The Sound of Glass

by Karen White

  The doorbell rang and I heard Maris’s voice. I sighed to myself, realizing that I couldn’t back out now. A soft tapping on the door interrupted my thoughts.

  “Merritt? It’s Loralee—may I come in?”

  I opened the door, then stepped back while she gave me the once-over. “You look prettier than a pat of butter melting on a short stack.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I asked, shutting the door behind her.

  “Oh, yes. And you need to start recognizing them when they come your way so that you say thank-you and don’t look so surprised.”

  She flashed her wide smile, which didn’t completely hide the fatigue behind her eyes or the slight yellow tinge of her neck below her foundation line.

  Holding up her hands, she said, “Not that you need it, but I bought these, too, since a woman should never go out without accessorizing.” A red chiffon scarf, the exact shade as the bathing suit, trailed from one hand and down her arm, a matching red and white striped visor hooked on the index finger of the other.

  I looked at them dubiously. “I appreciate it, Loralee, but I think the bathing suit’s enough, don’t you?”

  “Enough what? Enough pretty? Oh, sugar, there’s not enough pretty in this world to go around. We have to do what we can.”

  Not wanting to argue with a sick woman, I stood still in front of the mirror while she wrapped the scarf around my ponytail, tying it in a long, loose bow. “Just like putting the top hat on Fred Astaire.” She clasped her hands over her chest. “Red is definitely your color. You look absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” I said slowly, still not sure whether I wanted to wear a red scarf in my hair.

  Loralee leaned close to me. “See how easy that was?”

  “How what was?”

  “Accepting a compliment.” She smiled again, then turned back to my reflection. “Let me show you how to put on this visor without messing up your hair.” Pulling apart the Velcro closure, she adjusted the visor on my head, then refastened it under my ponytail.

  “You don’t want it to be too high or you look bald, or too low so nobody can see your face. If you had bangs, you’d feather them over the top.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “Do you want me to cut you some bangs? You’d look real cute, and I’ve got a way with scissors.”

  I held up my hand, my head spinning. “Thanks, Loralee, but they’re waiting on me downstairs. Maybe later.”

  “I wish we had time for a pedicure, because I’ve got the perfect shade for your toes. But I do have a matching red lipstick—I’ll even show you how to put it on.”

  “No,” I said a little too quickly, remembering the horror of the earlier lipstick incident. I could still taste the soap I’d used to scrub my mouth to get it all off. “To be honest, I really don’t see the point in this if all we’re doing is going out on a boat and then sitting on a sandbar.”

  She gave me a patient smile, the kind I imagined she gave to Owen when he’d said something that was either untrue or beneath his intelligence. “Looking pretty isn’t about how people see you. It’s about letting people know how you feel about yourself.”

  I turned to face her. “Did your mother teach you that?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I figured that one out on my own.” Putting her hands on my shoulders, she made me face the mirror again. “Do you feel pretty?”

  I hesitated for only a brief moment. “Yes. I do.”

  She grinned her widest grin, then let go of my shoulders. “Great. Then my job here is done. You go on and have fun today. And don’t forget your sunscreen.”

  I slid my shorts over my bathing suit, then picked up the grocery bag, into which I’d thrown a towel and my sunscreen. “Already taken care of.”

  She frowned at my bag. “We’ll have to work on the rest of your accessories. And for heaven’s sake, borrow my sandals. Even if they don’t fit, they’re a good bit easier on the eyes than your loafers with a bathing suit. I left them by the back door.”

  “All right,” I said. I hesitated by the door, feeling a dormant emotion stretch in the place where my heart was. It took a few tries, but I eventually got the right words out. “Thank you. For everything. I know I don’t deserve your kindness.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Although you’re wrong, you know. We all need kindness. Especially those of us who don’t think we deserve it.”

  I remembered how Gibbes had said that he thought Loralee was one of the smartest people he’d ever met, and at that moment I had to agree. Before I could stop myself, I moved forward and hugged her, her bones small and rigid under my fingers. She hugged me back, her hands patting me as if I were a child, as if she understood all the things I wanted to say to her, but hadn’t yet found a way to.

  I released her and turned away without another word and left the room, hoping I wouldn’t trip over my feet because I couldn’t see through my watery eyes.

  The children’s voices floated up to me as I descended the stairs, and then the back door slammed, leaving the house eerily silent. I pushed open the kitchen door, expecting to find the room vacant.

  Gibbes was at the counter, the plane’s passenger list in front of him. When he looked up, I could see the surprise in his eyes. “Wow.”

  I almost looked over my shoulder to see whether Loralee had followed me. “Thank you?” I said.

  He gave me a slow grin. “That’s a start, but next time try it without a question mark on the end.”

  Ignoring him, I set down my bag and examined the refrigerator, its doors open and the freezer defrosted, the inside dark. My gaze moved to the coolers on the floor holding the iced contents of the refrigerator and freezer. “Do we have an extra one to bring with us?”

  “Already packed,” he said. “Maris’s mother sent one over, along with a watermelon and juice boxes for the kids, as well as a case of mini water bottles. I added some sandwiches and snacks, and when we get to my house, we can fill what’s left with beer.”

  “Beer?”

  “You can’t go to the sandbar without beer—I don’t think that’s allowed. I’ve got some margarita mix, too, if you’d prefer.”

  “Beer is fine,” I said, trying to remember the last time I’d had one, realizing it was probably when Cal and I were dating. I’d found soon after we were married that I needed my senses to be sharp, my reflexes quick.

  “Good. And I’ve got some beach chairs we can bring, too. No room for my volleyball net, but if you want to play, there will be a lot of people looking for teammates.”

  “What kind of a place is this?” I asked, picturing a large playground in the middle of the river.

  “It’s about a mile-long strip of sand that’s this side of heaven, and a Beaufort tradition. Sundays are usually family day, but since we’re going today, just be prepared to see lots of tiny bikinis and muscled torsos.”

  “I’ll try to prepare myself,” I said, attempting to smile, but the image of all that water was quietly terrifying me. “Do you go there often?”

  “Not so much anymore. After my mother died, Deborah Fuller used to take me out there on the weekends, and Cal would sometimes come, too. But since he was ten years older, he got tired of having me hanging around, so he started going with his friends. I’d come out a lot with the Williamses, too—although usually without Mrs. Williams. I’m guessing she looked forward to having a bit of peace and quiet with three boys at home—and usually four, since I spent more time there than I did here.”

  A shadow darkened his eyes, and I found myself leaning toward him, wanting to know more. “Was that your choice?”

  He shook his head. “Not at first. I thought for a long time that my grandmother didn’t want me around and was just trying to get rid of me. It’s only recently—since I’ve been coming back to this house, actually—that I’ve started thinking about it differently.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I’ve been remembering things—little snatches.”

  Gibbes looked out the window over the sin
k, where the light wiggled its way through the sea glass and spilled, blue and green, into the kitchen. “I remembered my grandmother making a wind chime to honor my mother, saying I’d hear her voice whenever the wind blew.” He continued to look out the window, his thoughts distant. “She told me that people who don’t know they’re broken can’t be fixed. She was talking about my mother, I think.”

  Facing me again, he said, “There was always so much shouting in this house, so much noise. I think that’s why I loved books so much—because it gave me an escape. Cal tried it, too, but he could never block it out. He protected me . . .” He paused, as if the thought had just emerged from years of fog and shadow. “From our father. He wasn’t a nice man when he drank.”

  I shivered, imagining a small Gibbes in that house, surrounded by unhappiness and broken people. And Cal, protecting his little brother.

  “The last time my father laid a hand on me was about a month before he died, when Cal hit him back. He never touched me after that. And then things sort of calmed down, and I spent most of my time here, because my grandmother almost seemed to need me. She said I was her last hope, although I can’t say I ever knew what she meant by that. Then Cal left so suddenly, and my grandmother just sort of closed up. Wouldn’t talk about it. And the letters I received from Cal never mentioned it.”

  He tilted his head. “When I heard that Cal’s wife had inherited the house and planned to move in, I’d hoped you’d be able to fill in the missing pieces. I have to admit that I’m more confused than ever.” He studied me closely, waiting for me to speak, as if I could maneuver those sections of the puzzle that evaded placement. But all I had to give him was a shoe box holding a Civil War bullet and a charred bolt from a plane.

  “I wish I could help you. I do. But I’m just as confused as you—especially after meeting Sandy Beach. It’s like the Cal who lived here with you and dated women like Sandy bore no resemblance to the man who moved to Maine and married me.” I swallowed, trying to understand my nervousness. “None of it makes any sense.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  I pointed to the folder. “Did you find anything new?”

  He stared at me for a long moment before picking up the passenger list. “No. Still wondering why your grandfather’s name is on it, assuming it’s actually him. But his being from Bangor makes me think it is.” He tapped his finger on the top of the file, thinking. “You said you never knew him, that your grandmother never spoke of him.”

  I shook my head. “No. I remember Grandparents’ Day in kindergarten was when I first realized that people usually had two grandparents. My mother explained that her father had died when she was a baby and she’d never known him.”

  Gibbes nodded slowly, his gaze focused on the folder. “Deborah probably has access to various archives online—maybe she can find a birth and death certificate for your grandfather—just to confirm it’s the same man.”

  “And if it is?” I asked.

  His eyes met mine. “I don’t know. A part of me hopes that it’s not him.”

  Because there’s no such thing as accidents. The unspoken words floated in the air between us.

  The back door burst open and Maris rushed into the kitchen. “Dr. Heyward—Owen needs you. He’s hurt himself real bad.”

  She turned and ran outside, Gibbes and me close behind her. Owen sat on the ground with one leg drawn up, his hands gripping his ankle while he tried very hard not to cry. Gibbes knelt beside him, and I squatted on the other side and put my arm around Owen’s shoulders as Gibbes gently probed his ankle. “It’s definitely not broken,” he said confidently. “It’s most likely a mild sprain.”

  Owen’s face fell. “Can we still go to the sandbar?”

  Gibbes continued to manipulate the ankle, his fingers carefully pressing on the bones of Owen’s foot and shin. “I’m going to ice it and wrap it tightly, but I don’t see any reason we can’t still go. You’ll just have to promise me that you’ll keep your weight off of it and, when you get home tonight, you’ll elevate it.”

  “I promise!” Owen said earnestly.

  Gibbes stood, then carefully lifted Owen from the ground. I stopped, mesmerized by the scene around me.

  I’d been in the garden only at night since Loralee had begun transforming it from a forbidding weed-filled space to what I saw just then. The white stone paths reflected the sun like something from a fairy tale, with bright blooms spilling from low hedges and pots along the curving white trail like spectators at a race.

  The stone bunny faced Saint Michael, their expressions giving the improbable impression of their being in deep conversation. I was fairly confident that Loralee had done it on purpose.

  But the bench had been moved, the small mound that had tilted the base of both statues transformed into a pile of rocks and dirt beside a shallow dip scooped from the ground—most likely the culprit involved in hurting Owen’s leg.

  Gibbes followed my gaze as I stared at the indentation in the dirt.

  “I’m assuming Loralee did all this?” he asked.

  “I had no idea she’d made this so beautiful. I saw the hole last night—it’s a lot deeper than I thought.”

  He nodded, frowning. “Looks like she was trying to level the ground. I’ll come back tomorrow and take care of it.”

  “Look,” Maris said, squatting by the hole. “There’s something funny in here.” She reached in and pulled out what looked like a rectangular piece of disintegrating leather, a small tarnished buckle clinging to it by a single thread.

  While Gibbes supported Owen, I reached for the object, the faint odor of soil and rot coming from the ground. Maris placed it in my palm, then wiped her hands on the sides of her shorts.

  I brushed away the dirt that clung to it, revealing a small flap that covered a clear piece of plastic. Trace remains of white paper lay trapped behind it, a line of black ink still visible.

  “I think it was a luggage tag,” I said, turning it over in my hand. “I wonder what it’s doing in the garden.” My eyes met Gibbes’s.

  “That’s a very good question,” he said.

  Owen hopped into the kitchen, leaning on the doctor’s arm, while Maris raced ahead to open the door and pull out a kitchen chair for Owen to sit on. I stayed in the garden for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the luggage tag in my hand and the decay of years against my skin. I listened as a warm breeze stirred the wind chimes that hung from the back of the house, making them chatter like voices from the past.

  chapter 27

  MERRITT

  After all the coolers had been loaded, I stood by the back door of Gibbes’s Explorer, waiting for Maris and Owen to get in. I was distracted from my anxiety when I noticed how Owen held the door open for Maris and waited for her to get in before climbing in himself. I was about to ask him why I wasn’t getting the same treatment when I looked up to see Gibbes holding open the passenger door.

  I realized that without Loralee there, I would be expected to sit in the front seat. I could probably climb into the backseat with the children, and endure their looks as well as any from Gibbes, but I wasn’t sure I could live with myself afterward.

  “Thank you,” I said, putting my beach bag on the floorboard, then allowing him to help me up into the seat. I wanted to tell Gibbes that there was a running board and that I didn’t need the help, but I had to admit that knowing he was there was oddly comforting. And a good example to Owen, I thought, feeling fully justified.

  As soon as he closed the door, I moved the seat back as far as I could, then secured my seat belt. I briefly wished that I had my life jacket on already, prepared to float in the water if necessary.

  After Gibbes began driving, I felt the panic inside me like a moth spreading its wings, filling my throat.

  “The seat belt wouldn’t fit right if you had your life jacket on, you know. And you’d probably feel a little claustrophobic,” Gibbes said.

  I stared at him. “How did you know what I was thinking?”


  “Your eyes. They give you away. Most children are like that, which is probably why I noticed.”

  “Are you calling me a child?”

  His gaze flickered over me for a brief moment as a smile teased his lips. “Oh, no. Not at all. Just thought you should know that you’d make a horrible poker player. Or police interrogator.”

  Despite myself, laughter bubbled from my lips, the moth tucking back into its chrysalis. “That’s good to know, just in case I ever want to switch careers.”

  I glanced out the window, surprised to see that we were already almost at the bridge, realizing Gibbes had distracted me on purpose. He looked into the rearview mirror at Owen. “Rocky—tell us some interesting facts that we might not know.”

  Owen practically bounced up and down in his seat. “Did you know that all clown fish start off as boys and later on in their lives become girls?”

  “And seahorse boys have the babies,” Maris piped up.

  I turned to look in the backseat. “Seriously?”

  Two small heads nodded vigorously.

  When I turned back around my smile faded. We’d just reached the bridge, the shadows of the side rails flickering as we sped forward. It had come so quickly that I hadn’t had time to prepare myself, to begin my breathing exercises.

  Gibbes reached over and squeezed my hand before returning his to the steering wheel. “You’d probably rather I use both hands to drive.”

  I looked down at my lap, where my own hands were pressed tightly together. But I still felt the warmth from his hand, my skin tingling where he’d touched me. I felt better somehow, the crossing made bearable because somebody had thought to hold my hand. The loneliness inside me seemed to shift, allowing in a small shard of light.

  Lifting my head, I forced myself to look at the bridge in front of us, at the tall beams and grids of the swing portion, although I couldn’t quite muster the courage to look over the side to the water. “You didn’t tell me we had to go over the bridge again.”