Page 18 of What You Never Knew

June puts on a fake grimace. “So, you’re a single, forty-one-year-old virgin still living at home?”

I’m appalled at June’s rudeness, but I know she’s just attempting to use humor to lighten the mood. To get herself back on solid footing.

He’s a good sport, though, and laughs it off. “Everything but the virgin part is unfortunately true.”

“Well, I’m a forty-year-old divorcée who just found out that her mother had an affair and lied to her most of her life who’s staying all alone on an island and is almost drunk and it’s not even nine thirty.”

Ezra holds up his glass. “Here’s to our forties.” June clinks him, and they both drink. “What about May? Was she married with kids?” he asks, after putting his glass down on the table.

June takes a deep breath. “No, neither.” I’m grateful she doesn’t expound. I’m not ready to hear her version of my life with all its failures. A natural silence inserts itself between them. They both seem lost in thought.

I can feel June’s emotions flatlining as she works to disconnect herself from everything she’s just learned. It’s something she’s always been good at, which meant I had to cry for both of us.

Ezra pushes away from the table. “Well, I think I’ve done enough damage here for the time being. Maybe we can have a less intense catch-up the next time.” He stands, and June doesn’t try to stop him. “Thanks for the wine,” he says. “I promise to reciprocate, now that I know you like to get drunk.”

June laughs her real laugh and nods. “Sounds like a plan, my friend.” I can feel the warmth she has for him. She doesn’t give it away very easily, and even after all this time, he still has it.

“So I can come by and see you again?” he asks.

“Of course,” June answers without any hesitation. “I’d really like that.”

He’s on his way to the door when June calls out, “Hey, Ezra.” He turns back. “I was curious. Do you know who’s been checking on the place all this time? The grass has obviously been cut over the years. And I mean, someone must have been taking care of it to some degree.”

“Me,” Ezra answers, point-blank. “It was just something I started doing awhile back. Seemed like the right thing.”

June nods. “Well, thank you for that. I’d tell you to send the bill to my mother, but she’s dead.” Another one of June’s inappropriate jokes to break the tension.

Ezra chuckles, but his eyes are full of sympathy. He gives a little wave as he pushes his way through the screen door.

I want to hang on, to be alone with June, but I can feel the fading start, as though the breeze from the open door is blowing my loosely knit particles apart. June puts her head down on the table, resting it on her folded arms. I push in to see if she’s crying, but it’s no use. My time is up.

JUNE

After Ezra leaves, I sit on the couch and stare into space, my mind swimming through memories of our time at Avril Island, trying to capture evidence of this affair my mother had.

I know infidelity well. It’s making excuses to have the place to yourself. It’s finding reasons for frequent escape. It’s lies and always trying to stay one step ahead of everybody. It’s being distracted by thoughts of your lover. It’s stolen moments and then returning home sick with guilt.

I think of all the times my mother sent us into town to buy only one or two items, but they were “of utmost importance.” Of the many nights she stole away in the boat. The way her mood changed when my father arrived for the weekend—her laughter didn’t come as quickly and she was tense and short-tempered, quarreling easily with him if he asked too many questions.

It’s sad to say, but it’s not hard to place my mother in the role of adulterer. Her longing for something more was palpable. I wanted so much more than this—at times she’d come right out and say it.

West, on the other hand, is a stretch. He was such a kind and gentle man, more comfortable working outside in nature than indoors. Growing up, I thought he was the perfect dad to Ezra. Quick to forgive, always reaching for his boy to pull him close or ruffle his dark hair. A man easy to love but not easy to corrupt, I would have thought.

Then again, it would have been my mother doing the corrupting. Beautiful, charming, smart, and calculated, she could have corrupted an entire monastery of monks if she’d put her mind to it. Even as a child I noticed the lingering looks men gave her. The extra attention they paid her, repaid with a hand on the chest, a wink, a slow smile, laughter. I didn’t think there was anything illicit about it at the time. I grew up thinking it was simply the way men and women interacted—that the whole point of men was to pay you attention. Without it, you didn’t really exist.

My phone rings, breaking the trance I’m in. It’s the girls. I shake off the feeling that I’m adrift on an island full of lies and secrets and put on a brave and cheery front when I answer the phone.

They’ve just gotten home from school. Bea is grumpy because she got an A minus on a test. Madeline is grumpy because she’s fourteen. I wonder why they even bothered to call. Neither one is enthused about my plan for them to come stay with me for part of their summer vacation, and I have to answer a dozen or so questions about the availability of Wi-Fi, other kids their age in the area, duration of stay, how bad the bugs are, is it boring, what you do when it rains, whether they can bring a friend or not.

Somehow I resist the urge to scream into the phone that I just found out my mother was an adulterer and lied to me most of my life and so I don’t give a fuck about Wi-Fi. Instead I patiently answer their questions, appalled at how spoiled they suddenly seem to me, and get off the phone as soon as I can, professing how much I miss them. Even from across the country they’re able to suck the life right out of me.

I don’t know if I’m really that well suited to motherhood, even after all these years. I didn’t even think about having kids when I was younger. May was the one who played with dolls, the one who always said, When I’m a mom, I’m going to …

It was Leo who planted the seed in my head. He’d been the editor of my novel back when I was twenty-three. I was one of those rare cases in publishing—an overnight success. Leo, being familiar with the business and three years older than me, helped me navigate the unexpected fame, the book tours, the lectures, the awards and parties.

It was an intense, passionate relationship. I mistook his understanding of my writing as understanding of me and naïvely thought I’d met my soul mate. We eloped. I was only twenty-four. He talked about babies, about having a family. I got caught up in the idea, and before I knew it I was the mother of twin girls, my writing career had come to a complete halt, and I was spending my days being a wife and mother. I never resented the girls for it, though; I resented myself for giving up too easily.

Once I’m off the phone, the silence of the cottage pulses all around me as though it’s holding its breath, hoping I won’t notice the secrets spread throughout. Hoping I won’t open its cupboards and drawers to go searching.