Page 84 of Summer Light on Nantucket
“Hi, Mom.” She collapsed, letting the weight of her body fall on Blythe.
“How are you?”
“Okay. I cried so hard last night I vomited.”
“Oh, Miranda. You need to eat. Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Scrambled eggs with cheese, then.” Blythe lifted her small skillet onto the stove. She melted plenty of butter, broke open two eggs, stirred them, adding sprinkles of cheddar cheese and salt and pepper. When they were done, she set them in front of her daughter. “Eat.”
Miranda slumped forward. Listlessly, she lifted a forkful of eggs to her mouth. “Really good, Mom. Thank you.”
Blythe put two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster and set out the butter dish and the jar of Aunt Leah’s cranberry honey. Blythe spread the two pieces with butter and honey and put them in front of her daughter.
“I’m tired, Mom. I think I’ll go back to bed.”
“Miranda, wait. At least finish your eggs.”
Tears welled in Miranda’s eyes. “I can’t, Mommy. I just need to sleep.”
“One more bite,” Blythe coaxed, as if Miranda were four again and refusing her green beans.
Miranda took the smallest bite of eggs any human had ever eaten. She pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks, Mom.” She trudged back to the hall and up the stairs.
“You’re welcome,” Blythe said to the empty air.
Blythe had eaten the apple croissant this morning, which seemed eons ago. She ate the eggs and both pieces of toast and put the dishes in the dishwasher, then took a glass of iced coffee out to the porch.
Amazing, she thought, how summer had taken a nosedive. Celestein the hospital, Miranda’s heart broken, Bob and Teri keeping secrets from each other.
Restless, Blythe called Kate to ask how Celeste was.
Kate’s answer was brief. “No change. She’s sleeping.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Blythe said. She felt like returning to her own bed and sleeping until everyone was well again. But household chores never stopped, and today she was glad. As she scrubbed and vacuumed and loaded clothes into the washer and dryer, she felt optimistic, as if she was doing something to organize and heal life.
That afternoon, as she stretched out on the living room sofa, her phone pinged. It was Nick, puffing slightly.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m walking on the moors. I didn’t realize how extensive this area is. And how varied. I can stand anywhere and see beach grass and blueberry bushes and a carpet of wildflowers extending into the distance.”
“That’s beautiful, Nick. All the deer and rabbits must have come out to lie at your feet.”
“Why, yes, that’s true, and blue butterflies are landing on my shoulders.”
“Have you climbed to see Altar Rock?”
“I have. Quite a view.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m standing on a dirt road. Next to me is a kind of deer path through bushes, and I see water on the other side.”
“I think I know where you are, Nick.” Blythe sat up on the sofa, shoving cushions behind her. “Stoop down and go through the little tree tunnel and tell me what you see.”
“Okay, then.”
