Not One of Them
I was five the first time I spent my summer vacation in Pointe Aux Morts, Michigan. By default, so was my twin sister. It was also the first time my mother had been back since she had graduated high school. After spending every summer there with her family, all nine of them, I’m sure the nearly twenty years she spent away from that place seemed like an eternity. Her family is one of four that make up the core of Pointe Aux Morts. Our (meaning myself, my sister, and the other children of the core) relation to each other is loosely bound by our parents’ closeness.
Personally, I’m not bothered by the fact that I’m not particularly close to anyone there. The cordial greetings and half smiles are enough. I appreciate the land much more than anything else. I’ve never been anywhere else that has brought me more instantaneous peace except Notre Dame Cathedral, but that is most probably due to my Catholic upbringing.
Pointe Aux Morts, whose rocky edges and peaceful beaches are nestled by Alaska Bay, has existed for nearly 125 years, gated off by a white picket fence from the surrounding farmland. There are times when it’s easy to forget where you are in Pointe Aux Morts. The space feels untainted, pure, but all one needs is a single gust of wind coming from the dairy up the road as a reminder that modern civilization still powers on.
At the entrance of the white gate you’ll see an ancient security guard who always smiles and has a small TV buzzing by his seat in his booth. He’ll peel himself from his chair and miraculously lift the manual wooden gate. Once inside, one will see the three tennis courts and caddy shack across the narrow street from each other, and then the last hole and first tee of the golf course also separated by the same road, golf carts always parked there for all three attractions.
Driving through another security gate, which has become electric with the evolving times, the road becomes flooded with the shade of trees that have lived longer than any person that has existed on this land.
When I roll down my window and breathe deep, air so fresh that it feels as if I am breathing for the first time, I can hear birds singing, squirrels scurrying, and deer crunching through the foliage. Then my father turns right and down the side road. I see Lake Huron, effortlessly framed by flora and two traditional, yet large cottages. This sight is one of my most favorite in the entire world; it’s as if all the entirety of the earth exists within its image. The further we drive down this hill of road, the more clearly I can hear waves lapping at the shore and the sound of it eases my shoulders down my back.
Once at the bottom of the hill, we take a left, the opposite direction of the graveyard, and more cottages, shrouded by trees, pop into view. Some, my family has stayed in, like the large blue one with four bedrooms that is original to the founding of Pointe Aux Morts and, without a doubt, haunted.
Then we reach the beginning of another hill, where we stop at the top to look for any golf carts before continuing now down a more tightly fitted stretch of cottages; where the lake pops between the gaps on our right.
We pull up to our usual rental on the left hand side of the road, Cottage #23, and we all quickly jump from the car even though our legs feel as if they’ve atrophied during the six or so hours we’ve been driving.
I’m happy, happier than I’ve been all year in fact. That’s how it goes every time I set foot on Pointe Aux Morts’ soil. For that brief moment, I am blissfully unbothered by anything or anyone as if my mind has simply decided to forget all of my many worries, which in normal circumstances I find painfully impossible. Then my mother reminds me: “There is a cocktail party at five o’clock.”
My anxiety returns, as there is no way for me to prepare myself enough for the people I will have to talk to tonight. My adequacy is a river that runs low. By four-forty-five, I’m decently prepared, in the fashionable sense, that is. Although I’m tired from travel, no one would know by the concealer under my eyes and the blush that gives me a youthful glow, although I’m only twenty-one. I’m dressed in a deceitfully complex silk, pastel-green dress, to match my eyes, with a loose skirt. While its appearance may be described as “cute” or “nice” its seams are methodically placed and stitched to contour my figure. Its hem strikes the middle of my calf and its three-quarter sleeves puff out slightly from my upper arms. It’s modest, yes, but looking in the mirror, perhaps a bit too admiringly at myself, the anxieties I hold over the looming cocktail party begin to struggle against the growing balloon of self-confidence inflating my chest.
Forgoing the pre-drink the rest of my family has decided to indulge in, I move to the front porch where a rocking bench seat calls my name. I sit in silence, listening to the water behind the cottages across the street, the golf carts bumbling and rumbling in the distance, and I even catch a whinny from the horses at the barn two blocks behind our cottage. “Let’s go,” my sister says, popping her head out the front door. I catch a glimpse of her pink lipstick and long eyelashes.
Following her inside toward the back of the cottage, I can see she chose to leave her hair down and straight. Hers touches the middle of her back while mine rests in waves an inch or two above my shoulders.
Fixated on my thoughts of hair, I don’t even notice that I’ve exited the cottage through the back door, instinctually following my sister toward one of the two golf carts parked on the gravel back drive. She hops in the driver’s seat as I man the passenger side. Our parents, already seated in theirs, release their break and begin to drive off; my sister follows. The ride is uneventful, but internally I fight to keep my mind blank so that there may be room for me to think of anything else that I may be able to talk about with the other guests. But I know better than anyone that my mind is never blank and always worrying.
We arrive at Cottage #24 that, despite its number, is located nearly three quarters of a mile down the road. In one deep breath, I’m out of my seat, patting out the dents and wrinkles in my skirt before following my family into the fray. I look around at all the different faces, but they all seem to blend into one another. They’re all various shades of cream; some have freckles, while others have moles and rosy cheeks. We all look the same.
All the women have their hair and face made up for the occasion, a lot like my sister. All their outfits seem new or, at the very least, expensive. There’re bright pinks, blues, white; some in floral patterns, and they all have the same golden sandals on, how strange, I think to myself.
All the men are wearing the same sport coats as they always do. Most of them are in a navy blue, a safe color. Some are in another shade of cream to complement their skin tone. The men never buy new sport coats unless they can’t fit their old ones. I don’t think many of these men actually enjoy dressing up for things like cocktail parties, but they’ve been trained by their wives and their mothers, who trained their fathers to appreciate the posh side of life. Suddenly, I feel more insecure with the eye-catching seams of my dress and my balloon bursts. Like sand running through my fingers, my confidence leaves me, and I have to fight the urge to fold over on myself. My awkwardness overwhelms my aura and, as if it has repelled everyone away from me, I find myself alone getting a drink from the bar set in the backroom attached to the expansive porch where the rest of the party continues to clamor on.
I look amongst the sea of people, but see no one to talk to. Occasionally, after taking a sip from my glass, I scan the room for any new developments, but nothing ever seems to change. Most of the women are huddled around a coffee table laid out with appetizers, though they’re not eating any of them, while most of the men are circled around each other on the end of the porch, as close to the door as they can get. All these people are doing are talking about one another like no one could hear the fact that Peter thought Christie was easy and that the Milton’s marriage had struck rocky shores after a drunken and disastrous night down in Palm Beach this past winter. The clamor roars louder than the enormous force of the lake against the cliff sides just outside the porch door. These people are even overwhelming nature herself.
Despite my uncomfortable disposition, I knew that if I ventured over toward the mingling ladies that they would pull me in with a force stronger than gravity itself. I would listen to their gossip, while catching shameful slips from the men across the room. My discomfort would ultimately appear as awkwardness and dissatisfaction with my company, and the next morning no one would talk about Peter and Christie or the Miltons, but of how rude Opal Hughes had been. So, I stand alone, sipping my drink mindlessly as I watch the specimens before me.
Having reached the bottom of my glass rather quickly, I move into the back room once more. “What would you like, Miss?” a beautiful young woman, probably around my age, asks from behind the bar. She’s a refreshing sight compared to the older, intimidating gentleman who had made my first drink. Her being glows and even while she smiles out of politeness, a dimple dons each cheek and her eyes sparkle with a charisma that I knew I would never see the true depths of at this party.
“Just another vodka soda please, extra ice. Thank you. . .” I let the sentiment hang in the air, hopeful that the young woman would catch it and at least give me her name.
“Right away,” she says instead, letting my veiled invitation burst into a million iridescent pieces before turning her back on me to fill my glass with ice.
I heave a sigh as I glance around the fine parlor I find myself in. I’ve seen this room many times before over the years. There are many pictures of gruff men riding horses, playing golf, smoking cigars; portraits of even older men, long dead, blessing the spots above the fireplace and the main sofa. Every aspect of the room is dark and rich, from the wood to the metal work and forest green upholstery; uncharacteristic of a lake-side cottage.
“Your drink, Miss,” the young woman says smoothly, easing me out of my observation.
“Thank you. I’m Opal, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”
The young woman’s smile widens a fraction and my pulse quickens and my cheeks redden at the anticipation of a genuine interaction with someone tonight. But, before she can answer, a deep voice comes from behind me, too close for comfort. “Hello, Opal,” I jump, spilling part of my drink over my hand.
Collecting myself, breathing deeply through the shock of anxiety that leaves me more disoriented than the alcohol, I turn to see who has caught me.
“Hello, John,” I say breathlessly.
“How are you?”
“I’m alright.”
“Would you like a new drink?” he asks, pointing to my half empty glass.
“No, I’ll finish this one,” I say, glancing toward the young woman behind the bar watching us nervously.
“Miss,” the young woman interjects. “I can make you a new drink if you like.”
“Thank you,” I say graciously, placing my glass on the bar top.
John and I stand in stiff silence, glancing at each other from time to time until the young woman places a new drink on the bar top.
“Thank you. . . again. You know, I never caught your name.”
She looks at me and smiles genuinely and then to John, and it turns apprehensive. But her brows quickly unknit, having made up her mind—turning back to me she says: “I’m Audrey.”
“Thanks, Audrey. It’s nice to meet you.” We smile back at one another, and I want nothing more than to be friends with Audrey.
John clears his throat, clearly annoyed at being ignored. “Opal, Christie and Lydia were asking about you earlier. I’m sure they’d love to hear how you’ve been,” he says, placing his hand on my lower back and guiding me away from the bar. And, though his touch is nauseating, for some reason—one that makes me loathe myself—I let him corral me like a lost puppy away from Audrey and onto the rough waters of the porch.
“Hello, Opal! I was wondering where you were,” Lydia all but sings. “You look so cute,” she says through an unnaturally blinding smile. “We,” she gestures her glass of white wine toward the rest of the impossibly happy women around her, “Were just talking about how Mary and Chris wanted to buy #42, but after this past winter? I don’t know if that’d be a good idea. And, even if they’ve somehow managed to get past that they’ve been coming here for what? Only five years? I mean if there was still an application to qualify for even a rental,” she chuckles to herself, “Well, I don’t even know if they could qualify. What do you think?” The attention centers on me, and the rest of the women seem hungry for my answer, like piranhas ready to jump at the first sight of blood. My spine goes rigid and an invisible force chills me to the bone as if the universe itself is cautioning: “You don’t belong here.”
But I can act like I do, I counter. “I’m too young to remember that application. Would it really be that hard to get approved?”
“Oh, yes!” Christie jumps in. “Especially when you have no familial ties to any of the land. Your parents had to apply that first summer they came back with you. Only because your mom’s family doesn’t own up here,” she said, placing her hand out toward me as if to placate the embarrassment I was supposed to feel at that statement. “But it was a piece of cake for your parents,” she added quickly. “What with your mom’s family and all. You all are just as much a part of this place as any of us. You know, your parents really should just buy up here already.”
I sit for a moment, digesting the regurgitation of Christie’s words. I know there is no way for me to be honest with these people at this moment lest I make my family the gossip of Pointe Aux Morts for the rest of the summer. So, I swallow my pride and annoyance, plaster a thin smile and glance at all the ladies in perfect civility. “It would be nice to not have to rent every summer.”
“Well, see if you can convince them,” Lydia says. I nod at her and take a swig from my glass.
“Anyway, who’s up for some ladies’ tennis tomorrow morning?” Bethany, Christie’s cousin, asks the group. Chatter begins to fill our circle about times and teams and uniforms; it swirls around me until I can’t tell whose voice is whose and, before I know it, I’ve emptied my second drink and have missed all the important details of tomorrow’s escapades. No one has noticed my silence and clear disinterest in their plans. I know they will expect to see me at the courts tomorrow morning ready to indulge them. While I’d much rather invite Audrey to visit the quiet of the forested cemetery or the expansiveness of the cliff sides, there is a part of me, the part that was raised in this society, that aims to please this pack of vulturous women.
Will there ever come a day when I can exist in this place, completely at peace? When this party is finally over?
“Opal?” Christie catches my attention. I nod in acknowledgement. “You’ll bring the drinks tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” I say without hesitation, nodding my head enthusiastically; acting has become my reality. “Speaking of drinks,” I say, shaking my empty glass for all the ladies to see. The laugh with me as turn on my heels. “That’ll be her third one,” I hear one of them, maybe Bethany, whisper at my back, but I keep walking. Audrey will get me another one.
Originally from St. Louis, Missouri, but now based out of Chicago, Katherine Egan received her undergraduate degree of fine arts in creative writing from Columbia College Chicago. Now, working in the Chicagoland area as a blog writer for NYC Nature, HOPE, a bookseller for Half Price Books, and writing tutor, Katherine spends her free time writing her own short stories and novels while improving her craft.