Cabin Girls

By Alicia Wolchick

Three sisters. Two daughters. One Week.

 

From debut novelist, Alicia Wolchick, comes the contemporary story of twenty-six-year-old Hadley McMullin and her family of women.

 

For Hadley, the last week of July means only one thing. A week on Saint George Island in Cabin Eleven. Hadley dreads returning to the Florida Panhandle almost as much as she hates enduring the time with her mother, Genevieve.

 

This year, she has one goal in mind. Survive the week and keep her aunts and cousin as oblivious as her mother. None of the four need to know she was recently fired from her job, behind on the rent, and unexpectedly sober. But when a tropical storm hits the island and a body turns up, Hadley learns that keeping secrets is an inherited trait. She is not the only one in the family with stories to hide, and the more she uncovers about the night of the storm, the more she realizes the women in her family have their own narratives. Some are brave, some are tragic, and some are enough to change the course of her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alicia Wolchick
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393861294

Alicia Wolchick

Alicia Wolchick is a military spouse and mother of two. She has spent her life living and traveling around the United States and Europe and is currently settled in the United Kingdom. When not writing novels she contributes to her blog about traveling with young children.

Book preview

1

What most people did not realize, and what I had forgotten, was how bright Florida is. The fact had slipped my mind. Just like I forgot how much I hated airplanes. I was crammed into this seat like a biscuit in a can, trying my best to block out the rays coming through the windows.

There had to be somebody to blame for this predicament. I closed my eyes and ignored the ninety-degree corner of the armrest to my left.

Maybe the light and heat would grow on me this time.

And maybe my shoes would get up and dance a tango.

You never knew.

When a kid sticks their hand on a hotplate, they learn to keep their distance. Not me, though. Year after year, I listened to the sizzle and remembered too late, already crossing the state line.

We dropped below the clouds, descended.

My mother was waiting to pick me up. The last time I had been in Florida, gourds were heavy and Halloween costumes lay at the bottom of toy bins. I had flown in and out over a long weekend, barely swallowing the sweet potatoes and pecan pie before I turned tail and fled. That was more than six months ago; too long for a daughter to go between visits.

Not that Mom could be bothered to come to me. The invitation was always open. Multiple times, I said to her, I’ve got a spot on my couch if you’re ever looking for a getaway.

And always it was the same deflection. A busy month at work, a leaky faucet, a spike in the electric bill. The list was endless. And it always began with Oh, I’d love to but...

I knew the rest. The true answer.

My mother didn’t leave Florida. She hated the cold, hated the unknown, hated alternating her routine. It would take a meteor hitting her house to get her to leave, and even then I could not promise she wouldn’t stay behind, vacuuming around the rock.

Oh, nice of you to stop by, honey. Come on in. Step over the cord and be sure not to track silicon through the house.

Stop it, I said to myself, digging around in my weekender bag for a pair of sunglasses. Cynicism would not get me far. My mother was who she was, and I could not expect her to throw aside her safety net for my own sake.

What was it Margo said to me once? She was the one missing out, sacrificing the chance to see where I woke up, what I filled my days with. How she handled that mystery was her own business.

If I were being honest with myself – a rarity – I was relieved by the distance. The unspoken agreement we had going, me visiting her on her home turf, allowed me to call the shots. I was able to paint whatever picture I wanted of myself, brush in details I knew would be appealing and smudge out the imperfections. A lie here, an embellishment there, and nobody was the wiser. I painted my world in broad strokes.

Tear the canvas from its frame, though, and... well, it was a good thing I didn’t need to worry about my mother putting in that much effort.

Outside, the clouds were breaking apart and pinpricks of land were popping up below. Land was getting closer.

Could I handle this week? Seven days with my family, the five of us sharing a cabin no bigger than a blink, eating and sleeping a breath apart. Would I be able to withstand the looks and the whispers? Gooseflesh erupted on my arms in response. It was as if their eyes were already on me, weighing and measuring my worth.

Control yourself. I had survived the previous years. Surely, I could do it again. Nobody was going to bother with questions about work. That was the beautiful thing about the gathering. Everyone wanted to forget reality.

God I could go for a drink right about now, I said as I found my glasses and jerked them on.

Sorry, but we’re about to land, a flight attendant with a chirpy voice said. She was walking down the aisle with a trash bag, collecting any last-minute debris. I rolled my eyes at her through the lenses of my glasses. The shades hid me, kept me polite and inline. A smile next, and the woman soaked it up. With a little bit of shrewdness you could get away with a lot in life. People saw what you wanted them to see. Look at her. She smiled. She must be nice. Must be good.

Deceit was easy if you knew the right levers to pull.

Of course.

She nodded and passed my row, trailing perfume in her wake. I crinkled my nose, stomach roiling. What was with flyers and their fascination with dousing themselves in odors? A bath would be preferable to an assault on my senses. But that was the game with airlines. They made you show up hours before your flight, put you through the rigmarole of security checkpoints, pat downs, and gates that stretched to infinity. The system wanted us to be uncomfortable, to barely have time to shower before entering the arena. They wanted to punish us for leaving home. Abandoning ship.

Everyone’s a judge.

Fortunately, the attendant’s scent was the worst offender. In fact, the plane was only half full this afternoon. As I listened to the shuffling of feet on carpet, I glanced at the news report flashing on the screen in the seat ahead of me.

A storm was dragging through the gulf, a weak mid-summer system to keep the coastal areas on their toes. So far, the winds were blowing west towards Mexico, but thinking about the empty seats around me, I imagined the smallest of threats kept travelers away.

Good thing for me I was born into hurricane seasons. I did not scare easy under threat of wind and rain. I welcomed it with open arms.

Ding. The fasten seatbelt sign pinged overhead, indicating the four-hour flight was coming to its close. Thank God, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. Then again, that meant I’d have to suck in the humid air waiting for me outside the plane. And see her.

See Mom.

***

Her hair was lighter than the last time. Either she had spent the spring outside or had visited her expensive beautician recently.

Hadley! She danced in place. A rack with postcards stood to her left, and I worried for a second she would jostle it, send photographs of the ocean flying.

The passengers were converging around the exit, and I had to push my way through. Nudging my shoulder, opening enough room to squeeze in between, I spotted mascara and lipstick on my mother’s face. The great Genevieve McMullin never did know how to leave the house barefaced, even if it was just to pick up her daughter.

Within a few feet, she raised both hands and waved. Like I had not seen her. Or her dancing. The motion might have come off as innocuous had her nails not shone with pink, blinding the other waiting families. As I got within reaching distance, I heard her soundtrack. The jangle of keys hitting a multitude of miniature crosses.

She can’t keep herself contained. Not when it comes to family.

Hi, Mom, I said. A smile snuck out of my mouth, stretching itself upwards until it reached sunglasses and settled. Striding over to my mother, I wrapped my arms round her neck.

My goodness! I keep forgetting how tall you are, she said, voice muffled by my shoulder.

I pulled out of the hug, keeping one arm around her, and started walking to the bag carousel. I wanted my belongings and the ability to escape. Indoors was a box, the space cloying and stale. I could practically taste the fustiness.

You say that every time you see me. You know I’ve only got you beat by three inches.

My mom scoffed. My family used a scoff to cover a multitude of thoughts in one motion. Disagreement, resignation, assent... everything rolled into a ball and thrust out of the throat. Odds were good Gen and her sisters mastered the art of scoffing before they were out of diapers.

So, I was thinking we could hit up the beach later this evening. Unless you’re anxious to get to the cabin? My mom spun one of the keychain crosses around her finger.

All I could do was give her another quick squeeze and swallow the sigh building up. Sure. But before I go anywhere, let me get some shorts out of my bag and change out of these pants. I forgot how allergic Florida is to layers.

Pants are the Devil’s creation. My mom grimaced in the direction of my legs. Oh, and do you mind if we stop by the house on the way? I forgot something.

I’m at your mercy.

As the rubber of the carousel began shifting forward, inching around in the loop, I watched for my suitcase and tried to ready my emotions. I did not want to see the beach. I had no connection to the landmark. I understood people made pilgrimages every year to coasts around the world. They wanted to dip their toes in the sand and pretend to seek out the relaxation foretold to them by their nannies and their fellow women at the country club.

But that wasn’t me.

I found the waves infuriating, like I was in a boxing ring getting pushed around. The sand scratched the back of my knees, the broken shells cut my toes, and the heat was inescapable. I was on display at the beach, being judged by both man and God, and I was always – always –found wanting.

Florida could keep its beaches. I would take the mountains any day.

As the first of the bags crawled past, thoughts of the beach inevitably dragged my mind to a memory. Fifteen, too much cheap beer, and one senior guy whose lips tasted like sour gummy worms. I lost my virginity on a darkened beach in the heart of winter. One of many shining moments my mother tried her hardest to forget, a piece of history rewritten in more pleasing words. There were a lot of edits on my behalf. If we were to align our stories, compare the two, they would be unrecognizable. The Hadley I was and the Hadley my mother tried to see were not mirror images of one another but rather a murky puddle.

Of course she wants to take me to the beach. The beach was her place, a piece of her home, better to go now and get it over with. Arguing right out of the gate would not be a good start.

My case came into view, and I grabbed the handle before it could be swept away. Nobody was getting out of this week, not even my bag.

Ready? Mom said minutes later, helping me to her sedan and popping the trunk for my case.

Stepping around to the passenger side, I tried to turn the grimace on my face into a grin. Funny, how close the two were.

Let’s get this party started.

I slouched low in the car and tried not to think about what I brought with me from Colorado. There were more than two-piece suits in the trunk. My baggage was weighed down, the drag of its enormity a levee pressing me back. There were secrets balled and folded amongst the cotton, more secrets than I knew what to do with, and they were pulling me down like anchors.

Little did I know those secrets were a starting point, the first echo into a void that would call forth monsters. Hidden and strange, eyes aflame, they were about to claw their way from the underbelly of the world and rip my life in two. As I looked out at the parking lot of the airport and felt the press of the window’s glass against my shades, I thought about how my life was difficult but survivable. My secrets were my own, and as bad as they seemed in the moment, they were my cross to bear.

What a fool.

2

You awake over there? my mother’s voice cut through my thoughts. Reluctantly, I picked my head off the window and turned my attention to the driver’s seat.

Still here, I said. A nap would have been nice, a brief respite from the memories rolling by outside, but my energy was too high.

I was anxious. Every week-long stay at the cabin was different, no two years the same; I was sliding into a driver’s seat blindfolded.

Do you want to stop at the store before we cross the bridge? my mom said.

The bridge. The only way to or from the cabins.

The cabins were on Saint George Island, a twenty-two mile stretch of land planted between the Gulf of Mexico and the East Bay. On the north side were woods and sound, on the south, ocean and sand.

You didn’t stumble upon the island by chance.

You had to know about it. You had to be welcomed across.

It is my mom’s escape from the rest of the city.

Living on the bay, in a subdivision with all the trappings of Americana, my mom was anxious to return to her slice of nirvana. She was feeling the tension in the car, the allure of the bridge, farther ahead of us on Highway 98.

It took a lot for my mom to mention the store, to try and have a casual conversation with me.

To acknowledge the glaring difference in the two of us.

If it’s not too much trouble.

My mom nodded, once. Well, we can’t have you starving this week, now can we?

I do eat normal food, you know. An edge entered my voice. My mother heard and her lips thinned in response. Fantastic, not an hour into the visit and it was already beginning.

Who needed civility when family nature was on the line?

I was simply trying to help, said my mom.

Instinct urged me to poke the words, stretch my fingers into the falsity until it snapped. No place here for self-serving accolades, Mommy dearest. But this was the beginning of the trip. We weren’t allowed to turn the page on cordiality yet. Much too soon for that.

I know, I know, I said, instead. The grocery store would be good. I’ll grab some veggie burgers and tofu and anything else the cabin might need.

Oh, please. My mom grabbed the deflection and held on tight. You think your Aunt Georgia came unprepared? She’s got enough supplies for a World War bunker.

Despite the awkward tension of a few moments before, I eased. The mental image of my eldest aunt stocking our rental cabin was amusing. Every cabinet would be full. Every inch of counter space occupied. There would be two-ply toilet paper, three-ply, white bread, wheat bread, sourdough bread, baguettes, bagels, muffins, chocolate bars, bars of soap, dish soap, dish towels, and salami. My aunt loved a good salami.

Georgina, the oldest of the three sisters, was four year older than my mother, and if people were houses, she would be its wraparound porch. Sagging as she aged, she surrounded our family in dependence. Wood warps and cracks, but wood of quality never breaks. She had the same hair and eyes as my mother, but unlike her, Georgia embraced changes the way seasons moved along. Why fight time? Better to enter its friendship with grace. Bring on the wrinkles.

Aunt Georgia was the soul of the family.

Thinking of her preparing our cabin, thundering from room to room in her muumuu and dirty bare feet, I wondered for the hundredth time if I could do this.

I had a perfect track record. One decade strong. About the only thing I’ve seen through. This year was the first time I struggled.

I don’t want to be here. So why was I? This wasn’t my tradition.

It was my mother’s.

Every end of July, the last week of the month, my mother and her two sisters rented the same cabin on Saint George Island and took themselves away from reality. Fourteen years, the ritual had been going on; the cabin cemented it into their lives as deep as a holiday.

The first four summers, I had watched my mom leave me at a friend’s house and take off with sunscreen and magazines. When she returned, she was the happiest she’d been all year.

"Why are you smiling? And my God, what do you think you’re doing? Is that supposed to be singing?"

My insults were ineffectual. My mom remained close lipped.

I was kept in the dark about what went down during those seven days; although, some events came to the surface regardless of her attempts to hush them up. The word fearless on Aunt Margo’s wrist let me in on my first glimpse.

I caught sight of it at dinner when I was thirteen. When I asked about it, Margo put her finger to her lips and smirked.

Shh, pretend you didn’t see it.

When I was fifteen, I had a doctor’s appointment a few days after their trip. Their third one. It was obvious by then that this was going to be a habit. Had I sneered just thinking about it? As I did now? I must have. That was my trigger reaction.

Bored, I grabbed my mom’s phone and began scrolling. I had forgotten mine at home. Or in the car. Who knew? It would show up eventually. It was when I flicked to the photo album that I found a blurry photo of my mother. She was sitting in a chair, and on her lap was a man. His smile was bigger than his underwear.

Oh my God! I had said, dropping the phone. Viciously, I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase the image. Did the doc have some acid on hand? Something strong enough to burn the phone and its picture to oblivion?

My mom turned her attention first to me, then the phone. Her face turned red, and she stumbled to retrieve her device. Oh bless me Father. Hadley, I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to see that.

See what? You getting humped? Jesus, who wants photographic proof of that?

It was a night out at the cabins.

I don’t want to know, I said, removing my hands from my eyes long enough to hold them out in front of me. Could anything be more mortifying and disgusting? I was the one who was supposed to be having the nights out, not my mother. Up until that point, I had never thought about my mom having a sex life, or any life at all for that matter.

Something in my tone of voice irritated my mom, and I remember she retorted: I’m allowed to have fun every once in a while, you know.

I said I don’t want to know. I had turned sullen. Please, please, please call me back soon. End this nightmare.

If you’re old enough to be pulling these stunts, then you should be mature enough to talk about them with your mother.

I was late to curfew once, Mom.

I’m not an idiot, Hadley. Lily’s mom told me you two were out until three a.m. while I was gone. I know what sort of stuff happens at three in the morning.

The accusation hurt. There was plenty of stuff I had been hiding from my mother that summer – my smoking, my wardrobe from Forever 21 she would never have allowed – but nonetheless, the lack of faith cut. She was making assumptions, jumping to the worst conclusion, and it stung to think my mother thought so little of me.

A teenage daughter in her prime and her mother are one of the most volatile relationships out there in the world. Both deeply need one another, but one can’t push too much for fear the other will run in contempt. I wanted to correct my mother that day, to have an honest moment with her, but my pride got in the way and instead I turned my back to her.

Let her think what she will.

By Christmas her assumption had come true, the prophecy fulfilled.

Whether my mom wanted to or felt pressured from the family, she allowed me to come to the cabin the following summer. That was the start.

The beginning. And here I was at the present. Returning.

Why did I do this to myself?

Curiosity, for sure. Seeing the adults out of their elements was like watching animals in a zoo. Their actions were not normal, not natural, but they were interesting to observe. There was also comfort in the familiarity. As exhausting as these women could be, they were what I knew. Seeing them every year was the only commitment I had. And everyone must stay true to one thing. Otherwise, we’re aimless. Without hope.

There was also the possibility I tried hardest to ignore. The one I denied until my mind whirred. The cabin was my nest. My wings needed to hide and heal in its twigs before soaring back out into the world.

***

Anything I should know before we get there? My mom and I were climbing back into her car. The only available parking spot in Eastend’s shopping center was in the back. A bead of sweat dribbled down my back as we got in. Hopefully, this isn’t a sign of the week to come. I need better than back of the lot luck right about now.

We had made the pitstop at my mom’s house, me staying in the car as she ran inside for her forgotten item. I wasn’t ready to go in and see the past. I wasn’t strong enough for the abuse.

The store was next, where my mom showed her own form of defiance by coming in and watching in silence as I shopped. How were we both so talented, so well equipped with weaponry and tactics to poke and prod the other’s nerves? Was it built in every parent and child, sewn into the fabric of our DNA from the moment of conception? Or was it just the two of us? Were we the mutated individuals? The way my mom pushed the cart without saying a word made me think yes. Yes, indeed, we were designed to trigger the other.

God, this day just won’t end.

Well, you talk to Margo all the time, so I’m sure you’ve heard about the ferret-sitting incident, my mom said, easing the car onto the road and heading for the George Bridge. One mile long, built tall and thick, it was the only way on or off the Island. When I was younger, I used to become nervous driving past the bridge, seeing the blue of the waters eat and chew the bottom of its railings. One accident, one mistake, and there was nothing keeping the angry water from the security of your car.

Mom, I sent her a warning look. Let’s not start this now. We’ve been doing so well.

I’m just saying, my mom said in return. You already know the drama that ensued there. She’s still not talking to her coworker because of it.

I wouldn’t either. The little shit bit her on two different occasions.

Language, Hadley.

I sighed. "Sorry. The little jerk bit Margo twice. Would you be all right with that?"

What was she expecting? She should have thought about that before she agreed to watch the creature.

That’s right, it was all Margo’s fault, I said in mumble.

My mother chose to ignore the comment. For the best, the statement slipped before I caught myself. My other aunt was a big girl, she didn’t need to me to start her fights.

There is one thing you need to steer clear of, my mom said. We merged with traffic onto the bridge, following the vehicles ahead like a returning exodus. Take our burdens and release us of our sins, O Holy Isle.

Let me hear it, I said as we crested the top of the bridge and prepared for the descent. Pink and yellow breached our sightline, the shops and restaurants welcoming us with a hello. They were part of the gateway to the island. They took in the weary and wrapped them close. Inside of the shanties was a tight embrace. If you breathed in you would smell oysters and tin.

It’s about Eliza, my mom said. Her voice a breath. She felt it too, the island coming closer. Our cabin was on the east side, directly on the sound and near the dock for fishing. The moment our wheels left the bridge and turned onto the main drag of the island, we felt the cabin’s call. A siren song pulling us to bliss, to eternity, we followed it without pause.

Is everything all right with Eliza? I said. My sunglasses were on, but the late afternoon daylight was a force too powerful to fight. With water on all sides, the sun reflected off the surfaces and slammed into the shopfront’s windows.

Florida is so Goddamn bright.

Even my mother, a veteran, squinted as she turned left and rolled the car past trinket stores and conch stands. Out of staters who somehow discovered the island, stayed within this block, heading straight for the Gulf or stopping at the end of the bridge for the calm waters of the sound. It took locals with the state imprinted on their hearts to drive beyond the buildings and the miniature golf arenas, to see the sand and wispy grass and go onwards. Like life, the best parts are wild, untouched. Trees, dirt, shrubs. They granted us access because we looked but didn’t touch.

I didn’t love Florida, but I loved Saint George Island.

Hadley, pay attention, my mom said, breaking me from my reverie and pulling me back to the present. Eliza. My mother was saying something about my cousin, the fifth member of the family and Aunt Georgia’s only daughter.

What’s going on with Eliza?

Her and Anthony have been struggling in the baby department, my mom said, like she was confessing an indiscretion. Fertility, the act of making babies, was a confidential performance. My mom wasn’t comfortable being privy to her niece’s marriage bed and was even less happy to mention it to me.

She was afraid a casual mention of sex would spurn me in the wrong direction. Because that’s how all my poor choices started. With talk.

I thought they only started trying last fall, I said in return.

That was back in September, said my mom. Your aunt and I got pregnant so quick every time, we’re all a little surprised Eliza’s having trouble.

Less than a year is ‘trouble’?

I didn’t need to see it to know my mom rolled her eyes. Anything over six months is cause for worry.

That’s a little ridiculous. She’s thirty, for God’s sake.

Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.

The car couldn’t have drove slower if I was outside pushing the bumper. This was the ride that would never end.

All I’m saying is she’s not on a deadline here. Her eggs are still in their prime.

You don’t have to be crude about it, my mom said, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

I just think she’s stressing over nothing. These things take time.

Not always.

Don’t I know that. Uncomfortable, I reached for the shoulder strap of the seat belt and yanked it off my skin. We were passing the Salt Dog mansion, abandoned for more than ten years since Hurricane Matthew shifted its foundation and condemned the home. It was the farthest point deliveries would travel for residents of the east side of the island. From now on, we were in the woods. No more passing lanes. It was potholes and cracks here on out.

We were almost to the cabin grounds.

Just do me a favor, my mother said. She saw the Salty Dog, too. She knew I was about to be released to the rest of the women where she could not control me. Don’t bring up babies around your cousin.

Okay.

She’s more sensitive than you, Had, and I don’t want her feeling down this week. This is just as much her vacation as everyone else’s.

I said okay.

She deserves a week of fun.

I raised my voice. What part of okay don’t you understand? I said I get it, my God.

Silence filled the space between us. This was familiar. The knee that aches with rain, we were both comfortable with the pattern. Here we go. Back to fighting.

The nostrils on my mom’s nose flared and my mom said, I was just trying to be helpful.

Oh, I get it. I sounded petulant but couldn’t resist continuing. You’re worried for Eliza and gotta use this time alone to make sure I don’t rock the boat.

Here we go, my mom said.

Now play nice, Hadley. Don’t be rude, Hadley. Keep your screw ups to yourself, Hadley, I was on a roll, the tension boosting