Pier

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Rob keeps his pace to mine, despite his longer legs. He doesn’t speak, not as the house fades out of view, and in place appears the docks. In front of me I can hear Carlos yelling good naturedly at one of his sons in law as they haul in the catch of the morning.

The wind bites at my skin in a way only the brisk morning air of Maine summers can. Castine is more alive in the mornings than night, unlike most of the cities I’ve visited and vetoed. Something keeps me here, draws me back like a magnet. Maybe it’s just too ingrained in my being, but there’s something about this place that feels like home.

Carlos, ever the fisherman, is awake and running at six this morning. Seventy years old and too stubborn to stop. One of these days I'll stop laughing and start being concerned, but the old man’s back hasn’t given out yet, so I only wave and keep walking. I spare a glance to my brother. “Looks like they had a good catch,” I tell him, if only to spur a conversation. He only hums, his hands shoved in his pockets, staring in front of him instead of at me. “What’s going on?”

He breathes deeply, slowly, guiding me to sit next to him on the pier. The steel is cold under me, denim jeans doing nothing to fight off the damp chill. 

Rob keeps his face turned outwards towards the ocean; he’s never been one for confrontation. I remember when we were kids and I had to retell an entire story to our parents because he was too afraid to admit that he lost his jacket in the water. 

“I think we need to sell the land.”

My breath hitches, and even if he won’t look at me, I’ll give him a glare that could melt.

The land. The land. Two acres of land our grandparents settled on so many decades ago. We grew up on that land, both of us, and it’s not just space. It’s that tree with the rope swing over the water, it’s the boulder in the forest that was so impressive to climb on top of when we were kids, it’s the run down house that used to belong to our grandparents that still has pictures on the hearth and a checkered red and white tablecloth on the dining room table.

Rob knows this, which is the only reason I don’t yell and scream and demand why he would suggest such a thing.

I clench my fists instead. “Why?”

“Lauren, we can’t keep living like this.” Rob scuffs his feet against the steel dock. “I’m getting married, and you’re trying to grow the business. As it is, we’re barely holding on, let alone once our lives get more hectic. It’s… I think it’s just land, in the grand scheme of things.”

I want to refute him. I can’t. “It’s not a priority anymore,” I say.

He nods. “We have the memories, right? And if Mom and Dad were here to tell us, they’d make sure we took care of ourselves first.”

I nod, because I know. I really do;

It doesn’t make it easier.

“Do you have a buyer?” I ask him, because if he’s just going to take care of everything, maybe it won’t hurt to let it all just silently go.

Rob shakes his head. “I haven’t talked to anyone yet, but Carlos might take at least a portion of the land on the water. He’s been talking about fixing up Mark’s old boat and using it, I can imagine he’ll want more space.” I can only nod along. Rob places a hand on my shoulder, strong and steady. “We’re going to figure this out, Lu.”

“I know,” I whisper. “It doesn’t mean it isn’t awful.”

Chuckling wryly, Rob replies, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty awful.”

“Necessary, though.”

“Yes, necessary.”

I want to tell him not to do it, because it feels like it’s against everything we stand for. But it’s… Just land. The memories are there. We aren’t exactly swinging into the water, or climbing on boulders anymore. We’re plenty old enough to move on from this, I try to convince myself.

“Carlos’ grandkids are going to love the rope swing,” I say.

Rob laughs, and I find it makes it a little easier to laugh along.

================

I used to be afraid of this house when I was young. It was abandoned, a few years unlived in, probably haunted, or so my teen self thought. Now’s not much different, except that a few years has turned into two decades, maybe more. Though it’s still sturdy and familiar.

Rob’s going around the living room, now, finding anything salvageable. I hope he’s grabbed that album Gram kept under the coffee table of wedding photos. I only remember the house vaguely, from being maybe five, six. She’d pull out that album and tell us all about how the photos were taken by her brother because they couldn’t hire a photographer on such short notice. They got married in an old chapel down the street from Gramp’s home, with a withering priest and only their mothers for witnesses. The next day they fled Germany not knowing if they’d even make it into America.

She’d tell the story like regaling a tale of old. It’s one of my favorite memories of her.

Now I pack up her kitchen. Next up is Gramp’s workshop out in the garage, full of old tools I know how to use but Rob never cared about. He’s older, but he’s a romantic, as he likes to say. Not one with his hands. I always loved when Gramp would hand me a block of wood and a newly sharpened knife and tell me to go at it. I have three scars on my hands from that, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I remember when they were sent to the hospital when I was nine. They didn’t come back, and it seems none of us four could bear clearing out the house. Now, with Mom and Dad both gone, Rob and my thirty-something year old bodies are aching from the inside out with the weight of it all.

It seems nothing has changed.

I drop the now-filled box on the dining room table. I’m a little shocked it even holds up. “I hate this,” I tell Rob, crossing my arms over my chest. It’s spring, but I wear Mom’s shawl over my shirt anyway. When I was young I remember hiding in it when I would hug her, because it felt like an extra hug. It was warm and comfortable, and I still grieve that it smells like my laundry detergent instead of Mom’s perfume now.

Rob stops what he’s doing and I catch a glance of the photo album in his box. I can at least breathe a sigh of relief at that. “I do too,” he assures.

“It shouldn’t hurt,” I say. “I don’t really remember them.”

“You remember enough.”

His shoulder bumps mine, a silent hug, comfort he knows I need but he can’t offer. It’s something he’s done since we were teenagers and it doesn’t ever get old. Rob turns to face me. “Do you want me to finish? You can take these boxes back to the house.”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll get the workshop and you can start on the bedroom when you’re done here.” I grab another broken down box, taping it up as I walk.

The barn door creaks open and I take a deep breath that smells of sawdust. I want it to make me smile, but I’m not sure I can.

================

“I love the space,” Carlos says, a lilt to his voice that hints just slightly at his Spanish background. It’s a sound I can still remember from childhood, when he would call his daughter and I in for dinner after a day of play. “The docks will have to be redone, but it's more than doable.”

Rob nods his head. He looks resigned to it, and I think I could be too. “I know you’re most interested in the shore, but I wanted to make sure you knew that we’re selling the whole place. The house on the property is old, but still sturdy, and I know it can be fixed up. Maybe for your daughter and her husband, they’re expecting a child, right? I’m sure they’d love their own space.”

He nods, a smile still set comfortably on his face. That’s a good sign, right? “I was originally planning on just buying a portion, but you drive a hard bargain, Mister Levi.” He laughs. “Grace has been looking at places out of town, now, because of how sparse the housing market is. I’ll have to talk to her about it, of course, but you’re beginning to sway me.”

I let out a sigh of relief when Carlos comes back a week later, contract signed. It’s not quite as dark ahead, now. I can picture all the grandchildren running around the plot, weaving through the trees on the shore, swinging back and forth on the rope swing because they’re too scared to jump in the water, just like I was. They’ll climb that boulder with the help of their parents, or grandfather, or an older sibling. They’ll rebuild the house I remember all too well, and the plastic check tablecloth will be fabric, flowery instead. The hearth will hold different pictures and the sofa will be different and the beds will be placed against different walls. But the sun will shine through the same east window every morning, and the laughter won’t die out, and the house will start anew again.

================

The curtains in the windows are blue, not green, and the exterior is painted a nice soft white. A rocking chair sits on the sturdy porch. There are bikes and children’s toys and a swing set in the side yard, and I can see a new path beaten to the water. Laughter echoes from inside the house and it does so with a reckless abandon only a child can hold.

It’s different, no longer ours, but it’s good.

I can appreciate good.