SUMMER SEVENTEEN XIX

A GIANT WIELDS a rusty saw. He gloats and hums as he works, slicing through my forehead and into the mind behind it.

                I have less than four weeks to find out the truth.

                Grandad calls me Tiffany.

                The twins are stealing sleeping pills and diamond earrings.

                Mummy argues with the aunts over the Boston house.

                Bess hates Cuddledown.

                Carrie roams the island at night.

                Hyo has bad dreams.

                Tae is Heathcliff.

                Tae thinks I don’t know her.

                And maybe she is right.

                I take pills. Drink water. The room is dark.

                Mummy stands in the doorway, watching me. I do not speak to her.

                I am in bed for two days. Every now and then the sharp pain wanes to an ache. Then, I am alone, I sit up and write on the cluster of notes above my bed. Questions more than answers.

                The morning I feel better, Grandad comes over to Windemere early. He’s wearing white linen pants and a blue sport jacket. I am in shorts and a T-shirt, throwing for the dogs in the yard. Mummy is already up at New Clairmont.

                “I’m heading to Edgartown,” Grandad says, scratching Bosh’s ears. “You wanna come? If you don’t mind an old’s man company?”

                “I don’t know,” I joke. “I’m so busy with these spit-covered tennis balls. Could be all day.”

                “I’ll take you to the bookstore, Jessica. Buy you presents like I used to.”

                “How about fudge?”

                He laughs. “Sure, fudge.”

                “Did Mummy put you up to this?”

                “No.” he scratches his tufty white hair. “But Bess doesn’t want me driving the motorboat alone. She says I could get disoriented.”

                “I’m not allowed to drive, either.”   

                “I know,” he says, holding up the keys. “But Bess and Sara aren’t boss here. I am.”

EDGARTOWN IS A nautical, sweetie-pie village on Martha’s Vineyard. It takes twenty minutes to get there. It’s all white picket fences and white wooden homes with flowery yards. Shops sell tourist stuff, ice cream, pricey clothes, antique jewelry. Boats leave from the harbour for fishing trips and scenic cruises.

                Grandad seems like his old self. He’s tossing money around. Treats me to espresso and croissants at a little bakery with stools by a window, then tries to buy me books at the Edgartown bookshop. When I refuse the gift, he shakes his head at my giveaway project but doesn’t lecture. Instead he asks for my help picking out presents for the littles and a floral design book for Ginny, the housekeeper. We place a big order at Murdick’s Fudge: chocolate, chocolate walnut, peanut butter, and penuche.

                Browsing in one of the art galleries, we run into Grandad’s lawyer, a narrow, graying fellow named Richard Thatcher. “So this is Jessica the first,” says Thatcher, shaking my hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

                “He does the estate,” says Grandad, by way of explanation.

                “First grandchild,” Thatcher says. “There’s never anything to match that feeling.”

                “She’s got a great head on her shoulders, too,” Grandad says. “A Jung through and through.”

                This speaking in stock phrases, he has always done it. “Never complain, never explain.” “Don’t take no for an answer.” But it grates when he’s using them about me. A good head on my shoulders? My actual head is ing broken in countless medically diagnosed ways – and half of me comes from the unfaithful Eastman side of the family. I am not going to college next year; I’ve given up all the sports I used to do and clubs I used to be part of; I’m high on Percocet half the time and I’m not even nice to my little cousins.

                Still, Grandad’s face is glowing as he talks about me, and at least today he knows I’m not Tiffany.

                “She looks like you,” says Thatcher.

                “Doesn’t she? Except she’s good looking.”   

                “Thank you,” I say. “But if you want the full resemblance I have to tuft up my hair.”

                This makes Grandad smile. “It’s from the boat,” Grandad says to Thatcher. “Didn’t bring a hat.”

                “It’s always tufty,” I tell Thatcher.

                “I know,” he says.

                The men shake hands and Grandad hooks his arm through mine as we leave the gallery. “He’s taken good care of you,” he tells me.

                “Mr. Thatcher?”

                He nods. “But don’t tell you mother. She’ll stir up trouble again.”