by Regina Doman
“Don’t you touch my sister that way!” Cheryl screamed.
Rachel’s insides became stone. Her voice dropped an octave, dangerous. “Cheryl. Stop.”
“I will not let you—”
“You will stop.”
And Cheryl stopped.
The other girls all stood watching, silent.
Rachel put a hand down and hauled Linette to her feet. She pushed her roughly against Cheryl. “Go up to bed. All of you.”
There was a swift pattering of feet hurrying up the beach to the path through the woods to the cave. Rachel didn’t look at them, didn’t listen.
She heard Miriam’s voice, hesitant, call, “Rachel? Are you coming?”
“No!” she bellowed. “Leave me alone!”
She picked up the blanket that Linette had dropped on the beach and wrapped it around her like a cocoon. She was a butterfly, a midnight butterfly. She didn’t belong to the sunlight. She belonged to the darkness. Where men spoke softly and caressed, and where she was powerful and beautiful and—
She forced down the memories of the ugliness that had just occurred. It was because she wasn’t meant for the tangled day world of family but for the private and solitary meetings of the night. Hugging the darkness around her, she prayed: Take me now. I’m not going back. I will stay in the night world forever. I will be in the darkness, beautiful. I will be one with the darkness. I—
She was shivering, and got up to edge closer to the beach, to the faint warmth of the day-dried sand. The tide was going out. She could stay here, in the sand, and dream of the island. And maybe her dreams would become reality. Maybe she could enter that nighttime world and stay there. She was sure Michael had the power to make it happen.
Now possessed, she spun a fantasy of Michael coming in a boat to take her to the island, forever, of returning to the island alone. Of dancing. Of darkness. Yes.
She huddled into her dream, her eyes dancing in sleep.
She heard stealthy footsteps, heard a creeping, the rubbery sound of sand on the beach. Someone was coming.
At once she sprang up in a fury, her hair falling over her face and blinding her sight of the night visitor. “Go away! Leave me alone!”
She threw herself back down onto the sand, and heard the footsteps retreat, and the bushes rustle, and then grow silent.
She was alone with the night. As she had wished. Warmth rushed through her, and she was no longer cold.
The hour approaches, she thought. If I say the right thing, if I dream the right dream, I will be able to walk into that enchanted world and be a midnight butterfly forever. She felt power coursing through her, down to her fingertips.
Yes, she thought. It will happen. It will.
And she lay down, and listened to the waves, and drifted hauntingly to sleep.
fourteen
Rachel woke with the taste of sand in her mouth. She smelled it, and breathed it in, and woke up, choking. At first, she couldn’t move. It was as though all her limbs had frozen. The sand lay on her tongue, the roof of her mouth. All that was left was sand, dust, and dryness.
She rolled forward, and every joint moaned with pain. Not a sharp pain, but a dull, bruised pain. She put a hand to her face and touched grit, and dryness. Nothing was there but dust and sand.
Eyes blinked open, and sand smarted in them. It was a gray world, a fog. Neither night nor day was visible. Both had fled.
For a moment, she experienced with each of her senses all that remained of her dreams—felt sand, smelt sand, saw sand, tasted sand. And there was no sound but the dull, inanimate rush of a wind tunnel.
For a moment, she took this in, and then her spirit shrunk shrieking into naked insanity.
Sand, dust and ashes. Dust in the wind. Sand blown away. Foundationless.
She writhed, a faceless, breathless, mouthless victim.
Gripping, she only slid further on the sand. Where was something to hold onto?
God—
She flailed outwards and with a splash, found salt water.
And so she lifted her head to the cold world, her face dripping with salty water and crusted over with sand. There was sand on her lashes, and she couldn’t wipe it off, because her hands, though wet, were still sandy. Once again, her body moaned with soreness, and she sobbed.
She raised her eyes to the island, and saw only the heaving gray waters of the bay. If there was a rising sun, it had shrouded itself behind heavy clouds and would not look at her.
Stiffly she pulled herself onto all fours and crept back up the beach, sickened by how wretched she felt. The blanket was a wet stiff knot that held no more comfort. Her own clothes clung to her like damp rags, a sodden sandy mass that kept the cold in instead of keeping it out.
Her tears, at least, were dissolving the sand out of her eyes and lashes. She crept about in vain for something to wipe the sand off of her. She found a piece of driftwood and attempted to scrape the sand off, but it was useless.
I’m like a crazy crone, she thought, sitting on the beach trying frantically to clean myself.
All of her dreams of the night rose up with the wind to yank at her sand-clotted hair and slap against her face, jeering in her ringing ears. Sand blew out of her nostrils, mixed with mucus. All enchantment had fled.
How could she ever face anyone again?
At last, staggering like a crippled woman, she scrambled up the beach, clutching at sea grass that traitorously came loose, spraying more sand on her. She was so cold.
Through the woods and into the grayness of the cave she hurried, and stripped herself of her sodden dress and pulled on the clothes she had left there—a t-shirt and denim skirt. At last she could wipe her hands clean, and then wipe her face and hair clean.
A shower, she thought fixedly, but even the thought of bodily comfort did not tantalize her. Would she ever get the sand out of her hair? More to the point, would she ever get the taste of the sand out of her mouth? It was still there. Her tongue was thick and swollen.
She couldn’t face her sisters. Creeping up the stairs in this devastated state was more than she could bear. Alone, cold, and ashamed, she wound her way up the bike trail to the lawn, where she realized she would have to sneak inside the house without being seen. She skulked through the woods to the garage, and sidled around the edge. She was just hurrying towards the open door to slide between the cars when she saw Paul walking up the driveway.
He was wearing his usual khaki shorts and striped shirt. When he saw her, he halted.
She couldn’t hide from him. He hurried towards her.
“Rachel,” he said. “Are you okay? What happened to you?”
He was looking at her anxiously; his brown eyes all puppy dog concern.
She licked her lips vainly, and attempted to speak.
“Rachel,” he said in a low voice. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said hoarsely. “I just spent the night on the beach.”
“Why?”
That was a stupidity she could not confess even to herself, let alone anyone else. “What are you doing here?” she said with an effort.
He didn’t respond. “Let me take you inside,” he said at last. “You’re shaking. I hope you don’t have hypothermia.”
“I don’t want to wake up my parents,” she said faintly.
“I understand.”
He led her into the garage and made her sit down on the steps leading to the house. He opened the door cautiously, listened, then grabbed a huge towel from the stack in the mud room and threw it around her shoulders.
Then he knelt in front of her. “Let me see your feet,” he directed, and she put one out aimlessly. He began rubbing it vigorously, circulating the blood, first one, and then the other.
After a few minutes, he looked up into her eyes, scanning her face for something she couldn’t fathom. Then he said, “Go inside and take a shower. And then go up to bed.”
He didn’t say she would be okay. She wondered how much he had read in he
r eyes.
Mumbling thanks, she got to her feet and stumbled indoors to the bathroom and locked the door. The frightening sheet of madness had lifted, and she was coherent enough to get herself a long drink of water from the bathroom faucet.
Then she undressed, fumbled with the knobs, and got into the shower. But she couldn’t stand up any longer. She sat down, put her back against the cold tiled wall, put her head between her knees, let the warm water drum down on her head and neck muscles in a hypnotic rhythm. At last the physical sensations overwhelmed her tattered psyche, and she slept.
Paul went down to the beach.
There was much he knew about, but he didn’t know what had happened to Rachel on the beach last night after everyone had left, including himself. He had walked back from Alan’s dock and found Rachel alone on the beach. Having heard part of the fray between the sisters, he had assumed she was cooling off. But something in her aspect frightened him. He didn’t know if she was waiting for someone, or perhaps attempting to drown herself. So he had sat around and waited. But after she had driven him away with her shouting, he felt weary and thought to himself, I’ll let her sit in her pout. And had gone back to his tent.
Still he had woken up early, anxious about her, and had gone over to the Durhams’ house to make sure she was okay.
And she was not okay—one look at her had told him that. But why, he couldn’t tell.
Let it go, he told himself again. She can tell me if she wants to. Once again, he felt conflicted, wishing that he could somehow force Rachel to open up to her father, who, in his groping way, would have thrown himself between her and whatever danger was threatening her soul if she would let him. But Paul couldn’t force Rachel, or any of the girls.
He had chosen this path of standing away, of guarding but not preventing, and once again felt the frustration. It was difficult to sit in the shadows, watching the twelve sisters so naively flirting with their own destruction. He probably would have given up or given in days ago, if Debbie and Linette hadn’t confided in him how much his presence reassured them. But they were young—what they needed was a strong witness of someone rejecting the whole lifestyle their older sisters were being initiated into. Was he confusing them by standing by, and not interfering? He was guessing that their instincts were good enough to figure out right from wrong, even in this tangled web, but he didn’t know. He was trusting—dangling in midair on a thin trapeze of trust, a chain of girls hovering in midair—and they were all playing without any net but supernatural grace. And that could not be presumed upon.
He murmured his prayers as he moved his fingers over his rosary beads in his pocket, and paced, wearing a frustrated track in the sand. It was difficult to wait, and to trust. Only the bright figure of the Blessed Virgin Mary, that wonder of terrible trust, with her shining peaceful visage, comforted him.
After her shower, Rachel got dressed and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked better, but still drained. After a while, she hesitantly started upstairs, hoping to get to the girls’ bathroom unseen for an early skin masque job. She wasn’t particularly anxious to see anyone from her family.
As she rounded the corner, she met Melanie coming down the stairs. Her younger sister brightened with relief when she saw her. “Hey, Ray,” she said softly. “I went outside to look for you but couldn’t find you.”
“I came in by way of the garage,” Rachel said quietly. Then, “Want to go up to the bathroom with me?”
“Sure.”
Once they were inside the large long bathroom, which was thankfully unused, Rachel locked the door, turned on the hot water in one of the two sinks, and breathed a deep sigh, starting to feel more normal.
Her younger stepsister hopped onto the counter and sat Indian-style, and started to brush the tangled honey-brown hair that hung around her gentle face. She didn’t ask any questions—she just waited for Rachel to start talking when she was ready. Rachel ran her fingers under the surging water from the faucet and felt grateful for the lack of emotional pressure to tell what had happened to her. She still didn’t quite understand it.
“I had a lousy night,” she said at last. Melanie nodded. Rachel, remembering the feelings, blinked suddenly. “I know how Linette felt now, anyway,” she managed to say.
The next moment, Melanie’s arms were around her, gently hugging her. “That’s all right, Ray. You don’t have to say anymore.”
“Thanks,” Rachel whispered, wiping her eyes again. It never ceased to amaze her how someone as young as Melanie could be so comforting to talk to.
“Dad said we’re having his share group over for dinner tonight,” Melanie said, changing the subject when the time seemed right.
“Of course they would be coming,” Rachel murmured, with a trace of her usual, normal annoyance.
Melanie’s smile was barely touched with wryness. “Lord, give us the patience to endure your blessings,” she said, quoting a plaque that hung in the downstairs bathroom, and Rachel had to smile.
When she had recovered, and started her daily skin therapy, Rachel said, “You know, Melanie, you’re the only person in the whole family I wanted to see today. I’m glad I met you first.”
“Thanks, Rachel,” Melanie said softly. “I’m glad I found you, too. I was worrying about you all night and praying.”
“I’m sorry I made you worry,” Rachel said with a sigh. “Your prayers probably helped.” Dabbing on some cleansing soap, she added, “I’m so glad we can talk like this together. Everyone else, I feel I have to be guarded in some respects, but I feel you and I can be totally honest with each other. I’m grateful.”
As she plunged her face into the water, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Melanie’s face had fallen. Eyes shut, rubbing her face vigorously beneath the water, she decided it was just Melanie’s usual embarrassment at being complimented. But when she emerged from the water and had patted her face dry with a towel, she noticed that her younger sister looked genuinely distressed, as if she were about to cry.
She was about to ask her what was wrong when the door handle turned. When it didn’t open, there was a fury of hammering and yelling from outside the door. “Come on, it’s not private property in there!” Becca yelled.
Rachel heaved a sigh, and reached over to open the door with a disdainful click. “What’s your problem? Geez!” she snorted.
Recognizing Rachel, Becca retreated slightly, but seeing that her older sister appeared sane, she edged inside. “Sorry. Didn’t know who it was,” Becca muttered. Then she added cautiously, “You feeling better, Rachel?”
“Hmph. Yes,” Rachel said carelessly. She studied herself in the mirror. She was looking much better. Dear God, what kind of an impression had she made on Paul this morning? Rubbing the moisturizer into her cheeks and heaving a sigh, she resolved to go down and talk to him again, later on, to show him that she had recovered herself—that she was okay. Somehow, the thought of being indebted to Paul Fester’s kindness rankled her.
Paul took a morning swim, dried himself off, and took up his rosary again. He was praying aloud as he walked up and down the beach. As he walked, distracted in his meditations, he glanced over at the island. A strong breeze was sweeping across the bay, and he could see the large house wrapped in its cloak of swaying firs. He barely made out a figure on the balcony of the house looking towards the Durham house. A flash of light coming from the figure caught his eyes. Light reflecting off of glass? Binoculars?
Suddenly self-conscious, he wondered if he was the one being scrutinized. But a rustle in the bushes above told him that Michael Comus was probably training his spyglass on a more desirable target. Rachel was coming down the track to the beach.
She had showered and dressed, and carried herself with a bit of her usual pretense of disdain, but he could make out the hollows below her eyes. Rachel was still beautiful, even with the hairline cracks in her veneer of sophistication.
“What were you saying?” she asked, a touch of mild fascination in
her words as she came up to him. “I was standing up on that cliff, watching you. You were just jabbering to yourself, the same words over and over again.”
He colored, and turned his back on the island. “I’m saying the rosary in Japanese,” he said.
“Really? Why?”
“My old aikido teacher was a Japanese Catholic, and he taught me. I just like the language,” he laughed, a bit uncomfortable. “Plus I’ve been trying to calm Melanie’s fears for my soul.”
“What do you mean?”
“She heard me praying the rosary in English once and became disturbed because of the language I was using with Mary. I figured I don’t want to rock her world, so whenever I’m over here, I just use Japanese.”
“I see,” Rachel pursed her lips, and he saw she was keeping back a smile. Why did she always hide her smiles? “So you were praying down here, not pacing in a cage?”
“Yes,” he said, and flushed. Had she actually been watching him that long? Why? “How are you feeling?” he asked, changing the subject and beginning to walk down the shore once more. He wanted to get her away from the gaze of the man on the island. “You looked pretty bad this morning.” Like an old woman, he thought, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“I’m all right,” she said, dropping her eyes and licking her lips. “I just spent the night on the beach, and woke up sore.”
“Was that all?” he had to ask as they rounded the bend.
“I had a nightmare.”
“Oh.” He understood something like that, and was relieved.
“Paul—”
“Yes?”
She had an odd expression on her face. “You have a problem with me, don’t you?”
He halted, wondering if she had found him out, after all. “What do you mean?” he asked at last.
“You think I’m a hypocrite.”
“I think you’re not living honestly,” he said at last.
“What do you mean by that?” Now she was defensive, her green eyes angry and afraid.
