Free Mystic Summer by Hannah McKinnon

reproaching.
    â€œWe graduated, she gave birth to Emory, and soon after our friends took off to follow their careers. Yet there we were stuck in faculty housing, struggling to live off our stipends, with a colicky newborn. After one particularly rough night with Emory, I remember Lauren standing at the kitchen sink while I was getting ready for work. She was just staring out the window, and she said that she felt like her life was over, while mine was just beginning.”
    â€œI’m so sorry, Cam.” My mind wandered to Jane’s own struggles after having Lucy, and that had been in the best of circumstances.
    Cam let out a long breath, and I pictured him running his hand through his hair, something he used to do when worrying. “Emory was only eight weeks old when Lauren told me she was going to visit her parents for the weekend. Alone. She said she was exhausted, and she asked if I could handle the baby for the weekend. I was a little surprised, but she’d been so down, and I figured it’d do her some good.” He paused. “Two days later she called. From Alaska.”
    I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. So it was true. She’d been the one to leave.
    â€œBut we’re good now. Emory and I came back here, and I’ve got my business going. Most important, I’ve got my girl.”
    My eyes filled. “That you do,” I told him emphatically. In thebackground, I heard a little chirp. A sweet, gurgly “Ah, ah, ah” filled my ear. I pictured Cam bending over Emory’s crib.
    â€œHold on,” he told me. “I’ve got to get her bottle.” As I listened, I got the sense that I was peering into the privacy of their late-night ritual. Now there were three of us on the line.
    I let Cam go, telling him that I’d better be getting to bed. Knowing that Emory needed him, even though I wanted nothing more than to keep talking.
    â€œListen, Mags,” he’d said before we hung up, “it was good catching up with you tonight.”
    â€œYou, too,” I said, sorry that I had to let him go. Suddenly sorry that I was hours away in Boston. But when I replaced the phone on my bedside table, I knew that our larger conversation was just beginning.

    Now, standing in the overheated teacher’s lounge, Mystic seems a thousand miles away. Especially when I see that there’s already a long line at the photocopier. I grab a water from the fridge and sit down. Sharon comes in and plops down next to me. “Have you decided what you’re wearing to the Gala tomorrow night?”
    My mind ticks through my apartment closet. These events are always a bit of a tightrope. Many of the parents get roaring drunk, and compete shamelessly to outbid one another at the auction, making for plenty of Monday-morning faculty room gossip. But for us teachers it’s a work function.
    â€œProbably a boring little black dress,” I say, wondering what my eBay Blahniks would look best with. “What about you?”
    She sighs and pats her belly. “Thanks to this baby, nothingwith the word ‘little’ in front of it.” Sharon leans closer. “So, are you bringing Evan?”
    I wink. “Maybe.”
    I’ve purposely remained vague about Evan at school. The faculty room lunch table is somewhat sacred ground. It is a place where veteran teachers announce first grandchildren with the same enthusiasm they soon after announce retirements. Where younger teachers debut engagement rings. And where more than a few have disclosed divorce or loss.
    Throughout my time here, we have debated everything from the merits of best teaching practices, to politics, to what everyone really thinks about the PTA president. Everything is fodder for examination. Which is why, as a single girl of a certain age, I’m prudent about what to lay on the table. I’m no fool; I know that the social committee members have been studying me for some