The Lifeguards(11)

My son was quiet as we moved through the fragrant summer night, the air still heavy at midnight. Each home that we passed was utterly silent. I’d lived in Austin for almost sixteen years but the quiet was still revelatory—my life on Cape Cod had been noisy with arguments, sirens, traffic noise, and late-night television heard through open windows. The fence that protected us here in Barton Hills was invisible but absolutely airtight. I would never take for granted the safety of wealth and the luxury of soundless nights.

I could still remember leaving East Falmouth when I was a recent community college grad. I’d commuted to school and worked full-time; I’d scarcely ever slept away from the trailer we called home.

The night I left, my mom was snoozing on the couch, my little sister, Darla, curled beside her, Darla’s bright red hair—so like Charlie’s!—damp against her forehead. I’d smuggled a pregnancy test from the Stop & Shop, and in the cramped bathroom, I discovered it was positive. I saw my life in Massachusetts before me—making a bed somewhere in the trailer for a baby (Where? In a drawer?), continuing to work at the Falmouth Raw Bar, the scent of fried seafood clinging to my skin. I loved my mom and sister, but I wanted something else. Something more. I wanted to be named Liza, which seemed to me the name of a cool, wealthy, untouchable girl.

My old nickname, Weezie, was the name of a waitress, the name of a woman who’d work her ass off getting a college degree and then get knocked up and never leave the Cape. I abandoned that name the night I left Bluebird Acres, taking my mother’s car keys from the seashell-shaped dish on the kitchen counter. I kissed Darla on the forehead. I stood at the front door and said a silent prayer for her. And then I disappeared.

I ditched my mom’s Ford at the Peter Pan depot and stared out the bus window, tears in my throat as we crossed over the Bourne Bridge. I knew I’d never return. Liza and her son Charlie (a name that went with Liza, I thought…and somehow I knew I would have a son, though of course I had a high-class girl name, too: Sarah) would vacation in more glamorous places—Hawaii? California?

I can still remember the giant bag of Twizzlers I bought at South Station as I waited for my bus to New York. (I’d planned on getting off in Manhattan, but Penn Station in the middle of the night was scary. I gave in to my gut instinct and bought a ticket for as far as I could afford to go: Austin, Texas.) The Twizzlers had been sticky in my hand but sweet in my mouth.



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EVERY WEEKEND, I WENT to open houses in the Barton Hills neighborhood, scanned the for-sale listings obsessively. I’d spent the last sixteen years scrimping to try to save a down payment, but something always came up to clean out my stash. It was possible that I could get a loan for a small place in another Austin neighborhood, but this was where I wanted Charlie to grow up, not in the cheaper places farther south or north of 183. No matter how many times Charlie found a new build off Slaughter Lane or in Pflugerville, texting me a listing or grabbing a flyer and sticking it to the refrigerator with one of our alphabet letter magnets, I knew where we belonged.

I had already run. Now I wanted only to stay.

“It just bothers me that you think you’re not as good as Whitney and Annette,” Charlie said once, after I’d asked him to toss our cardboard roach traps before I hosted Ladies’ Night.

“I don’t think that,” I’d protested.

“Anyone who was your real friend wouldn’t care if you had a roach problem,” said Charlie. “Anyone who was a real friend with money would hire you an exterminator. She’s our landlord now, isn’t she? Call Whitney and tell her we need help!”

I laughed off his comments, but they stung. Because I was desperate to appear a certain way. I wanted my friends to think I had it all together. I asked Annette if she thought I should bid on neighborhood homes (though there was no way in hell I could), sending texts with “???” and listings featuring open kitchens and master bath suites.

I knew my friends loved that I was “eclectic,” even that I was single, which seemed exciting despite the fact that I hadn’t had a date in years. I didn’t want them to see the grim underside of my life: staying up late whispering tarot card predictions to hapless callers; donning a red shirt, affixing a Target name tag, and bagging scented candles; rushing up to Round Rock to walk designer malta-poodle-doodles.

I wanted to be a rich person with a job that was my hobby. I wanted to own my own home. I wanted to pretend any college was possible for Charlie, to worry about highlighting my hair and making sure my gardener, Rod, had called my arborist, Brendan, to talk over options for treating my ailing live oak.

Whitney and Annette never would have even seen someone like Weezie. My friendship with them was my most valuable treasure. Next to Whitney and Annette, I was mistaken for one of the fortunate ones, and that felt wonderful.

Of course Whitney had had her share of tragedies—she was orphaned as a child. Annette’s family was loving and intact but she, too, had fought hard to forge her life. Our scars bound us, I knew—and our days in the syrupy terror of new motherhood. By the time we’d emerged out of those days, fragile and transformed, we were inseparable. I believed we were a family.

“Whitney’s helped us plenty,” I said that afternoon. “Now spritz that lemongrass spray around, will you? Nobody wants ‘wine with a side of mildew’ smell.”