Silver Cove

Emery

There are exactly three things I know about my mother. Her name is Claire Bennett. She has the same blue eyes I do. And she left when I was eleven months old. That is it. Nineteen years of birthdays, Christmases, first days of school, scraped knees, bad haircuts, dance recitals, driver’s tests, heartbreaks, and every other insignificant moment that somehow adds up to a life, and I have exactly three facts about the woman responsible for half of my DNA. Technically, I have a fourth. She lives on an island. Or at least, she did seventeen years ago.

I stare at the faded photograph lying on my bedroom floor, wondering how something so small can make my entire life feel suddenly off-balance. It is no bigger than my hand, the edges curled and soft with age, a crease running diagonally through one corner. The woman in it is young. Younger than I am now, maybe, though it is hard to tell. She is standing barefoot on a wooden dock with the ocean behind her, laughing at whoever is holding the camera. She is beautiful. I have always known that. Dad has one picture of her tucked inside an old photo album downstairs, and I have looked at it more times than I would ever admit to him, studying her face for pieces of mine. Her nose. My eyes. The shape of her mouth when she smiles. But I have never seen this photograph. And I have definitely never seen the words written across the back.

Silver Cove. June 2005.

I run my thumb over the faded blue ink. Silver Cove. Until approximately seven minutes ago, I had never heard of it. Now my laptop is open on the carpet beside me, and I am staring at a ferry schedule for a tiny island off the coast of Massachusetts that apparently becomes overrun with tourists every summer. Population: 4,218. One ferry terminal. Three beaches. A historic lighthouse. A marina. Enough restaurants to keep wealthy vacationers fed on lobster rolls and overpriced cocktails all summer. And, according to the property records I found after falling down an internet rabbit hole I absolutely should have climbed out of twenty minutes ago, one Claire Bennett. My mother.

I sit back against the side of my bed.

“Holy shit.”

“Language.”

I nearly launch the photograph across the room. Dad stands in my doorway holding a cardboard box against his chest, one dark eyebrow raised.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

His other eyebrow joins the first.

“Sorry,” I wince. “Crap.”

“Much better.”

“I learned it from you.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“You called the lawn mower a piece of shit yesterday.”

“That was different.”

“Because?”

“It is a piece of shit.”

I laugh despite myself. That is my dad. Forty-seven years old, permanently sunburned from spending more time outside than any normal human should, with dark hair that has started going gray around his temples and an impressive ability to enforce rules he has absolutely no intention of following himself. He raised me alone. Not in the dramatic, tragic way people always seem to assume when they hear that. There were no rotating girlfriends, no nights spent wondering whether he would remember to pick me up from school, no frozen dinners because he did not know how to cook. Dad was just… Dad. He learned how to braid hair from YouTube when I was five. He coached my soccer team despite knowing nothing about soccer. He packed my lunches until I finally begged him to stop sophomore year because he kept writing embarrassing notes on my napkins. When I got my period for the first time, he came home from the pharmacy with six different kinds of pads, three boxes of tampons, a heating pad, chocolate, and a pamphlet about menstruation that I promptly threw at his head. There has never been a moment in my life when I wondered whether my father loved me. Which somehow makes the photograph in my hand feel worse.

His gaze drops. The smile disappears from his face. For one strange second, neither of us speaks. Then he sets the box down.

“Where did you find that?”

Not what is that? Not who is that? Where did you find that? My stomach tightens.

“In the hall closet.”

“Emery.”

“You told me to clean it out.”

“I told you to go through your things.”

“It was in a box with my things.”

“It was not supposed to be.”

Something about his tone makes me straighten. Dad crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed. He looks older suddenly. Not dramatically older, but enough that I notice the lines around his eyes and the gray threaded through his stubble. His attention stays fixed on the photograph.

“You know where she is.”

It is not a question. His jaw shifts.

“Dad.”

“I knew where she was.”

I stare at him.

“Okay,” I give a tiny laugh, but there is nothing funny about it. “What is the difference?”

“About seventeen years.”

“You knew she lived there seventeen years ago.”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me.”

“You never asked where she lived.”

My mouth falls open.

“Seriously?”

He sighs and rubs both hands over his face.

“No. That came out wrong.”

“Very wrong.”

“I know.”

I look down at the picture again. Silver Cove. The words have been repeating inside my head since I found them. Silver Cove. Silver Cove. Silver Cove.

“Is she still there?”

Dad does not answer. I turn toward him.

“Dad.”

“I do not know.”

“But you knew she was there.”

“Once.”

“When?”

“When you were little.”

“How little?”

His hesitation tells me I am not going to like the answer.

“Two.”

I stare at him. Something cold slides into my stomach.

“You talked to her when I was two?”

“No.”

“But you knew where she was.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Em—”

“How?”

He looks toward the window. It is such a tiny thing, that movement, but I know him too well. He is avoiding me. My dad, who once sat on the bathroom floor outside the door for forty-five minutes because sixteen-year-old me refused to come out after getting dumped by my first boyfriend, will not look at me. And suddenly this feels bigger than an old photograph.

“What are not you telling me?”

His eyes snap back to mine.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Emery.”

“Sorry. But bullshit.”

His mouth tightens, although I can tell he is fighting the instinct to correct me. I wait. Finally, he exhales.

“Your mother and I were young.”

I have heard this part before.

“We were not good together.”

This part too.

“She was not ready to be a mother.”

And there it is. The sentence that has followed me my entire life. She was not ready. When I was seven, it meant she was not ready to pack lunches. At twelve, it meant she was not ready to deal with puberty. At sixteen, it meant she was not ready to be responsible for someone besides herself. At nineteen, it sounds different. Because I am nineteen. I am almost the same age she was when she had me. And suddenly not ready does not explain nearly as much as it used to.

“Did she not want me?”

Dad’s expression changes immediately.

“Emery.”

“It is a question.”

“And the answer is no.”

“No, she did not want me?”

“No.” His voice sharpens. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Your mother loved you.”

The words land somewhere I was not prepared for them to land. I stare at him. He has never said that before. Not once.

“You always said she was not ready.”

“She was not.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know.”

“So she loved me.”

“Yes.”

“But she left.”

His jaw flexes.

“Yes.”

“And she never came back.”

Silence. My chest feels strangely tight. I hate this. I hate that I am nineteen years old and suddenly feel nine. I hate that there is a part of me—some pathetic little piece I have spent years pretending does not exist—that wants him to tell me there has been some giant misunderstanding. That Claire Bennett did not abandon me. That she spent every birthday crying over a photograph of me. That she wrote letters. That she tried. Something. Anything.

Instead, Dad says, “There are things about that time you do not understand.”

“Then tell me.”

“I do not think that is a good idea.”

A disbelieving laugh escapes me.

“Why? I am nineteen.”

“I know how old you are.”

“Apparently not, because you are acting like I am twelve.”

“I am acting like your father.”

“Exactly.”

The second the word leaves my mouth, I regret it. His expression closes. I soften immediately.

“Dad.”

“It is fine.”

“No, I did not mean—”

“I know what you meant.”

He stands. That somehow makes everything worse.

“Dad.”

He stops at the doorway. I look down at the photograph again.

“Do you know if she has a family?”

His shoulders go rigid. It is almost imperceptible. Almost. But I see it. My heartbeat slows.

“Dad?”

“I do not know anything about her life now.”

That is not what I asked. I stare at his back.

“Does she have other kids?”

He turns around. And there it is. Not an answer. Something worse. Recognition. My stomach drops.

“Oh my God.”

“Emery.”

“She does.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not have to.”

“Em—”

“Do I have siblings?”

“I do not know.”

“But you think I might.”

He closes his eyes briefly. I feel like someone has tipped the room sideways. All these years, I have imagined my mother as frozen in time. Twenty years old. Young. Scared. Leaving. I never let myself picture what came after. A career. A house. A husband. Children. A daughter. Maybe someone with my eyes. Maybe someone who grew up calling Claire Bennett Mom while I had to explain to every teacher, friend’s parent, doctor, coach, and nosy stranger that no, there was not a mother they could call.

I stand so quickly my knee hits the laptop.

“Ow. Fuck.”

Dad does not correct me this time. I grab the computer before it slides off the carpet. The Silver Cove tourism page is still open. A photograph stretches across the screen—blue water sparkling beneath a cloudless sky, sailboats clustered in a harbor, weathered gray buildings lining a cobblestone street. Hydrangeas spill over white fences. People ride bicycles beside the ocean. It looks impossibly perfect. Like a place from a postcard. Like somewhere nothing bad has ever happened.

“Do not,” Dad says quietly.

I look at him.

“Do not what?”

He glances at the screen. And somehow I know.

“Dad.”

“Whatever you are thinking.”

“You do not even know what I am thinking.”

“You are my daughter. Of course I do.”

I swallow. The crazy part is, ten minutes ago, I was not thinking anything. I was cleaning out a closet. My plans for the summer consisted of working four shifts a week at the bookstore, going to the lake with my friends, and spending an unreasonable amount of time deciding whether I actually wanted to go back to college in August or transfer somewhere closer to home. Silver Cove did not exist. Now it feels like a door that has been sitting in front of me my entire life. I just did not know I could open it.

“What if I went?”

His face goes completely still.

“To Silver Cove.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Just to see.”

“No.”

The answer comes so quickly that I blink.

“No?”

“No.”

A strange laugh escapes me.

“I am not asking permission.”

“I know.”

“Because I am nineteen.”

“I am aware.”

“And I have my own car.”

“Which is registered in my name.”

“You gave it to me.”

“That feels like a terrible decision in hindsight.”

Despite everything, my mouth twitches. His does not.

“Emery, I am serious.”

“So am I.”

“You do not know that she is there.”

“I can find out.”

“You do not know anything about that place.”

“Then I will learn.”

“You do not know her.”

That stops me. The room goes quiet again. Dad’s expression softens.

“That is what I am trying to tell you.”

I look at the photograph in my hand. The woman on the dock is laughing. She looks happy. Young. Alive in a way I have never allowed my mother to be inside my head.

“I know.”

My voice comes out quieter than I intended.

“That is why I want to go.”

Dad looks at me for a long time. Then he shakes his head and walks out. I do not follow him. For several minutes, I just stand there listening to his footsteps disappear down the stairs. Then I sit back on the carpet. My laptop has gone dark. I touch the trackpad. Silver Cove reappears. At the bottom of the page is a photograph of the ferry pulling into the harbor beneath a bright blue sky. SUMMER FERRY SERVICE. I click it. There are departures every day. Three hours from here to the coast. Forty-five minutes across the water. I could be there before dinner.

My heart starts beating harder. This is insane. Completely insane. I do not know my mother. I do not know if she wants to meet me. I do not know if she even lives there anymore. I do not know what I would say if I stood in front of her. Hi. Remember that baby you had twenty years ago? Surprise. Jesus.

I close the tab. Then open it again. Close it. Open it. My phone buzzes beside my thigh. I pick it up, expecting one of my friends. Instead, it is an email. Silver Cove Ferry Company. My eyes widen. I look at the laptop. Apparently, somewhere during my emotional breakdown, I created an account. That is concerning. I open the email. Complete your booking. Below it is the trip I had been looking at. Friday. 10:15 a.m. One passenger. One vehicle.

I stare at it. Then at the photograph. Then toward my open bedroom door. Dad is downstairs. I can hear him moving around the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing harder than necessary. For nineteen years, he has been my entire family. Maybe that is why I have never gone looking for the other half. Maybe I was afraid wanting her would somehow mean he was not enough. But he was. He is. That does not erase the questions. And it does not erase her.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I do not know what I will find on Silver Cove. Maybe nothing. Maybe Claire Bennett moved away years ago. Maybe I will knock on a stranger’s door. Maybe I will see her and realize I have spent my entire life wondering about someone who has not wondered about me once. Or maybe I will finally understand why the woman who supposedly loved me decided to live the rest of her life without me. Either way, I am tired of wondering.

I tap Complete Booking. The confirmation arrives less than ten seconds later. Friday, June 5. 10:15 a.m. Destination: Silver Cove. I stare at those two words until my pulse starts pounding in my ears. Three days. In three days, I am going to find my mother.