A New England Visitation

The droning hum of a plane engine can often send me into a numb drowsiness even before takeoff. That night as I sped toward Boston on the red eye from Seattle, I dreamed of a portal beach, a last foothold in this world before the vast sea that transports us to the next life. I’d dreamed of it before, when my mom died and for each of her sisters’ deaths in recent years. It wasn't a place of sadness but of elation, and each time I visited, a little more of the landscape was revealed to me. This time I was looking down from a mountain snowfield, the beach a small, bright sliver on the horizon. I felt such joy as I ran towards the coastline, and when I arrived I knew that all of the worrisome trappings of life were behind me, at least for a short time. Somehow I knew my loved ones had gone on from there, and I was grateful to glimpse the threshold.

***

After landing at Boston Logan airport the next morning, May 7, 1026, I climbed sleepily aboard the “Peter Pan” express bus to Hyannis. The swaying motion of the bus lulled me as I watched the lush blanket of foliage unfold along the highway, and a large green exit sign for a Quaker meeting house gave me a feeling of traveling back to a time I’d first learned about in grade school.   

When I got off the bus in Hyannis, the sunny May morning warmed me as I wandered toward the terminal, still weary from my red-eye flight. Inside, the rows of oversize benches were like waves rolling up to the sandy beaches of Cape Cod. I would be visiting my cousin and my 98-year-old aunt, who lived together about 15 minutes away.

My cousin arrived soon after I texted, bustling me into her red Honda Accord just as the wind started picking up. “Where would you like to go for lunch?” she asked. I hated to tell her I was still sleepy, but I was starting to feel hungry anyway. “How about breakfast?” I countered. It was only 11 a.m.

The Mariner Cafe had a French patisserie-style counter and potent espresso drinks. As I sat down in the dining area to wait for my order with coffee in hand, my cousin brought me a tiny jar of Vermont maple syrup. “Welcome to New England!” she exclaimed. “You’ve gotta have some real maple syrup.”

After my “breakfast salad” and BLT, we went to my hotel, the Hyannis Travel Inn. On the way, she pointed out a nearby tavern and promised to bring my aunt into town so we could try the authentic clam chowder for dinner. I was thankful that she didn't suggest anything for the afternoon–she sensed that I needed a nap.

***

That night after we ate, I was ready for an early night. I went into the bathroom to wash my face, and when I flipped on the light I was shocked to see myself in the mirror. My skin looked yellow and dry. Panicked, I glanced at the lights–white bulbs in white sconces. The walls were cream colored but didn’t seem the right color to give me such an alarming hue. My mind raced as I turned the light on and off again. Had I gotten hepatitis from the New England clams at dinner? That could explain jaundice.

I left the bathroom and turned on the reading light above the bed. It was white too, but now that I had seen my sallow skin in the bathroom, I couldn’t unsee it. I desperately tried to reason with myself–I was just jet lagged and needed sleep. Surely there would be other symptoms if I were really sick? I was definitely exhausted after flying in early, so I decided to push my fears away for the night and look again in the morning, when I’d be able to go out on the little wooden balcony beyond the sliding door of my room. The bed was soft, and I sank into a deep sleep after a few minutes.

The next morning, I stepped outside into the sunlight to check my skin. I looked normal and saw no jaundice. The bathroom’s custard walls still made me feel a little uneasy, but I chalked my fears up to being exhausted in an unfamiliar place and time zone. Despite a lingering, uneasy doubt about my “jaundice,” it must have been a trick of the light. 

The trees across from my balcony were rustling in the morning breeze and the parking lot beyond them was busy with guests checking out of the hotel. I stepped back through the sliding door to my room to get dressed, and I made sure both the sliding door and the door to my room were locked when I left. 

I took the short hallway and staircase to the hotel lobby, where I could see the continental breakfast set out tables on the indoor pool deck. As I entered the pool area, sunlight was streaming in through the glass panels in the ceiling and guests were preparing their meals. I stepped out to a flower-filled patio and started feeling more normal. Approaching the industrial coffee urns, I smiled as I noticed one labeled “decalf.” I decided to try the coffeemaker in my room instead and take some breakfast to go.

As I exited the pool deck, I caught sight of the front desk and decided to ask where to go for a morning walk. I was still feeling a couple hours behind the Eastern time zone, and I needed some fresh air. The clerk was an older man with white hair who remembered me from my check-in the day before. “How can I help you?” he asked. I asked if there was a good beach within walking distance. “Kalmus Beach,” he responded, pulling out a town tourist map. He pointed out the route along the colorfully illustrated streets. “You can go through the park, or you can go through the harbor," he said in a strong Boston accent. I smiled, pocketing the map even though I would probably use GPS anyway. I thanked him and took the stairs back up to my room.

***

After eating breakfast, I wanted to brush my teeth before I headed out to the beach, so I stepped into the bathroom and flipped the light switch. I tried not to look in the mirror this time. What I did notice was that the water cup was gone–then I remembered I had kept it on the nightstand next to the bed while I was sleeping. Going back out into the room, I saw that it was not there. There was another cup still wrapped in sanitary plastic next to the sink, so I knew the one I used was missing. I searched the room more out of curiosity than necessity, perplexed because there was no sign that the housekeeping staff had been there to empty the trash, so there was no reason the cup wouldn't be there. 

I crossed the room to look on top of the dresser, turned around, and that’s when I saw it. I stopped cold. My cup was on the middle, recessed shelf of the nightstand, pushed toward the back. It was upside down. There was no way I could have put it there during the night, from my position in the bed. And if I was planning to use it again, why would I turn it upside down? I felt strangely cold and my mind started racing again, trying to figure it out. Could it be a cup that a guest who had the room before me left there? I knelt down on the blue and brown striped carpet for a better look. The cup still had moisture beading on the sides from the water I had drunk during the night or early in the morning. It was definitely mine.

“That’s impossible,” I said as I stood up and backed away from the nightstand. I felt suddenly watched, like someone was in the room with me and I needed to address them, acknowledge them so they would leave me alone. I held up my hands, palms out. I couldn’t see anything else out of the ordinary, and somehow that made the ethereal cup even more unsettling. “I don’t know who you are,” I pleaded, “but I see you. I see you.” 

I forgot about brushing my teeth and made a dash for the door, glad I had asked directions to the beach. I went out the exit from my stairway to the parking lot, unable to be inside any longer. In the bright, sunny morning air, I thought about what I had seen. I wondered if the helpful desk clerk would tell me in confidence if the hotel was haunted. I’d heard that hauntings can make you feel sick or paranoid–like you were dying. Is that what my bout of “jaundice” had been last night? I’d never experienced anything like it before, but again I pushed my fears away and continued on to Kalmus Beach.

***

I took the harbor route, watching the cavernous island ferries pull into the docks. When I got to Kalmus beach parking lot, I heard a plaintive chirping above my head. High up on a power line pole, a bird had constructed a dome-like nest. I could see a chick’s head bobbing up and down just above the twigs. It was surprisingly similar to “oven bird” nests I had seen on a birdwatching tour in Uruguay, in March 2024. They had earned their nickname because their nests looked like domed, wood-fired ovens sitting atop many posts and poles. I don’t think oven birds migrate as far as Massachusetts, but I had never seen another bird nest like that anywhere else. I smiled, remembering the multitude of birds I saw in the “humedales” wetlands around Montevideo, Uruguay.

Kalmus Beach itself was wide, with soft sand and a patchwork of shells and stones lining the water’s edge. I picked up a small, white, half oyster shell and dusted it off to take with me. A cross-hatched rock jetty in the distance reminded me of the causeways I had seen separating each island in the Orkney Islands last year. The white, glinting sunlight was similar, too, and I realized it was almost a year since I had been to Scotland.

I noticed some people fishing on the breakwater and headed toward it. A dog suddenly shot past me on the sand, and I turned to see the owner, a tall man in his 20s or 30s, raise an apologetic hand. Since it was still the off-season, no one else was on the peaceful beach. The dog was running freely toward the roped-off dunes down the beach, but the man expertly called it back with a shrill whistle. In the scrubby grass behind the ropes, seabirds and other wildlife were nesting. I was glad the dog  wouldn’t disturb them.

As I walked, I thought of my sister Lisa and worried how she was doing back in Seattle. She was in the advanced stages of cancer, after being diagnosed with a glioblastoma brain tumor almost a year earlier. I had been feeling pretty helpless each time I visited her on the weekends. I felt angry, too, incensed that her brain was slowly turning off her ability to speak, eat, and walk. When I went home after each time I saw her, I could feel a kind of rage coalescing inside myself. It was difficult to know what to do with those emotions. 

I had seriously questioned taking my vacation at all, but my brother-in-law was taking such good care of her that I felt assured. He and my niece and nephew made sure that she was still mobile enough to get around the house and had even taken her on a road trip to Mount Rainier, which she and her husband had summited once together and once with my nephew. 

Kalmus Beach, Hyannis, MA

***

When I got back to the Hyannis Travel Inn, I stepped into the chlorine-scented lobby to say hello to the friendly clerk. “I walked down to Kalmus Beach,” I told him, giving a thumbs-up. Just past the lobby, the pool was empty and my walk on the beach had made me eager for a swim. “Is the pool open?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “We don’t have a lifeguard, but I’ll get someone to stay on deck.” He pointed to the “No Swimming Alone” sign. I thanked him and went up to my room to change into my swimsuit.

My room was still undisturbed, showing no sign of the cleaning crew. The water cup was still sitting upside down on the recessed shelf of the nightstand, and I gave it a wide berth as I walked over to my suitcase on the second queen bed. I decided to take a photo of the cup from a few feet away.

The pool was placid and cool, with no other guests swimming indoors on such a sunny day. My hopes of doing laps were dashed by a small rope that stretched across the middle of the pool, separating the shallow end. But the water felt wonderful after my long walk, and I dove under the rope as I swam from one end to the other. An oldies radio station was playing on the pool speakers, and Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” came on as I floated on the water. I felt cheered and relaxed after the worries that had been with me on my walk.

After my swim, I was enticed by the hot tub bubbling merrily in the corner of the deck. The rays of sun were bouncing off the water, and I retrieved my phone to watch some videos and check social media. I relaxed into the warm water, feeling my mood lift.

I’ve always loved water–beaches, lakes, rivers–I crossed a bridge over the Allegheny River every day on my way to school in the small Pennsylvania town where I grew up. At nine years old, I joined the swim team and swam competitively through high school. I stayed in Pennsylvania for college, attending the University of Pittsburgh, where that same Allegheny River joined the Monongahela and Susquehanna Rivers to form the Ohio. So that sunny, bubbly hot tub was one of the happiest settings I could have asked for at that moment, and I stretched out to enjoy the feeling of warmth after my swim. Looking back, it’s almost like the universe put me in that place to prepare me for the news that was coming next.

A few minutes into my soak in the hot tub, I got a notification on the top of my screen. My sister, Kristin, was calling me. It was odd that she was calling at the precise moment I was looking at my phone, because I didn’t have my ringer on. I never would have heard it if I was still in the pool. I knew Kristin wouldn’t call without an important reason. I answered and apologized for the hot tub’s noisy bubbling.

“Oh, Megan,” she said. “Poor Lisa died.” I had a moment of deja vu, recalling a call I got from Lisa when my dad died more than ten years ago. That had been around 3:00 a.m., but by some chance I had left my ringer on that night, when I usually turn it off to sleep. Now Kristin told me that Lisa had passed away very early in the morning in Seattle. I couldn’t believe it. Tears fell from my eyes and mixed with the steam on my skin. There was nothing I could do except hang up and pass the terrible news on to my cousin and aunt.

I exited the hot tub and dried myself as the oldies station played “Here Comes the Sun.” The gentle, sweet rhythm made me cry even more. When I got back to my room, I passed the upturned cup in the nightstand and stood back to look at it as a new realization struck me. This time I didn’t have to call out or question who had moved it, impossibly, like I did that morning. 

Now I knew.

Lisa and me at the Silver Strand, Ireland, 2015