by Linda Byler
She was not satisfied at the end of the meal, but far too polite to eat more, noticing their birdlike appetites, the small bites and frequent blotting of napkins.
Oh dear. She longed for a toasted cheese sandwich with tomato and mayonnaise on homemade bread, with fresh chicken corn soup and a tall glass of iced tea. She imagined a big slice of chocolate layer cake with caramel–cream cheese frosting and felt a stab of homesickness, but brushed it away. She would make the most of this new experience. And it probably wouldn’t kill her to eat a little more healthfully for one summer.
CHAPTER 4
SHE HAD NEVER BEEN TO THE OCEAN, BUT SHE COULD FEEL A DIFFERENCE IN the atmosphere as they approached, a humidity with a scent that could only be described as briny. Salty.
They were, in fact, very close, Roger informed her. In less than an hour she should be able to see the bay on the right, although the actual ocean would be to her left. He rambled on about the Wright Brothers, Kitty Hawk, the launch of the first airplane, so primitive, but the right idea.
Emma was well versed in history, this subject especially, having read more than a few books on the subject, which had always intrigued her. Roger had a few of his facts wrong, but she didn’t correct him. She was the help, and would always keep that fact in mind. She was also weak with starvation by that point. How did these people survive on so few calories?
The children snacked on Fruit Loops and cheese popcorn, orange segments, and grapes that were sliced in half. At least they fed their children. She sneaked a few Fruit Loops when she didn’t think anyone would notice. She drank water and listened to the rumbling of her intestines.
She had many conversations with Charlie Brown, which was entertaining as long as the food-induced high spirits remained, but after hours of traveling with nothing to eat, Charlie Brown turned into an annoying stuffed animal she would gladly have thrown out the window.
Finally, they entered a small town called Point Harbor and pulled into the parking lot of a little restaurant where Emma was introduced to fresh seafood with locally grown vegetables cooked to perfection. She had eaten plenty of shrimp in her time—Christmas was not complete without them, her father cooking them outside on the two-burner canner her mother used in summer. But scallops and crabs, clam and oysters? She found them all delicious, along with the fresh lettuce salad, green beans, and some fried balls of corn flour called hush puppies.
This meal was eaten with abandon, all calories and dainty manners aside. The table was spread with brown paper, galvanized buckets for shells, and wooden mallets to crack crabs, with the most delicious sweet tea she had ever tasted.
The meal would always be etched in her memory as a true culinary experience, followed by her first sight of the bay. It was breathtaking, this large body of salt water, with seagulls weaving their flight patterns in a perfectly blue sky, the black wing tips and saucy gray heads swiveling from side to side.
“Rats of the ocean, seagulls,” Roger informed her.
“Beautiful birds,” Emma answered.
“They’re bandits. Absolute bandits. They’ll steal a snack from a child’s hand,” Kathy said, finishing with a light laugh.
To say Emma was in awe was not adequate. The sand, the vast open water of the bay, dotted with sailboats like tiny triangular handkerchiefs flitting across the water, the occupants like miniature figures. How could one describe the diamond sparkle on restless water, the magical trail that traveled to the sun, the horizon, and far beyond? Seagulls cavorting like disobedient children, cackling their mischief to the far-flung clouds. Dull brown pelicans gliding over the water, the pouches below their outsized bills filled with fish.
And who could know what teemed and undulated, slithered and waved below the surface, in that deep briny world?
“See the fish crane?” Kathy called out, pointing with a forefinger.
“Great blue heron,” Brent informed his mother.
Emma smiled her approval.
Brent shrugged his shoulders. “We come every year,” he said, clearly proud of his knowledge.
Kitty Hawk. Kill Devil Hill. Bodie Island. Then Nag’s Head.
“What names!” Emma commented.
Kathy laughed. “I imagine there’s a reason for all of it. I should Google it for you.”
And to the right, the ocean. The unimpeded body of water was so huge one could barely comprehend its depth or width or length.
Roger drove to a lookout point surrounded by a guardrail, and they all got out to stand and absorb the setting of the evening sun, hovering over the white capped waves that rose, curled, and broke in a never-ending symphony of sound and movement. The surf at the water’s edge produced an incoming maelstrom of water that surged into roils, then washed back in the opposite direction with a swishing sound. The thump of the waves, the constant restless heaving and receding, was amazing to behold.
What caused this cycle of turbulence? Why couldn’t the water be calm like the bay? She knew from a book she’d read that the waves of the ocean, kicked up by a wind thousands of miles away, created troubled waters that washed against undersea mountains, which sent ripples, the ebb and flow she was watching now, spellbound.
This was the true version of “awesome,” the world flung in her circle of friends as regularly as breathing. This was beyond adequate description.
A shiver of tiny birds like a nervous rash spread across the sand. She allowed herself to get lost in the unceasing cry of the wheeling seagulls.
She fell irretrievably in love. She was swept up in an unexplained emotion that immediately bound her to this seacoast, this salt-sprayed sunset that created a path into the unknown. It was like heaven on the edge of the earth.
She didn’t care what circumstances she would face now. She was here for three months at least. But perhaps she would never leave.
In that moment, she could not imagine returning to the landlocked cornfields and mountains, which seemed achingly dull and uninspired. How could she have lived for twenty-six years without catching a glimpse of this world, which was less than a day’s drive away?
She turned, suddenly eager to feel the sand, to walk along those seething restless waters.
“I’m ready.”
“You sure? We can stay longer,” Roger offered.
“No. It is amazing, but I’m anxious to see the rest of it now.”
She barely remembered the remainder of the journey, trying to take in all the sights of towns, seaside villages, fishing boats, shops, restaurants, everything she had only seen in magazines or books. Glimpses of the bay, inlets, the surf crashing only on occasion, and always the many seabirds.
They drove through Rodanthe, Waves, Salvo, and finally, after darkness was spreading across the unfamiliar territory, Roger turned the steering wheel to the left and the tires crunched on the white oyster shells that made up the driveway. The headlights shone on a house set on massive piles, like telephone poles except even wider in circumference. A wide staircase led to French doors on the second story and a wraparound porch with many windows. That was all she could see, with the veil of night descending swiftly.
But the smell. That smell was here, too. Emma felt as if she could taste the deep salty flavor of black muck, tall grasses waving in the ceaseless ocean breeze, the smell of fish and shells and salted water.
She breathed deeply again and again, filled her lungs with all the moisture, the air containing droplets of magic that invigorated her entire body.
Kathy went ahead, opened doors, flipped light switches, rectangles of cozy yellow light welcoming them all. Roger heaved totes and luggage and set the children on the sandy grass at the bottom of the steps, where Annalise set up a mournful wail of fear and desertion.
Emma remembered the children were her first concern, so she scooped her up and took Brent’s hand before making her way up the stairs.
“Oh, there you are,” Kathy said, squinting at the thermostat on the wall. “It’s too cold in here.”
She turned, p
unched a few switches, then clapped her hands.
“Alright, guys. Emma is your new nanny, so she’ll be unpacking and bathing both of you. Come this way, Emma.”
Another flight of stairs led to a wide hallway with four heavy doors ajar, all painted white, like ghostly soldiers standing at attention. Again, Kathy flipped switches, revealing bedrooms, a bathroom large enough to contain three of the ones in the farmhouse back home.
Everything was white. Walls, furnishings, pillows, bedcovers, rugs on hardwood floors that gleamed with the dull luster of money.
“This is your room, Emma.”
Emma nodded, restraining the urge to fling out her arms and run in circles, the way Dena did when she was excited about something.
“Roger will lug your suitcase up the stairs.”
Emma did not take time to part curtains to look at the view, but instead took charge of the weary children, herding them into the bathroom, finding soap and towels, turning the heavy spigots to create a cascade of water.
Annalise was yawning, rubbing the back of her hands into her eyes, following up with an artificial sob or hiccup, Emma wasn’t sure.
“Alright, duckies. Into the pond.”
Brent smiled, pulled his own T-shirt over his head, then shucked his jeans and boxer shorts in one downward tug. He sat on the bath rug and peeled off his socks before stepping into the bathtub. He grabbed a washcloth and set to work washing behind his ears with a calculated concentration.
Annalise yelled and yelled, protesting everything, until Kathy came pounding up the stairs.
“Baby girl, whatever is wrong, honeybunch?”
Emma stood aside, expressionless, saying nothing. Annalise’s mother knew the moods of her difficult daughter, so Emma would observe, try to learn the ways she dealt with the unreasonable fits.
“I don’t want her to bathe me.”
“She’s your new nanny. This is her job. Come on, Annalise. It’s late and I’m tired, just like you. Please? Please will you get in?”
“No!” Annalise shrieked.
Emma stepped forward. “Look what I brought.”
She knelt, producing a small Rubbermaid container filled with yellow rubber ducks, tiny pink sponges, and small bottle of bubble soap.
“One duck is for you. Her name is Marlena. She misses the water.”
Annalise watched Emma with narrowed eyes. The thumb entered the pouting mouth, then was released when she said, “I hate Marlena. Her name is Duck.”
“Okay. I’m sure she’s pleased to be called Duck.”
With that, Emma set them both afloat, and handed Brent the sponges. She was ready to hand over the bubble bath when Kathy stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“You’ll think I’m crazy, but I don’t allow bubbles unless they’re organic.” Emma had guessed as much, and proudly displayed the Melaleuca label.
“Perfect. Emma, you’re a godsend. I knew this would work.”
Once Annalise decided to join Duck in the water, Brent was allowed to upend the bubble soap, which produced at least thirty minutes of happiness for both.
Emma unpacked the children’s luggage in the room containing two full beds with a nightstand in between, two dressers with rattan mirrors hung on the wall behind them, and turquoise rugs with orange starfish lines through the middle.
She filled drawers with adorable “English” clothes—shorts, T-shirts, sweaters, underwear, and socks. She hung up sweet dresses with stripes and floral patterns and set row after row of sandals and sneakers on the floor of the closet. Finally, she brought toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair brushes, and first aid supplies into the bathroom.
She watched the children’s play, wondering how to cajole Annalise to get out of the bathtub if she wasn’t quite ready.
“Alright, time to brush your teeth,” she said, hoping to get some results. Much to her surprise, Annalise looked at her and said, “You need to shampoo my hair.”
Kneeling, she applied the shampoo liberally, rubbed and washed gently, before holding the child under a half flow of water to rinse while she squeezed her eyes shut. Toweled and dressed in clean pajamas, they brushed their teeth with the whirring battery-operated toothbrushes.
Annalise allowed the brush to be drawn gently through the wet tangles before heading to her room, looking for Charlie Brown.
Emma was unsure if she should tuck them in, or if she was expected to summon their mother, so she asked Brent.
“No,” he said. “Mommy is done with us. Her and Daddy are having their drink when Josie put us to bed. So I guess you’ll have to learn.”
“Okay. I’m sure it’s not hard.”
“No, it isn’t. We just hop in and you help us say our prayers, then you have to read to us. We’re not allowed to have the TV on.”
“Oh.”
Prayers. So there were prayers. That was reassuring.
She lifted Annalise and Charlie Brown into the bed and drew the covers around them both, while Brent climbed into his. They all said the simple child’s prayer in English, of course, before Emma looked around for a book.
“Where are your books, Brent?”
“I have no idea. Mommy may have forgotten to pack them.”
“I’ll just tell you a story, if it’s alright. The story is called ‘Yoni Wondernose.’ It’s about a small boy about your age who is very curious.”
There was a sigh from Annalise and her eyes drifted shut. Brent blinked and yawned, and Emma had hardly gotten into the story before he, too, fell asleep.
She turned off the light, left the door ajar, and tiptoed to her own room. Was she expected to go back downstairs to unpack? She went to the window, astonished to find the deck below flooded with light.
Emma went closer to the window, drew back the light muslin curtain, and lifted the white Roman shade. Roger and Kathy were seated side by side on a swing, their hands entwined, a wine bottle on the round patio table, a wine glass in Roger’s free hand. They were deep in conversation, their bright blond hair radiating a golden pair beneath the porchlight.
Wow, Emma thought. To relax with a bottle of wine, to share their day so intimately, was a testimony to the sturdy foundation of their marriage.
Amish folks did not approve of alcoholic beverages, especially after marriage, but this English couple likely didn’t think anything of it. They simply continued a tradition their parents carried on from their own.
So there was her answer. After the children had their bath, they were in her care, the parents taking the opportunity to share their day with each other.
Emma smiled to herself, feeling a stab of jealousy. How that must complete a person, this snug feeling of being with the one you love.
And for the thousandth time, she felt a deep remorse, an intense longing for what she would likely never experience.
It was the ocean, the allure of the restless water coupled with the excitement of being on her own. The combination brought back all the intensity of the attraction she had once experienced, the exhilaration of longing and desire. She allowed herself to feel it wash over her for a moment, and then sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. It wasn’t right to wallow in those kinds of feelings.
She took a relaxing bath, but then found herself unable to fall asleep, thinking of the narrow appendage of land the house was built upon, the storms of summer, surrounded by all this water. It was a bit unsettling, wondering how many people had been drowned in a hurricane’s wrath.
And the children. Would she be able to handle them? Annalise was hardly manageable, and with both parents going back to their jobs . . . Well, she’d do her best. She’d have to leave it to God to guide her through each day.
In the morning, everything was rosy with promise. She dressed and went downstairs to find the house secluded, the family still asleep. The clock on the stove said 6:30. Back at home, her family would be sitting down to breakfast together.
Coffee. She could hardly wait for a steaming cup to take out on the porch. She found what must be
the coffee maker, but had no idea what to do with it. And where was the coffee? She found the little plastic cups that she knew contained coffee grounds, opened one up, plugged the machine in, and then just stared. She could guess which buttons to press, but what if she broke it? And was she to dump the grounds into the top, or what? The French press they used at home sure was simpler. Sometimes electricity just complicated things, she mused.
She gave up, tossed the cup in the trash, ashamed to leave it on the counter, and started to wander around the downstairs. She stopped at the big glass sliding doors that led to the porch, absorbing the beauty around her. Then she went quietly from one window to another, before simply standing silent, gazing with worshipful eyes at the grasses in the sand.
The sun had already begun its ascent into the lavender and cornflower blue hue of the early morning sky, like a dazzling brushstroke of yellow to surprise the soft serenity around it. The ocean was darker, the water calm and glistening as far as Emma could see, which was to the edge of the horizon. She couldn’t see the pounding, seething water’s edge—it was blocked by the tall grasses that sprouted from the sand like an old man’s whiskers. There was a wooden walkway to the right.
Oh, there it was. That must be the house the Forsythe’s were renovating. Very quietly, she unlocked the sliding door that led to the deck overlooking the sand, the picturesque walkway, and the tall tufts of grass. She took notice of the color of the grass, muted, a hue that blended with the sand, the sky, and the water.
She thought how God must love creating beauty to delight His people. Here at the ocean, He had poured out a cornucopia of enchantment.
Emma breathed deeply, then stood, her hands at her sides, in awe.
