sorry you got hurt, Nadine,” said Lily, “but I don’t give a flick about Marcos and his kala-whatever.”
“It’s a gun.”
Lily expertly changed the tape in the VCR, the baby still asleep in her arm. The boys settled down with their hands in their laps. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress, Nadine,” she said. “I’m busy, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s gun, Mommy?” asked one boy politely.
“I need watch Thomas Train!” repeated the other.
“I need watch Big Bird!”
“I need gun!”
The din was getting to be a bit much. Nadine stood. “Lily,” she said, “my interview was on the front page of The Washington Post.”
Lily laughed and sank back down on the couch. Both boys climbed on top of her. The baby slept on. “Meanwhile,” said Lily, “how are the kids, Lily? Do you miss the library? You’re staying home with your children. That’s really wonderful.” As she spoke, her eyes filled with tears. She spit out the words. “Do you still love Dennis? How do you breast-feed twins? I’m interested. Tell me about your life. You’re my best friend, Lily. I care.”
“Right,” said Nadine. “I do care, Lily. Your new baby, she’s so beautiful.”
“What’s her name?” said Lily, staring at Nadine.
Nadine looked at the sleeping child, her mouth a tiny gum-drop. “Jesus, Lily…”
“How old is she?” said Lily. Her boys moved around her like squirrels, burrowing into her skin. All hell would break loose, Nadine realized, if Lily had an injured wrist.
“Lily,” said Nadine.
“Flick you,” said Lily, cutting her eyes toward her boys, to make sure they hadn’t heard her swear. “Come on, sweetie peeties, let’s make some peanut butter and jelly.”
“Flick me?” said Nadine.
“You heard me,” said Lily. She placed the baby in her bassinet and took one boy in each hand. In the kitchen, she bent over the counter. Nadine watched Lily’s back for a while, then turned and walked slowly out the door. Her head ached, and she felt weak. The wind whipped and tangled her long hair. Nadine stood on the snow-covered lawn and gazed at the line where the ocean met the slate-gray sky.
Clearly, it was time to start smoking again.
Four
On Water Street, Nadine headed for the Woods Hole Market. She walked across the drawbridge, her right hand wrapped in the long sleeve of her father’s coat, left arm bound to her chest. The coat would be perfect for work, she thought. It was warm and had enough pockets for a notebook, pen, and plastic bag. Nadine kept her passport and plane tickets in a ziplock and close at hand. Until the year before, Lily, who had been the reference librarian for the Woods Hole Public Library, had sent a small Moleskine notebook with information about every place Nadine was headed: a hand-drawn map of Ciudad Vieja with a history of the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity, tips on finding the best cheeseburger in Tulum.
Nadine and Lily had grown up like sisters, as they had no siblings of their own. Jim worked late at Falmouth Fish, so Lily’s mother would take Nadine in after school, feeding her Chips Ahoy cookies and strawberry milk. On Sunday, his day off, Jim took Nadine and Lily hiking along Sandy Neck Beach. Though both girls dreamed of being detectives like Nancy Drew, Lily fell for Dennis and went to Cape Cod Community College. Nadine went to Harvard and then traveled four continents before NYU journalism school.
Until the twins were born, Nadine and Lily still wrote and called constantly, reveling in the differences between their lives. But something changed after Lily’s frightening childbirth. The babies were early and sickly, and Nadine–traveling with the Zapatistas–couldn’t make it home in time to help out. By the time Nadine visited, Lily had already become someone else. She wasn’t interested in Nadine’s stories or the La Reliquia mezcal Nadine had brought from Mexico. Nadine spent the weekend cold and miserable, trying to feign interest in Bo and Babes sleeping patterns and weight percentiles. There was a new alliance between Lily and Dennis, too. Where once Lily had laughed about his dream of a McMansion and six kids, now she seemed to have bought in hook, line, and sinker, showing off her mini van and giant TV. Was Lily happy? Nadine couldn’t bear to believe it. She drank the mezcal herself on the bus back to Logan and made out with the man next to her on the flight to Mexico City, fondling him under the thin polyester blanket.
Nadine missed the Moleskine notebooks.
She bought a pack of Merits and made her way back to the Sandy Toes, jumping when she heard a loud rapping sound. It was someone inside The Captain Kidd, pounding at the window to get her attention: Dr. Duarte. He came outside wearing a yellow T-shirt with a salmon printed on it, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Nadine,” he said, “what are you doing out here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
He nodded quickly, his cheeks turning red from the cold. When he spoke, his words were frosted. “Left my coat inside,” he said. “Nadine, I’m serious. You need to be in bed.”
“You’d have to buy me dinner first.”
He looked bewildered. “It’s a joke,” said Nadine. “I’m sorry. I’m going back right now. I just needed–”
“Some cigarettes?”
Nadine looked down at the pack, visible through the plastic bag.
“Anyway,” said Dr. Duarte. “Please go home, Nadine. I don’t need a dead woman on my conscience.”
“Jesus,” said Nadine. “I’m not that bad off. I’m headed back to Mexico next week.”
“The hell you are,” said Dr. Duarte.
“I want a second opinion.”
“All right,” said Dr. Duarte. “You need to lie down and eat. Go home and get in bed. I’ll bring you some fried clams in an hour.”
Nadine blinked.
“Onion rings or fries?” said Dr. Duarte.
“I don’t–”
“Its freezing, Nadine. Give me an answer.”
“Onion rings.”
“Fine,” said Dr. Duarte. “See you soon.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled, then darted back into The Captain Kidd.
At the front desk, a package from La Hacienda Solita waited. Inside, Nadine found her dirty backpack. She sat on the floor and emptied the pack with her right hand: rubber sandals; Pepto-Bismol and antibiotic tablets; three tamarind candies; a roll of toilet paper; condoms; a jar of Nescafé (when coffee was hard to find, she stuck her finger in the jar and sucked the crystals off); a Nalgene bottle; a headlamp; a Swiss Army knife; three lined notebooks; two Bic pens; an envelope of tobacco; and a tin of rolling papers.
And taped inside a composition notebook, the photograph of her mother, Ann, sitting on Nobska Beach. Even when she was sick, Ann had loved hiking to the lighthouse with a picnic dinner. She wrapped a warm blanket around her diminishing frame, a Red Sox cap covering her bald head. They would walk at sunset, the sky rippled with color. “I’ve never been outside New England,” Ann told six-year-old Nadine, “but there can’t be anywhere more beautiful than this.”
In the photo, Ann was young and healthy. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, and her hand shaded her violet eyes. She wore a green bikini and smiled at Jim, who was taking the picture. Ann’s stomach was slightly rounded with baby Nadine.
“Knock, knock,” said Dr. Duarte, rapping on the door to Room 9.
“Oh,