Read Online Rockaway by Tara Ison - Free Book Online Page B

is totally fine, by the way. My head isn’t even in that space. I’m completely focused on work. That’s the whole reason I’m here.”
    â€œI hope you’re getting out to the beach, at least. The kids love it when we visit Nana.”
    â€œI was going for a lot of walks, at first. But it’s so crowded now.” Invaded, she didn’t say, taken over by trespassing kids, and families with kids, kicking gritty sand on her oiled legs, leaving spittled pistachio shells and popsicle sticks and soda cans trickling out to dark blotches in the sand. Even the oyster and clamshells are gone; a tractor plows across the beach every morning, roaring into her bedroom window at six or seven AM , crushing everything down to smooth out the sand for feet and blankets and castles. The few unbroken shells left are quickly snatched up to make mermaid jewelry, to decorate battlements or pave moats. She is irritated by the simultaneous littering and scavenging of her beach by children and their silly sense of treasure. Their screeching. A walk on the beach now means dodging screaming kids with slopping bucketfuls of sea water, boomboxes turned up too loud and people screaming over summer pop tunes. Now, when she isn’t out somewhere with Marty, she mostly stays inside or on Nana’s porch, frustrated and annoyed that she is arranging her time this way. Like a still life with too central a focal point, with no sense of movement.
    â€œWell, you have to. You have to go in swimming, at some point,” Emily said.
    â€œI will. I just haven’t yet. I’ve been so busy. And the water’s probably still pretty cold.” Sarah heard children screamingin the background, suspicious crashing sounds. “What’s going on?”
    â€œThe kids are dismantling the living room. I told them we need to clear space for the birthing tub. Hey, Rachel? Sweetie, don’t let Elijah chew on that, okay? It’s icky.”
    Sarah envisioned Emily’s two howling kids, Rachel at three and Elijah at fourteen months, running amok in Emily’s renovated eighteenth-century farmhouse, their cupid faces smeared with fresh-picked blueberries, wearing the tie-dye shirts and whimsical fairy wings made at neighbor children’s birthday parties, spilling apple juice and climbing on the Stickley furniture. She pictured Emily, seven months pregnant, varicose, trodding around after them. The thought creeped her, gave her a headache. She and Emily are one month apart in age, and used to get their periods in sync.
    â€œSorry,” Emily said in her ear. “We just had the sheep shorn, and Elijah likes chewing on the fleece. There’s bags of it by the door, I haven’t had time to get it washed and carded yet.”
    â€œâ€˜Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool?’”
    â€œDon’t, please. Rachel won’t stop with that. I love my child, but I hear that one more time, I will have to kill her.”
    â€œHow are you feeling?”
    â€œTired. Fecund. My parents are coming for the birth, and my Aunt Rose and Susan are bringing Nana, did I tell you?”
    â€œHow’s she doing?”
    â€œAmazing. Doing all her physical therapy and zipping around with her walker. She said there’s no way she’s missing it. And I really, really, want you to get here early and be my doula this time, all right? You should come maybe the first week of August.”
    â€œI’m there. I can’t wait. I miss you.”
    â€œI miss you, too. And maybe you can do some work while you’re here. If you can find a quiet and uncluttered spot.”
    â€œYeah, maybe. So, are you squatting? Are you doing your perineal massage?”
    â€œYup. And Michael oils my labia every night. This is my life.”
    â€œThat’s why this is wonderful. I can experience the whole gruesome miracle through you, and not ever have to do it myself.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Next baby,