Page 2 of The Dead of Summer

Anchor’s Mercy is, scientifically speaking, cursed.

During field trips to the island’s oceanographic studies institute, we learned about the peculiar currents and winds that wreath it, making it perilous to sail to and even harder to escape.

The result is a rather gruesome history of maritime mayhem.

Deep below the waves, rocking in a timeless dark, the ocean floor bristles with shipwrecks that never seem to settle.

Without their ships, the ghosts of sailors and captains roam the waves as restless fog.

The name they gave our island—Anchor’s Mercy—has made it clear that in these dark waters, there’s simply nowhere else to go.

I don’t know about all that, but the weather part is definitely true.

Always, always, always, the island hides in an ethereal haze.

It tingles in my eyelashes as Gracie rushes me to the boat’s bow, now mobbed with people trying to get the perfect picture as the island appears to rise out of the sea itself.

I try to pull Gracie back (we were told to avoid crowds because of her weak immune system), but she shoves right through a gaggle of women swarming the railing.

One of them—dressed all in white—is screaming.

“There was a whale , Dakota. You made me miss a fucking whale ! This is not the start of my special weekend I had in mind.”

She’s wearing a pink sash that says brIDE TO BE in bold black letters, and she’s yelling at a wobbly redhead in too-high heels.

The redhead—poor Dakota—scuttles after with at least five drinks clutched in her hands and a look of terrified enthusiasm frozen to her face.

Dakota wears a sash, too. It says MAID OF DISHONOR .

I insert myself as a buffer between the bachelorette party and Gracie, who holds on to her wig and leans dangerously over the railing like she means to sip the ocean spray.

If Sam followed us, he’s lost somewhere in the crowd, and I decide to let him go.

The next moment is just for me and my mom.

As is our tradition, Gracie and I take turns pointing out our favorite sights.

The iconic water tower, of course, looming like an alien balloon over the town.

The old wharf building with all its pretty flags.

The steeple of the library tucked into the taffy-colored houses.

The dunes softening the southern edge. The lighthouse floating closer. The bristle of boats bobbing between.

“It’s all still there.” Gracie’s eyes brim with tears, like she expected it to wash away.

Frankly, I’m just as surprised. My memories of this place have sunk into a part of my mind I never realized was so dark, and now I can feel them rising up, twisted and ruined. A perfectly timed chill gusts over us.

“It’s getting rocky. I think that storm we saw on the news is coming?”

I’ve got my eye on the dark clouds bruising the southern sky, which the news has named Tropical Storm Raquel.

How glamorous. It’s been a stormy storm season, and I secretly prayed Raquel would delay our return, but she did the opposite.

Gracie abandoned all our stuff in a moving van scheduled for the later ferry so that we could take this one before the coast guard put out their storm warning and halted boat traffic yet again.

Her plan worked. We made the last ferry out, a day ahead of schedule, with nothing but suitcases.

“Aww, since when is my Ollie-baby afraid of a little stormy weather?”

I brush away her hand as she tries to cup my chin. I know that pensive look. I know she’s about to give me one of her dumb life-lesson phrases.

“You know what they say, Ollie. The bigger the storm, the wider the rainbow. Always remember that.”

There it is. A Gracie original. I force my scowl into a smile. To a stranger, I’m sure this seems like a nice moment between mom and son.

It’s something entirely different to me.

Growing up, my mom had a little language of sayings.

A secret is a breath you ask another to hold.

Never cry for fun.

Polish perfects it, but it’s the grit that makes the pearl .

We called these gracioms , like idioms combined with her name.

I, and anyone who knew her, could anticipate with near psychic accuracy when she’d say a graciom—and which one.

It was just the way she talked. At the same time, she resented all clich é s that were not her own.

If anyone—even a guest at Singing House—ever dared say It is what it is , Gracie would stop everything just to back them into a corner and demand they answer her.

But what is it, actually? Say it. Say what you mean!

I asked her once what the difference was between a graciom and a clich é .

She thought about it for only a few seconds before telling me, Well, Ollie-baby, the difference is I’m saying the truth, and those wannabe wisdoms are saying nothing at all .

And she was right. My mom’s sayings always meant something true, whereas the other adults I knew used clich é s to make sure nothing true ever got said.

This was clearest to me at the fundraisers in the offseason.

On Anchor’s Mercy, there is always a fundraiser for someone in the offseason.

A lot of funerals, too. My mom and I contributed our piano playing—sometimes organ playing, if the guest of honor was already done up in a casket or an urn at the front of the party—and then stuck around to help clean up.

It is what it is , the adults would sigh into their drinks before toasting to another townie lost to some vague ailment, leaving me to wonder: But what is it, actually?

I knew better than to ask my mom. On Anchor’s Mercy, you’re not supposed to notice how often people get sick, how quickly they die, or how ready the island is to move on without them.

What you don’t look at can’t see you. It was like playing peekaboo with god.

For a while this worked, and we were spared. Then we weren’t.

When Gracie got sick, all her heart and humor hissed like coals smothered in wet sand.

She vanished into shame. She forbade a fundraiser of her own.

We left Anchor’s Mercy, we left everyone.

I understood without asking why I couldn’t tell my friends what was happening, and why no one would visit us on the mainland.

I also understood her long silences, which sometimes swallowed entire days.

Words always mattered to my mother, and some days were too hard or sad to dignify with small talk.

She was dying and she was angry. You can’t talk back to death when it’s already in your bones.

There was nothing to say but goodbye. Together, we were waiting for her end.

But she didn’t die! Her chemo worked, and bit by bit she climbed back to life.

But she came back … different. Hijacked by this born-anew Gracie hell-bent on positivity, and second chances, and joie de vivre, whatever the fuck that is.

And Gracie loved clich é s. Not the handcrafted gracioms, but the generic kind you see in home decor stores.

Quickly, our apartment was crowded with loud, jazzy decorations shouting positivity at me.

LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE.

IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE.

GOOD VIBES ONLY!

The clich é s became inescapable. And then, to my horror, the positivity spread into Gracie’s own personal vocabulary.

Salt water is good for the soul , she said to my academic advisor when they expressed concerns about me moving back to Anchor’s Mercy after only one year on the mainland.

I’d barely made any new friends, and the ones I had back on Anchor’s Mercy hated me.

I told Gracie and she said, The only ship that’s ever unsunk is the friendship!

And then there was her new favorite: My blood type is sea positive.

Gracie liked to trot this one out at least once a day, to a barista or a waitress.

She even said it to Dr. Rosen, her oncologist, at our final visit.

Dr. Rosen’s face had clenched like a fist before forcing a smile as she said, Your island sounds lovely, but if something happens, it’s a big ocean between us.

I really would just feel more comfortable if you remained in Portland.

But Gracie’s mind was made up. No argument was any match for her brand-new, bulletproof philosophies. I had my doubts, my fears, my anxieties, but I knew none of it mattered. It was what it was.

We were going home.

You know what they say, Ollie. The bigger the storm, the wider the rainbow. Always remember that.

Gracie settles her shining eyes on me, willing me to absorb this pearl of wisdom alongside all the other pearls she’s choked me with. I feel myself try to smile, but instead I snap.

“You know, just because there’s a rainbow after the storm doesn’t change the fact that a big fucking storm is coming. A rainbow’s no good if we drown.”

Gracie scoffs. “So negative! You know, I worry about you sometimes. Always brooding. Can’t you stay positive? Focus on the beauty of life? For me?”

As if I’m not in a constant state of enforced positivity.

For her! I bite back on my argument, tasting the pointlessness.

I’m being horrible and I know it. So what if my mom’s got a few canned catchphrases?

Why can’t I mimic her good moods? Instead, my insides match the ugly, angry storm churning on the horizon, and if I don’t get it together, I’ll darken everyone’s skies. I smile through it.

“Sorry. You’re right. It’s beautiful.”

Gulls circle the deck, crying for chips and french fries left out by the passengers. I focus on their cries, my hand hovering over the invisible keyboard before me on the railing until I find the note. C-sharp. I press it again and again, until Gracie’s hand closes over mine.

“It’s okay to be nervous. I am, too.”

For a second, Gracie isn’t Gracie. She sounds like my mom again.

“You’re nervous?”

“Like a worm on a hook. What about you?”