Lost in Paradise

Once a year, my wife and I escape to Cape May, that Victorian gem at the lower tip of the Jersey peninsula. You might say it’s become our favorite place on the planet. It was love at first visit. I’ve discovered many things there across the decades, like peace and tranquility, and hope, and a reliable method of splurging at many fabulous restaurants while at the same time staying fit (hint: it involves early mornings, the boardwalk, and sneakers). I've discovered plenty of literary inspiration, too, as well as an effective way of passing something valuable down to your progeny that has nothing to do with wills or annuities. That’s right: my grown children go to Cape May now whenever they can, sometimes without even mentioning it to us. They’re not ingrates; they’re just in love. 

Yes—I’ve found many marvelous things in Cape May over the last twenty years. Which is why it was something of a shock to suddenly misplace something there, too.

My mother. 

Bonnie and I first visited Cape May in 1992. We stayed at a lovely bed-and-breakfast inn called The Linda Lee, which we adored (though, sadly, it is no longer a B&B). Then, when we began to bring our three young children to Cape May the following year, we found a B&B on the beach called The Heather Inn, which had a three-room suite on the top floor that was ideal for the five of us. We felt as if we owned it. We wanted to own it. It felt like home. (Regrettably, The Heather Inn is no longer a B&B, either.)

A few years later we gave The Inn of Cape May a try, and the kids (four, eight, and twelve-years-old by then) immediately grew attached to this rustic B&B in the guise of a grand ol’ hotel. They adored the balconies on all the upper floors, they relished the solid, commanding stairways, they enjoyed the charming rooms and the refreshing pool and the accommodating restaurant… It quickly became our go-to destination in Cape May. A home away from home. Our place. We’ve returned many times.  

What’s more, unlike The Linda Lee and The Heather Inn, it seemed highly unlikely that The Inn of Cape May would ever cease being a family-friendly bed-and-breakfast. So when the time came for us to invite my recently-widowed mother to come down to Cape May with us one recent summer, we knew we had the perfect place for her. By this time—2013—my eldest daughter Celia had three toddlers of her own, and my wife and I joined Celia and her family in a rented house just three blocks from The Inn of Cape May. It wasn’t the first time we had rented a house in town, but it was certainly the most crowded, what with Celia and Dave and their three kids, our daughter Kate and her boyfriend, and our son Dan. That’s only one of the reasons why we decided to reserve a room for mom at the Inn of Cape May instead of having her stay with us at the rented house; the house wasn’t conducive to the various challenges this small, fragile woman might face at her advanced age. The Inn had an old-fashioned elevator which would be a nostalgic treat for her, as opposed to the rickety stairs she would have to climb at the house; she would have her own bathroom at the Inn, as opposed to having to share one at the house; the Inn has a spacious porch on which mom could relax, as opposed to the one at the house that would constantly be crowded with toys and games and bicycles, making getting around more than a little bit hazardous; The Inn of Cape May had plenty of staffers who we knew would be kind enough to help mom out if she ever needed any help. Not that my own family would be neglectful—not at all—but with three toddlers to constantly look after, well, we feared that a tiny mom like mine might unintentionally get lost in the shuffle. We knew she’d appreciate being in the company of people who didn’t always have diapers and pacifiers on their minds.

Besides, The Inn of Cape May was very close to the rented house, and I knew I could pick her up and drop her off with ease.

As it turned out, there was an extra special and unexpected treat the day after we arrived. A wedding party was staying at The Inn of Cape May, and the place was abuzz with bridal anticipation. My mother loves weddings. She adores looking at gowns and watching all of the attendant hoopla, and asking questions and being reminded of glorious weddings in days past… We could not have planned a better weekend for her to be there.

That second morning, as scheduled, I drove from our rented house to The Inn of Cape May to have breakfast with mom, and then planned to drive her to the house to visit her great-grandchildren for an hour or two. Then I would drive her back so that she could relax on the spacious porch overlooking Ocean Street, peacefully watching horse-drawn carriages pass by.

But I couldn’t find her.

We were supposed to meet in the lobby at 9:30. I ran up to her room, knocked on the door, received no answer, ran back down, went to the lobby desk to inquire of any messages, was told there were none, ran out to the porch, to the pool, to the restaurant… Mom was nowhere to be found. Yes, she’s short, but not so short as to disappear. Yet, that morning she disappeared—

—Until I saw a semicircle of tall, giggling, yapping bridesmaids break apart, and in the middle of the circle, admiring all the colorful dresses and gazing in awe at all the ornamental faces, was my little mother. Mom: swallowed by a ring of bridesmaids, and loving every minute of it.