The Wideness of the Sea Read online

  When they got out at Marie’s house, a cozy white colonial nestled into a wooded lot that had the ocean a hundred yards across the street, Anna looked up. How could she forget how brilliant the stars were here? It was like staring into a sea of diamonds, while being wrapped in navy blue velvet. In the distance, through the dark, she heard the ocean roaring and then ceasing, the rhythm echoing off the rocky coast, instantly matching some ancient rhythm deep in her veins. She turned around and followed her sister into the house, ready to face the hard week ahead together.

  Chapter 3

  When she had picked out the black wool Marni dress at a sample sale that winter, she’d had no idea she would be wearing it to her uncle’s funeral. But she felt somehow stronger, ready to handle the tidal emotions of the day when the neat, fitted dress was zipped up, and she blessed the impulse that steered her to buy it. She brushed her hair and twisted it up loosely. She put on a touch of makeup and a strand of pearls, and sighed as she looked at her reflection. Raphael always told her that her beautiful eyes were her best accessory. If he could see them now, he wouldn’t say that, Anna thought, touching the puff circles that had formed underneath.

  The wake had been the night before, and they had been up late with their cousins, Sarah and Phillip and a few of their close friends. Aunt Catherine’s kids were constantly trying to one up each other on their comedic timing, and they were such a breath of fresh air to be around. They had grown up with Anna and were a few years younger, and were now working nearby, Sarah teaching at the grade school in Damariscotta and Phillip a budding engineer at Bath Iron Works, designing ships. They had brought their well-honed drinking skills to their mom’s kitchen and Anna drank beer and wine with them until one o’clock in the morning, telling stories about Uncle Charlie, and eating quiche and lasagna that friends and neighbors had dropped off. Aunt Catherine and Uncle Joe always joked that they couldn’t wait until they moved out, but Anna thought they secretly loved still having twenty-somethings in the house. It made them feel young and needed.

  Uncle Charlie never had any children. Somehow that was a comfort to her now; she didn’t have to console his children. He had spoiled his nieces and nephews, giving each of them so much that his death had been a shock to them all. In the aftermath of such a hard night, the alcohol softened the leaden emotion that had settled down around their hearts. The result had been a rough night of sleep, and she sighed at the dark circles still under her eyes before patting her concealer on.

  When she headed downstairs for breakfast, she greeted her brother-in-law, drinking coffee with the paper spread out in front of him at the farmer’s table. His white T-shirt and stubble face were somehow endearing to Anna.

  “Morning, Mike,” Anna said. She heard a two-year-old shriek at her, then dodge under Mike’s legs. “Morning, Henry!” She filled her coffee cup.

  “Boo!” A very pleased, blond boy popped up, fire truck in one hand. “Boo, Auntie!” he said again as he struggled away from his father, coming close to bumping his head on the table as he made his way out from under it. Anna could see bits of Stephen and her dad in him, but he also looked a lot like Mike with his blond hair and Nordic genes. Mike liked to joke that he descended from Vikings, and offered as proof that his last name, Hansen, was really Hanssen a few generations back. With his fair coloring and stocky build and broad shoulders, it was easy to believe him, and friends and relatives had gifted his offspring with more than one Viking helmet when he was born.

  “Whoa there, killer,” Mike said as he reached for Henry. “Gonna hit your head.” He picked up the child and placed him on the seat next to him. “Morning, Anna.” He pulled out a chair for Anna next to Henry. “Auntie will be here for a few days, bud. You’ll have lots of time with her.” Anna sat down and sipped her coffee, smiling. She was unprepared for how much her nephew had grown since her last visit. His unconditional love surprised her most of all. Last time she had seen him, he was more concerned with the nearest cracker or toy, but now he was a little man with a sense of humor and big imagination.

  “He’s such a big boy now,” she said, picking up his toy car that fell. “How are you doing, Mike? Are they treating you well at the hospital?”

  “Things are good. Busy.” Mike wiped up the coffee ring underneath his cup with a paper napkin. He was in Internal Medicine, and Anna loved to ask him about his most difficult cases, but before she could, Maria breezed in holding an outfit for Henry in her hands, her hair in wet strands around her face.

  “Mike, can you put this on him after he eats some cereal? I am going to go finish getting ready. Hey, Anna,” she said, kissing her quickly on the cheek. “If you’re hungry, there are some bagels in the fridge or some cereal in the pantry.” She poured herself coffee. “Have you talked to Stephen?” she asked, stirring in cream while pushing toys under the cabinets with her feet, out of the path of travel.

  “Yes, he said he’ll meet us at the church,” Anna said. “The restaurant closed late last night and he had to drive up this morning. He said they’re doing really well, considering they’ve only been open for a few months.”

  “That’s great,” Mike said as he poured cereal into a plastic bowl for Henry. “Gotta give it to your brother—it takes guts to open a restaurant in this economy.”

  Anna thought briefly of her brother. She had missed him terribly last night. His drive up from Rhode Island would normally be five hours, but with Boston traffic, he had to leave at four a.m. to make it to the funeral by 10. He would no doubt be exhausted when he got here. Anna felt another pang of guilt that she hadn’t been there yet, and promised herself she would soon.

  A light drizzle started as they ducked into the minivan to head over to St. Patrick’s. The funeral was being held at the same Catholic Church they went to growing up, and where her mother was buried. She had been a devout Catholic, and they held her funeral there eight years earlier. It was fitting that they were going to say goodbye to Charlie there.

  They made their way from Pemaquid through Damariscotta, which was a quintessential New England town, surrounded by inlets and estuaries, with picturesque views everywhere your eye landed. During the summer, people flocked here to drink in its coastal beauty, and the sidewalks that ran outside Main Street’s shops and galleries and book stores would be completely full once the busy season started in June. Her mother had kept a gallery here in downtown Damariscotta. She had built up a name for herself when she had spent summers working with the artists on Mohegan Island, and was considered part of a group that was in high demand. The gallery held art from many different artists, but a lot of them were her mom’s. She sold her beautiful coastal paintings to tourists all summer long. Anna had spent hours exploring the cafes, bookshops, and gift stores here on days when she joined her mother in the shop. When she died, they closed it, and put most of the paintings at Uncle Charlie’s. Her father couldn’t bear to be near them, and he couldn’t bear to sell them.

  The thought of seeing her father shortly made her stiffen. She had spoken to him last night only briefly. He had been a mascot for his extended family, greeting older relatives and friends, some of whom Anna didn’t even know. She let him handle the mourners while she engaged with her cousins, and the night had slipped by without actually having to face him.

  Now in the light of day, she realized she was avoiding him. As if he was reading her mind, Mike looked back to Anna as he stopped to let tourists cross the narrow street.

  “When was the last time you saw your dad, Anna? Was it last Christmas?”

  “Oh, you mean the time when he had too many Scotches before dinner and went off on me for working at someone else’s gallery. How I was wasting my talent, my life. Yes, that’s the last time I saw him,” she said, her pulse racing at the memory, which she tried to calm by smiling at her nephew.

  Marie put on her lipstick in the mirror on the visor.

  “Hasn’t he been like that ever since your mom passed away?” Mike asked.

  “To put it mildly
,” Marie answered, flicking up the visor. “Ever since she died, he’s just been really crazy about her pursuing her art. It’s the reason Anna moved to New York. That and he was hounding her to work at The Foundation.”

  Anna rolled her eyes at the mention of the organization that was essentially their dad’s fourth child. It was easier to just forget it existed.

  “Your dad demanded that you work at The Foundation?” Mike asked Anna.

  “Oh, he wanted me to start it with him. He had grand plans for us,” Anna said. “Why shouldn’t I want to devote my summers to helping budding artists find their way, especially since it was in my mother’s name, and she had done the very same thing for me. No pressure there at all.”

  “He was a bit unfair about that,” Marie agreed.

  As if Anna’s head didn’t already hurt, from the wine and general sadness of the day, remembering how her father had built a flourishing summer enrichment program and was the toast of Anna’s alma mater, the University of Maine’s Orono campus in the summer time, not to mention the magazine features, newspaper articles, and a reoccurring spot on Maine’s Public Radio that followed. It all just made her want to go home and put the covers over her head. She could see the headlines before her eyes: “Grieving Widower Gives Back” and “Art Professor Creates Legacy in Wife’s Memory.” Once, a reporter had called her at the Gallery to interview her for a piece.

  “Can you tell me about how you must feel towards your father in creating the Therese Goodrich Foundation for Artistic Youth?” they asked.

  “No comment,” she had said right before hanging up.

  How could she comment that her dad just wanted to control her life? The Christmas outburst was just another in a long line of arguments since her mother died, when his attitude toward her painting became an obsessive focus. Her talent had become apparent at a young age, and her parents had celebrated it. It was a source of closeness for her mother and her. Before he had just been supportive, leaving the tending and nurturing to her mother. But since her death, his constant pressure that she must use her talent, must foster it and grow was so hard to bear in the wake of losing her mother.

  When she graduated from college, she was exhausted from finishing school and her mother’s death. She wanted to take a break from painting. She couldn’t make her brush do what it used to, couldn’t make the canvas look like what her mind saw. But no matter how she pleaded with him, he would not stop pushing her toward some serious next step. He couldn’t hear that she needed time to grieve. She had to get away from the pressure.

  After she left Maine and moved to New York, they didn’t speak for three years. It took a long time for Anna to stop being angry. And since she was so angry, he barely acknowledged her at family gatherings. It was impossible to have a relationship with him. Anna felt frustration at the pressure, for sure, but the deeper wound was the complete lack of empathy, of support. Especially while trying to cope with the hardest thing she had ever gone through—her mother’s death. It felt like she had lost both parents at the same time.

  “I think I recently started to find some empathy for what he must have been going through at that time,” Anna said, watching the windshield wipers pulse. “But it’s eight years later, and he is still treating me like a failure. Even if I wanted a prodigal homecoming, it would require him to have some open arms, which doesn’t seem likely.”

  Marie handed Anna some tissues. “I had hoped you guys had finally moved forward—or at least started to talk civilly to each other—at Henry’s christening two years ago. Remember when I pulled you aside and begged you to be a family again for Henry’s sake? You both looked at each other, and then he’d shrugged and said, ‘A family for Henry it is’?”

  “Yes, that weekend we tried to make small talk and we were cordial. But by the end of the weekend, in place of cold shouldering me and freezing me out, he picked up where he left off, trying to steer my choices toward his idea of a successful art career, doing grad school at RISD or NYU, working at the Foundation in the summer, helping him keep our mother’s memory alive.”

  “Sounds like you all got lost in the woods when you lost her,” Mike said. “You need a compass to find your way.” Marie nodded and squeezed Mike’s shoulder.

  “It seems like the only person John Goodrich ever took directions from was our mom,” Anna said. “So I don’t see us finding our way back anytime soon.”

  As they pulled into the churchyard, Anna took in St. Patrick’s. At the front, it was an old brick church built in the 1700s. Behind it, a larger wooden church had been erected, and Anna had always admired the different shades of tan and cream they had used to paint the exterior and interior of this church. The neutral background set off the colorful stained-glass windows in a dramatic fashion, and the whole effect was so beautiful, she found she couldn’t take her eyes off it as they got out of the car. She held Henry’s hand as they walked across the gravel parking lot. As she took in the scene she felt an immediate desire to come back here and paint it. She hadn’t brought any of her supplies, but she mentally noted that a visit to the art-supply store would suffice.

  As they walked inside the vestibule, she spotted Aunt Catherine with her arm on her husband, Uncle Joe. Phillip and Sarah stood behind her, talking to the priest. She walked over to give her a hug, making sure that Marie still held on to Henry’s other hand. “How are you holding up today?” Anna asked her when she reached her side. She saw her aunt’s watery, puffy eyes, and though she knew she had taken great care at her appearance—she always did—she could see the physical toll of losing her brother roll across her features.

  “I’m all right, damn it,” she said. Her eyes began to fill as she spoke. “I’ll be all right. How are you dear?” she asked as she pushed a tissue in the corner of her eye.

  “The wine helped.” Anna shrugged. “So does seeing your children. It’s great to have all the cousins together again. If there’s anything good in this situation, it’s being together as a family.” Anna was so distressed at seeing her usually solid, jovial aunt cry that tears sprang to her eyes. This wasn’t their first time comforting each other.

  “Come on, let’s go sit down,” Aunt Catherine said as she reached her ample arm around her. “You look beautiful, dear.”

  As they made their way toward the pews, Anna saw her brother, Stephen, entering the church. She made her way toward him, where they quietly hugged each other. “Where’s Raphael?” he asked.

  Anna’s heart tugged at the topic of Raphael. “He couldn’t leave work—the markets were going to be choppy today and there was a lot at stake. He had to be there.” She found herself apologizing for him, wishing her strong, sweet boyfriend was right next to her instead of hundreds of miles away at his desk. She wasn’t in the mood to examine it now, and she switched gears quickly.

  “How was your ride up? You must be exhausted,” she said.

  Stephen nodded his head. Anna noticed that exhausted barely covered how tired her brother looked.

  “It’s crazy, but I couldn’t have missed this. They’ll have to survive one night without me.” He grinned broadly, his wavy brown hair shorter than the last time she had seen him, and with more gray hairs filling his temple. Stephen always made you feel like you were the most important thing to him at the moment, like her mother always did, and Anna was basking in the feeling.

  Marie joined them and leaned in for a hug, Henry at her heels. “Hey, little man,” Stephen gushed, quickly squatting down to give Henry a high five. Henry didn’t even pretend to be shy; he just went in for the kill. “Uncle Stevie!” he squealed as he hugged his uncle. “D’you have a ’prise for me?” Stephen had conditioned him for this question. He always showed up with a little gift for his nephew. “Well, let’s see. I think I might.” And he pulled out a Matchbox car from his suit jacket.

  Just at that moment—Anna could almost feel him coming—John Goodrich strolled into the church, his tall presence commanding, an effect that was amplified by his distinguished
appearance. White hair and mustache, well-tailored charcoal gray wool suit. Marie had inherited his olive skin and round dark eyes, one of the only gifts his Italian father had given him. Both Anna and Stephen had fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes like their Irish mother. His posture gave strangers the impression he was the head of a business or perhaps a politician, but in reality he was a retired art history professor who had spent his career at Bowdoin college in nearby Brunswick, Maine. Anna noticed that he had more wrinkles around his eyes, and his stomach had started to put on the suggestion of a pouch, though he had always been slim like Stephen. He is getting older, Anna thought.

  “Stephen,” he said. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. They shook hands, then hugged quickly. His eyes displayed a warmth, though either the sad occasion or his stoicism eclipsed the sentiment from becoming a full smile.

  “Hey, Dad,” Stephen said. “I’m so sorry about Uncle Charlie.” He let the words out raw and strong.

  “The bastard beat me to it. Sixty-six years old, and here I am pushing seventy. It was that damn board of directors of the bank that killed him, obviously.” He spoke loudly, and a few heads from the other side of the church turned in his direction.

  Just then a man came to tap him and he then turned to Stephen. “The hearse is here. Will you help carry the casket?” At the word hearse, Anna was snapped back into the reality of the day. It hit her hard. A bagpiper began to play. She looked over at her aunt and sister crying, and her eyes welled with tears. She sat down next to Henry, and was so grateful to have the little boy’s hand to hold as the casket entered the church.