The Cottage at Glass Beach

by Heather Barbieri

Ella cradled the kite in her arms. She cast a baleful eye on the basket. “We’re not having fish for dinner again, are we? They smell. I won’t eat them.”

  “All the more for the rest of us then,” Nora said.

  “All we ever eat is fish. Fish, fish, fish.”

  “Ella Grace Cunningham.”

  “How about if you help me gather some mussels?” Owen asked Annie.

  “You already have them,” Annie said.

  “I meant shellfish.” He smiled. “Your cove has the best, if your mother doesn’t mind sharing.”

  “Not at all,” Nora said.

  Annie took off at a run, Owen close behind. Nora wished she could have accompanied them, but she had Ella to deal with.

  Ella shook her head at Annie’s retreating back. “You should.”

  “Should what?”

  “Mind.”

  “It’s none of your business what I do, young lady.”

  “Because you’re older and wiser? Are you really? Because sometimes you don’t seem that wise to me.”

  Tears came to Nora’s eyes. “We’re doing the best we can. Me. Your dad.” She’d give him that, even if she didn’t always believe it, for Ella’s sake.

  “I thought you hated him. You hate him, don’t you? Just say it. Say it!” She threw down the kite and stomped on it.

  Nora pulled her to her chest. That bird-thin body thrashing in her arms, as the kite had done, caught in the tree.

  “Let me go!” Ella cried. Her elbow hit Nora in the cheekbone.

  She felt a sharp pain. “Go ahead,” Nora said softly. “Let it out.”

  They fell into the grass and lay there, unmoving, hearts beating fast. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Nora thought Ella would let herself be held, that they could cry together at last.

  But it wasn’t to be, not that day. Ella scrambled to her feet and ran.

  “El!”

  She didn’t stop, heels pounding, feet flying, away, away.

  Nora cast one last glance in the direction her daughter had gone, into the copse. Much as she wanted to, she would not follow. She would let her come home when she was ready.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maire caught the end of the drama. She’d been heading over to pay a visit when she heard the raised voices. She’d often wondered how it would have been to have daughters of her own. While she would have liked to think her relationship with Jamie had been perfect—grief did that sometimes, allowing people to view their relatives as angels on earth, when nothing could have been further from the truth—she had to admit it hadn’t been. There had been struggles. The drugs. The lost jobs. And her too, compounding the problems, not forcing the issue early, when they could have gotten him into treatment. That was why he’d been living at home, rather than on his own, as he should have been at that age. Working for his father, because he was the only person who would hire him.

  They’d fought that night, the last time she’d seen him before he and Joe shipped out. The beginning of lobster season.

  “It was only beer,” Jamie had said.

  “That’s all it takes.”

  “I know what I’m doing. It’s my life.”

  “Is it? Is that why you’re still here?”

  “Do you want me gone?”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  She didn’t shout. She rarely shouted. She didn’t like confrontation, kept everything in. Maybe that was why she’d had headaches, terrible ones, bits of light all around her like falling stars, ever since she was a girl.

  That gray morning when her boys pulled away from the dock, Jamie had his shoulders hunched against her, his resentment palpable, she and Joe exchanging well-practiced looks of blame. Yes, blame, because she’d expected too much, and he too little.

  She’d never told anyone this. She’d pretended everything was fine. What good would it have done to say otherwise? She said Joe needed the assistance. That he shouldn’t go out on his own, not at his age, with his heart. Which was true. But it was more complicated than that, as things often were. Jamie the helpful son, yes, but needy too.

  How might her life have been different, if she had been different? Another man. Another fate. Another child. Another chance.

  No one knew this about her. She concealed it beneath a placid face, seemingly content, accepting. The face that reassured expectant mothers, helped bring babies into the world. The face that encouraged her niece. That deceived. Oh, yes, she had deceived too.

  She hadn’t told Nora everything. Hadn’t told her about the last time she’d seen Maeve. Maire had come to the door of the cabin. Maeve was in a state that day, her hair a sooty cloud, her eyes wild.

  “What’s wrong? Were you fighting?” Maire asked. The arguments between Maeve and Patrick had been escalating lately. Patrick had a job offer in Boston. He hadn’t sought it, but Maeve thought he had, going behind her back. Sometimes Maire and her parents could hear them at Cliff House, exchanging glances over the dinner table, saying nothing, her mother getting up to close the sash.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Maire’s heart pounded. There was a part of her that did, that wondered what it would take for Patrick to leave her sister. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, coming over here all the time—”

  “You’re my sister. I just want to help.”

  “Do you. Do you really? Or are you looking for spoils?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. It’s obvious to everyone.”

  “What is?”

  “That you want him. That you always have.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I’m tired of you mooning after him. He’s my husband. Mine!” Maeve gave her a shove.

  Maire pushed her back. “If he’s yours, what are you so worried about?”

  “I’m not worried. You’re no competition to me. You never have been. I’m just sick of dealing with your envy. Find yourself your own man, why don’t you? Oh, that’s right. You can’t.”

  “Damn you, Maeve. Damn you to hell.”

  Young Nora in the background, crying at the sound of the raised voices.

  Maire turned and fled. She’d done it. She’d cursed her only sister. She wasn’t sorry for it, not then, not until Maeve disappeared, and Maire realized the power words could have.

  The present. She was in the present. The here and now, though it too had changed. A gull landed in the center of the road. It stared at Maire with a beady eye, a snap of the beak, then away it flew in a frenzied blur of white, bleeding into the clouds. White flashes, everywhere, exploding over the house, the trees.

  What’s wrong with my eyes?

  She couldn’t see—

  A searing pain in her head.

  The meadow tilted. The trees growing out of the sky, their roots in the clouds, dirt raining down, burying her. The smell of earth, filling her lungs. She couldn’t move. She could only watch the world spin, grass blades whirring, clouds tearing apart along fraying seams.

  “Nora!” she cried, as she had, all those years ago, searching, searching.

  Now she was the one who needed to be found.

  Footsteps? Blood rushing. A tide—

  “Aunt Maire. Maire, can you hear me?”

  Nora’s face, above her, looking down. Her mouth a gash. Skin white. Everything white—

  “My head hurts. I can’t seem to . . .” she murmured. She couldn’t move. Why couldn’t she move? Frozen. The white—

  “I’ll get help—”

  “Hold my hand. Hold—” As Maire had said to the women giving birth. As she had said to Maeve when she was about to deliver.

  This daughter. Nora. Nora must be the one to break the pattern, to restore what was lost. If only there had been more time . . .

  “Maire.”

  A roar in her ears. The sea. Her blood. One and the same.

  Beginnings and endings. How simple it was. Clear as water, cuppe
d in the hand.

  Polly screeched into the driveway at the sound of the shouting, the van heaving, mail spilling across the seat. Nora saw her out of the corner of her eye as she ran into the house to call for help, the girls with her, sobbing. Owen in the grass, holding Maire’s hand. It’s going to be all right. But it wasn’t, it wasn’t.

  The doctor? Out fishing that day. Maire, his backup. Maire, who could fix anything, anyone, but herself. By the time the helicopter arrived from the mainland, she was gone. How could she be there one moment, seemingly fine? How could she? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

  The days passed in a haze of disbelief. Nora could barely concentrate, but arrangements had to be made. The director of the small funeral home, Mr. Dunn of Dunn & Sons, did his best to be helpful, leading her through the process. She’d been through this before with her father, the dizzying array of choices in stone, lettering, sentiments, style. This time, there wasn’t as much to do. Maire had everything in place, as if she knew what was coming, a space ready next to her husband, Joe, the island granite awaiting the inscription on its right side: “Maire Katherine Flaherty. September 30, 1951–August 15, 2012.” Polly took time off work, watching the girls while Nora did what needed to be done. Thankfully, she wasn’t gone long. She didn’t like to leave them, particularly now, but she thought it best not to bring them along. She could hardly focus on the road as she drove back to the cottage after the appointment. Her head ached behind her eyes with the pressure of unshed tears. They came upon her suddenly, in the shower, especially, the grief welling up in racking sobs.

  “I don’t understand it,” Polly said quietly when Nora returned to the cottage, the girls on the deck, dangling pieces of string for the cats to play with. “She did all the right things. She never even dyed her hair or used nail polish or wore makeup. She ate organic from the very beginning. She exercised. She had friends. She went to church. Everything a person is supposed to do to stay healthy and live a full life.”

  Nora squeezed her hand. They’d been over this before. They couldn’t stop talking about it, couldn’t believe it had happened. “How are they doing?” She gestured toward the girls.

  “Well enough. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. It hasn’t for any of us, has it? I opened up the windows of Maire’s bedroom, to let her soul go free. I hope that’s all right. It’s an island custom. I’ll close them again before I go, so the damp doesn’t get in during the night.”

  Nora nodded.

  Polly gave her a hug. “We’ll get through this. We’ll get through it together.”

  Owen tapped at the living room window after the girls had gone to bed. Nora had waited up in front of the dying fire, unable to sleep, hoping he’d come. She brought blankets out to the deck and they sat there together, under the stars. The night was clear and still. It was hardly ever still like that. It was as if everything were suspended, as if the very universe had paused to mourn, only the sound of the waves breaking the silence.

  “I was just getting to know her,” Nora said. “I meant to go over there that morning. I should have. I shouldn’t have waited. Maybe I could have gotten help sooner if I had—”

  “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

  “I wish I’d told her how I felt. She was like a second mother to me. I never said— I was so caught up in my own problems.”

  “There was no way you could have sensed what was going on. She never said anything about her symptoms, other than the dizzy spells, and only then, because they were noticeable to the rest of us. She lived more for others than herself. That was how she was.”

  “Do you think she knew something was wrong?”

  He sighed. “Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

  “There were all those notes on the refrigerator. Reminders everywhere. I thought she was being ultra-organized, but—”

  “None of that matters anymore, Nora. All I know is that she was happy having you here. She told me these were some of the best days of her life. That’s what we should try to focus on, not the things that can’t be changed.” Words to comfort them both. She knew he missed her too.

  Would he leave, now that Maire was gone? She rested her head against his shoulder. She couldn’t bear any additional losses, not now. “Life is fragile, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  She stayed with him until the night grew colder and the present reasserted itself, until it was time to go inside, alone, closing the door softly behind her.

  Ella woke up screaming.

  Nora jerked awake. She’d dozed off, the bedside lamp still burning, her book splayed open beside her where she’d left off reading. She threw back the covers and hurried into the room to find Ella cowering under the bedcovers, nearly hysterical, Annie awake too, but calm.

  “I saw her.” Ella pointed to the window, the curtain rippling in the breeze, a hole in the fabric letting in the night.

  “Saw who, honey?” Nora put her arms around her. Ella couldn’t seem to stop trembling. Nora had never seen her like this before.

  “Aunt Maire. I heard Mrs. Clennon say she’d left the windows open at Cliff House so that she could get out, and she got out, didn’t she? She’s there, like the other ghosts, trying to get in.”

  “She was making sure we’re all right,” Annie said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  “You didn’t see her. She was gone by the time you woke up.”

  “Maybe you weren’t really awake. Maybe you were having a bad dream. Aunt Maire would never hurt us, ghost or not.”

  “You didn’t see. Your eyes were closed.”

  “How do you know? It was dark. The only reason you could see Aunt Maire was because her skin was so white.”

  Ella shuddered. “Stop saying things like that.”

  “Well, it was,” Annie insisted. “That’s what happens when you’re dead, doesn’t it? Being dead isn’t the end. It’s another beginning.”

  “That’s enough, sweetie,” Nora told her.

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Well, you’re not, are you?” Ella glared at her. “You’re making it worse.” She turned to Nora. “Can I sleep with you tonight, Mom?”

  “Me too,” Annie chimed in.

  “Of course you can.” Nora brought them into her room, an arm around each slender shoulder.

  “She was there,” Ella murmured, still shaky. “Why was she there?”

  Nora kissed the top of her head. “Sometimes dreams can seem real.” Her own certainly did.

  “I told you. It wasn’t a dream.”

  Nora searched for the right thing to say. “We all have a life force in us, don’t we?” she said finally. “Maybe that energy radiates outward after we die, touching those we love.”

  “Aunt Maire loved us?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much.”

  In the days to come, they would see Maire in the jay perched on the post, in the bees gathering nectar from the wildflowers, heads bowed in the wind, as if in grief. They would see her everywhere.

  “I don’t want you to die, Mama.” Annie nestled closer, the bedding in drifts around them.

  “I’m right here,” Nora said. She couldn’t promise more than that. “I’m right here.”

  The day of the funeral arrived, clear and blue. The little church was filled with people wearing Maire’s favorite color. It had been Annie’s idea. “She wouldn’t want everyone wearing black, would she?” Annie said. “Black is a sad color.”

  “Black isn’t a color,” Ella said. “It’s the absence of light.”

  “Yes, blue,” Nora said. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

  And so they wore it, every shade, like the flowers, the sea, the sky. Blue as far as the eye could see, surrounding them. Blue on which Maire could sail into the great beyond, into whatever came next.

  Nora and the girls sat in the front pew, Polly alongside, Owen standing at the back, near the
entrance. Reilly Neale was there, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, Polly’s father, Gerry, beside him. A Scanlon or two in attendance. Alison, of course. Maggie there too, her eyes fierce. You, she mouthed the word, or so Nora thought. She couldn’t be sure. She turned away, her heart beating fast. She couldn’t take another confrontation, not this day, of all days. She hoped Alison’s father would take Maggie home directly after the service. Alison had said he would.

  Nora kept her gaze toward the front of the church, the smell of incense heavy in the air. The sad-eyed saints—she supposed that could have been the name of a band or a team, and tears came to her eyes, because it was the sort of thought she might have shared with Maire—bearing witness to another passing. Father Ray saying the mass. Such a lovely voice he had, singing Maire to heaven, or wherever it was she had gone. Out there.

  They took communion. They blessed themselves. Each other. Maire. Her spirit. Remembered all that was good in her.

  Polly got up to speak. Polly, who knew Maire best.

  “How do you talk about your dearest friend? How do you talk about someone who has been there through everything? Who has known you best in the world? Who loves you, no matter what?”

  Her voice shook, then she composed herself.

  “There are so many stories I could tell. Yes, Da, I see you smiling over there. You knew the trouble we could get into. But I’ll keep it simple. I’ll start at the very beginning, when we first saw each other. I was five years old, Maire six. So long ago. And yet in some ways, it seems like yesterday. Time is like that, isn’t it? The best friendships too. Maire is one of my first memories. I use the present tense, because memory is something that never leaves us. Memories are something we can hold on to, when other things are gone.

  “I first met her at dance class. I couldn’t get one of the steps. The teacher gave up on me in frustration. Can’t say I blamed her. I’ve never been known for my grace. I started to cry. Some of the girls jeered at me. But Maire told them to stop and took my hand. ‘Don’t listen to them,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you what to do.’ She stayed after class and worked with me the rest of the afternoon until I got it right.

  “Family and friends were everything to her. This island, the sea, were everything to her. She brought out the best in us, didn’t she? Our babies, our very selves . . .”