August 1969

When I wake, it’s a million hours later, there is sun spilling everywhere, and my body hurts like I hadn’t moved an inch all night. Maybe I hadn’t.

I walk across the carpet, open the French doors, and step out onto the veranda. The clouds that had filled the sky yesterday have all gone, and all I can see are sparkling pockets of green and long miles of white sand and water. Apparently Vi lives in paradise. The view is breathtaking. I could stand here forever.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Vi says, coming out to stand next to me.

I look down at the moorlands and the bluffs and the sea and contemplate the plethora of oxygen.

“There’s… it’s… a lot of space.”

Vi nods. “And it changes, too. Throughout the seasons, the shedding leaves and changing tide. And the local birds — some migrate south and then return. And the snow, Beth! It’s the most desolate, pristine white you’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes are all alive, the way I remember them. She points toward a large lighthouse at the end of the peninsula. “Even the old lighthouse changes throughout the day, with the light. If you sit here long enough—” She stops herself, then, looks at me. “You must be starving. You slept forever. Come downstairs for eggs.”

We talk over breakfast. She asks about the cousins and aunts and uncles, each one by name. She leans forward, hungry for detail, devours every bit of information. Vi listens intently but doesn’t share any information herself, which is completely bizarre. I think this person who speaks in short monotone sentences, her voice scratchy and low like a dull pencil across paper, is an impostor. Vi is supposed to trill, she is supposed to plunge and rise, she is supposed to have glitter stardust trailing her as she moves. She is no longer electric, the woman across the table. She is quiet pastels and I feel sad for all the paint that’s rubbed off. I fill in the empty spots by talking. And talking and talking.

“And Miriam had a baby. A girl — no, a boy,” I say.

“Well, which is it?”

“I honestly don’t remember!” I laugh and she smiles.

She doesn’t ask about Bubby and Zeidy so I don’t bring them up. When we run out of relatives to discuss, I ask her about her life in Montauk.

“Oh, it’s very lovely. Wonderful people.” Her face changes, her lips purse a bit, she grows even more proper and distant. “You know, since Robert’s death… well, of course, things changed.” She gets up to clear the plates. “But lovely people. Really.”

“So you have friends?”

“Oh, yes. Sure.”

“Can we go to the fair today?”

Vi turns on the water to wash the dishes, her back very straight.

“Melody wanted me to come. Do you know which fair she was talking about?”

“The Ladies Village Improvement Society Fair,” Vi says flatly. “I suppose we can go.” She doesn’t seem very excited about it.

“I can go myself, if you don’t—”

Vi turns to look at me, narrows her eyes. “I said I’ll come. Go get ready.”

A half-hour later we’re in Vi’s Camaro, on our way to East Hampton.

“I met your cousin yesterday. Howard.”

Vi’s eyes open wide for a moment. “Howard Gardenere?”

I shrug. She adjusts her hands on the steering wheel.

“Robert’s cousin, Beth. Not mine,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.