Sea Change

by Karen White

  I sat on the ground in the cemetery, stunned and breathing heavily. I wasn’t sure what I’d just experienced. They were clearly memories of something long-buried and forgotten, something traumatic and life-changing. The only thing I was sure of was that they weren’t memories from somebody else’s life. They were memories from my own.

  The sound of nearby voices quickly brought me back to the present, and I scrambled to my feet as a small group of people with cameras around their necks sauntered past. Still disoriented, I stayed where I was, my gaze focused on the passionflower vine, wondering why it was there. I had no recollection of telling Jimmy that it was my favorite flower, or that I loved them because they attracted butterflies.

  Who was that girl hiding in a closet? And whose hands were those that lifted her to safety? Just like the images of Pamela and Georgina, the people and events were real: a movie played on the canvas of my subconscious. When I was under hypnosis, Matthew had brought me to a door marked SECRETS, and told me to open it, and I had. And then I’d stepped through it. I remembered, too, the unseen presence that had been there with me, pushing me forward, and I wondered whether she belonged in the room of secrets, too. It was as if I’d been suddenly thrown into a world of stunning brightness that illuminated everything, including things I didn’t want to see.

  I needed to go back to that place, to that secret room, so I could try to retrace my steps and close the door behind me. I did not want to see into the dark corners, where things like fire and grief waited to be touched with light.

  With shaking hands, I reached for my phone and hit Matthew’s speed dial. Despite everything, his was the sole voice I wanted to hear. And he was the only one who could take me back to the place where all of this had begun. The call rolled over to voice mail, and I hung up without leaving a message. The sound of his recorded voice had brought every emotion to the surface, and I didn’t trust my voice. He’d see that I’d called and call me back, and I felt some comfort, as if I’d just made the first step of a long journey.

  I waited a few minutes, until I was sure I was steady enough to make it across the street; then I got on my bike and pedaled home as quickly as I could, eager to erase the past and all the secrets that weren’t meant to be shared.

  My mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway when I returned home, and I felt only relief. I still wasn’t ready to speak to anybody about what I’d seen and felt, and wasn’t even sure whether I ever would be. I started chewing on my fingernails, a nervous habit I’d temporarily lost while in nursing school, when I’d finally realized that there were bigger worries out there in the world and that I could do something about them that was more productive than chewing my nails to the quick.

  My hand fell to my abdomen as I thought about stress and its effect on unborn children. I stopped inside the front hall of the old house, listening to the antique grandfather clock that never told the right time, and realized that what I was feeling wasn’t stress. It was the pervasive sense of anticipation, like waiting for a jack-in-the-box to spring.

  I attempted to block those thoughts, remembering instead the period of time before I’d hurt my ankle and opened Pandora’s box. The ghosts of the old house pressed against me as I moved to the stairway, touching again the old newel post, recalling how I’d known how it would feel under my palm before I’d even touched it. I looked behind me at Adrienne’s painting of the house hanging between the windows in the front parlor, not understanding why it had looked so wrong to me until I’d seen Adrienne’s sketch that showed the house the way I remembered it, as if it existed in my memory. Like she’d seen the house before, too.

  It was as if the spirits of those who’d lived in this house before were chiding me for closing my eyes, for leaving them in unknown graves, their stories buried with them, the truth hidden between the covers of history books and in the memories of people long since dead.

  I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, and was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of ashes. But the hearth was bare, as no wood had touched this fireplace since Matthew had done the renovations and replaced the wood-burning fireplace with a gas log. It looked wrong to me, and would be restored to the way it had been if I had anything to say about it.

  I turned on the shower and stripped out of my sweaty clothes and stepped under the stream of water. Closing my eyes, I let the water run through my hair and along my skin, giving me a few moments of mental serenity that I desperately lacked. After a few deep and cleansing breaths, I reached for the soap, my gold wedding band catching the light. I froze. The steam rose in clouds around me, the water growing warmer as it sluiced down my body, but all I could feel was a cold winter’s day and a warning to hide my valuables in a secret place.

  “Go away,” I said out loud, as if Nathaniel’s voice had been real, as if Pamela’s trek out to the kitchen house to hide her wedding ring had been real. But what if they were? I tried to push away the unwelcome thoughts and focus on relaxing under the stream of water. But my body refused to cooperate, the feeling of sick anticipation returning, as if I couldn’t stop myself from winding the jack-in-the-box. But what if they were? There was only one way to know for sure.

  I dropped the soap and shut off the water, barely pausing long enough to dry off with a towel and throw on fresh clothes and grab my phone before rushing out of the house to the potting shed. The door banged against the wall, stirring up dust motes along with the ghosts, and I didn’t pause to close it before making my way up the narrow stairs. My pregnancy and fear for my safety were the only things that kept me from taking the steps two at a time.

  Gingerly, I made my way across the darkened room with the slanted ceilings, the only light that from the stairway, then knelt in front of the fireplace. My hands knew where to go, knew which stone would not be secured by mortar to its neighboring stones. In the dim light it would have been hard to tell without testing each stone, but I didn’t need to see.

  I worked the stone back and forth a few times until it came loose in my hands, revealing a black hole. How did I know this was here? I stared at the hole like a Gypsy staring into a crystal ball, except instead of seeing the future, I was about to glimpse a part of the past.

  Still, I hesitated. I was deathly afraid of spiders, most likely because I’d grown up with brothers who enjoyed putting them on me. Leaning closer to the opening, I blew hard, hoping to scatter any webs and their occupants. Then, before I could think any more, I thrust my hand inside, my fingers immediately coming into contact with what felt like a small book with a soft cover, and carefully pulled it out.

  I blinked at it in the dimness, as if that would somehow enable me to see in the dark. I’d expected to find the two oil miniatures Pamela had placed in the hiding place along with her ring. But her ring had already been found. Matthew’s mother had worn it, and so had Adrienne, and I had held it in my hand. Whoever had pulled out the ring must have discovered the miniatures, too. But I had to know for sure.

  Clutching the book in one hand, I reached in with my other and spread my fingers wide, moving them back and forth. I wished for my mother and her large hands that would be sure to feel all the corners of the space and pluck out anything that might be hidden there. Disappointed, I pulled my hand back, my fingers having grabbed only air.

  Holding my prize gently, I moved to the stairs and quickly descended, eager to examine what I’d found. When I’d reached the bottom step, I held up the book, my mouth opening in surprise. Although, I supposed, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

  I brushed loose dirt off of my potting table, then pulled up the tall stool and sat down. The book was made of soft leather, worn smooth from heavy use. I knew whose it was even before I saw the AMF imprinted in gold in the bottom right corner.

  Adrienne had known about the hiding place. But how? If Matthew hadn’t shown it to her, then how would she have known it was there? From looking at the fireplace, it had been impossible to tell that one of the stones was concealing a compartment behind it.
Unless Adrienne had learned about its existence the same way I had.

  I took a deep breath, then opened the cover to find a spiral-bound calendar insert. Daily Planner, 2007. The year Adrienne had died. The planner that had been missing ever since, and important enough to Adrienne for her to hide it. With a calmness I hadn’t known I possessed, I began turning the pages.

  It had clearly been used as a datebook, with appointments and reminders jotted in their time slots, along with memos to pick up dry cleaning, and her work schedule as well as Matthew’s. But she’d also used it as a doodle pad, although her doodles were a lot more sophisticated than any others I’d seen.

  There were half-drawn faces of people, sketches of shorebirds and insects, of the lighthouse and a close-up of an azalea. I could almost see Adrienne waiting in line at the grocery store or the bank and starting to draw in her datebook. It made sense to me that her parents would want it. But not why Adrienne would have hidden it.

  I continued to flip through the pages, noticing how around the middle of March her sketches changed. These were all of children and babies, some full-bodied, others just of their faces. I recalled the faceless baby sketches in her studio, the ones Matthew had given away, the ones that made me think of the epitaph on her tombstone. Mother of unborn children.

  As I glanced through her appointments, a name jumped out at me. Dr. Bill Walker. The first one had been on April thirteenth, and then another appointment the following week. His name appeared more and more frequently, with several of them with a restaurant name listed alongside the entry. I remembered John telling me that Matthew had thought Adrienne was having an affair with a doctor in their practice. That would be reason enough for Adrienne to want to keep her datebook hidden.

  The entries tapered off around July, as if nothing were going on in her life. But there had been. She and Matthew had been preparing to sail in a regatta the following spring, and she’d taken the print of the house in to be framed, along with the three other prints to be stuck inside, hidden. She’d had two hypnotherapy sessions with Matthew, because she was trying to stop smoking. And she had met her brother for lunch at least once, to give him the wedding ring that she said didn’t belong to her. She had died at the end of August, but according to her calendar, her life had ended sometime in July.

  I flipped a few pages back and saw two more entries for Dr. Walker. I knew he was an ob-gyn and had consulted on several cases in my own practice, but that was all. I pulled out my cell phone and called my coworker Diane Wise, who’d stepped into the role of my mentor and had become a good friend in the short time I’d been with the practice. She’d also lived and worked in the medical field in Brunswick for more than twenty years, and knew pretty much everybody. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Diane, it’s Ava. Do you have a minute for a quick question?”

  “For you, always.” Her chipper and no-nonsense voice was like a mental massage, kneading out all of the tension and confusion that had been bombarding me since my visit to the cemetery.

  “What do you know about Dr. Bill Walker? I know he’s an ob-gyn, but that’s about it. Is he married?”

  “Very. What an odd question, and now you’ve got me curious as to why you want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you later—promise. Do you know whether he’s happily married?”

  “Yes, but I will tell you that his spouse is another man. Is that what this is about?”

  I was too stunned to say anything for a moment. “No…no, not at all. I’m just…Well. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” I bit my lip, trying to think of another question that might salvage the conversation and perhaps get me the information I needed. “Would you know whether he’s in charge of human resources at his practice, or anything to do with personnel?”

  Diane laughed. “Like he would have the time. I wouldn’t think so—he’s a specialist in high-risk pregnancies, especially the ones with genetic implications. Pregnant women from all over the world come to see him. I’ve sent him a few patients of my own, actually.”

  Mother of unborn children. The pages in front of me seemed to blur and refocus.

  “Ava—you there?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, thanks, Diane. You’ve been a big help.” I ended the call, feeling as if I were playing with one of those puzzles where you had to pull out all the pegs so that only one remained. Except I was still left with more pegs than holes.

  My phone buzzed and I saw it was Matthew, calling me back. I waited for it to stop before picking it up and clicking on the messages icon to start my text. I’m not ready to talk right now. I’ll call u later. I clicked the send button and stared at my screen for a moment before picking up the phone again and texting, P.S. I love you.

  I waited a moment until he texted back. I love you, too. Please let me come home.

  I stared down at Adrienne’s datebook, and the two entries in the same week of June for appointments with Dr. Walker, and added another peg to my already overcrowded game board. Not yet, I texted back.

  “Ava?”

  I looked up to see my mother peering through the door. “I saw your wet towel on the bedroom floor, so I knew you couldn’t be too far.”

  I stood, holding the datebook against my leg so it wasn’t noticeable. I wasn’t ready yet to share what I’d found. “I didn’t hear your car pull up or I would have come in. Did you need something?”

  “Just you.” Her smile was hesitant. “We finished the nursery and we’re ready.”

  There was something in her voice, something that made me pause and study the face I thought I’d memorized by now. But the expression she wore was new to me, her eyes showing a hesitation I’d seen before. Gloria Whalen had always been a woman who made up her mind and stuck with it, and never thought twice about her decisions. She’d once told me that making a decision—regardless of whether it was right or wrong—was always better than not making any at all.

  She surprised me by holding out her hand, and I surprised myself by taking it. I don’t think I’d held hands with my mother since I was very little. As she led me from the potting shed toward the house, I noticed a small white trellis lying on the ground, as if somebody had placed it there in preparation for planting it to grow a vine.

  My mother let go of my hand to open the back door, and I stopped, my gaze still on the prone trellis, trying to remember where I’d seen one recently. The cemetery. It had been placed between two graves, and I recalled wondering how it had gotten there, and whether I’d told Jimmy that it was my favorite flower because it attracted butterflies.

  I took a step toward it, away from my mother, who was waiting by the back door, but it was as if I were transported again to that dark closet, and I could hear the crying and the shouting, feel the sense of being alone, could smell the heavy scent of ashes.

  “Ava? Are you coming?”

  I nodded, still feeling as if I were in a trance, and followed her into the house and up the stairs. I was vaguely aware of my mother pushing open the nursery room door and me stepping inside a fairy tale of a child’s dream, created with love by two women who loved unseen the baby growing inside me.

  The smell of ashes was still strong, my internal fight to ignore it making me light-headed as I stood inside the soft green of the room. Light white curtains with tiny hand-stitched passionflowers fluttered on the windows, while a ceramic carousel of plump, sleepy circus animals danced on a mobile over the white-painted crib. The rocking horse from the attic, freshly painted in pastel colors, was stashed in the corner by the window, exactly as I remembered it. But how?

  I spun around the room several times, trying to take it all in, and knowing that no thanks could ever be adequate.

  “Do you like it?” Mimi asked.

  Speechless, I nodded, noticing the hand-stenciled egrets and herons that soared around the perimeter of the room beneath the cornices as if watching over their own young. And a painted passionflower vine that grew up the wall in the corner of the room, bright oran
ge butterflies hovering over the purple blooms. “It’s beautiful,” I said, still turning slowly, before stopping in front of the crib, noticing for the first time the three framed portraits lined up on the wall above it, with space on the end for a fourth.

  The room stilled as I leaned forward to examine them, wondering whether the intake of breath from behind me had been my imagination. Everything about each subject was the same: the pink dress, the black patent-leather Mary Janes, the lace-edged ankle socks. Even the small pink bow barrettes in our hair were almost identical. But that was where the similarities ended.

  “I didn’t know your hair was brown, Mimi,” I said, my voice sounding very small. “I’ve only ever known you as a blonde.”

  In the portraits, Mimi and my mother both had dark, almost black hair, and eyes the color of storm clouds. My hair was blond, almost white, and my eyes a deep and dark brown. My entire family, my mother and father, my brothers, even most of my nieces and nephews, shared the same coloring, except for me. Maybe because I’d been the only girl and was supposed to look different from them, I’d never thought to question it.

  My gaze drifted back to the painted vine on the wall, and I thought of the vine and trellis and the cemetery, suddenly certain that I had never told Jimmy about my favorite flower, and yet still I wondered why it was there and who had planted it.

  I looked back at the three portraits and gripped the crib railing, finally seeing, really seeing what I was sure they had wanted me to see. I had never seen the portraits all together before, and after looking at them now, I finally understood why.

  I stood motionless for a long time, my body shaking uncontrollably as I pictured Jimmy with a nose that zigzagged down his face, and how he spoke to his sister’s graves as if he expected them to come back. And I thought of my own inexplicable bone breaks, sustained when I was very young. Mostly I thought of all the years my mother had kept me separate from her, naming me her daughter in every place except her heart.