Page 7 of The Dead of Summer

As night comes, so does the storm.

Sam and I hide in the upper den, where all the junk from my childhood seems to fascinate him.

He asks about every old board game and toy, and for almost an hour we sit captivated by the aquarium set into the bookshelf.

Predictably, Sam loves the tiny treasure chest that belches a constant stream of bubbles.

I explain all the fish to him, and the coral and anemones, and the snails that wipe away the algae like tiny bejeweled thumbs.

I make a mental note to thank Aunt Maddie for not killing it all while I was gone.

Downstairs the adults laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Eventually, hunger wins out, and we sneak down the back stairs to the kitchen to load up plates of pastry-enfolded meat pies (thank you, Mrs. Itani), cold macaroni and cheese, and cinnamon cookies still warm from someone’s oven.

We eat fast, then lie on the carpet in the ultramarine glow of the aquarium and watch the lightning flicker against the rain-spattered windows.

Sam gets quiet. I’m waiting for him to finally admit he’s bored, but instead he props himself up on his elbows, looks at me, and asks, “So it’s just you and your mom, huh? ”

I hate this question. The word just makes it sound like Gracie and I are incomplete, some kind of minimum family, when really it’s the opposite. We are more than enough for each other. Together, our world is so big that people come from all over just to rent a room in our lives.

Sam isn’t pitying me, though. He’s curious.

“I never knew my dad, if that’s what you’re asking.

Since forever, it’s been me and Gracie,” I say.

“But it’s also been Aunt Maddie, and Willy, and the drag queens, and everyone you met downstairs, and a million guests who have known me since I was a baby.

Growing up here was like being raised by an entire island. Everyone pitches in.”

“It sounds nice.” Sam sighs. “Really nice, actually.”

I hear the blue note of longing in Sam’s voice just in time to stop myself from asking about his own family. The way he looks at all the photos on the walls of Singing House, with such wide-eyed envy, I get the feeling he spends a lot of time alone.

Sam rolls onto his back. “Are you curious?” he asks.

A bold question. Of course I’m curious about my dad.

A fisherman, maybe? A musician passing through town?

I’ve had a million fantasies about fathers washing in and out of our life, but the dreams leave behind a sticky guilt.

It’s no wonder that now, beneath Sam’s innocent probing, I reach for Gracie’s well-worn story of my origin.

“My mom always said that her first and most formidable love affair was with the sea, and from that watery affair swept all sorts of treasures. The greatest of all being …”

“You?”

“So the legend goes.”

Even in the dark, I can see Sam grin at the cheesiness. “Why is everything so magical here?”

“It’s sickening. I know.”

Perfectly timed, the lightning dances through the clouds outside, and a soft rumble squeezes Sam and me closer on the rug.

Downstairs, someone is on the piano. Willy, I think, with “La vie en rose.” Sam’s pinkie reaches through the shag of the rug, toward mine.

I’m amazed to feel myself reaching back.

“Wait!” Sam jumps to his feet.

Oh no. Did I misread him? Did I mess it up?

“I owe your mom a song!”

Oh. I scamper after him down the hall, saying, “You really don’t have to! Honest. She says that to everyone.”

“Nonsense! I just realized what I want to play. It was my recital piece last year!”

“Really, I can drive you home whenever. The storm is just rain right now.”

I almost walk into his back as we hit the stairs. He spins around, a step below me, so we’re the same height.

“I like it here,” he says. “I like you, too.”

Then he dives ahead. My heart either isn’t beating or it’s fluttering so fast it’s gone hummingbird-invisible. This boy just left me stock- still and reeling. Below, the adults buzz as Gracie introduces Sam, and then comes a reverent silence as they await his song.

It begins with a D-sharp in double octaves, three times. I know the piece right away.

Sam has chosen Liszt’s “La campanella.” I grip the banister for dear life.

His hands make easy work of the complicated phrases, pulling out a whooooa from the adults.

I’m captivated, too. Somehow the song sweeps me right down the stairs and up against his back so I can watch his hands over his shoulder.

Too soon, it ends, and before I can think to run away, Sam declares through applause, “Now, if I might be so bold, I would like to hear Ollie play.”

Double shit. Before me, the golden light of the parlor spreads through upraised crystal cups.

Maddie’s got her phone out again, the flash on full brightness like a spotlight.

All eyes in the room widen, knowing what I used to be able to do.

It’s like staring down a galaxy of expectation.

I sit down. Now my heart stops for sure.

I can’t attempt something fast and impressive, like Sam, without ending up in a knot of knuckles.

And it’s out of the question to listen to the music of the moment, like when I was showing off for Sam with those seagulls.

I really, really don’t want to do this.

Then Gracie slides in next to me, sharing the bench, and whispers, “How about we play something together?”

Her hands sit poised next to mine on the keys.

We used to play duets all the time as a party trick.

It’s been forever, but Gracie isn’t daunted.

She starts with a twinkling introduction on the piano’s uppermost register, and the crowd coos with recognition.

She’s picked “Over the Rainbow.” The motif opens like an invitation, asking me to meet it with the melody, and I do.

Together we sail through the chorus. It’s not perfect and it doesn’t need to be.

In fact, I’m barely listening to the notes because, quite suddenly, I’m a little kid again, discovering the miracle of how close two people can be when they make music together.

And she’s not Gracie anymore. She’s my mom. And it’s just us and our piano.

And life is beautiful again.

It can’t last. It never does. A dream come true is still just a dream, and all dreams end.

The last time I sat at this piano and played this song with Gracie, I had no idea about how fast it could all fall apart, and how bad it could get.

Now I can’t help but look up at all these smiling faces—family, neighbors, friends—and wonder, Who is sick? Who is next?

“Ollie-baby?”

I’ve stopped playing. Gracie takes over, buttoning off the duet with an awkward smile as I hide my shaking hands in my lap.

She brushes her blue wig back, ready to roll to the next party trick, but then Aunt Maddie asks, “Say, Ollie, any word from those fancy conservatories your mom keeps telling us about?”

Triple shit , I think.

“Nothing yet,” I lie. My tongue is as dry as chalk.

“My friend’s daughter heard back from Boston Conservatory months ago,” Mrs. Itani says.

Gracie beams. “I’m sure we’ll hear soon. Ollie nailed that audition. Right, Ollie?”

“I …”

I always knew this moment would come, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Not with everyone here. Not with my mom still here.

She was never supposed to survive. That’s what the doctors said.

Facing down those never s in the hospital, it felt cruel to tell my mom I had failed my audition.

That I hadn’t even prepared. Why lock myself away to practice when I could be with her instead?

Why tell her that and ruin the little life she had left by letting her feel even a second of blame?

So I told her I nailed the audition. I lied, but it didn’t feel like lying. It felt like mercy.

I take a deep breath. I can’t hold on to this any longer.

“I’m not going.”

“To Boston Conservatory? I don’t blame you, just a bunch of rich kids, anyway. But, Ollie, I can’t believe you just turned down an offer without telling me, your mother! All right, spill the beans. Where are you going instead?”

“You don’t understand,” I say. “I didn’t go to any other auditions. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

The rain fills in the silence. Aunt Maddie’s camera light goes dark. Gracie’s face flickers between wounded blue, angry orange, and finally a scarlet shame. She glances at our spectators, and her plastic smile snaps back on.

“Well, don’t apologize to me . It’s not my dream you’re giving up on. But, baby? What happened?”

I can’t answer this question. Even if Gracie told all these townies she was sick, discussing it in front of a mainlander like Sam is unheard of.

All I can do is lie, but I’m all out of those, too.

My internal reaching only dredges up a molten core that’s been boiling in me all along, and out spews an inarticulate anger.

“You’re asking me what happened ? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gracie smooths over my outburst with a forced laugh. “Baby, I know it hasn’t been easy. God knows we’ve both been through it these past months. But life can’t always be beautiful beaches. I taught you that, right? What do I always say about hardships?”

I hang my head, humiliated. I finally find the courage to tell Gracie the truth, but it’s just going to be smothered under one of her catchy life lessons. Gracie gathers up my limp hands, squeezing my sweaty knuckles as she talks.

“Without pain, there is no real beauty. Think of the oyster, Ollie. Polish perfects it, but it’s the grit that makes the pearl, right?”

I am drowning in her vacant wisdom. I am burning from the inside out. My vision blurs with tears I don’t understand, because I’m not sad. I’m furious.

“I’m not a fucking oyster.”

A few people laugh, thinking the edge in my voice is a joke.

Gracie tries to pull her hands away from mine, but I hold on tight.

Fear snuffs out the sparkle in her eyes.

It’s like she doesn’t even recognize me, and why should she?

All my smiles are gone. Everyone wants me to be so happy, but I don’t know how anymore.

I said my goodbyes—to Singing House, to music in the night, the magic of eternal summer. To Gracie.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

I chipped my heart apart so it wouldn’t sink me into sorrow, but I wish someone had told me to save the pieces.

All I have now is this aching emptiness, and all the beauty around me is a constant reminder of what I can’t feel.

All this joy, all this dreaminess—I hate it.

I am not strong enough to polish my pain into beauty.

I am broken, and my mother holds the cold hands of a ruin.

“Oh, don’t be so literal, Ollie.” Gracie tries to pull her hands away again, and this time I let her go.

I want to just vanish, but there’s no ending this moment until she gets her point across.

Not to me, but to everyone watching. “It means that we make the most of bad things. Lemons to lemonade, grit to pearls. That’s who we are on this island, right? ”

The adults give awkward mumbles of encouragement. As my shame becomes a blistering heat across my face, Gracie glows like a saint. “Really, Ollie, all you need to do is look around. Look at all the love! Look at all the beauty—”

I nearly knock Gracie over as I squeeze out from behind the bench. People dart away from me as I try to rush from the parlor, but Gracie’s next words hit my back like daggers.

“Ollie, I don’t understand you anymore!”

“And that’s the fucking problem!” I squeeze my hands into fists, willing myself to just go, but I can’t. I know what I want to say, and either I say it now or never.

“I don’t need lemonade, and I don’t need your stupid pearls of wisdom. I need you to listen to me. I need my mom .”

If I turned around, what would I see? The woman who raised me, who taught me how to listen to all the songs people forget to hear? Or just some lady in a wig, talking down to the child we buried instead of her? I don’t turn around.

“But I’m right here, Ollie-baby.”

“Then why do you talk to me like you’re already dead?”

Even the rain pauses its falling. In the silence, I hear the bench creak, and footsteps approach me.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just that—”

The room goes bleach-bright as lightning hits, so close that the thunder rings in the crystal of the chandelier. The lamps surge, then sigh dark, leaving us standing in shadow.

“It’s a blackout,” Aunt Maddie says, announcing the obvious and sounding relieved. “The generators will kick in.”

They don’t. People search for candles, stepping around me like I’m a ghost. Gracie has vanished into the kitchen.

“Come on, Sam,” Willy says. “Party’s over. Looks like the rain has stopped for a bit. I’ll drive you home.”

“I’ll do it,” Mrs. Itani offers. “I should be home, anyway, and you’re staying somewhere in the dunes, right? That’s on my way. Willy, I think you need to stay.”

I should offer to go with Sam, or maybe press him to spend the night.

I should chase after Gracie and apologize.

Instead, I climb the stairs, back to the window nook, where I can watch Mrs. Itani drive off into the storm.

The lightning never returns after that. It stays on the horizon, flashing like cryptic signals.

Someone starts up at the piano again. Willy’s voice carries easily up the stairs.

“How about a classic? Gracie, get back in here.” He launches into a favorite.

“What’s Up,” by 4 Non Blondes. At first it’s unbearable, Willy and Gracie singing through the strange, dark moment I’ve created, but then I hear more voices joining theirs.

The song grows in strength, and soon it’s like I was never even there.

A few minutes later, the lamps all glow back to life.

I wander up through Singing House, to our apartment on the top floor. I don’t turn on any lights. Lying on my bed, the fight repeats itself in my ears, over and over, until the words are gone and it’s only a reverberating, fathomless guilt.

Tomorrow, I will apologize.

Tomorrow, I will be a ray of fucking sunshine.

Tomorrow, I will let the best summer ever finally begin.