Here's the Thing

two

Dedicated to Bella because she is extra sweet like seriously it is not even possible to be so nice (but somehow, she does it anyways).
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Oliver drives the kind of car that you can't get anymore, a convertible buggy that looks like it was made before either of our parents were born. The car is a nice, clean shade of white, and the seats are a soft grey tone. When asked, he informed me that it was a 1948 model, and that he calls it Florence Nightingale.

"My mother was a huge women's rights activist," he explains. "She had this thing for Florence. She admired her ability to use gender roles not as an insult, but as something empowering instead. She's like, yes we're women and we are completely capable of using our motherly instincts to nurse wounded soldiers. She proved that they weren't only good for staying home and washing dishes and it wasn't like anyone could argue with it because they needed their help."

I notice that he referred to his mother in the past tense and wonder why that is. Has she passed away, left without saying goodbye? Or maybe she is here, but is no longer a women's rights activist.

Since the drive from Hampton to Mount Washington was approximately three hours long, I'd taken to familiarizing myself with Florence.

I examine the vanilla scented car freshener that hangs from the rear view mirror and then amuse myself by listening to the sound that the glove compartment makes when it is repetitively opened and closed (that is, until Oliver asks me if I could please stop making that annoying sound).

I roll down the window and watch as the scenery whirs past us. April in Hampton had greeted us with what seemed to be the first few sunny days since January, replacing our seemingly endless fog with temperatures in the high seventies.

I'd always loved this city and how beautiful it is. It seems to be engulfed in a calmness. That is, until the summertime creeps on us, and suddenly it becomes neck-deep in tourists, all coming to spend their sun soaking days in none other than Hampton Beach.

Despite the seasonal tourism, the town holds a stable population of about fifteen thousand for the remainder of the year. It's small enough to run into someone each time you leave the house but large enough to meet someone new every now and then as well.

"Are you sure that we're going to the right place?" I ask.

"Of course. Where else would the note lead us to?"

I pull the note out of my back pocket and examine the scrawly handwriting.

"Maybe... they could be initials?" I try. "For someone's name."

"Too easy," he points out. "I'm sure whoever has her is at least attempting to mask their own identity."

I want to argue, but he has a good point, and what do I know? Maybe there really is something waiting for us at Mount Washington. Although it seemed highly unlikely.

We stop at a red light, and he takes the opportunity to glance at the map. He pulls into Interstate 95, and we fall into a tired kind of silence.

"What was she like?" I ask, and the question startles him so much that he swerves a little towards the right before steadying himself. "Tell me about her."

"Well, she was..." his voice trails off. He tilts his head to the side, deep in thought. "She was kind. And she was brave; she wasn't afraid to speak her mind, although sometimes her honesty was brutal." And then, as an afterthought, "And I miss her."

We take an exit onto Portsmouth, the next city over. "She sounds amazing," I say, and I surprise myself with the jealous edge in my voice. Here was a girl who was half my age and could say what she wanted and not have to worry about what people would think. It made me feel small and ridiculous, as if it were something simple and easy. I should be able to do that, too.