SATURDAY
THE SECOND DAY
MARGOT
With wet hair, I descend the back stairwell of Stars Harbor. At the bottom, I run my hand along the painted wall, searching for the door to the storage space underneath. A nostalgic touchstone, it’s the one closed-off area I don’t mind invading in any new location. This morning, there’s no one around to bother me.
The small square entryway isn’t obvious. It’s painted the same color as the wall and there’s no frame. I press my palm flat and pop the door open. With a creak, I swing it open and look inside. There are books shoved in a corner, overflow from the library. There are also cleaning supplies and extra towels and linens. The space smells like my childhood.
I hear Farah and Aimee giggling down the front room staircase, so I quietly press the door shut. I sneak up the back stairs to avoid them. In my suite, Ted is out of the shower.
“I slept terribly. How about you?” I ask.
Ted shrugs. “I don’t think I moved once. What was keeping you up?”
“I fell asleep quickly, but I woke up around midnight when I thought I heard voices outside, and then again at three a.m. I heard noises from above.”
“Maybe raccoons in the attic. Remember when that mother took up shelter in our beach house to give birth? It sounded like they’d come through the walls.”
Ted’s not wrong, but he’s focused on the wrong thing. “I probably couldn’t sleep because I’m worried about Adam.”
“He seemed fine to me yesterday, but he’s bailing on golf this morning,” Ted says.
When Adam started missing the occasional Wednesday night dinner, I’d been disappointed, but not worried. When he was a no-show at Clara’s ballet recital last month, both Aimee and I covered for him, telling her that he was there but she couldn’t see him in the dark. Not a high point, lying to my own defenseless niece, but when we got home it was worse. Adam was sitting on the couch, beer in one hand, the other down his pants.
Adam has always been prone to depression, and I think it’s because he lives mostly in a fantasy world as a writer. Compounded by the fact that he writes under a pseudonym, which means no one knows who he is. It’s like all his success exists only in his own head. At school functions and dinner parties, the question of his career ends with the lackluster grunt of “Writer.” Meanwhile, in reality, his novels have sold millions of copies.
“It’s this deadline. He doesn’t know when to ask for help,” I say.
Ted sighs and retreats to the bathroom while I cuddle up under the sheets again wishing I could start the day over. For the most part, Ted chooses to stay out of things with me and Adam, but occasionally he likes to offer a “gentle reminder” that maybe I get a little too wrapped up in my brother’s life. When Ted emerges from the bathroom dressed in his golf shirt, he slides his wallet off the dresser and into the back pocket of his shorts.
“I think you might be projecting a bit?” he says.
“Fine, that’s fair. But Adam doesn’t always see the big picture clearly. He needs my perspective whether he wants it or not.”
Ted sits down on the bed next to me. “I want you to take care of yourself before him for once. You are carrying a lot. Trying to create life.”
He smooths the sheet over my stomach and kisses my belly button. I smile, but part of me wants to remind him that there’s nothing I can “do” when “trying to create life.” It’s the worst feeling in the world. Helplessness. I consider reminding him that as of this morning I’m officially two days late, but I hold on to that to discuss with Rini, hoping she’ll give me something more concrete to share.
I hear the back door open beneath our open balcony, and I check the time. Speak of the devil.
“That’s probably Rini with our astro-smoothies, ready to kick off this morning’s readings,” I tell Ted. We walk down the stairs hand in hand. Ted peels off toward Rick, who is waiting for him with their clubs in the entryway.
“Still no Joe?” I mouth. Ted shakes his head.
I head toward the back of the house, but there’s no sign of Rini in the kitchen. Aimee and Farah plan their day at the bistro table in the corner. I offer a polite “Good morning” before pouring myself a mug of coffee and getting ready to sprint out of the room.
“Anyone else awoken by strange noises in the night?” Farah asks.
“I was just saying this to Ted.”
“I heard crying,” Aimee says.
Rini enters through the French doors then, a silver tray of brightly colored smoothies in her hands.
“These are so pretty,” Aimee exclaims.
Eden joins from outside.
“I saw you walk by with these and I was intrigued,” Eden says.
“There’s one for each of you, prepared to suit your astrological sun sign,” Rini says, placing the descriptive cards in a line along the table next to the tray.
“Is this almond milk?” Eden brings the glass to her nose.
Rini passes a description card to each of us and tents the others in front of their smoothies for the guests not here. I scan the tropical ingredients in the Pisces smoothie.
“I can’t have pineapple,” I say.
“Oh? I noted there were no food allergies on your booking questionnaire,” Rini says.
“I assumed that was for life-threatening allergies, like shellfish or tree nuts. I’m not going to die or anything.”
“Does it give you a migraine?” Farah asks.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“The tyramine in pineapple can overpower the anti-inflammatory properties of the bromelain. Happens to about fifteen percent of my patients during pregnancy.”
