“Charlotte drove me to the bus station. She never asked me to write or call, so I figured she intended to move on. I wasn’t in any place where I could ask her to stay or wait for me, ya know. I climbed aboard, sat where I couldn’t see her, and just pushed her out of my mind.”
“I wonder what she wants,” Mitch says. “Maybe she missed the D!” He laughs at his joke and jabs me a few times.
I slow the car down when I see the sign for the border. I was so lost in recalling my time with Charlotte I never stopped in Burlington to rest or refuel. I pull off on the last exit before the border and turn into the first gas station I see.
“Good, I gotta piss,” Mitch says ever so eloquently. When the tank is full, I head into the store and use the restroom before deciding to stock up on some road snacks. It’ll be late when we get to Montreal, and only bars will likely be open. Food options might be scarce until the morning.
Mitch is standing by the car when I come out. We both get in, grab our passports, and head back toward the interstate.
“Why do you think she wants to talk to you?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. I honestly haven’t thought about her until I saw the exit,” I pause and shake my head. “No, that’s not true. I thought about her all through basic and at graduation when I saw all those girlfriends there. It made me wonder if she would’ve come if I had asked her.”
Chapter Four
Charlotte
Throughout dinner, my grandma reaches over and squeezes my hand. Aside from Krew, she’s the only one who knows Arla’s dad is in town or was. However, she is the only one who supported me from the beginning when I told my family that I was pregnant. My parents wanted me to give Arla up for adoption, but my grandma was adamant I make the best decision for me.
I was barely eighteen and recently graduated from high school. I had big plans for my future. More so, my parents had plans for my life, and they definitely didn’t want an unwanted and unplanned pregnancy with an absentee father. My dad was up for reelection as mayor, and he feared he would lose votes once people saw that his picture-perfect family wasn’t so perfect. That’s what the Carmichael’s are—perfect. It’s all my family knows.
Our roots are deep and generational. My great-great-grandfather worked his fingers to the bone to provide for his family. He bought his first piece of land in Holyoak and built a three-room shack in front of what everyone in town considered a swamp. When he wasn’t fishing, he worked the land, and when he wasn’t working, he dug around the swamp. Somehow, he knew the swamp would turn out to be his gem. He slowly bought the land next to him, and then another piece. By the time my great-grandfather started working, more land was purchased and then developed. Soon, the Carmichael’s owned a bank and grocery store. Every year, their property grew. My great uncle would build houses, another would cut the lumber, and another would give a future homeowner the loan. In a nutshell, they created a monopoly.
And while all of this is going on, they’re still digging in the swamp and turning it into a lake, which is now one of the most popular vacation spots in New England. It seems my great-great-grandfather saw more than a swamp.
We are the family people strive to be—the big happy, close-knit family who are always together, who are always smiling. We are the upper-class people read about in magazines, the high society, elitist. We are rich and expected to marry rich. My mother comes from a high-powered family from Boston. My aunt’s father is one of the highest-ranking senators for New Hampshire. So, when I announced my pregnancy, there wasn’t a single person happy for me. Not even my grandma, but she accepted it and told me she would support my decision. Whatever it was going to be.
I don’t remember when I decided to keep Arla. I think it was after my first ultrasound. My doctor knew adoption was on the table and suggested that I look at the wall during my ultrasound. I couldn’t. I wanted to see what this baby growing inside of me, the one making me sick at night, looked like. It’s odd to say I fell in love with a blob, but I did.
Telling my parents was not easy. It was harder than telling them I was pregnant. Once I started showing, I moved to my grandparents and hid out. Not because I was embarrassed, but to keep the questions at bay. No one really suspected anything because I should’ve been in college. And then one day, I’m pushing a stroller down the street. People talked. They asked questions. Most of which weren’t answered. I let people think whatever they wanted.
My plate disappears, startling me. I look up to find Arla and my grandma clearing the table. “I can do this,” I tell them.
“Gramps said it’s my turn to clean the table,” Arla says as she stacks plates on top of each other.
“You’re a good girl, Arla.” My grandma kisses my daughter on top of her head and looks at me. I don’t need to know what’s going through her mind right now, she’s already given me her two cents. She’s a little upset with me right now because I didn’t return Jack’s call. By the time my shock and surprise wore off, I deduced he was halfway to Canada and didn’t want to bother him or ask him to turn around. Plus, I need to think about what I’m going to say. How do you tell someone you haven’t seen in ten years that they have a daughter? I would’ve told him earlier, but it seems you can’t walk into a recruiter’s and ask for someone’s address. I asked my uncle, the senator, but he wouldn’t help. Something about compromising his job. I think my parents told him to ignore my request. I don’t have proof, just suspicion.
I finally rise from my seat and start helping with dinner clean-up. My grandfather has retired to the den to watch some sport program. He’s a diehard anything New England fan and will watch whatever comes onto one of the many channels. Sundays, at my grandparents, are crazy. Their house is full of people, and the dining room table turns into a buffet. If you come over, you must bring a dish or something to share.
Once the table is clear, and all the dishes are in the dishwasher, I tell Arla it’s time to head home. She groans and drags her feet toward the entryway. I used to be the same way when it was time to leave here. “Go, give Gramps a kiss.”
She heads toward the living room and says, “Mom says I have to leave now, Gramps. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Bum.”
Arla returns to the kitchen and dramatically throws her arms around my grandmother’s waist. Arla does this every time she leaves here or my parents. She makes it seem like she’s never going to see them again.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Grandma says as she kisses Arla the top of her head. Next, it's my turn. I pull my grandma into my arms and tell her that I love her.
“Please call him,” she says softly into my ear. I nod against her.
It takes Arla and me less than five minutes to drive from my grandparents to our home. Our house, like many of my family members, faces the lake. And while I don’t have lake frontage, I do have access and a dock. As soon as we get inside, Arla drops her backpack and heads to her room. She has a routine to follow, and I rarely need to get on her to take care of her stuff. I smile as soon as I hear the shower start. While she’s showering, I putter around my living room. I go from sitting, to standing, to moving the pile of gossip magazines from their usual place next to the couch to the kitchen table and then back again. I decide to start the pellet stove, even though it’s not cold out, and pull a bottle of red wine from my small rack. I definitely need some liquid courage to get through the rest of the night.