by Lisa Wingate
“Divine providence.” Aunt Sandy gives the events a name and an author.
She picks up a muck-covered glass box that has inexplicably been left sitting in the middle of the floor. We stand there and smile at each other as she fingers the lighthouse ornaments atop the box, and the moment could not be more perfect. It’s odd when I think back on the events of the past week and a half—the unpredictable, uneven chain that began with the frantic call about little Emily’s disappearance and eventually led us here today. The fruitless searches, the nightmares, the trip to the Outer Banks, the storm, the woman running toward the road today with her toddler limp in her arms . . .
The shadow of the highest evil intermingled with the light of the highest good. Maybe all lives are filled with this. Maybe it is always a choice between embracing the darkness of one or the saving grace of the other.
I ponder the strangeness of it all as I try to keep Aunt Sandy from straining herself physically, but of course she insists on doing it anyway. I have no choice but to hover around, trying to take over the harder jobs, like removing the hurricane shutters, opening windows, taking the floodgates off the back doors so we can mop up floors and carry wet, dirty debris onto the deck. Floodwater stands under the boards, creating a dock that is only a foot above the out-of-place sea that reaches all the way to the sound. There is water pooled in Aunt Sandy’s workshop out back too, but she’s not as worried about that. The most important things have been raised or relocated, and years ago the old carriage house was lifted onto a block foundation in an effort to keep the historic frame building safe.
We mop, we rinse things, we do our best. We speak with neighbors and shop owners who pass by. I leave Aunt Sandy talking every chance I get, so she’ll rest. Two guys in kayaks travel by on the sound, or perhaps they are in the backyard. It’s impossible to tell. They wave, seeming to be almost enjoying the storm’s bizarre aftermath.
A reporter from the Charlotte Observer comes by, working on an article. “This one will get special coverage in the Washington Post as well,” he tells us as he walks with Aunt Sandy onto the back deck to snap a picture of her among the debris that is now drying in the sun. “We’re doing everything we can to make sure that, in light of all the damage in New York City and along the Jersey shore, people don’t forget you’ve taken a hit here as well.”
From inside the shop, where I’m trying to finish some of the emergency cleanup Aunt Sandy insisted had to be done before we could possibly leave the store, I hear bits of the ongoing interview, but mostly all I can think is My mother is going to kill us when we get home. I’m surprised Mom hasn’t abandoned the house and hitched a ride here by now. She expected us to be gone only long enough to check on the shop.
Outside, my aunt waxes nostalgic with the reporter, relating the challenges of living on a sandbar, and then she tells the story of buying the house and starting Sandy’s Seashell Shop. “I guess you could call this my midlife-crisis store,” she laughs. The sound jingles in the air like the tiny brass bells she attaches to the bottoms of some of her suncatchers so that when the window is open, they become wind chimes as well. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s some life, here on these Outer Banks. It really is.”
Before he leaves, the reporter crosses through the store and snaps a photo of me down on my hands and knees, grubbing around behind the coffee bar. I’m horrified. I can just imagine how I look. “Don’t print that.”
His brows lower with a disappointed look. “Seriously?”
I sit back on my heels and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. The weather is cool today. Technically the storm has been classified as a nor’easter, but I’m sweating like a pig in August. Those changing hormones Carol warned me about, perhaps. “No, it’s okay.”
He asks me for a bit of my storm story, and I share it. An outsider’s point of view of surviving a brush with one of the most geographically far-reaching storms ever recorded in the area. The perfect storm, they’re calling it.
He’s putting the lens cap on his camera when I hear my aunt’s voice outside. “No! No! No! No!” She sounds panic-stricken, and it stands me bolt upright.
The reporter follows me as I hit the back door in a dead run. I am on the deck before I catch sight of Aunt Sandy. She is waist-deep in the floodwaters of the backyard, almost all the way to the sound, reaching for what looks like a toy wagon floating by. The red kind that children play with. It’s drifting along like a little boat.
The reporter’s camera clicks as I hurry down the steps and splash into the water. Mom’s going to pull every hair from my head individually if she sees this runs through my mind. Why in the world is Aunt Sandy wading out there to rescue a stupid toy wagon? There’s junk everywhere. You can’t tell what might be beneath the surface of this water, either. My aunt might trip over something and fall at any moment. She’s not all that steady on her feet.
“Aunt Sandy!” The water resists as I plow through it like a water-aerobics student on steroids. “What are you doing?”
She catches the wagon, reaches for something inside it while I’m still ten feet away.
The wagon floats off as she turns around, and when she comes closer, I see that she’s holding something small, black-and-white, and trembling. A little Boston bulldog. It’s licking her face with ferocious gratitude as she tries to push its head away.
“Stop that! Hold still, you little scallywag. Cut it out.”
The reporter’s camera spins into high gear as Sandy draws within a few feet of me and holds up the prize for which she has risked the floodwaters. “Look at this little piece of shark bait. Saw him just floating by in that wagon. No telling how he managed that.” She wobbles on her feet, and for a moment I think that both she and the dog are headed into the drink. Then she regains her balance, laughing and reaching for me. “Looks like we each saved a life today.”
“Hey, cute dog!” the reporter cheers, and I have a feeling that the little Shell Shop castaway has just become part of the story.
CHAPTER 9
“I don’t know . . .” Mom looks up from her suitcase, a half-folded shirt dangling from her hands. I’m not sure why she’s folding it so carefully. It’s dirty. All of our clothes are dirty. Water and effort can’t be wasted doing the wash right now.
“Mom, it’s time.” The days have run together. Three? Four? It’s a blur of dragging soggy inventory out of the shop, picking up water and supplies from the Red Cross station in a parking lot, delivering them around the island, checking on Aunt Sandy’s elderly friends, helping with first aid where I can.
Mom casts a concerned eye toward the window. Outside, Aunt Sandy is headed down the driveway in the Jeep to go over to Fairhope and check on Iola Anne Poole one more time. The foundling bulldog is in hot pursuit, hopping like a rabbit, the little white spot under his nub tail flashing.
“I think she’s trying to outrun him.” I point toward the window, laughing as the Jeep squeals to a stop and my aunt exits with her hands on her hips. She comes at the dog, hunched over like a pro wrestler trying to intimidate an opponent.
She hates that dog. He scratches at her door every night, whines and cries, and doesn’t stop until she relents and lets him in. Then the dog snores. Bad. She has started calling him Chum, not as in friend, but as in shark bait. She’s careful to let us know that is not an official name. She’s looking everywhere to find his owners, or at least some willing foster parents until his owners can be found. The story of his rescue made the newspaper, yet no one has come to claim him.
Even Mom can’t resist the scene outside. The two of us giggle as we watch Aunt Sandy and the dog do their love-hate dance. Unless we physically restrain him, Chum pushes the screen door open and does this every time his new favorite friend tries to leave.
“I think I should stay here with her until George is back.” Mom’s smile fades and the concerned look returns as Aunt Sandy finally allows Chum into the passenger seat. Together they rattle off down the driveway and turn
the corner, out of sight behind a bedraggled bayberry hedge.
I cram the last of my dirty, wrinkled clothes into the duffel bag that was supposed to last me a couple days. “He’ll be home tomorrow, Mom. It’s only one night. And if you don’t come with me, you’ll have to try to get a flight back to Michigan. With all the mess from the storm, that could be a problem.” In reality, Uncle George has told me it will be better if we go home now. On top of taking care of everyone else on the island, Aunt Sandy feels the need to treat Mom and me like houseguests. We’ve tried to set her straight, but you don’t set that woman anywhere. She’s like the value of pi. She just is.
My job today is to get my mother to come with me and stop butting in. Uncle George feels that there’s less chance of Sandy digging in her heels if he can get home and speak to her about the health concerns calmly, one-on-one.
“Mom, there’s no telling what will happen with the ferries and shoaling and the possibility of more bad weather coming. We need to get out while we can.” I don’t mean to sound selfish, but I miss my family. Other than a few short conversations on the Seashell Shop phone, we’ve hardly talked. I feel like I’m losing track of things at home, even though Robert has it under control.
Mom looks out the window, tearing up.
“Mom . . .”
“I miss my sister.” Her voice quivers and breaks. “I can’t believe all these years I’ve been so stubborn. I can’t believe I haven’t come out here and spent time . . . just because . . . I was mad that she moved away.”
“You can come back again once things are normal. Now that you’re retired, you could take an off-season rental and . . . stay for months each year if you wanted.” Too late, I realize I have divulged the fact that I think the family needs to stop pressuring Aunt Sandy. This is her life, her second-half adventure.
“Something’s going to happen. I just know it.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, we’ll get one of her shop friends to come stay here tonight. Teresa, maybe.”
“I just—”
Both of us turn toward the window at the same time. The barking has caught our attention, a wild, high-pitched yip, yip, yip, yip, yip!
I push to my feet. “What’s he doing?”
Chum is headed up the driveway in a dead run, not bunny-bounding like he usually does but dashing flat and full-out.
I hurry from the bedroom and walk onto the front deck, then stand at the top of the steps and call Chum. He dashes to my feet, barking, but darts away when I reach for him. I walk all the way down and try again. He runs through the soggy yard, slinging water, comes my way, evades capture again, then bolts down the driveway, pausing at the end to see if I’m following. I go a few steps, call him again. For a minute, we’re like a scene out of Lassie Come Home.
Mom follows me into the yard, and we stand looking at the dog. “Something’s wrong.” She frowns, clearly concerned. “Sandy wouldn’t just let the dog out of the Jeep and leave him running in the street. She’d come back to check on him. She might be tired of him weaseling into her bed at night, but I know she cares about that little guy.”
Chum barks three times and bolts for the road as if he realizes that we’ve finally caught on.
“I’m going to grab the car keys. . . .” Mom turns to dash back into the house. Fortunately we’ve moved her vehicle from one of the trailers to the driveway in anticipation of leaving today.
“She can’t have gone far.” I take off running after the dog. Down the driveway and the street, my legs pumping, the wet, brackish air seeming too thick to breathe.
I’ve gone a few blocks when I see the Jeep, cockeyed in the ditch, the front end rammed against a tree. Strangely, the motor is still running, exhaust churning from the tailpipe and disappearing into the morning mist.
Mom and I arrive at almost the same moment. Aunt Sandy is slumped over the steering wheel, her arm hanging out the window in a stiff, unnatural position.
The door resists when I try to open it. I throw my weight against the handle, stumble backward when it finally gives.
My aunt’s skin is coated with beads of perspiration as I lay her back against the seat and turn off the engine. A drop of blood falls onto the cuff of my jacket, leaving a small, round stain. She hit her head during the crash.
Aunt Sandy’s teeth draw back in a tight grimace that seems more reactionary than intentional. She moans, the sound starting low in her throat and slowly rising. She is breathing, but I’m afraid the thing we’ve all feared has come to pass.
This looks like a heart attack. A catastrophic one.
“Aunt Sandy. Aunt Sandy, can you hear me?”
“N-n-not deaf. . . .” It seems like she’s trying to force a smile, but it evaporates into a groan so guttural I ache inside.
“Are you experiencing pain in your arm? In your chest?” Again, the scripts come into my mind, clear, calming. I’ve been through this one so many times with callers.
“I . . . d-don’t . . . h-have time . . . fff . . . for . . . a h-heart . . . ’tack . . . ,” she assures me. If this weren’t so serious, I would either laugh or cry. My aunt is still here with us, but this is bad. Medevac to a hospital will take a while, especially with all that’s going on in the storm-damaged areas right now.
Mom elbows her way in beside me and takes her sister’s hand. Tears fall next to the blood. “Don’t you do this. Don’t you do this, do you hear me, Sandra Kay?”
I push Mom away. “Mom, go to the neighbor’s house. The one where Sandy used the landline phone the other day. Call in an emergency—tell them we have a heart attack in progress. We need medevac by helicopter. Now. The victim is conscious and responsive at this point. Give them her age, weight, and the address.”
“N-n-not . . . th . . . the . . . w-weight . . .” Aunt Sandy groans.
“Ssshhh . . . You can stop trying to make us feel better, okay?” I comb the hair from her face, look at the gash. “We’re here. We’re going to get you through this.”
Mom pulls something from her pocket and presses it into my hand—a small foil packet of some sort. “Here, have her chew one of these. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I glance at the packet. It seems like a miracle in the moment. “Aspirin?”
“I always carry them in my pocket.” Mom shifts the keys in her hand, preparing to run for the car. “It’s a principal thing. All those teachers, dealing with stress and students. Never know when you’ll need it.”
“What . . . f-flavor . . . ?” Aunt Sandy coughs and spasms after attempting the joke.
“Shut up, Sandra Kay. Now.” My mother lays her forehead against her sister’s as I struggle to tear the foil wrapper. “You have to make it through this, do you hear me? You are my sister, and I love you. We still have things to do together. You promised. We’re going to walk on the beach and design sea glass jewelry, and you’re teaching me to make those hummingbird suncatchers or else. It isn’t time yet. It’s not.”
My aunt doesn’t answer. I don’t know if she’s losing consciousness or merely obeying her big sister for once. A tear slips from beneath her lashes.
I stop my mother just as she is turning to run for the car. “You’d better help me move her out of the Jeep.”
This is not the end of the sea glass sisterhood. Not if I have anything to say about it.
CHAPTER 10
The ferry landing is teeming with people. Red Cross trucks, National Guard caravans, and groups of aid workers in identifying vests or T-shirts exit the ferry in droves. Meanwhile, visitors who underanticipated the effects of the storm and residents who have decided to relocate to the mainland until things get better line up to shuffle their way onto the outgoing boat. Ferry attendants encourage everyone to be patient. The emergency transports are operating on a regular schedule, despite issues with shoaling and debris left behind by the storm. The commute across the water, two and a half hours under normal circumstances, will be slower than usual.
Arduous is what it will be.
We have no idea of Aunt Sandy’s condition. By now she has, hopefully, arrived at the hospital by helicopter and is in the hands of cardiac doctors and nurses. The Shell Shop friends have left their digging out in order to accompany us to the landing, as have members of Aunt Sandy’s church and Bible study group. We’ve gathered in a circle, joined hands, and prayed.
We hug and say our good-byes, and the ferry worker who was kind enough to move Mom and me to the front of the line escorts us on. There’s no room for the rest of the Sisterhood of the Shell Shop to go. This ferry is full, and the wait right now is several hours.
“Let us know as soon as you hear anything!” Teresa yells.
We promise that we will, and then the crowd of weary, tired people closes in around us. I suddenly realize how much we all look alike in this condition. How completely desperation can equalize people.
It’ll probably be a couple hours before we’re close enough to the mainland to pick up a working cell tower and find out more about the medevac flight and Aunt Sandy’s condition. We’re fortunate that everything fell into place for her to be taken off the island so quickly, but even with the fast response, there’s danger of a bad outcome. We know that. With a thready pulse and rising and falling from consciousness, she needed a top-notch cardiac team, sooner rather than later.
A man gives up his spot near the cabin wall, and Mom sits down, but I can’t. I stand at the deck railing, hang over it, trying to let the sea breeze take away the feeling that I might throw up. Not far away, the pelicans swirl over the debris-littered surf, enjoying the buffet of floating treats offered courtesy of the storm. They seem to promise that all will eventually return to normal. The storm churns up food. The birds feast. Something good comes of even the worst events.
Is it possible? I wonder.
