Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

18. Carter

18

CARTER

After we finish eating at Shaky Jane’s, Angela goes back to the apartment to try and take a nap. And I’m left alone on the cliffs in town overlooking the water, with only my University of Maine email inbox for company.

I feel my stomach cramp with nerves as I hit refresh on the page that is nearly perpetually open on my phone. I haven’t checked it in days, for obvious reasons, and I’m dreading it. I also need to cancel the class I’m teaching this week. Though I’m sure my students will understand—it’s not them I’m worried about.

It’s what probably won’t be there.

No interview opportunities. No successful postdoc applications. Nothing telling me I’ve been shortlisted for the next round.

This endless waiting is the experience of everyone in the last year of their PhD, and while I’m looking forward to being done with my degree, I also want to know what’s next. And I’m well aware that my personality—extremely controlling, emotionally reserved—is not suited to this type of waiting game.

The longer I have to wait, the more I wish I wanted to be a park ranger in Maine. I’d get to do what I loved—be around nature. And I’d be close to home, and crucially, it would be my choice. I wouldn’t be at the whim of whatever funding body deigned to put money towards conservation that year.

That’s another reason I check my email with dread. Last week, I interviewed for a job on a research project that would see me spend a few months out of each year in Iceland, studying the sea bird populations there. It’s a dream job.

I did the application a few months ago, when Angela still wasn’t speaking to me unless she absolutely had to. And even if she still hasn’t forgiven me completely, I’m determined that she will. That we’ll finally have our second chance. And I won’t jeopardize that for anything, not even for the perfect job. I won’t make the same exact mistake I made last time. The other people in my PhD program would call me crazy for that type of thinking—but Angela matters more to me than my career.

There are no job offers in my inbox today though, and I’m filled with a mixture of relief and disappointment. There is an email from my supervisor, Professor Judith Clarke, though, informing me that she’s read the latest chapter of my thesis and has returned it with comments. She’s also encouraging me to apply for a teaching job at the university for next year. It would be more of what I’m teaching now—undergraduate courses in science—but with the potential to advise master’s students in wildlife conservation. It’s perfect.

I close my email and scroll to my messages. On the family group chat, my younger sister Elle has just texted to let us know she’s landed a summer internship.

Elle: I got an internship for the summer! In marketing.

Mom: Amazing sweetie!

Dad: Good job! Your first big kid job.

As usual, my parents responded immediately, congratulating her. I can read between the lines though, and can see that they’re relieved, as they always are when Elle does something to indicate she’s finally found direction.

She’s only nineteen, so really they shouldn’t be worried. But I was the first child they raised, and I never needed to be directed, at least not in a way they understood how to point me. Elle is a different story in that she more obviously needed them, and they spent her childhood fussing over her and leaving me to my own devices. I don’t begrudge my sister any of this, because they treated her the way a child should be treated. And I know that my parents sense that something is amiss in our relationship, but they don’t know how to identify what it is.

Lucky for me, I do. It’s like this: they don’t feel like they really know me, but they think that it’s because I don’t tell them anything. In fact, they don’t know me well because whenever I share something about myself, they respond without asking for any further information. It puts me in the position of having to ask for their attention, and for their love. And that’s something I won’t let myself do. If someone isn’t interested, then I’m not inclined to share myself with them easily. Even if they are my own parents. Perhaps especially so.

They say they’re proud of me for getting a PhD, for example, but they have no idea what I actually study beyond just “birds” and “the outdoors.”

Despite my clear-eyed view of this relationship, I still feel guilt over it. Because I could share more, I could try harder. I could, at the very least, tell them I’ve been stuck on a remote island for the last three days. What if there’s an emergency?

I’d tell the paramedics to call Jamie or Hunter before anyone in my family.

That thought sets me on edge enough that I decide to call my mom.

“Carter!” she says when she answers, the surprise in her voice clear.

I don’t remember the last time I called them. Or when they last called me.

“Hey Mom, how are you?” I put on my “speaking to my parents voice,” i.e., an easy, laid back voice that communicates everything is all good, all the time. I’ve got it under control.

“Great, honey. Your father and I are heading out on the boat soon. But it’s nice to hear from you!”

Not thirty seconds into the conversation and she’s already letting me know she has to go soon. Classic Mom. No matter that my dad doesn’t give a shit about being on time for anything, and they’re both retired and loaded. So tomorrow will also likely involve spending the day on their sailboat, floating in the perfect Florida waters.

“I won’t keep you,” I say, in that same easy voice. I imagine a joint hanging from my mouth, a cap backwards on my head.

“Okay,” she says.

There’s a long awkward pause, in which I imagine myself taking a long puff of that joint and cracking open a beer.

“I called because I’m stranded,” I say.

“What? Carter, what does that mean?” My mom at least has the decency to sound surprised.

“Jamie’s bachelor party included a hike on a small island, and during a storm I got stuck here. With Angela, Cat’s friend.”

“Why were their girls at this bachelor party?” my mom asks, as if that is somehow the most important thing going on here, and it’s still 1955.

“Because Jamie and Cat are best friends,” I explain, even though she must already know this. Jamie and I have been friends since we were in middle school, and she’s definitely met Cat multiple times.

“Oh that’s right,” she says. “So you’re stuck? How is that possible?”

“There was a storm. A pretty bad one, with ice and rain. We stayed in a cabin in the woods for a few nights.”

I explain the rest of it to her, and when I get to the part about how we haven’t found someone with a boat to take us back to Harborview yet, all she manages to say is, “At least the island is probably charming! Your father and I almost bought a vacation place on one of these islands but thought it was a bit run down.”

Nothing about how Angela and I almost had to weather a Maine ice and rain storm outside. Nothing about how thankful she is that I knew a place we could see it out in. Not a word about how she hopes we make it back soon. Nothing, even, about what an inconvenience this must be causing for both of us.

I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened to Angela and me if Hal’s cabin wasn’t close. If we hadn’t reached it before the wind and rain picked up. If the temperature had dropped and we’d still been outside.

All of that is lost on my mom, though.

“It seems like you have it handled so well, honey,” she says.

My heart feels brittle all of a sudden, like the smallest blow could crack it right down the center.

“Thanks. I do,” I say, because what else is there?

I do have it handled. And I wouldn’t have it any other way—not with Angela here with me. Not with her depending on me to figure out how to get us home. But for once, I’d like my mom to offer to help. Even if I don’t need it. Her and dad are swimming in cash. They could charter a damn helicopter to come get us if we needed them to.

I tell my mom that I love her and then we hang up.

I stand on the edge of the cliff and look out into the distance at the sea. The water is still choppy and rough and I don’t see any boats out there. But the sky is blue, and birds are dancing in and out of the waves, diving for fish. I grab my binoculars from where they’re strapped to my chest and set them over my eyes, determined to stop thinking about my parents.

For some reason, though, my knee aches, right where Angela bandaged it. And I can’t help but remember the soft press of her hands.