The Bay at Midnight

me to come back.

“I married your father in 1944,” I said, “but that summer, I…I had relations with Ross.”

“Oh, Mom,” Lucy said, and I heard sympathy rather than condemnation in her voice.

“It might have been what they call date rape today,” I said. “Like what happened to Ethan’s daughter. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I went along with him at first and then realized what I was doing…what we were doing…and told him to stop, but he didn’t. I’m so ashamed to tell you this,” I said, unable to look either of them in the eye.

“Oh, Mommy.” Julie moved to the sofa, sitting close to me, and I was touched that she had called me “mommy,” that the endearment just spilled out of her that way. She rested her hand on my shoulder, a little awkwardly, but I loved the touch. “You were young,” she said. “Things like that happen. Don’t be ashamed.”

“I am, though,” I said. “The terrible thing is that, a few months later, when I realized I was pregnant, I wasn’t sure if the baby was your father’s or Ross’s.”

I saw my daughters look at each other as the meaning of my words dawned on them.

“Isabel might have been Mr. Chapman’s daughter?” Lucy asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never knew for sure. Your father and I…well, we made love nearly every weekend during that time and I’d only been with Ross once, but I still was never sure whose child I was carrying.”

Isabel had been born in April. She’d been fair, like Ross, but Charles had thought nothing of it. To him, she was his little angel, while I feared she was proof of my sin. When we took her to Bay Head Shores in late June, Ross took one look at her, did a little math in his head and figured she was his. I could see it in his eyes.

“Her hair was light when she was born,” I continued, “but you know how dark it got as she grew older, and she had your father’s straight nose. Still, I was never completely certain.”

“No wonder you wanted to keep Ned and Izzy apart!” Julie exclaimed. “You poor thing. That must have been terrible for you.” Her hand was on my shoulder again, this time rubbing me gently through the sleeve of my jersey. It felt so comforting.

“Could you talk to anyone about it, Mom?” Lucy asked. “Any of your girlfriends?”

I shook my head. I knew Lucy would find such a lack of confidantes unbearable. She had to talk to people about whatever was going on with her. If she got a pimple, she would find herself a pimple support group. But all I cared about back then was not talking about it. I desperately needed to keep my indiscretion to myself.

Lucy moved to the couch, sitting next to me on the opposite side from Julie. “I’m so glad you’re telling us now,” she said.

I could smell each of them—Lucy and her lemony shampoo, Julie and her subtle floral cologne. I had never before felt the way I did at that moment—comforted, supported and understood by my daughters. I knew they were shocked by what I had told them, but I felt no blame from them. I loved my girls.

I took one of their hands in each of mine and raised them both to my lips.

“Thank you, dears,” I said. “But there’s more you need to know.”

1962

The summer Isabel died was, for obvious reasons, the worst summer of my life. Even before her death, though, I was deeply troubled. Isabel had grown difficult over the previous year. It was normal adolescent behavior, I knew, but still challenging to deal with and I was not good at it. I was so worried about her that I clamped down too hard and she fought back like a caged animal. I was particularly concerned that she was getting too close to Ned. I prayed every night that they were not brother and sister, and in my heart of hearts, I felt certain they were not. Yet I knew the chance existed and felt it was my duty to keep them apart. The more I tried, though, the more Izzy fought me.

The evening before Isabel’s death, my parents took Julie and Lucy to the boardwalk and Charles had already left for Westfield. I thought I heard a knock on the screen door of the porch. I was washing dishes in the kitchen, and I turned off the tap to listen.

“Maria?”

I knew the voice. I only heard it those days when Ross was in his yard with his sons or his wife, but I knew it all the same.

I dried my hands on a dish towel, then walked through the living room to the porch. Ross stood outside, his face close to the screen, his hand over his forehead so that he could see into our bungalow.

“Hello, Ross,” I said, standing a distance from the door.

“Can I come in?” he asked. “I need to talk to you.”

I pushed the screen door open, and he stepped onto the porch. In retrospect, I should have gone into the yard with him. Everything might have turned out differently, if only I’d not let him in.

Ross looked nervous, or at least as nervous as a State Supreme Court chief justice was capable of looking.

“I saw your parents leave with the girls,” he said.

“They’ve gone to the boardwalk.”

“Did Isabel go with them?” He looked behind me as if he might see her standing there.

“No,” I said. “She’s out with her girlfriends.”

He looked relieved. “Good. I need to talk to you.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” I was standing with my arms folded across my chest, conveying, I was certain, a tired sort of impatience.

He glanced toward the end of the porch that faced his bungalow. “Can we go inside?” he asked quietly.

I followed his gaze in the direction of his house. I could see no movement on his back porch, but it was