It’S Always Ourselves We Find in the Sea: A Novel

By Ali Russo

College senior Lily Hammilton is on the verge of earning her psychology degree and starting a career as a general therapist. But during class, she receives an urgent message from her brother. The news is not good: their father, terminally ill from cancer, has passed away.

At the reading of the will, Lily discovers she has inherited all her fathers money. The strangest item she receives, however, is a ferry ticket to Nantucket. As a child, Lily and her father traveled to the island every summer. But why would her father want her to go now, without him? Regardless of his motives, Lily seizes on the opportunity to get away for a while and regroup.

Once on the island, she lands a summer job at a bookstore; finds a new friend in Regina, a fun-spirited teacher looking for adventure; and becomes inundated with childhood memories. Yet matters of the heart begin to ensnare her when she meets Ryan, a handsome, shy young man who instantly captivates her.

But Lily soon discovers that becoming the woman she was meant to be means finding herself while also embracing those around hera task that proves easier said than done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475969580

Ali Russo

Ali Russo is a native of Marlborough, Massachusetts. When she’s not writing, she enjoys singing, playing the ukulele, reading, and collecting amazing pens. This is her first novel.

Book preview

it’s always

ourselves we

find in the sea.

a novel.

ali russo

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

a novel.

Copyright © 2013 by Ali Russo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6960-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6959-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6958-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900049

iUniverse rev. date: 1/21/2013

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

to Laney.

love, with all of my heart, Ali Girl

Author’s Note

Ever since I was seven years old, it has always been a summer tradition to travel to the wonderful island of Nantucket with my father. It started because my parents were in the process of a divorce; they were always very agreeable and friendly when they discussed my welfare, and they both agreed that it was a wonderful opportunity for me to go.

And now, at eighteen, I couldn’t agree more.

The island is still magical and mysterious to me, and I still go there every year with my dad. Most of the time, once school finishes and summer is just beginning to unfold, he’ll tell me, "Alessandra! There’s no backing out now! You’re going to go to Nantucket!" He will usually say this playfully, a smile spread wide across his face, and I can’t help but smile back and let the flood of excitement simply course through me.

I have always felt a strong, almost magnetic, pull to Nantucket; even thinking about it makes me excited, and I’ll admit, when I’m feeling extremely nostalgic, I can’t help but look at old pictures of where I’ve been. I know the island better than I know my own hometown, Marlborough, Massachusetts. And that, I’ve said, is pathetic.

I’ve always been a writer. I remember when I was about five, and I had truly gotten the knack of reading and also a new thing called writing, and I would beg my parents for paper at night, so I could write my own little stories. Most of the time, my stories were about dogs (I had always wanted a dog, even though my horrendous asthma made it a breathing nightmare for me to be near one) or silly little tales that ran through my young head, but every night they would rip pages out of their work notebooks or collect old bills for me to write on. Each night, I would climb into their bed and read them what I had, ever so proudly, written.

Throughout the years, I kept writing—especially when times got rough. I had written a few different mini stories, nothing that ever really blossomed or grew into something else. I am a very optimistic person, consistently seeing the world and the glass as half-full, but I always wrote so depressingly. I remember one particular occasion: the guidance counselor of the school called me into her office, a look of deep concern displayed on her face. I am not sending any signals or anything, I told them, trying to alleviate their worries. I just write things that aren’t always so happy.

After I turned fifteen, I hit a major writer’s block. Every night, I would so fiercely and desperately try to write something, but nothing ever stuck, nothing ever hit me. My father always had me on Thursday nights, and so every Thursday he would take me out to dinner. Our favorite restaurant was Bertucci’s, and he, being a fellow—yet covert—writer, was a safe place for me to express my angst and frustration. Well, he said to me, do you have any ideas now?

I have sort of an idea, I responded, my fork twirling in my pasta, but I don’t know what to do with it.

Well, what is it?

I told him about how I kept picturing a young woman. She just got out of a relationship she had been in for years, after the guy dumped her through a letter. She works as a marriage counselor, and she receives a call from her brother, saying that her father has died.

Now, here’s the part I’m stuck at, I told him, and he looked up at me from his eggplant parmesan. "Should I make it that her father leaves her all of his money or a ferry ticket to Nantucket?"

Why not both? he asked me softly.

This scenario had never before occurred to me; my fork dropped from my hand and into my pasta, and I could feel the neurons in my brain clicking. We sat at the table that night from 6:30 to 10:30 simply talking about what would happen to the main character—to the point that I had the entire novel figured out.

Now, my father told me, tapping his box of leftovers, write it.

This all happened in the midst of my midterm exams, so I jotted down the plot, along with bits of the first chapter, when I was taking a reprieve from studying.

A lot of the places written in the book—the restaurants and the beaches and other locations—are real (with the exception of the Beachside Hotel). Like I said, I know the island better than I know my hometown, which speaks to exactly how much it means to me.

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I have enjoyed writing it. There’s a book in there somewhere, Al; someone very wise and dear to my heart once told me, after awhile, those corners must hurt from poking your insides so often!

maggie and millie and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach(to play one day)

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

-ee cummings

Chapter One

I remember when I was a seventeen and a junior in high school—I was driving myself absolutely up a wall to study for midterms. I needed to do extremely well if I wanted to get A’s and B’s on my report card, and with colleges looking at the final averages of my classes, I was counting on my transcript to practically sparkle as the head of campus read it.

At the time, I was working as a hostess in a Chinese restaurant. Although I’m not Asian, they hired people who they believed were good-spirited—it was like a Chinese restaurant melting pot. When I wasn’t escorting people to their tables, I was studying the textbooks I had stowed away underneath the sink in the kitchen. As I looked through the pages of the books and ran my hands through my hair, I suddenly felt my eyes well up, feeling everything come crashing down onto my shoulders.

The restaurant was family-owned, and Mr. Chin, the owner, was almost always there. He was a gentle man with a kind smile and a demeanor that made everyone just want to hug him. As he saw me wipe my eyes, he grabbed my chin softly and pulled it up for me to look at his face, asking in broken English, What wrong?

Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Chin, I said quickly, wiping my eyes on my sleeve and stowing the textbooks away. Just a little stressed out, is all.

Lily, he said to me thoughtfully, slow down. At end of day, when you look in mirror, you do your best?

I looked up at him and said softly, Yes. I tried my very hardest. I had answered honestly. I had spent seven straight hours studying the night before.

Then that all that matter, he said to me, now fully smiling. You look in mirror, you like what you see, you do your best—that all that matter.

Mr. Chin’s words have followed me through the last several years. Now, I’m not entirely sure if he made up that phrase or read it on a fortune cookie that he occasionally snuck past his wife, but his words really made me feel better about things, especially in college.

Today, in our psychology class, we are examining true life examples of what it would be like if we were actually real psychologists. Personally, I want to be just a general therapist, one where people can come to me in pairs or by themselves. My major has changed often over the past four years, but now, being a senior, I feel confident in saying that this is what I would like to do.

Unfortunately for today, I have picked the short straw, and I’m first to go through this for the edification of the class.

My professor, Dr. Debra Shire, was able to secure the use of the auditorium on campus for today’s class, so that we can have a desk and an office while onlooking students take notes and write down examples of the good and bad that occurs in the simulation. She has provided the backstory for who I, specifically, am going to try to help: a woman in her late forties with marital problems.

Dr. Shire is a woman of short stature with big, blue eyes and long chestnut hair that often spilled over her shoulders. Her laugh always carried in any room, and she is very good at making everything mean something, even if it is as small as a pencil tip breaking. She wants us to know that, as future psychologists, our every action matters, and she is exceptionally good at conveying this message.

My professor, who believes in hands-on activities, sits across from me at my desk, where my index cards and various-colored pens are out in front of me. I watch her sit down and cross her legs as she sits opposite me, her body language warm and welcoming. Although I am not supposed to do this, I feel my foot lightly bounce against the scuffed-up wood of the stage, the slight echo filling the wings. I smile politely, biting back the apprehension, and tug gently at my navy skirt.

Dr. Hammilton, she says, extending her hand.

Dr. Shire, I respond, holding her grip. Let me show you to my office.

The rest of the students, who are sitting in the squeaky chairs of our auditorium, relax comfortably, palms rested on chins and eyes focused on my professor and me. Notebooks are balanced in laps and on clipboards; the sound of pencils scratching is amplified where I am.

I lead Dr. Shire to the office that is set up: two loveseats and a small nightstand in the middle, with tissues poking out of a box. She settles herself before I do, for the last thing I am comfortable in is a skirt. I remember back when I switched to a psych major: I promised myself, if I were ever to become a therapist, that classy jeans were acceptable.

So, I say, looking down at my notepad to write Dr. Debra Shire, 47, marital problems. When did you begin to feel all of this… I let my voice trail, trying to conjure the most appropriate word, …loneliness? The word has an upward inflection, for I am not entirely sure of what she truly feels.

About two months ago, she responds, and I quickly scribble this onto my paper. When we were out to dinner. It was our anniversary, and I thought he had bought me a gift, because he kept hinting that he had something for me. Well, of course I told all of my girlfriends this, and they all knew that I was hinting to him that I wanted new diamond-encrusted earrings. So, anyway, he took me out and, towards the end of the night, he said to me, ‘Dear, I have something for you.’

I have to give Dr. Shire credit. She was an actress before she became a professor. I haven’t the slightest idea as to as to what made her change course, but she’s still got it, that’s for sure.

And so my heart begins to race, and I smile and pretend that I have no idea—because, let’s be honest, doesn’t every girl do that?—and you know what he pulls out?

When an awkward silence occurs and the moment passes, I realize that this question isn’t rhetorical. The sounds of movements and note taking have ceased as twenty curious eyes look up in response to the quiet.

Quickly, I respond, What?

Socks! She exclaims angrily.

A few chuckles come from the audience, and I find myself holding back the giggle that wants to burst out of me. Oh?

They weren’t even the good kind, she mumbles, crossing her arms and reminding me somewhat of a child who didn’t get her way. He told me, ‘Your feet are getting rough, and I know it’s because you wear sandals around the house all the time, so I thought that you could use these.’ How insulting is that?

This time, I don’t even hide my laughter as Dr. Shire finishes her sentence. The entire auditorium, including myself, falls into the undulation of the laughter, and Dr. Shire herself giggles at her newfound persona. For a woman who is usually very composed, mellow, and zen, this uptight and high-strung version makes my professor seem ten years younger in not a good way.

Before I can offer my next textbook response, the back door of the theatre opens. All heads turn, surprised, for stepping on toes with auditorium reservations was frowned upon. I’m sorry, a meek voice says, traveling all the way from the back to reach us up on stage. But may I borrow Lily for a moment? It takes a second, but I realize that it’s Sheena, a junior in my calculus class. She has been a partner of mine a few times, and I’ve always admired the natural knack she has for never letting an awkward silence occur.

Eyes focus in on me now, and I feel the heat of every gaze. Me? I ask, before remembering that, no matter the circumstance, I am supposed to keep going. But, there is something in Sheena’s voice that sets me off, and makes me sit a little straighter.

Your brother, Matthew, just called for you.

I feel my heart drop as she says it, and suddenly, I feel Dr. Shire look over at me. She knows my situation and how Matthew promised to call the school, instead of my cell phone, when something happened.

Dr. Shire nods, her persona breaking and her true character reappearing. You can go, she says encouragingly and nods her head slightly towards the back door.

I don’t even question it. Unflatteringly, I hop off the stage and kick off my heels to an ambiguous aisle and begin a quick pace towards Sheena. I hear the whispers that begin to grow from my fellow classmates and notice how they keep their eyes cast away from me. I try not to decipher what they’re saying behind open palms.

Sheena holds the phone for me, the cord stretching from the front desk to her grip. Her face is not as bubbly as it usually is, and she looks at me, almost apologetically, as if being guilty of something against me.

With gentle, shaking hands, I take the phone. Hello?

Lily? My brother, who is usually very lax and mellow, sounds worried and uptight, and it’s beginning to scare me.

What’s up? I ask him, my heartbeat beginning to quicken. I know what he’s going to say, and I feel my stance firm itself up, just in case I’m not as prepared as I think I am.

It’s Dad, he says, his voice cracking. He died in his sleep last night. The cancer finally got him.

This day was the day. It had been imminent. He was terminally ill; it was going to happen. I had tried to accept it with every chance I had, with every moment I was able to squander to get used to the fact, so that when the day did arrive, I would be practically numb.

But in this moment, I feel everything.

At first I say nothing, acting as if I had heard incorrectly. My knees do not buckle, like I had expected, so surely the statement was said incorrectly. What? I ask, slowly, pressing the phone harder to my ear.

Come on, Lil, my brother says on the other end of the line. I can almost see him kicking his feet against the ground and his head hanging low, like it did when he was in trouble when we were young. Don’t make me say it twice.

I am speechless. My breath is caught in my throat, I feel dizzy, and my cheeks are warm. I place my hand to my face. Tears.

Lily? Matthew asks on the other end of the line.

Thanks for telling me, is all I can manage to say, and I place the phone back in its cradle.

Sheena has been watching me with timid observance from around the corner. As I go to grab my coat from the hook on the wall outside the auditorium door, I hear her ask politely, Where are you going…?

Just tell Dr. Shire that I’ll call her office tomorrow, I call over my shoulder.

Every part of me is shaking, and I can feel my veins coursing with sheer adrenaline. I cannot think right now; I am lucky to be forming coherent sentences. I want to cry, to scream, to throw things against the wall until they shatter, but right now, on the exterior, I find some unfathomable way to remain calm.

The sound of my heels now pounding against the tile stairs is the only sound that echoes in the stairwell. Passing students look at me in confusion at both my state and my clothing for my session. I ignore them, though, and, pushing the heavy door open and practically running to my car, I start it and blast the air conditioning. I dig for my phone in my purse. Matt? I ask when he picks up.

Yeah?

I’m coming home.

image_67.jpg

A two-hour drive in my black Nissan, and I’m back home at my father’s house, now vacant. The neighbors recognize my car as they tend to their newly-budding gardens, and some even throw their hands in the air to wave, the gesture welcoming though their faces register confusion. Another one, whose car passes mine on the same street, honks his horn in greeting. I regret taking the same street to go home as I would take to get to the local bar.

The great thing about my brother is that I can spot him from anywhere in the world. He’s hard to miss; he’s a big boy, with a tall, muscular frame that most of the girls swoon over whenever he’s in public. He has dark brown, extremely shiny hair—for he takes care of it religiously—and mahogany eyes. He is only a year younger than me, making this his big year to legally drink. When I make eye contact with him, he waves me over and pats the stool next to him.

What’ll it be, miss? The bartender asks once I sit down.

Just water, thanks, I respond.

Wuss, my brother mutters playfully, and gives me a tipsy grin. He can hold his alcohol pretty well, but he still gets a little out of it when he’s emotionally distraught.

When did you get here? I ask,