Page 12 of A Nantucket Season
Alana and Julia pointed out a bartender, pushing through the crowd, trying to make space. “Maybe he knows what’s going on?” Julia suggested.
When the bartender reached them, he said, “Everyone needs to get back a little bit! Nobody can breathe in there. Feels like everyone lost their minds.”
“What’s going on?” Ella asked.
The bartender scratched his head. “This woman I’d never seen before took the guitar I had hanging on the wall and just started singing. And after that, all these people came in, wanting to hear her. She hasn’t stopped for thirty minutes!”
Ella laughed, amazed at the audacity of Aurora (if it really was her). When the bartender left the crowd and walked around the side of the bar, presumably to enter through another door, Ella charged through people, trying to get as close to Aurora as she could. It took the entire “Fast Car” to get to the third row, and when she did, she found Aurora seated on the bar counter, her auburn locks cascading gorgeously down her back and her eyes half-open as she erupted with song. Ella had never heard a voice like that, one that seemed drawn from the earth like gold. And beside Aurora, on one of the stools, was a man Ella recognized— Brooks, a fisherman who was friendly with Will. As Aurora cut the song, she dropped her gaze to Brooks and gave him a smile that made his cheeks burn red. The air between them was fraught, as though they were already in the midst of a passionate love affair. But hadn’t Aurora only arrived in Nantucket last night?
“All right! That’s enough!” The bartender had returned, and he clapped his hands on the bar counter so that Aurora jumped up with fright. Brooks wrapped his arms around her, laughing, as the bar cleared, with only a few people staying for beers. But just before Ella could get to Aurora to tell her just how meaningful her voice truly was, Aurora seized up, then relaxed, her eyes closing, as she fainted in Brooks’ arms. Brooks looked stricken. “Aurora?" he cried, adjusting her in his arms. “Aurora, are you all right? Talk to me!”
ChapterSeven
Aurora awoke in a dark room. Her head was pounding, her hands were clammy, and she was still in the dress she’d put on that morning.Where was she?Wearily, she sat up and leaned against the pillows, blinking as the room came into focus, revealing itself as the room she’d been given at The Copperfield House. Groaning, she rubbed her temples, then turned on the lamp by the bed. A clock on the wall said it was just after eleven at night. She’d been out for hours.
Gosh, what happened?
Next to the lamp was a glass of water and a handwritten note, upon which was written:
Hi, Aurora! Text me when you wake up. It’s Ella.
Beneath the note was a phone number, which, obviously, Aurora couldn’t use, as she didn’t have a cell. Apparently, Ella had forgotten that. Aurora’s heart thudded as she drank the water, digging through her mind for understanding of what had happened. The last thing she remembered was a guitar, her voice flowing through the air. It had felt as though her voice had been separate from her, a beautiful monster that had taken full control of her body. And at the front of the crowd was a handsome face filled with love and passion for her. She’d never seen such joy reflected back to her.
Brooks! Of course. Aurora gasped and placed her hands over her face, awash with embarrassment. Now, she remembered running into Brooks on the boardwalk and making a fool of herself when she’d asked him to get to coffee, after all. The coffee date had lasted three hours, during which she and Brooks hadn’t been able to shut up. Aurora had had the sensation that their souls were united, as though they were two halves of the same whole, hunting for one another all these years. When the coffeehouse had closed up, Brooks had admitted he was “starving” and had insisted on taking her out to eat at a little diner, where they’d eaten burgers and French fries and chatted some more. Afterward, they’d gone to that little dive bar, where she’d had half a pint of beer, then grabbed the guitar from the wall and begun to sing.
“Oh, you’re brilliant,” Brooks had breathed, gazing at her as though this was the first time he was seeing the real her.
After that, everything in her memories went black.
Suddenly wide awake and panicked, Aurora stumbled out of the bedroom, down the staircase, and into the black night along the beach. Ocean winds cut through her dress and hair and chilled her skin, and she took deep breaths, filling her lungs as her eyes filled with tears. Her biggest fear was that Brooks had seen her do or say something that he hadn’t liked— that he’d seen the “real” her and decided he didn’t like her after all. This was what had happened to Aurora’s mother, over and over again, men coming in and out of her life like a revolving door, obsessed with her beauty, bravery, and wild personality, up until it got to be too much for them.
Aurora sat down, drawing little pictures in the sand with her finger as tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn’t want to think this, but it was true: Brooks was the first person who’d expressed interest in her in years. Maybe he would be the last. Aurora still remembered her mother’s last boyfriend, probably fifteen years ago, who’d said to Aurora, “You better pray you don’t end up like your momma.”
Aurora’s mother, Delilah, had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of thirty-five, when Aurora was only ten years old. In retrospect, the diagnosis should have made things easier or at least filled their days with clarity, but instead, Delilah had taken the diagnosis as an insult to her character and acted out. Aurora had tried her best to get her mother to take her pills, to continue going to the job she had at that time, and to take showers and eat. So often, when she didn’t take her medication, she turned on the world, breaking up with boyfriends, ending friendships, or quitting her jobs spontaneously. When she was manic, on the worst days, she decided Aurora was the source of all her problems, blaring that Aurora should never have been born. Only once had Aurora dared to ask her mother who her father was, and Delilah had screamed, cried, and called Aurora names, saying that the voices knew Aurora was the problem, not her.
The fact was, Delilah could also be really great sometimes. Until the very end, she was gorgeous, with long hair the same color as Aurora’s, a wonderful singing voice, and a talent for painting that left many stunned. Aurora’s memories were punctuated with singing duets with her mother, going on wild road trips to places unknown. They’d told one another bedtime stories, giggled until after midnight, and danced through the kitchen, baking up concoctions that had nothing to do with any recipe, just to see what happened.
Of course, as Delilah got older, those days became even further apart, and Aurora was left to pick up the pieces, demand visits to the doctor, and get a job at the age of fourteen (illegally, of course) to pay as many bills as she could. At sixteen, she dropped out of high school by forging her mother’s signature on the necessary document, and then, she worked two jobs— at a fast-food restaurant and at the local YMCA. At the YMCA, she’d frequently taught singing and art lessons, a job she’d adored, at least until her mother had come up with a reason they couldn’t stay in that particular city anymore. She’d thought “they” were on to her, so they had to get away. Aurora had considered fighting her mother on this, but then again, there were fast food restaurants and YMCAs everywhere. She could always get another job.
Sometimes, Delilah was forced to be involuntarily committed to a mental institution, which were complicated times for Aurora. She saw how greatly her mother suffered in the institutions, saw the horrific bland food and the looks in the other patients’ eyes. But she’d also noticed just how different her life was without her mother around. She’d gone on a few dates, joined a band as a singer, and painted more. Still, guilt and love were closely linked, and Aurora had never waited long to bring her mother back home. Each time she did, she watched the life she’d briefly built fade away, replaced only with her mother and her endless needs.
Aurora and Delilah had lived more or less like that, with Delilah getting progressively worse, until last spring when she’d died. That meant that Aurora had been living with Delilah’s mental illness for twenty-five years. She wasn’t entirely sure how to live without it.
What was worse, of course, was that Aurora was thirty-five now— the same age Delilah had been when she’d been first diagnosed. And Aurora was terrified.
She shivered on the beach, watching the waves roll through the darkness and recede along the sand. When she turned back, she took in the immense shadow of The Copperfield House, the only “home” she’d had since she’d lost the house after her mother’s death. Since then, she’d felt like an aimless vagabond, traveling through the country, as though she were looking for something. Sometimes, she’d stopped at internet cafés to check her email on a clunky-looking computer. It was at an internet café in Louisiana, of all places, she’d read that The Copperfield House had picked her for its first round of artists.
It was supposed to be a dream come true.Why did she feel like she was already messing up?
Back inside, Aurora walked through the shadows of the house, moonlight slashing over her legs and arms each time she passed a window. Before long, she was back in front of the canvas from that morning, the one filled with black loops and slashes. To her amazement, the images now evoked tremendous emotion and heartache, and she understood exactly why she’d made those lines and where to take the painting next. It was like magic. Frantically, she prepared her oil paints and dove into the work, hardly able to breathe as she created layers of paint, stood up to walk to the back of the studio, and took in what she’d created. For hours she worked like this, slowly allowing herself to forget how frightened she was that she was going crazy until the light of the morning buzzed in pinks, lavenders, and blues through the window.
Around seven-thirty, other artists creaked through the old house, saying hello to one another as they went to the bathroom or walked to the kitchen. As she floated past the studio, Barbie peered through the crack to spot Aurora, and she said, “You’re awake early!”
Barbie’s voice pulled Aurora from her reverie, and she blinked through the gray light of the room as Barbie opened the door wider.
“Are you feeling better?” Barbie asked, her smile never wavering.
“What? Oh. Yeah?” Aurora wasn’t sure what Barbie was talking about.