One hot summer day when clouds turned the sky gray and it was one hundred percent humidity but no rain, the kind of day that made everyone grumpy, Theo was working and he saw Atticus walking by himself.
“AT!” he’d yelled. “Atticus!”
It was around noon. Most people had rented their bikes and most wouldn’t return them until later, and plenty of other guys were working there, so Theo raced off down South Beach Street yelling Atticus’s name.
He grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, wait a minute!”
Atticus stopped.
Theo got a good look at him. “You look like Edgar Allan Poe,” Theo said.
“Thanks,” Atticus said, but a bit of his mouth turned up in a grin.
“What’s going on with you, man?” Theo stationed himself in front of Atticus, making Atticus face him.
“Bad patch,” Atticus said. “Just going through a bad patch. I broke up with Beth.”
“You did? Why?”
Atticus shrugged. “She was getting on my nerves.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. It’s for her own good, Theo. I’m no good for anyone these days. She’s all excited about going off to college. I can’t find the energy to write my name.”
“You should see a therapist.”
“I am. He told me to exercise. That’s what I’m doing. Walking.”
“Your parents—”
“They’re doing their best. Mom smiles so much I bet her face hurts. Makes my favorite dinner every night, and I can hardly eat it.” Atticus looked down at the pavement. “It’s the oxy I want, Theo. I need more oxy.”
“Sounds like you need rehab, not more drugs.”
“Oh, man, don’t get on me, too. Be my friend, okay?”
“Okay. Sure. What can I do?”
Atticus looked up, his face hopeful. “Get me some oxy?”
“Come on, Atticus. Man, you don’t want to keep on this way. Tell me what I can do to help. I’ll quit my job and shadow you every moment of your life, telling you jokes and making you surf and we can get drunk and you can get off the oxy.”
Atticus smiled. “You’re the best.”
“So let’s—let’s meet for burgers at the Jetties tonight, okay?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a date with a dealer.”
“Atticus, stop it!” Theo held his friend by the shoulders. “You’re better than this.”
Atticus kept smiling, a strange, dark, dead-eyed smile. “Actually, Theo, I’m not.”
Theo dropped his hands.
Atticus walked away.
And why had Theo let him go? Why hadn’t Theo done something to keep Atticus alive? Atticus was so obviously caught in the claws of a depression—or an addiction—and still he let Atticus walk away.
A few days later, Atticus committed suicide, overdosing on OxyContin. He was smart enough to know how much oxy was too much, so anyone who knew Atticus would have known he’d overdosed on purpose. And his parents informed the police and their friends that Atticus had left a suicide letter.
Theo had been grief-stricken and furious at himself and at his friend. He burned the anger and the time away by working two jobs that summer, drinking enough to help him sleep at night. In August, he drove clear across the country to attend the University of California at San Diego. He’d chosen the school because it was a short drive to some of the best surfing in the world. He took the necessary college courses, only barely passing them, because he was concentrating on surfing. Still, he graduated. Barely.
After college, he bartended all night, surfed all day, had plenty of friends and a batch of sizzling hot girlfriends who also surfed and who did not need a long-term, committed relationship. For a long time, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Then, the wipeout. He felt like the ocean had betrayed him. He was in pain, and he was embarrassed.
And he was grounded. He shared an apartment with a couple of other surfer guys who were much younger than Theo. After his crash, sitting in his pajama bottoms and brace in their dark, crappy, beer-fumed apartment while the two eighteen-year-olds sauntered out in the morning with their boards (“Hey, man”) and came in at night reeking of booze and weed (“Peace, man”) became less and less pleasant for Theo. He began to feel righteously sorry for himself. He studied himself in the mirror and thought he already looked bloated from not getting any exercise. He checked the refrigerator and saw several six-packs of local beer—San Diego was famous for its craft beer—and a moldy chunk of cheese that he ate anyway, because he was so hungry. He could go out and find a friend or he could buy himself breakfast. He wasn’t pathetic but he was acting pathetic and he hated himself for taking OxyContin, which helped with the pain but made him think of Atticus. He vowed not to take it any more, but to rely on Tylenol. Okay, Tylenol and beer. He opened the freezer door and saw nothing but a half-empty bottle of vodka so he drank some because he couldn’t take more Tylenol for another two hours.
He just plain totally wanted his mother. He wanted Nantucket. He wanted to go home.
seven
Saturday afternoon, Lisa asked Juliet to attend a lecture with her. “If you don’t want to come, sweetie, that’s okay. I’ll find someone to sit with.”
“I’ll come, Mom. I’d like to go.” Juliet got dressed and walked down to the library with Lisa.
The lecture was held in the Great Hall of the Nantucket Atheneum. Juliet and Lisa went up the curving carpeted stairs, past the cat’s eye and the figurehead, and into the main room. Almost all the chairs were filled. Juliet and Lisa hurried to take two chairs on the side. Lisa saw Mack and his daughter, Beth, several rows in front of them. How complicated—Beth was home. But how lovely, Lisa thought, smiling to herself—she could look at the beautiful back of Mack’s neck during the lecture.
Sandra Martin, the director of the library, went up the four steps to the stage and the podium. It was a sign of the importance of the speaker that Sandra introduced him, but Lisa let the introduction blur past her because she was thinking of Mack.
“Ryder Hastings has a doctorate in environmental science, specializing in coastal affairs. He has served on several environmental boards, including the Harvard Environmental Science and Public Policy Board of Tutors, the Massachusetts Ocean Management Initiative, and the U.S. Coastal Research Program. He’s here today to speak with us about his new organization, Ocean Matters.”
Lisa straightened in her seat to see the speaker. He was tall and handsome, probably in his thirties. Were there no single men in their fifties?