Page 25 of What You Never Knew

June has always been like a deflated balloon, looking to men to inflate her. To make her float high above the real world, her real problems, the real her. She uses up everything they have to give and then moves on to a new source of air.

She started doing it as soon as hormones kicked in and she saw boys as boys. June was the girl who climbed out of her bedroom window to meet boys after dark. The girl who got caught in the school chapel with a boy from another private school during a co-ed dance, both of them half-naked. They threatened to kick her out of the private school we both went to, but my mother spoke to the principal and it magically turned into a two-day suspension, off the record, rather than an expulsion.

Her explanation to me after I found out about her extramarital affairs was that once the girls went to school, she felt like an empty shell with no purpose, useless and inconsequential. As though she might fade away over time and nobody would notice. That’s where the men came in. They all noticed her, made her feel important, substantial, and as soon as they didn’t, she moved on to another one who would.

While she was dancing with Ezra, something dawned on me: June is not so unlike my mother. She too seeks out and devours men’s adoration like some necessary sustenance. My mother couldn’t interact with a man without infusing it all with subtle—and sometimes not-so-subtle—sexuality, just as June does. Maybe it’s just one of the side effects of being beautiful—the beauty is in the forefront of all you do, whether you want it to be or not. Or maybe it’s learned behavior.

A wave of hatred for my mother suddenly rushes through me. I hate her for her infidelity and for keeping secrets that June is now being forced to face all on her own, secrets that I’m having to reconcile with even in death. It’s possible, I guess, to love and hate your mother at the same time. It takes a lot out of you, though, and my fading comes on fast.

JUNE

I wake slowly. The sun shines white behind my closed eyelids, and I realize it’s morning. I’ve slept right through the night. It must have been the weed and red wine. I’ll have to remember that magical combination.

My mind travels directly to Ezra and our kiss. It felt explosive and gentle, familiar and new all at the same time. Mostly, though, it felt safe. Not a feeling I normally have when kissing men. Not even Leo. When I kissed him, I felt as though I were on the edge of a cliff and might fall over it and lose myself completely. And with the men of my affairs, each kiss felt dangerous. I was risking everything to do it; I knew it; I’d set it up that way.

I didn’t have those affairs to be loved and cared for. I got that at home from Leo for the most part. I had those affairs to scare myself, to prove that I was still alive, not the ghost of some previous self. I used those men to define me outside my role as wife and mother.

I told them to pull my hair, to grab me, push me where they wanted me to be, to go harder, deeper. The more pain I felt, the more real I felt. I came home with bruises, sometimes even cuts. When Leo asked what happened, I brushed them off as trivial accidents, spills while out running or getting to the bathroom in the dark at night.

Each lie Leo swallowed felt like an accomplishment. I was winning at a game he didn’t even know he was playing, outsmarting my intelligent husband. I know now that I wasn’t outsmarting anyone. He wasn’t stupid, he was trusting, and that thought still breaks my heart.

The secrets I kept from May still break my heart too. I was practically living a double life, and my sister didn’t know anything about it. There were so many times I almost dumped it all at her feet but then stopped at the last moment. I didn’t want to make her an accomplice.

Throwing on some clothes, I go downstairs and make coffee and an actual breakfast, two eggs and toast. It’s as though Ezra’s dinner opened the gates of hunger in me and I can finally eat.

It’s not just a hunger for food that he’s awoken. My mind continues to conjure the feel of his lips, the smell of him, what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped the kiss. Wanting to get my mind off these ridiculous schoolgirl thoughts, I grab the scrapbook and make a plan to return it to Jim, but only after I take some photos of the articles so I have my own copies.

On the ride over to the marina, I notice the Swann cottage. My mother and father used to be friends with the owners, Suzanne and Walt Swann. It looks as though it’s been maintained all these years, and the Swann name plaque is still nailed to the boathouse. I wonder if they might have some information about the disappearance of my father. Suzanne and my mother were quite close at some point. Hell, she might even know some of my mother’s secrets.

Jim is busy at the marina with a lineup of customers wanting gas, so I just put the scrapbook on his desk, wave, and mouth a thank you before getting back in my boat.

Heading home, I slow down in front of the Swann cottage, looking for signs of life. Summer doesn’t start officially for a few days, which means most cottagers aren’t even up yet, but there’s some furniture out on the dock, so somebody might be around. What harm could it do, just a friendly drop-by from an old neighbor?

I take my time tying up the boat, waiting to see if anyone has noticed my arrival. Standing at the edge of the lawn, I call out a hello just to give some warning, but when I get nothing in response, I make my way up to the cottage.

The only sound is the gentle toll of wind chimes, no dog barking protectively or people talking. The Swann cottage is not so different from mine, the same age and of similar style, but because it’s been diligently maintained over the years, the place looks brand-new compared to Avril Island. What a waste, I think to myself, a surge of annoyance at my mother rising up yet again.

“Hello?” I call through the screen door, and then knock loudly. There’s the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs, and a woman appears. She’s roughly my age, short and stout with a head of wild, gray curls, wearing a loose sundress that looks like it came from Thailand or Malaysia. Not the person I was expecting to find.

“Are you my twelve thirty?” she asks. “I thought it was Ann, but maybe I mixed things up. I’ll have to check my appointment book. Come in, come in.” She holds the screen door open to me and waves me inside. A black cat appears to rub up against my leg. “Right this way,” she orders, before turning on her heel and floating down the hall toward the back of the cottage, leaving the scent of lavender oil in her wake.

“Um, excuse me,” I call out, but she’s already disappeared. Feeling that she’s left me no choice, I follow her down the hall and find her in a small sun-room spreading a sheet over a massage table. “Look,” I say loudly to get her attention. “I’m not your twelve thirty.” At this, she finally stops moving and looks directly at me. “I’m your neighbor. June Bennett from Avril Island.”

Her eyes go wide; she drops the sheet and steps around the table to get closer. “Well I’ll be,” she says breathlessly. “The Bennetts have returned.”

“Just me, actually. My mother, she’s passed away. May, my sister, she … well, she’s not here. It’s just me,” I say again, clumsy over the avoidance of my sister’s death. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but I was looking for Suzanne Swann.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Her eyes narrow, and I can tell it’s a trick question.

“Are you related to Suzanne?”

“I’m Leslie. Her daughter?” She pauses, waiting for my recognition, but unfortunately the name doesn’t ring any bells for me. She waves a hand dismissively, the silver bangles on her wrist jangling loudly. “We played a few times together when your family came over, but I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been so long. I didn’t even recognize Ezra Keen the other day, and he was at Avril Island every day when we were kids.” I’m hoping she’ll see that it’s just me not being good with faces or names and that she won’t take it personally, but I can already feel a slight edge to her that wasn’t there when she thought I was her twelve thirty.

“Ah yes,” she says, with an exaggerated nod of her head. “Your lot and the Keens were pretty tight back in the day.” The comment sounds heavily loaded, but maybe I’m just paranoid.

“Is your mom still around?” I ask, attempting to return to the reason I’m here.