The Inconceivable Life of Quinn

by Marianna Baer

  “Can I look through them?”

  Katherine paused a moment. “I don’t see why not.”

  Quinn pulled the dusty cardboard boxes into the center of the floor in the living area.

  “I don’t understand,” she said as she tore brittle packing tape off the first one. “Why did we even move here if Dad hated Meryl so much? Didn’t it remind him of her?”

  “We weren’t exactly rolling in money,” Katherine said from the kitchen area. “And he inherited the house at the same time your health problems were getting worse. It just made sense. Clean air, no rent to pay . . .”

  “Was it because of what she said to you that day, about leaving Cincinnati?”

  “No,” Katherine said immediately. “I never even told your dad about that.”

  “Why didn’t you just sell this house and buy another one on the mainland? Especially once Dad got that job.” He’d split his time between writing books and being a consultant for a Maine-based company.

  A loud whirring sound filled the room. Quinn looked up to see her mother testing the food processor. After turning it off, she said, “Meryl’s will stipulated that the house and land can’t be sold. They can be passed down to direct heirs, or if there isn’t an heir, donated to the Conservation Society. That’s it.”

  “Oh.” Quinn had never heard of anything like that before. “That’s weird.”

  Katherine shrugged. “The property had been in her family for generations. She loved the island and hated the way it was being developed. People building big fancy houses. She wanted to protect what land she could.”

  Quinn turned her attention to the boxes again. Her mother was right: They were all filled with books. She went through volume by volume, finding everything from familiar favorites like A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson and My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, to ones that looked really old and boring about American history and the history of Maine. There were a few about ancient mythology, Norse legend, Polynesian folklore. Books about the artists George Bellows and Winslow Homer. Novels by Stephen King, Jorge Luis Borges, Barbara Kingsolver . . . A bunch of Shakespeare. And there, nestled between A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Macbeth, Quinn’s hand discovered a very slim paperback—not part of the Shakespeare set. The minute she pulled it out her breath stopped.

  The Deeps, written and illustrated by Charlotte Lowell. Charlotte Lowell. The name that had been in the box her necklace came in. It was a children’s picture book. The cover illustration was a watercolor of a wave rolling up onto a rocky beach, similar in style to the one framed on their wall. Quinn’s heart thudded as she carefully opened the slightly buckled cover. On the title page was a handwritten dedication: To Meryl Holmes Cutler, Finest Kind. Charlotte Lowell.

  Quinn knew how the book would begin.

  A still morning sea, the Deeps all asleep, ’til warmed by the sun they roll up the beach . . .

  She couldn’t have recited it, but as she read, she found she was rediscovering words that were already in her brain. Seeing pictures that she’d seen hundreds of times. Like meeting an old friend. This book had been a part of her. Still was a part of her.

  It was a story of the ocean—of curious spirits in the ocean called the Deeps, coming up on a beach at high tide and playing with a little girl until the tide went back out and the girl’s mother called her home. The illustrations were loose watercolors, the Deeps defined by subtle, expressive outlines. More gesture than actual form.

  Quinn took it into her parents’ bedroom, where Katherine was putting fresh sheets on the mattress. She held it out to her.

  Her mother’s face paled. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s the one I was asking you about.”

  “We don’t have a copy anymore. Where was that?”

  “It was in with Meryl’s books. The author, Charlotte Lowell, signed it. For her.” Quinn paused. “Why are you so freaked out?”

  Katherine wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold. “I was the one who always put you to bed,” she said. “Your dad . . . he didn’t realize Charlotte had given me a copy of the book. And that I’d been reading it to you. But then . . . you started pretending that you were friends with those . . . water people, or whatever. And your dad realized it was this book. And then you were refusing to stay away from the water . . . Going in any chance you could get. Talking like you had real underwater friends.” She paused. “He blamed that book for putting the ideas in your head. Which, obviously, it did.”

  “Ben told me some of this. But . . . lots of kids have imaginary friends.” Even as Quinn said it, she knew this had been different.

  “No part of you seemed to recognize that they were imaginary,” her mother said. “The way you insisted on going in that water, even after the accident. No matter how cold it was. We couldn’t leave you alone for a minute. You’d have let yourself drown or freeze to death.” She shook her head. “It was scary. You had no concept of the danger. You said they’d take care of you.”

  Quinn turned the book over in her hands. “Ben also told me that you all lied about him pulling me out of the water.”

  Katherine sighed. “We thought it was for the best, Quinn.”

  “So Charlotte Lowell lived here? On Southaven?”

  “She was a friend of your grandmother’s.”

  “And . . . what did this have to do with Meryl?” Quinn held out the book.

  Her mother knit her brow. “Nothing, aside from the fact they were friends.”

  “But Dad . . . He told me not to lie about it. About the Deeps. And he asked if I wanted to be like her. Like his mother.”

  “If he said something like that, he was probably talking about her drowning.”

  Quinn turned back to the page with the handwritten dedication. Meryl Holmes Cutler. “Her middle name was Holmes?”

  “Her maiden name.”

  “That’s a weird coincidence. Holmes Cove.”

  “It’s not a coincidence. It was named for her family, generations ago.”

  Quinn’s mind was struggling to make sense of all this new information. There was something else. There was some other connection here between her grandmother and this story. Between her grandmother and herself. Quinn knew it.

  Later, when she was helping make dinner and couldn’t find a sharp knife, she opened a drawer in the kitchen and saw a copy of the regional phone book. On a whim, she took it out and flipped to the right page. There it was. Charlotte Lowell.

  There was no cell reception here, so Quinn called from the landline while her mother was out getting firewood. She got a generic voicemail message that definitely wasn’t a woman of her grandmother’s generation. “Hi, um, this is Quinn Cutler,” she said, flustered. “Calling for Charlotte Lowell. You don’t know me. I’m Meryl Cutler’s granddaughter, and I’m here on the island and . . . I found that book you wrote and illustrated and I had some questions, I guess. I’ll try to call you again. Thanks.” She heard call-waiting clicking on the other line. It was her father. She stiffened, imagining him having been able to hear her talking on the other line. But all he did was ask if she was okay and then ask to speak to her mother.

  Katherine walked into the house with an armful of wood right then. She tumbled the logs next to the fireplace, wiped the dirt and splinters off her sweater, and took the receiver when Quinn handed it to her.

  She left the room as she spoke, and came back in a couple minutes later.

  “He missed the last ferry,” she said. “He’s not even past Portland yet. He’s going to stay in Rockland and catch the one in the morning.”

  “Oh,” Quinn said. “That’s too bad.”

  Although, inside, she wasn’t sure she really felt that way. She was sort of dreading seeing her father. She’d made such a big deal about coming here for answers, had practically promised him that she’d figure it out. And here she was, no closer to anything, and no idea where to go from here, except down.

  “I’m not so disappointed,” her
mother said, echoing Quinn’s thoughts. “We’ll have a nice, cozy evening. Just the two of us.”

  SAMUEL FERRIS

  They’d caught the last ferry. It docked on Southaven at 6:46 p.m., and Samuel was first on line to get off. The others—eight of them altogether—filed off right behind him.

  “Supplies first,” he said, his words getting blown away. The sharp, cold wind was gusting here. Marching with purpose, he led them up the slight incline to the main road. Pretended he knew exactly where he was going. God would show him the way.

  “Grocery store closes at seven,” one of the people said from behind him. “It’s to the right.”

  God was working through a smartphone.

  The sky was dead black. Too many clouds for stars or a moon. Samuel didn’t like the rumble of thunder in the distance.

  They piled into the small grocery store. It was empty, except for one cashier. Samuel grabbed a few packages of beef jerky, peanuts, and mini doughnuts. The cashier eyed the backpacks some of them were carrying and said, “You know camping isn’t allowed anywhere on the island? And it’s gonna be a cold, wet one tonight. Big storm coming.”

  “We’ll be on a friend’s property,” Samuel said. “Or indoors, if it’s stormy.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were true. Somehow, it would work out for them to sleep in a dry place tonight. Maybe even the Virgin’s house. God would make sure of that. It was only right.

  QUINN

  Katherine went to bed early. Quinn tried, but she couldn’t sleep. She felt electrified, almost like that day in May. The baby was kicking and her brain was churning, going over everything she’d learned in the last couple of days. It was too much, all of this being heaped on top of her at once. So many things that had been hidden. Lies, false memories, secrets . . .

  She knew she wasn’t going to sleep. Wrapped in her comforter, she walked softly out to the kitchen and took the phone off its handset, praying Jesse would answer a call from an unknown number. He did. Her whole body warmed at his voice.

  “It’s me,” she said, curling up on the couch.

  “I knew it was,” he said. “I’ve been so worried, Q.”

  She filled him in on as much as possible, overwhelmed by it all, nervous about mentioning Marco to him when she got to that part in the story, not wanting to reopen the wound. But he listened to the whole thing and didn’t turn cold or sound hurt.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. There was nothing “pass the butter” about the way he said it.

  “I don’t know,” she said, truthfully. “And . . . about the other day. About, you know . . . kissing you. I’m sorry. I was just so upset after seeing all that stuff online. I wanted . . . I wanted you to stay. I wanted to be close to you.” Quinn and her impulsive kisses . . .

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  She rubbed her hand over her belly. “Jess?” she said, speaking around the knot in her throat. “What’s going to happen with us? I can’t . . . I can’t keep going like it is. I know that we might not be together, but can we . . . can we go back? Can we really be friends? I miss you. So much. I need you. I really need you. And maybe that’s selfish, because I need you but you don’t need me, but—”

  “Of course I need you,” he said.

  “You do?”

  She could hear him breathing. Was holding her own breath waiting for his answer. “Of course,” he said. “I’m miserable without you.”

  Quinn smiled through tears. “You are?”

  There was another moment of just breath. Then, “But I don’t think we can go back,” he said. “You know?”

  Her stomach dropped. Of course they couldn’t go back. She’d known that from the moment they became a couple. “Because . . . because you can’t forgive me?”

  “I’ve forgiven you for kissing the guy, Quinn,” he said. “But it’s screwed up that we were even in that situation. You should have said something if you didn’t want to be with me like that.”

  “But I did want to be with you. I do want to. I mean . . . I don’t know why I did that with Marco. It wasn’t about wanting him. And it definitely wasn’t about not wanting you.”

  “Are you . . . are you sure? You can still love me but not want me like that.”

  “Jesse,” she said. “I’ve wanted you forever. Like that.”

  “So, um, why . . .” His voice was thick, like it was difficult for him to get the words out. “You seemed to pull back, sometimes, when we were together.”

  Quinn drew a long breath. “It was just that things happened so fast. And I was scared that you’d eventually realize, I don’t know, something was wrong with me and you wouldn’t want me. And if we’d gone too far, physically . . . I don’t know.” She stared up at the beamed ceiling. “I was scared of how much it would hurt.”

  “I’ve known you for years, Q. Why would I suddenly decide I didn’t want you?”

  Quinn pressed her fingers against her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think if you knew everything about me, you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

  “Quinn,” he said. “Why would you ever think that?”

  Quinn couldn’t answer. Didn’t know the answer. It was just an elemental truth—if someone knew her completely, they wouldn’t love her. They’d know something was wrong with her, like her father had known, right from the beginning. And as she struggled for words to explain this, something was released inside her and suddenly she couldn’t stop crying, everything coming out all at once. She could still hear Jesse breathing on the other end of the phone. She tried not to make noise, wasn’t sobbing loudly, but still couldn’t manage to speak.

  “I’m here,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

  NICOLE ANDERSON

  The wind flattened Nicole’s trash bag poncho against her body as she pressed forward. Icy rain whipped her face. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking now—it was slow going with the wind and the rain. Much slower than they’d anticipated. A storm like this hadn’t been in the forecast.

  “God’s just testing us,” that blowhard Samuel kept saying. “Making sure we’re worthy.”

  Nicole wished she didn’t have all this time to think. She was being torn in half. She heard her husband telling her that she needed to be near the baby to fulfill her responsibility. That letting the child slip away could mean losing it forever. He and the Entitled talked about Quinn as if she were just a vessel. And maybe that’s the way Nicole was supposed to see her, too. But . . . she just couldn’t. Even in the brief moments she’d connected with Quinn, she’d seen the girl herself. Not just some body carrying the baby. She’d seen her questions, her confusion, her fear . . . Nicole couldn’t stop imagining how scared Quinn would be when she realized they had followed her here. Was being a part of that really how she, Nicole, could serve the baby, and her God?

  “We’re getting closer,” someone called from up front. “I recognize this turnoff on the map!”

  Nicole felt like a creature was holding on to her ribcage, trying to pull it apart. She kept listening for God’s voice telling her what to do. But there was only the sound of the storm. And she didn’t have time to call home or debate endlessly. She needed to choose a side.

  QUINN

  Quinn woke with a start. It felt like deepest night, but according to the clock it was only 10:21, an hour after she finished talking to Jesse. She lay still, wondering what had woken her. Something was wrong. Was it the baby? Panic shot through her and she pressed a hand against her stomach. She couldn’t sense anything different, though. Had no pain. But there was something wrong. Somewhere. She knew it.

  She got out of bed and went to the window. Rain was battering the deck. And in the midst of the frantic drumming, someone was calling her name, a distant voice, like in all of her dreams. Maybe this was a dream. She got a flashlight from the kitchen, didn’t bother putting on shoes or a jacket—there would be no keeping dry in this weather—and crept quietly out the door. Careful not to slip, s
he made her way across the slick grass and onto the wooded path, where the rain fell less heavily. That voice still called her name, and she picked up her pace, only realizing when she was at the rock that looked like a dog that she had never turned on the flashlight. She reached the opening at Holmes Cove, stared out at the rainwater becoming seawater, and listened. There, woven into the percussive symphony: Quinn, Quinn, Quinn . . . She set down the flashlight, walked out, and stood on Swimming Rock in her drenched nightgown. She knew it was cold out, but she was warm. And even though she’d had the sense that something bad—something wrong—was happening, she wasn’t scared. Not this time. The baby was dancing inside her.

  She could just make out the white foam at the edge of the water.

  It was hard to tell in the dark, but she thought it was almost lowest tide, a field of sand and mussels and seaweed between them. The shush, shush, shush of the waves was an audible backdrop to the sounds of the storm. The waves were a bit bigger than usual in the cove, because of the wind, but still not huge. As Quinn stood there, she felt something tugging at her, as if a string had been tied around her sternum and was being pulled forward. Like the pull she had felt to come down here that night in May. And then, wait . . . the tide was higher than she thought. The forward point of the forward-and-back, forward-and-back motion of the edge was up to the rock the seals liked to sleep on. And then the pulling sensation in her chest got stronger. Wind wrapped her wet hair across her face. The baby kicked more forcefully.

  When she pushed her hair out of her eyes, Quinn saw something impossible—so impossible that she knew that, yes, this was a dream. The ocean was sweeping farther and farther up the beach, much too rapidly. Like time-lapse footage of the tide coming in. It was spilling up toward her, as if she were reeling it in on a winch. As if that pulling sensation in her chest was something that attached the two of them together, and the same energy that had pulled her down here on this stormy night was now pulling the water closer to her.