Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [37]
I know this because come Labor Day weekend, I’m sitting on the back deck of Megan and Tyler’s beach house on the Jersey shore, rolling the nutty taste of an Amstel over my tongue, and rocking on her wooden white porch swing while watching Jack and Tyler toss the football through the thundering ocean waves. I know this because six years ago, while I was here, Jack wasn’t. He was invited, yes, but I drove down without him when we’d become embroiled in yet another fight over his writing, or perhaps more accurately, his future.
“Stop trying to push me!” he screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “I get it from my mom, I get it from you, I’m getting it from both ends. Jesus Christ! I’m writing when I can, and just stop!”
“So now you’re lumping me with your mother?” I yelled back. “Because I thought that your stupid fucking novel made you happy! I thought I was doing you a favor by suggesting that maybe you blow off a night out with your friends to stay home and work on it!” I paced the living room floor behind our (goddamn) couch.
“It does make me happy. It’s the pressure that doesn’t! So stop! Just fucking stop!”
“Fine,” I said flatly. “Send a memo to your mother because I was just trying to please you both.” Which maybe wasn’t true, when I thought about it now. I never tried to please Vivian, really, but I figured that saying that I did might score me points. What I truly hoped for, much more than pleasing Vivian, was that Jack might come into his own, stop muddling around at a job he took only because it was offered to him, stop wading around his late twenties like he was still in his early twenties.
And then Jack slammed the door and walked out, and I, relieved at both the silence and his absence, escaped to Meg’s summer house in the rental car.
This time, when Jack muttered that he really probably maybe should get some writing done soon, I merely smiled and curled my hand around his cheek, assuring him that he would write when he was inspired to and not to force something that wasn’t yet ready to come. He nodded, kissed my forehead, and soon enough, we were roaring down the highway to the shore. Does it feel like too much? Not yet, no not yet. Jack was still so easy, I told myself. It’s better than the alternative, surely, it is better than that.
This afternoon, Meg brought me another beer, but skipped one for herself.
“Not drinking?” I ask.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she says. “It’s a precautionary measure. I won’t know for another week. I can’t risk doing any damage right now.” I saw her visibly shudder, as if exorcising some sort of shadow that nevertheless slithered within her.
“Meg,” I say and place my hand on her arm, “you know that the miscarriage wasn’t about anything that you did. The doctor couldn’t have been more clear about this.”
“Can’t be too cautious.” She shrugs and sucks down a sip of lemonade.
“You sure you don’t need to talk about this? About what you’re dealing with?” I ask her again, just like I’ve asked her a dozen times since our emergency trip to the hospital. Just like I ask her every time I hear that tiny sliver of hope fill her voice.
“No,” she shakes her head. “I’m fine. It happens. It sucks. But I’m fine.”
I start to say something else, but chew the inside of my lip instead. I still haven’t quite adjusted to having Meg here, alive and thriving, even if emotionally, she’s wilting, curling at the edges like a piece of lettuce left in the fridge too long. So I tread lightly, not wanting to mar the incredible good fortune that comes with rediscovering a friend whom you had once lost. Permanently so.
A family of five and their golden retriever walk by, plopping down in the sand just to the right of the deck and spreading their blanket for an early-dinner picnic. The wind keeps sailing the blanket aloft, so the youngest, a redhead who couldn’t have been more than eight, runs around to each side