by Karen White
Her long thick hair bled streaks of brown into the wind, highlighted by the backdrop of aqua waves. The sails were trimmed tight, as if the boat were running with the wind, and from the light in the girl’s eyes, it was apparent to the observer that she had succeeded in tricking the wind into moving her boat. Her body was one with the wind and sea, a sensual portrait as captivating and revealing as if the subject had been completely naked.
Diana came to stand beside me. “It was the first and only time I painted your entire face. I think that’s why I didn’t like it, because I couldn’t stand to think that you could possibly be whole when I thought of myself as missing half of myself.”
I wanted to cry and scream and wrap her in my arms and tell her how much I had missed her, too, and how much I loved her still. She was my sister, and that one word spoke all my truths. But I did none of those things. The miles of desert still stood between us, an ocean of sand that could easily drown anyone unprepared to cross it.
Instead, I turned to her. “But what has this to do with Quinn?” My blood seemed to run sluggishly through my veins as I considered the possibilities and remembered how he’d once answered my question about how he and Diana met. I fell in love with one of her paintings.
She looked at Quinn as she answered me. “It didn’t take me long to realize that it wasn’t the painting he’d fallen in love with. But by then it was too late. I was in love with him, enough to make myself try to convince him that I was a good enough second choice. I’m pretty good at convincing, aren’t I, Quinn?”
Diana approached the painting and appraised its position on the wall before tilting it slightly to the right. “There was only so much lying to myself I was prepared to do. So, after Gil was born, and I had my little ‘episode,’ as Quinn likes to call it, I decided to let him go.” She turned to face the room. “But I kept the painting. I was willing to lose my heart and my self-respect to my ex-husband, but I wasn’t going to let him have my soul, too.”
The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, and I imagined I could hear the press of the moisture-laden gray clouds pushing against the sides of the old house—the same house that had witnessed the lives and deaths of generations of Maitlands. And I thought of the years without my sister, wondering if the pain in my chest had been the absence of the other half of my soul.
“So I’m giving it to you now, Quinn. It’s time.”
She looked at me and I wondered if she’d felt the same as I had, that we were all waiting for something. And that maybe she’d finally realized what that something was.
Diana walked over to Quinn and kissed him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Quinn. I’m going up to my studio now, and I won’t be down for dinner, so please don’t call me. I’ll come down again when I’m ready.” She pressed a kiss against the top of Gil’s head, then began to leave the room. But Grandpa shot out his arm, grabbing her wrist as she passed by his wheelchair. They looked at each other for a long moment until Diana quickly shook her head. Without another word, she bent to kiss his cheek and he released her.
Quinn stood, studiously avoiding looking at me. To nobody in particular, he said, “I need to get back to the kitchen. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”
Gil had sat back down on the floor and was taking off his new Windbreaker, his fingers tracing the embroidered stitches on the front. I looked up at my grandfather, who was gazing steadily back at me. I felt suddenly as if I had been handed a challenge; Diana had gone first and now it was my turn. Except that I had no idea what it was I was supposed to do.
I glanced out the window to see if the clouds had dissipated, but they were as thick and heavy as before, pressing still against the old house, waiting.
Quinn
I closed the blinds in my living room, not really sure if I was blocking something from getting in, or avoiding looking out. I didn’t expect any visitors to the old caretaker’s cottage behind the house that I’d renovated. Still, the act of closing my blinds separated the day from the night and blocked the sun from peering too early into the four rooms of the tiny house.
As I prepared for bed, I contemplated the last twenty-four hours and felt my ears burn as I remembered not only the unveiling of the painting, but everything that had happened afterward.
It had been an odd Christmas dinner. Diana remained in her room, leaving just Grandpa, Gil, Marnie, and me to sit around the large dining room table. Joanna had gone back to Atlanta to be with her family for the holidays, leaving only Marnie and myself to create a conversation composed entirely of asking to pass the bread or commenting on the different tastes of the different dishes. Not that I tasted anything. I could have eaten cardboard and I wouldn’t have known. I had never wanted Gil to speak as much as I did the entire hour we sat at the dining room table, made much worse by the fact that I couldn’t even look Marnie in the eye.
I had just taken off my shirt and begun fumbling with the button on my pants when I heard a soft rapping on the door. I walked to the front of the house and pulled aside the curtain on the door’s side window. Marnie stood on the other side, shivering in her bathrobe, her legs bare and her feet covered in bedroom slippers.
I pulled the door open. “What is it? Is it Gil? Or Grandpa?” I took her arm and pulled her inside.
“No, no. They’re fine. Everyone’s fine. I just…couldn’t sleep.” She bit her lip. “I needed to talk to you.”
I thought again of the painting, and how I’d felt when I’d first seen it. “About what?” I ventured, not wanting to take the lead in this conversation.
Her gaze slid down to my chest and I remembered that I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I crossed my arms in front of me.
She raised an eyebrow and almost smiled. “About how you and Diana met.”
“Oh. Well.” My eyes took in her bare legs and thin bathrobe. “Can I get you some coffee to warm you up first?”
“Um, sure. Yes. Thank you.”
I indicated the sofa for her to sit and then moved to the tiny kitchen area separated by a bar. She sat and slid off her slippers, pulling her bare feet up underneath her. “May I?” she asked, indicating the afghan on the back of the couch. I nodded and she pulled it around her shoulders and I noticed that her teeth were chattering. I wondered if it was really because of the cold. While waiting for the coffee to brew, I went back to my bedroom and threw my shirt on, not bothering with the buttons.
When the coffee was ready, I brought two steaming mugs over to the table in front of the sofa before sitting down next to her. “It’s decaf,” I said, smiling nervously and not really knowing why.
“The painting,” she started and I watched her pale cheeks flush. She moved her hand to the back of her head as if to pat a bun before realizing that her hair streamed down her back and shoulders. Instead, she used the movement to tuck her hair behind her ear.
She forced her eyes to my face. “You told me that you fell in love with the painting. Is that really what happened?”
I shook my head, unable to take my gaze from hers. “No.”
“No?”
I shook my head again and reached for her hands. They were cold yet they sent waves of heat through the veins of my arms, warming my blood. “No.” I smiled at her uncertainly. “The painting was beautiful and mesmerizing, but it was the subject that held my attention.” I closed my eyes, remembering the first time I’d seen it. I had been brand-new to the Lowcountry, filled with grief and disappointment, but still hopeful enough that I would find whatever it was I needed to fix my life that had seemed so irreparably broken ever since Sean had fallen from the tree. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I entered the antiques shop more out of boredom than any desire to purchase anything, and I’d seen the painting immediately, placed in a prominent position on the wall behind the cash register.
The woman in the portrait was beautiful, but not because of her physical attributes. She was beautiful because of the way she faced the wind without fear, how she didn’t look b
ehind her but stayed her course despite the tall waves whipping around her. She was in control and strong and everything I had once been but couldn’t seem to find my way back to. Like a siren from the sea, she’d reached out from the canvas, and I thought I’d felt my broken soul slowly begin to gather its pieces together.
I looked at Marnie now, seeing her as the woman I’d come to know: not as a siren with all the answers, but as a woman of strength and determination and flaws, a woman who faced her fears because she thought it would help a wounded little boy. I touched her face. “In the portrait I saw a woman who was everything I wasn’t. I wanted to know her so she could tell me her secret. I felt like I could see the soul of the woman, which led me to believe that it must have been a self-portrait of the artist because nobody could paint the soul of another person with such clarity.”
I felt her cheek crease under my palm as she smiled.
“When the owner told me that it had been painted by the subject’s sister, I understood. I’d felt the same way about my brother. But that only made me more determined to own it.”
“And then Diana showed up at your door with the painting.”
“Yes. She told me that you lived out west and were never coming back. That you lived in the desert and never sailed anymore. My first thought was What a waste.” I ran my finger along her jawbone, feeling the fineness of it that hid the determination under the pale skin.
“What was your second thought?” Her eyes were wide and luminous in the dim light of the single lamp by the sofa.
“That Diana was real and she was standing on my doorstep. And when she turned her face a certain way, it reminded me of you—of the girl in the painting—the way she held her head like a golden goddess on the prow of a ship. The resemblance is there, you know. Even now I’d say that the two of you have more in common than not. You’re both pretty remarkable, and I’ve thought more than once in the past few years how much I would have liked to meet your mother and congratulate her on producing two such women as you and Diana.”
Marnie went still, her eyes like darkened hollows as she sat back away from the light. “She had nothing to do with it. Diana and I were pretty much left alone to raise ourselves.”
“But if that were true, I doubt you and Diana would have become the people you are today.”
A small laugh came from the darkened corner of the sofa. “There you go again, Dr. Bristow, trying to fix things.” She leaned forward, touching my arm and moving into the light again. “She was a terrible mother. That’s not to say that she didn’t love us—she did. She just had no idea how. She made a lot of mistakes.”
I paused, feeling the hurt seething from her warm skin heating the air around her. “We all do. It’s only when we don’t learn from them that they become permanent.”
Marnie tilted her head to the side, the same way Gil does when he has a question. “So what happened next? Diana showed up at your doorstep and you wanted the painting, so you invited her inside.”
I shrugged, not wanting to share any details and aware that details weren’t what Marnie wanted anyway. “She was charming and sexy and proceeded to make me believe that I was falling in love with her.”
“Did you? Fall in love with her?”
“I suppose I did, for a time. Like when she was pregnant with Gil and we were both so happy. I thought that I’d finally found whatever it was that I’d been searching for since Sean died. I think, though, that I forced the pieces to fit. I think that Diana knew it, too. She became frantic trying to make it work, which only made things worse, really. And then Gil was born and she realized she couldn’t hide her illness from me anymore.”
It was Marnie’s turn to touch my face, her fingertips brushing the stubble on my cheeks and chin. “But you stayed with her. You tried to help her.”
“Don’t say that like I’m a hero or something. She was my wife and the mother of my son. And she’s worthy of being loved. But there’s something inside of her, beyond her illness, that eats away at her, that makes her turn away from the very love she searches for as if she’s unworthy of it. Something so dark and consuming that she’d never talk to me about it.”
Her brow creased. “I remember that. When she was a young girl, she kept it hidden better. But after Mama died, she was unreachable.” Her eyes met mine. “Something was broken inside of her that you couldn’t fix no matter how hard you tried.”
I realized that we’d let our untouched coffee grow cold. “Something like that.” I reached for her hands again. “I’m glad you came back. It’s made a world of difference to Gil—not to mention Diana and your grandfather, too. You’re meant to be here, I think.” Her robe gaped open at the neck, and I saw she wore the necklace I had given her. The silver crab winked in the light, recalling cold, dark waters and the unseen life that teemed there.
Marnie leaned toward me, and the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes reminded me again of the girl in the portrait. I leaned forward, too, eager to meet her halfway.
“I wouldn’t be here if I thought it would hurt Diana. I think by giving you the painting that she was making it clear that it was okay with her.” Her cheeks pinkened.
“That what was okay?”
Her blush deepened as she opened her mouth to say something more, but I silenced her with my lips against hers. I thought of the first time I’d kissed her, on the beach with the water teasing our legs and her arms trembling around my neck. But there was no fear in her now as she let me gently press her back against the sofa. As she kissed me, I remembered, too, how her lips had tasted like salt and how she’d talked about Saint Elmo’s fire. I touched her neck where the silver charm lay, and thought again of the girl in the portrait and how the woman in my arms had far exceeded the expectations of a young man foolish enough to imagine himself in love with paint and canvas.
Yet still, as she moved beneath me, I felt the presence of the heavy clouds outside, and the sleeping marsh and the ocean’s tides—all of them suspended in motion, hovering on the periphery of our lives. Marnie stilled for a moment and looked into my eyes as if she’d felt it, too. Then she pressed her forehead against my chest, and I held her there for a long moment, straining to hear the tides move again. But everything remained suspended while Marnie and I lost ourselves in each other and the outside world held its breath, waiting.
Gil
I lay in my bed with my eyes closed, but I was still awake. I felt the lump under my pillow where I’d folded up my jacket and my hat, afraid that my mama would sneak in after I was asleep and take them if I left them where she could see them. It was late; my dad had long since finished banging around the dishes in the kitchen as he cleaned up by himself. Aunt Marnie had asked to help, but Daddy said no. He said he’d appreciate it if she’d help Grandpa get ready for bed, instead. I could tell that they were both relieved that they didn’t have to spend any time together in the small kitchen.
They were acting really weird. It started when Mama brought out that painting from her studio. I’d seen it before, of course, but I guess I’d never really studied it. From the way that Daddy and Aunt Marnie were staring at it, and if I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have sworn that Aunt Marnie was naked in it or something. And when I looked at the face in the painting, really looked, I could see that in a way, she sort of was.
The house was still and quiet and I closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would come. But the house made its nighttime sounds, making me think of a sleeping cat that’s waiting at a mouse hole. It seemed that everybody was waiting for something to happen. Even the weather outside was asleep, the sun waiting to shine but not yet ready.
I got out of bed and pulled out the jacket and hat from under my pillow. I put them on and looked at myself in the long mirror on the back of the closet door. In the dim glow from my night-light, I couldn’t really see the yellow and the navy blue. But what I did see was a sailboat on the water, with me on deck. I could almost feel the waves roll under my feet, the oak of my bedroom floor looking li
ke teak in the yellow light.
Mr. Bonner had stopped by on Christmas Eve to deliver a fruitcake that his little sister, Tally, had made for us. I’m one of those weird people who actually likes fruitcake, and I’m pretty sure she’d made it just for me. Before Mama got sick, we’d go to the library a lot, and Tally would take me over to the kids’ section, where she helped me find books. Mama spent a lot of time at the library because she doesn’t like to bring the books home. She said it’s because she’s afraid she’ll lose them, but I think it’s because she doesn’t want anybody else to know what she’s reading. So Tally and I have become friends, and that was why she sent the fruitcake.
I guess Mr. Bonner and my dad forgot I was there because they started talking about the Highfalutin, something Daddy never does when I’m around. Mr. Bonner said that she was ready to go, and that the week after Christmas was going to be warm enough to be spring but without the wind gusts. Perfect sailing weather, he’d called it. I was lying on the sofa pretending to be asleep when Daddy mentioned it to Mama. He made the same arguments that he had before—that I was ready and that I wanted to, which is true. What he didn’t say is that I needed to. Probably because he doesn’t know it yet. But I do. Like when the fiddler crabs know when it’s time to return to the marsh in the spring, I felt the pull toward the water.
Mama didn’t even argue. She just said no, as if her opinion mattered more than Daddy’s or Aunt Marnie’s. Or even mine. I think it’s because of her sickness that Daddy feels we need to be gentle with her, and lots of times I agree with him. But not about this. Only Mama knows how I became afraid and why I can’t speak the truth. I figure if I can find the courage to go back to the water, she can find the courage to tell the truth. And then we will both be better.
I took off the jacket and hat and folded them up under my pillow again. Then I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head, listening once more to the still house as we all lay in our beds beneath the quiet roof and waited.
