  Today on the sidewalk in front of Estelle’s, I spotted the Pop Guy and his gleaming silver freezer on wheels, complete with a rainbow-striped beach umbrella.

  Unlike the Bluepointe librarians, the Pop Guy was always around. His frozen pops were famous for sounding weird but turning out to be delicious.

  Perfect. By then I was parched.

  But when I alighted in front of the Pop Guy’s chalkboard menu, my heart sank a little bit.