Sea Change

by Karen White

  I emptied one of the bags onto the table. “We had a lot of tornadoes the spring I turned seven, and one of those old Instamatic cameras landed in the bushes in our yard. I found it, and then my brother Stephen showed me how to open it, and we found that it still had film inside. He drove me to the drugstore and had the film developed. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking I’d find. I’d just started reading Nancy Drew mysteries and was probably thinking the pictures were a clue to some big mystery.”

  I used my thumbnail to pry up the film compartment cover, then flipped over the camera and felt the hard plastic of the film canister land in my palm. I held it up like a prized treasure.

  “And what did you find?” His voice was a mixture of interest and curiosity, and I wondered why I’d felt embarrassed.

  “It was some kid’s fourth birthday party. There were balloons and a birthday cake, and everybody was wearing those conelike hats with the fake blue fur fringe around the bottom. It was a family party, with just the mom, dad, the little boy, and two girls who were a bit older. They were identical, and were even dressed the same, so I assumed they were twins.”

  He sat back against the cushion and put his arm behind me. “Did you recognize them?”

  I shook my head. “No. The tornadoes happened three hundred miles away. There was no telling who those people were. Maybe if we’d had Facebook or something like that back then, we could have posted them and hoped somebody recognized them, but I figured I was given the camera for a reason.”

  “Sounds like something your Mimi would say.”

  I looked at him sharply. “You’ve laid eyes on her once in your life. How would you know what she’d say?”

  “Because,” he said, his fingers brushing my bare shoulders, “you talk a lot about Mimi. It just sounds like something she’d say.”

  “For a moment there, I thought you were thinking I was one of your patients.” I took out the other camera from the bag. “Anyway, there was something about the twins. I knew I didn’t know them, but there was still something…I don’t know. Compelling, maybe? Recognizable? I thought it was because I’d always felt as if I had an invisible friend with me, ever since I can remember. Something I dreamed up because I hated being like an only child, I guess. Or because I needed somebody to talk to because my mom…” I stopped, not wanting to continue, then flicked open the film compartment and watched as another film canister joined the first. “I started going to garage sales and rummage sales. All of my babysitting money went to developing the film. I didn’t even keep the photos after they were developed—I threw them all away. It was like in each picture I was expecting to find something I needed to know.”

  Matthew sat up, his elbows propped on his knees, his fingers threaded together. “Did you ever find it?”

  “Apparently not,” I said, indicating my most recent garage sale acquisitions that lay scattered on his coffee table. I began to gather all the canisters in a pile. “I have a job interview tomorrow in Brunswick, and I was hoping to find a place to have these developed while I was there. You did say I could have the car, right?”

  His lips tightened. “Yes, but I was hoping…” He stopped.

  “Hoping what?”

  He finished unknotting his tie and slid it from the collar of his shirt. “I was just hoping we could fit in our delayed honeymoon before you started working, when you won’t have any vacation time.”

  We’d been talking about our honeymoon, but once we’d arrived on St. Simons together it seemed that neither of us had been that interested in leaving again so soon. But I could tell, too, that our unfinished plans weren’t the only reason he hesitated.

  I kept my voice cool, remembering what Tish had told me. “What else were you thinking?”

  He sat back on the sofa. “Well, I was hoping that you would come speak with the people at my clinic first. One of our midwives will be going on maternity leave soon, and we’ll need somebody to fill in. We could add another midwife to the staff if it works out for everyone once Joyce returns.”

  I swallowed hard. I was used to forging my own path, without consultation. Mimi said it was something I’d been born with, an inherited trait that she claimed was part of my survival instinct. I’d never been in a life-or-death situation, but I used her rationalization to excuse my penchant for stepping first without looking, and blurting out the first thing that came to mind. Forcing my voice to remain calm, I said, “I know that’s what Adrienne did. But I’d rather find a position just on my own merits.”

  He looked at me, and for a moment it was as if he were seeing someone else. Seeing her. He shook his head as if mentally shaking away an image. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry. It should be your choice.” He paused, considering his words. “I guess I’m one of those people who cling to what’s familiar and easy for me. I should have known better.”

  I moved to him, slipping my fingers into his thick, dark hair, and touched my lips to his. “Work will be a good distraction—for both of us—and will make our reunions that much sweeter.”

  He held me close, but I couldn’t push back the feeling that he was disappointed, that he’d wanted to relive a part of his past. A past that had included Adrienne.

  Matthew abruptly pulled away. “What’s that smell?”

  I sniffed the air, smelling the distinct aroma of burning cheese. “Oh, no!” I cried, before rushing to the kitchen and throwing open the oven to let out a billowing cloud of smoke. Matthew reached around me and turned off the oven.

  Grabbing the oven mitts, I slid the burned and thoroughly unappetizing lasagna out of the oven and placed it on top of the stove. My first dinner for my husband was one charred, lumpy mess that looked as appetizing as dirt. “I guess I forgot to set the timer.” I felt the embarrassing sting of tears behind my eyes.

  “It happens,” Matthew said, slipping the mitts off of my hands. “Luckily we’ve got some great little restaurants in the village where we can get a nice meal and a glass of wine—or two.”

  After making sure the oven was off, he gently led me out of Adrienne’s kitchen, the aroma of my failure following us like a ghost.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Pamela

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  OCTOBER 1805

  The marshes had settled into their autumn blankets of gold and amber, shaking out the birds and insects like an old woman preparing for winter. The island was a different place now than in the spring and summer, devoid of its sound and scent until the rains of March returned and made it blossom again. In this way it was different from the ocean that changed colors without really changing, its relentless ebb and flood tides reminders of its brutal imperviousness to life and death.

  I stood in the chill wind with Geoffrey’s arm around me, the only warmth in the icy depths of my body. Our child was gone from us so suddenly that we were both still stumbling through the house and opening doors into empty rooms.

  There were few mourners at Christ Church cemetery. The minister had given the service in the open due to the lack of a church building, the oaks weeping moss onto the small gathering, moving the sunlight from grass blade to stone. The words were brief, as befitted the short life of baby Jamie, the scattered and recent headstones in the new cemetery bearing silent witness to our grief as the small box was lowered into the ground.

  I held tightly to Geoffrey’s hand but did not cry. I’d seen too many childless mothers never stop. Instead, I took comfort in the warmth of Geoffrey’s hand in mine, the reassurance of life in his touch, and allowed the grief to come to me without inviting it to stay.

  My father and sister, Georgina, approached, the latter looking like a blond porcelain doll despite her black cloak and dress. She kissed me on each cheek, her lips cold and stiff, before reaching for Geoffrey to do the same. I looked away, remembering how before my return from Savannah after having tended to my ailing grandmother, Georgina had been sweet on him and had even hinted of an upcoming betrothal.

  But that was not to be. Shor
tly before my return, he’d stopped calling on Georgina. I was unaware of the reason why, believing it had something to do with my sister’s sometimes fickle nature, and her ability to never be satisfied with what she had, and to always desire to have that which she could not.

  Several months had passed when I saw Geoffrey at the gathering in the home of a neighbor, and our eyes had met across the room as if we shared the same thoughts. He crossed the room to speak with me and did not leave my side for the entire evening. He began escorting me home from church services, and not long after, we were married. I could not feel guilt over Georgina’s loss. She was beautiful and would have many suitors. But Geoffrey was mine. I had even come to believe that our being together was as much a part of the world order as the changing of the seasons.

  “I’ve made stew and crackling bread for supper,” Georgina was saying. “I didn’t expect you would be wanting to go home yet.”

  I looked at my sister, realizing she was right. The quietness of the house might be my undoing. I smiled at her generosity. “Yes, thank you. That was very kind of you.”

  “You are my sister and Geoffrey is my brother-in-law. It is the least I could do.”

  Impulsively, she grabbed my hands, ungloved because I had lost my kid leather ones while attending to a birth, and Geoffrey’s funds were low after the disaster of the past year’s storm and the loss of his crop.

  Georgina stared down at the ugly red welt on my hand. “What have you done to your hand?”

  I pulled away, aware of the angry scar. “I cut it when I was delivering the Tetleys’ baby last February. It became fevered and I thought I might lose my hand. I suppose I should be grateful that it is only a scar.”

  Geoffrey appeared at my side and took my hand in his again, bringing the scar up to his lips. “Are you sure you do not want to return home?”

  His dark blue eyes settled on mine and I wanted to weep again. The child we had just buried was his as well as mine, and they had shared the same eyes. I placed my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat. “Yes. Just be with me.”

  Georgina stepped back, averting her face, allowing Geoffrey to lead me out of the churchyard. A horse whinnied, and I started as a man stepped from behind our wagon. I felt Geoffrey stiffen as we both recognized the young widower Nathaniel Smith. He had a large cotton farm on Jones Creek, and so we should have had a lot in common. Instead, Geoffrey had an avid dislike of the man and we did not seek out his company. His wife had died eight years before, and he did not attend church services at the planters’ houses. Without the social inroads a wife usually made, it was not that unusual that our paths would not cross even on such a tiny island.

  Nathaniel took off his hat and bowed his head toward me and then at Geoffrey. “Mistress Frazier. Mr. Frazier. I am sorry for your loss,” he said, his eyes serious. When neither of us said anything, he continued. “I was not aware of your recent tragedy or I would not have come to see you today. But I was told at your house that you were here and would likely be receptive to seeing me after I stated my business.”

  “Which is?” Geoffrey bit out.

  Georgina appeared behind Nathaniel and stopped suddenly when she recognized him, her face losing all color.

  He reached behind him and pushed forward a thin slip of a girl no older than ten or eleven wearing a dirty yellow head rag. Her skin was light, almost white, the skin where her left eye had once been knotted and twisted where it had been sewn together over the empty socket. She stared at us with abject fear, her spirit cringing as her body stood upright.

  “This here is Jemma. Her mama was the midwife at my place until she died of a fever last month. Jemma helped her some and learned some midwifery. I do not have any use for her myself, but thought your wife might.”

  I stepped forward but refrained from touching the girl, afraid she would start running and never stop. “What happened to her eye?”

  Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “She got a bad infection and it had to be taken out.”

  I struggled not to cringe at the image of what an operation like that must have been like. No morphine would have been given to a slave child. I stared at Jemma, imagining what sort of sturdy soul she must have to have survived it.

  “How much do you want for her?” Geoffrey asked.

  I nearly wept from relief at the sound of my husband’s voice. I thought I would have to beg him for this poor, wounded child.

  Nathaniel did not spare the child a glance. “I was hoping we could barter. I have two field slaves at the end of their terms, and without a midwife anymore I fear for their safe delivery. The father is one of my Ebos, so those babies are going to be big. I cannot afford to lose mother and child.”

  Without waiting for Geoffrey to answer, I nodded my head. “Of course. Just have someone send word when it is time.”

  Nathaniel noticed Georgina for the first time and an odd light refocused his eyes. “Miss MacGregor,” he said, dipping his head. “I hope you are well.”

  I faced my sister and watched as her cheeks became infused with color. She responded by dipping her head and staring at her feet.

  I knelt on the ground by Jemma and smiled at her, trying not to look at the ruined eye. “I am Miss Pamela,” I said. “And you are coming to live with us.”

  The little girl seemed to melt inside herself. Hesitantly, she took a step toward me, and I placed a firm hand on her bony shoulder. She trembled beneath my palm, and I felt an odd kinship with her. My own mother had died in childbed when I was nine years old. Of all the losses in life, there is no equal to that of a girl losing her mother before she has learned how to be a woman.

  I turned to Geoffrey. “Before we go to my father’s house, let us take Jemma home. Leda can feed her and give her a pallet next to hers in the kitchen house. I think they will find some comfort in each other.” I thought of the very short and very stout dark-skinned Leda, who had cared for Geoffrey since he was an infant. She was a childless widow of undetermined years, still mourning the loss of her husband, who had died more than three years before.

  Geoffrey lifted Jemma into the back of the wagon before assisting me up onto the front seat and taking his place beside me. As we pulled away into the road, I turned my head to see Nathaniel take a step toward my sister. Georgina looked, then fled in the direction of our father, who was emerging from the churchyard.

  Facing the road, I said, “I know you do not like Nathaniel, but he would make a good provider for Georgina. I wonder why she does not allow Nathaniel to court her.”

  Geoffrey did not answer at first. Eventually he said, “Leave her to make her own choices, although I am afraid she already has.” He held the reins in one hand and gripped mine with his other. “You have a faithful heart, Pamela, which is why I love you so. I will not abide a feckless love; it wounds the soul.” His gloved fingers entwined with mine, and I marveled at the large solidness of them, at how they were strong enough to work the fields yet gentle enough to cradle a baby.

  He squeezed my fingers almost too tightly. “Do you understand?”

  I rested my head on his shoulder, forgetting our sorrow for a single moment. “Yes, Geoffrey. You know I do. I could never be unfaithful to you.”

  Forever. My fingers touched the gold band on my left hand, and for the first time in a long while I wondered about the original owner of the ring, and whether its loss meant that forever had become a finite thing.

  “Good,” he said without looking at me.

  He returned both hands to the reins as I continued to watch him, wanting to ask him how he knew these things about Georgina, and knowing, too, that I could not.

  Ava

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  APRIL 2011

  After glancing one more time at the map Matthew had drawn for me, I folded it and slid it into the back pocket of my shorts. It had been a while since I’d ridden a bike, but I’d always been told that once you learned how, you never forgot. During my first wobbly attempts to move forward on the une
ven ground, I was about to disagree. It was Matthew’s bike and too large for me, but he’d been happy to move the seat to its lowest position to make it easier, and assured me that we would go buy me my own bike soon. I pushed off with one foot and lifted the other to the pedal and found myself miraculously upright and somewhat balanced. I moved forward, a breeze of tangy saltiness kissing my face, and I smiled at no one at all.

  My job interview the day before—obtained by a recommendation from my previous employer—had gone well, and I was in a good mood. Matthew had even offered to drive me across the causeway to Brunswick for the interview, but I’d wanted to do it by myself. So instead he’d taught me a few breathing exercises to calm down if I started to feel rising panic as I crossed the bridge, and after three practice runs with him in the passenger seat, I’d felt confident enough to do it myself.

  I slowed the bike as I approached Frederica Road, remembering from the map to turn right to head toward the village. I’d been to the small downtown area filled with tiny shops and restaurants when Matthew and I had had dinner after my kitchen disaster, but I’d yet to really see my new home. Matthew had promised to show me around over the weekend, but I didn’t want to wait. I felt compelled to see everything through my own eyes instead of his, to interpret the sights without his memories attached to them. And I wanted to see the ocean.

  A cold bolt of fear iced through me at the thought, and the bike swerved onto the narrow two-lane road. A horn beeped from behind as I hugged the side of the road again, keeping focused on the pavement in front of me as the car passed.

  It didn’t take long for a sheen of perspiration to coat my face and make my T-shirt stick to my back. The smell of the marsh consumed me, making me less aware of the bike beneath me and the wet blanket of humidity that kept the warm air close to my skin. The familiarity of it came at me in a rush of memory even before my current consciousness recognized the source of the sulfur-scented air.

  I slowed my pace as I began to notice again the canopies of live oak trees, with their curled arms holding up the moss like a woman displaying her jewelry. In places the street appeared to be inside a tunnel, the moss and trees giving the illusion of traveling through time in shadows and light.