Sea Change

by Karen White

  Turning the corner, I was surprised to find only Georgina and Robbie sitting in the shade of an oak tree. Robbie sat in front of Georgina with his back to her as she brushed his dark curls and sang to him.

  Robbie saw me and broke away, stepping on Georgina’s skirt and making her frown. “Mama, Mama!” he called as he propelled his body into mine, almost knocking me over in my weakened state.

  “Darling,” I said, as I squatted down to face him, his nearness somewhat restoring me. “You should have come to wake me up so that we could have breakfast together with Papa, as we always do.”

  He twirled a piece of my hair that had caught the sunlight. “Aunt Georgie said no. She said it was better to let you sleep. So we had breakfast with Papa instead.”

  I looked up as Georgina strolled toward me, the ties of her bonnet limp in the humidity. “I thought you could use your sleep. You work too hard, sister. Your body is telling you to rest.”

  I held my son in my arms and watched my sister approach. She had removed the pins from her hair so that it lay in thick waves around her shoulders. Stopping in front of me, she said, “I actually thought you would still be sleeping, so I asked Leda to prepare food for only Robbie, Geoffrey, and me. I’m sure I could ask her to make more.”

  The smell of fatback and beans wafted from the kitchen, but I did not hear the accompanying sounds of women talking or utensils banging against pots. “Where are Leda and Jemma?” I asked.

  “I told them to take the laundry to the creek.”

  My eyebrows puckered. “But laundry day is Monday. There is no reason for them to do it again so soon. I had other chores scheduled for them today.”

  She flicked her hand in the air as if brushing aside a pesky fly. “Yes, but I thought their time would be better spent doing laundry twice a week instead of just once. I do not like to wear a dirty shift, and I would prefer not to wait an entire week before wearing a favorite again.”

  My head swam, and I wondered whether I should move from the sun regardless of how cold I felt. “Georgina, this is my household and I will run it as I see fit. I cannot have you interfering. It diminishes my authority and lessens the efficiency of everyone who lives and works here. Work should not and cannot be determined by your need to wear a favorite shift.”

  My stomach churned and I needed to retch, but I would not in front of Georgina. I had the distinct impression that she would enjoy seeing me in such a state.

  She raised an eyebrow in the way I had seen her practice for years in the mirror to make her look haughtier. But all I could still see was a little girl who looked and acted too much like the mother whose death had seemed a personal affront to her.

  “You were indisposed, and I did what I thought necessary.”

  I forced myself to stand, my hand clutching my son’s small shoulder, grateful for any support. “I am not so indisposed that I cannot run my household. Please consult with me if you have any further ideas. I promise to listen, but everything does run well here, and I see little that needs changing.”

  Her lips curled, but I knew enough to know it was not a smile. “Yes, Pamela. I will remember.”

  The jangling of a horse harness reached us from the front drive, and we both turned with surprise to see Nathaniel Smith dismounting from the high seat of his carriage.

  Georgina turned back to me. “Since you are feeling so much better, I will leave you to dine with your husband and son while I go take a drive with Nathaniel.”

  She patted Robbie on the head like a person would pet a dog, then walked quickly toward the house, where Nathaniel stood looking in our direction. He raised his hand in a wave, and I waved back, hardly aware of my own actions.

  As soon as the carriage pulled away, I walked around the kitchen house, the smell of cooking food making the bile rise to the back of my throat. I swallowed and then, squeezing Robbie’s hand, led him to the doors of the root cellar by the side of the kitchen house.

  After struggling with the doors to open them, I told Robbie to wait outside for me, then walked down the steps into the cool, dark interior. It smelled of damp earth and growing things, much like I imagined a grave would smell, but the thought had never disturbed me. I had faced much worse things in life than I expected in death. I lit the lamp I kept hanging on the wall and went directly to the shelves where I stored my dried herbs and medicinals.

  Holding the lamp high, I used my fingers more than my eyes to sort through the bottles I kept meticulously organized and labeled. My experience had taught me that ground powders were easily confused by sight. My fingers found the hole where the peppermint should have been, but as my gaze scanned the small jars and bottles, a dark space at the back of the bottom shelf caught my attention. Not needing the lamp this time, I reached in with my hand and felt the empty gap between two jars. The pennyroyal leaves were gone. The jar had been there the last time I looked, before I had become sick, but now it was no longer there. I pulled my head back to allow the lamp to reach the dark spaces. I opened my eyes wider, as if that might somehow allow me to see better, but the dim glint of the lamp found nothing to reflect, just as if I were staring into the eyes of the devil.

  I sat back, dropping the lamp onto the hard-packed earth and bricks of the floor, the light extinguished as if a giant breath had suddenly snuffed it out. The damp green smell of the root cellar pressed against me and I turned to the side and retched, emptying what little remained in my stomach, and irrevocably shifting the tender bond between sisters.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ava

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  JUNE 2011

  I took a sip from the decaf iced coffee Tish had provided for our early-morning cemetery trek. I forced my eyes to remain open, concentrating on the sweet aroma of flowers that clung to the inside of Tish’s car like a favorite memory. Two lavish floral arrangements from Eternal Carnation sat in the back of the wagon for delivery, their graceful stems and blooms waiting patiently under cellophane to be unveiled.

  “So how far along are you?” she asked, peeking over the top of her large sunglasses—remnants from the eighties, I assumed.

  “About six weeks. I’m due February twelfth.” I felt the silly grin lift my lips again.

  “So your baby and Beth’s will be around the same age. We should start scheduling playdates now. With the way kids are raised nowadays, I understand everything is pretty much scheduled way ahead.”

  I absently rubbed my stomach, wondering whether the slight swelling I felt was real or just imagined. I hadn’t had time to ask my mother what kind of pregnancies she’d had, whether she grew big with every child, and whether the size of her feet had changed. “I saw Beth last week when she came for her appointment, and I can’t imagine either of us becoming that kind of parent.”

  Tish shook her head. “No, I don’t think so either. Although it’s sometimes hard to tell what kind of parent we’ll be until we’re holding that baby in our arms, or dealing with a screaming toddler in the grocery store.” Her smile slowly faded. “Or dealing with any of life’s surprises. I think sometimes the best mothers are simply those who make the decision to love their children every day, regardless of what happens. It sounds easy, really, but as an experienced mother, I know how very hard that can be.”

  I took a sip from my cup, trying to imagine the child growing inside me as a separate entity from myself, but couldn’t. When each of my sisters-in-law were pregnant with their first children, my mother and Mimi made little pillows with cross-stitched tops that said something like having a child was like watching your heart exist outside of your body. It was too early for me to understand that, but a part of me already felt the surreality of a new life, the wonder of creating something where nothing had been before, the complete surprise of the unknown. And a small part of me was curious to know what genes would be dominant and easily attributed to a branch of the family tree, and which traits would appear from seemingly nowhere at all.

  Tish slowed as we passed a s
mall subdivision with garage sale signs announcing a neighborhood sale. She pressed her lips together, so I could tell she wanted to stop, but she didn’t say anything.

  “We can go check it out if you like,” I suggested. “It’s still really early, so if we just stay a little while we can still hunt for hidden graves before the sun really heats up.”

  She bit her lower lip as she strained over the steering wheel to see better. “I’m a notorious junker, and I promised Tom that I wouldn’t buy anything else, but I’m like an addict. Besides, I happen to know that a couple who live in here have an antique store in Savannah. When they go to estate sales and have to buy an entire auction lot with good stuff and junk thrown in together, they can’t sell the junk in their store. That’s why they always have great finds when they do these garage sales.”

  “Come on,” I said, feeling like a drug dealer, but wanting the chance to snooze in the car for a little while before I had to start combing through weeds. “I promise I won’t tell Tom.”

  With a knowing look in my direction, Tish flipped on her signal and turned into the subdivision. She found a spot at the curb right in front of a driveway overflowing with boxes and furniture, and lots of primary-colored plastic children’s toys.

  Tish opened her door before turning to me. “I’m sure you’ll be wanting to catch a nap, so I’ll leave the car running and the A/C on. I’ve cracked your window a bit, too, so you’ll have fresh air. But if you change your mind, just don’t forget to take the key out of the ignition before you leave.”

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully before resting my head against the back of the seat and closing my eyes. I must have fallen asleep immediately, because I didn’t even remember Tish closing the door and walking away. Perhaps it was the sound of water trickling in a small fountain in the front yard, or the scent of the salt-drenched air that seeped into the car, but my old dream returned to me, a bruise lying right beneath my skin.

  I knew I was sitting in the car asleep, yet another part of me could taste the salt water as it filled my mouth, feel it sucking me downward as I scrambled to stay afloat. My mind’s eye could see light above me, and I saw my hands reaching upward. I knew they were my hands, because I recognized the raised birthmark on my left hand near the base of my thumb.

  I awakened with a jerk, gasping for air. Forcing myself not to move, I made myself remember the dream, hoping to recall what had been so different this time. I turned my head toward the milling people in the yard, focusing on a little girl who was playing with a small kitchen set and talking on a plastic cell phone as she stirred something in a pot. I sat up straighter, remembering finally what I’d been fighting to grasp, a thought as thin and airy as smoke. In this dream I had been desperate to survive. My dream self did not want to drown, but struggled as if the life I was trying to save was worth living. In all the years I’d been having the same dream, this was the first time I’d understood this, a truth that no longer danced in the periphery of my consciousness but instead sat rooted in the middle of it.

  I felt shaken, and completely unable to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I turned off the ignition, then left the car in search of Tish. I found her on her knees in front of three large boxes brimming over with very old-looking hardbound books. Next to her was a small stack of books, and in her arm she held three more while her other hand continued to rifle through one of the boxes.

  She lowered her sunglasses when she spotted me. “Are you all right? You’re looking really pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “It was just a little too stuffy in the car.” Turning my attention to the box, I asked, “Looking for anything in particular?” I was amused that Tish was a junker, but not all that surprised. Her car was ancient but classic in its quirky rattles and shakes, and certainly still worked. I should have recognized the signs the first time I’d seen the wood paneling on the sides of her wagon.

  “I’ve read so many stories about people finding signed first editions of classic books in attics and yard sales. I keep thinking that could be me.” She held up a tattered linen-bound book and frowned at it before tossing it back in the box.

  “What are those?” I asked, indicating the stack on the ground next to her.

  “Oh, those are just for decoration. You know, to prop up knickknacks to give something more height. I’m always looking for stuff for dressing my front window at the shop.” She paused for a moment to study another book before handing it to me. “Here’s a good one for you. It’s not a first edition and probably not worth anything, but it’s a history of St. Simons written in 1880. You might find some interesting tidbits about the area, not to mention Matthew’s family. You did say you wanted to do more research, right?”

  “Yeah, I do.” I hesitated, then took the book and held it for a moment without looking at it. “John said that Adrienne had a whole briefcase full of notes about the Frazier family history, as well as a calendar she wrote everything in. It wasn’t in her personal effects that were given to her parents after she died, and I can’t find them at the house. I know you were friends, so I was hoping you might, well, have some idea of where they could be.”

  She contemplated me for a moment over the tops of glasses that rested on the middle of her nose. “Ava, I’m not the one you should be talking to about his. Have you asked Matthew?”

  I looked back at the plastic kitchen set, where the mother was trying to pry the play cell phone from her daughter’s small hand. “Not yet. He’s very sensitive when it comes to Adrienne. And everything’s so new between us that I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  Tish stood and took off her sunglasses, her eyes serious. “Love isn’t a buffet where you pick and choose the parts of your life you want to include in your relationship. You married all of Matthew—including his past—when you married him. Tiptoeing around sensitive issues and keeping secrets isn’t good for any relationship.” She looked up and smiled at a woman who paused for a moment at the book bin before moving on, then regarded me again with a somber expression. Lowering her voice, she said, “I hope you haven’t been listening to rumors, Ava.”

  I thought of my lunch with John and the gold wedding band with the word Forever engraved inside. Be careful, Ava. He’s not who you think he is. Instead of answering her question, I asked, “Do you know why Adrienne gave her wedding ring to her brother before she died?”

  Tish looked at me sharply. “I didn’t know that. All I know is that the ring had always been a little tight on her finger, and when she gained some weight, she’d stopped wearing it. I just assumed she was keeping it in her jewelry box or something.”

  “John has it. He said Adrienne gave it to him right before she died.” I paused, wondering how much I should say. “She told him that it didn’t belong to her.”

  Tish shook her head as if trying to jostle the words into an order she could interpret. “What did she mean by that?”

  “I don’t know, and neither does John. I was hoping you might be able to tell me more.”

  Sighing, she dropped the books she’d been holding and put both hands on my shoulders. “Do you love your husband, Ava?”

  I stared at her, not knowing what to say. It wasn’t because I didn’t know the answer, but because I didn’t know how to tell her how Matthew lived under my skin, and I in his, and that’s where I felt like I had finally found where I belonged in this world. Instead, I said, “With all of my heart.”

  “Then prove it. Tell him about the ring and ask him what Adrienne meant.”

  When I hesitated, she prompted, “If you love him, you’ll be able to listen to whatever he says, and then go from there.” Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t doubt his innocence, do you?”

  “Of course not. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s like we’re both afraid we’ll lose each other if we don’t hold something back. He didn’t even tell me about Adrienne until we were married. And I didn’t tell him that I was deathly afraid of water.”

  I looked at her, hoping sh
e knew all the answers. My mama did, but I’d learned over the course of my childhood that just because she knew everything didn’t mean she would share those answers with me. Tish had become like a surrogate mother to me, but without all the filters.

  She dropped her hands from my shoulders and her eyes softened. “You can’t lose something you never had. You’ve got to learn to let go so you’ll know how to hold on.”

  I jutted out my chin, unwilling to take her advice regardless of how right I knew she was. It was hard for me to discuss my feelings openly. I had been raised by a mother who spoke about everything except what really mattered. Except in her garden, where she cultivated the truth like a rare flower, allowing me rare glimpses into her heart.

  “I don’t think Matthew needs to know that I’ve been talking with John about these things right now. He’s having a difficult time at work. One of his patients committed suicide and he’s having to deal with the family’s grief and his own doubts. He doesn’t need this now.”

  Tish gave me a small smile before kneeling back down in front of the book bin, and began sorting through the ones she’d placed on the ground. “I’m not going to tell you what to do, Ava. I think you can figure that out for yourself.”

  We paid for our purchases, then left, my anticipation of the morning dimmed somewhat by our conversation. I stared down at the cover of the book she had given me, the title printed in bold flaking gold print. A Concise and Thorough History of St. Simons Island, Georgia, by Richard Stanley Kobylt. I wondered whether the author had been as pompous as his title.

  I flipped open the cover and began slowly turning the pages, hoping to indicate to Tish that I was ready for a change of subject. From the title page I could tell that the book had been edited and reprinted in the nineteen forties, which was why the binding was old but not as brittle as it might have been if the book were a first edition from 1880. I quickly skimmed a three-page acknowledgment section—which I found odd for a history book—before I paused at the sight of the word “Index” in block letters centered at the top of a page.