A Sea Change

by Annette Reynolds

  God, Maddy, just stop it.

  She put the plastic gelatin mold in the refrigerator and went back to the fireplace. Kneeling, Maddy pushed the poker into the logs. A wave of dry heat fanned her face, and she relished the way it made her cool cheeks seem to constrict. Placing one more log on the fire, she closed the screen and sat back against the couch. Chloe, curled on a small pillow, slitted her eyes open for a second, then went back to her nap.

  Maddy stared at the flames, hoping they’d narcotize the lonely feeling which had stolen over her.

  Was he thinking of her? Did he miss her, too? Would their lives – now that they’d changed because of each other – be better without each other?

  An unexpected tear trickled from her eye, and she blinked it away. Her self-pity only lasted a short moment, and for that Maddy was grateful. Alone had become an okay thing to be, but there was nothing wrong with wanting to share her life. Maddy had finally begun to understand the difference between being lonely, and being alone.

  With a sigh, she stood and began the tedious chore of dressing to go outside once again. Mary Delfino had central heat, but Maddy wanted to check on her anyway. And some human contact, at least for a little while, was probably a good idea right about now.

  She came home two hours later. A feeling of anticipation – of restlessness – had stolen over her as the day had progressed. Maddy turned on the radio and listened for the weather report. They were insisting it was going to snow. But the setting sun still shone in the clear, cold sky, and Maddy went out to the deck to watch its rapid farewell behind the bluffs.

  The Narrows had turned a steely blue. It was like glass. Unheard of.

  Maddy pushed her gloved hands into her pockets, put her face up, and exhaled. Her breath appeared then disappeared into the atmosphere. Smiling, she thought a little snow would be fun and then went back inside to fix dinner.

  *****

  Maddy slowly woke from a dream she didn’t want to end. Nick’s face faded the moment her eyes opened, but the feel of his hand in hers lingered, and she touched her fingers to her cheek to feel the warmth that seemed so real.

  In the darkness of the bedroom, Maddy lay perfectly still and tried to remember what had been going on in her subconscious only seconds before. Nothing came to her except the knowledge that the dream hadn’t been sexual in any way. She knew this because of the calmness of her heart. There was no – always very real – physical ache between her legs from this nighttime encounter with Nick. No painful fullness she needed to ease by herself. It must have been one of her “day in the life” visions, and – in many ways – those were the hardest to take.

  Her eyes adjusted enough to see the clock; only a quarter to six. Too early. But the feeling of anticipation was still with her. She pushed aside the down comforter and walked to the window, the cold air in the bedroom washing over her sleep-warm body. Drawing the curtains, Maddy gasped in delight.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said softly. “For once, they were right.”

  Journal Entry

  November 26

  I’ve just come inside. My fingers still have that not-quite-attached feeling, which is why it looks like an imposter is writing in my journal.

  We’ve had about six inches of snow in the past six hours. There’s no way not to sound trite about this, so I won’t even try. It’s absolutely beautiful out there. The snow is pristine and undisturbed. The path has been used, but if you wait just twenty minutes, evidence of human passage is obliterated. Up on the bluff side I saw animal tracks; probably dogs.

  It’s hard to see across the Narrows because the snow is coming down so thickly, but in the middle of all this pure white, the water is a rippled blue-black.

  I took a walk up to Mary’s without my camera. Wanted to enjoy the silence without thinking about what a great picture this or that would make. Will take photos later. Had a cup of tea with Mary. We didn’t talk much. Just stared out the window, smiling.

  I ran into George Gustafson on the way back. He looked like an ancient Elmer Fudd, with his plaid jacket, round-toed boots, and wool hat with ear flaps. He said this would be the first white Thanksgiving he could remember, and then asked if I was “prepared for the inevitable power-outage.”

  I think I am, even though right now everything seems pretty stable. My little heater is still doing a fine job. I’ve kept the fire stoked for three days now. I’m thankful I went to the store earlier in the week. Power or no, driving would be an impossibility. I could probably get across the parking area, but taking the steep hill in the Volvo is unthinkable.

  (I’ve never understood why the Swedes built a car with rear-wheel drive. What was it? Some kind of macho challenge? “What do you think, Sven? Maybe front-wheel drive would be a good idea, ya?” And a horrified Sven answering, “No way, Ole. Are we not men?”)

  Earlier, I initiated Chloe into the Snow-Cat Club. I don’t think she was impressed with the membership rite. When I dropped her into the snow on the deck she didn’t know what to do first, so she just stood there, paralyzed. Her little legs disappeared in the white stuff, and she looked like a kitty-slug. It didn’t take her long to start doing the hokey-pokey, though. Put one paw up, shake it violently, put it back down, try it with another. She finally eyed me with an “I thought you loved me” look on her face, and shot back into the house.

  It’s letting up a little now. The flakes are getting bigger, but the sky doesn’t seem to be lightening up.

  3 p.m.

  I’ve been on the phone all afternoon. Had a long chat with Karen. Even though the Barons’ season is over, she’s been busy trying to coax season-ticketholders into renewing for another year despite the price hike.

  Then Jaed called, from London. She said Mykonos didn’t feel right in the rain. That if she was going to be in a gloomy, wet, blustery place, it should be somewhere that made a little more sense. Hence, London. I guess Alex didn’t agree with her and stayed behind.

  She mentioned “this gorgeous man” who relentlessly hit on her in the Frankfurt airport until she “finally told him to fuck off in three languages.” Then she kind of sighed, and asked, “Do you think I’m actually in love with Alex?” in a doomed voice. I laughed and said, “It’s not a death sentence, Jaed. It happens to us all.”

  I wanted to ask if she’d talked with Nick, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. And she never volunteered any information. I think she was too wrapped up in missing Alex. It’s just as well.

  Nick’s been on my mind so much today. Wouldn’t it have been fun to take a walk in the snow with him? Have a snowball fight. Kiss under the canopy of a fir tree.

  And then I sit in front of the fireplace and wish him here. I want to make love to him with the fire as our only light and heat. I can feel his body under mine. If I close my eyes and really concentrate, my daydreaming fingers run along his skin and remember every muscle ridge and valley, every vein, and scar.

  I wonder if I’ll ever feel this way about anyone else. I suppose it’s possible, but right now seems improbable.

  I picked up the phone to call Mom, but have had such a hard time talking to her lately. There were times, while Nick was still in my life, I thought about telling Mom I’d found someone to love. I’m glad I didn’t. I know part of that relief is not having to listen to her tell me what I did wrong in our relationship, now that Nick’s gone. And she would’ve, even though she’d never met him; knew nothing about him, or – for that matter – me anymore.

  But the biggest reason I could never quite bring myself to talk to Mom about Nick is because I felt it would somehow spoil the beauty of what Nick and I had. That telling her anything at all would infect our love, and make it as diseased as Mom’s relationship with Dad.

  Her denial of Danny’s existence – her refusal to speak to him when he first got here – has driven an even bigger wedge between us. The first couple of times we talked I’d beg her to call him, but she always ignored me and went on about something totally irrelevant. And
since she never asks about him, I’ve finally learned not to bring him up at all. She doesn’t know he’s gone now. I guess it wouldn’t matter to her if she did.

  In October she started dropping hints about my visiting them. I never took the bait. I think she wanted me to spend my birthday there. But last week I turned forty here, uneventfully, surrounded by people who really do care about me. I got a card from Danny, but it wasn’t mailed. It was hand-delivered. I suppose he arranged that so I couldn’t track him down. It was a bittersweet gift, that beautiful, hand-drawn card. How many years did I wish for a word from my lost brother when I blew out the candles on my cake? Now, I’ve gotten my wish, and it’s brought me nothing but sadness. And what a grim little farce Thanksgiving at “home” would be. I’m much happier with my Salmon Beach family.

  Anyway, I never did make the call to Mom.

  It’s quit snowing, but it’s so dark outside it might as well be night. The cable’s out (again). On the radio they’re saying maybe a little more snow in the foothills, but I guess that’s it for Winter Storm 2000. Too bad. It’s been a cozy adventure and I’ll miss it.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  A warm breeze drifted through the Gillespie family-room, bringing with it the fading aroma of barbecued turkey, which seemed appropriate since the Cowboys were pretty much roasting the Cardinals in the third quarter.

  The loud roar of the football game minimally masked the snores emanating from Tom’s side of the room. The sleeveless jersey Nick’s brother-in-law wore – something left over from high school, no doubt – stretched across his stomach, and rose and fell with each deep breath. Nick’s father added his own counter-rhythm with an occasional loud snort, while Nick watched, hypnotized by the syncopated beat.

  Just outside the screen door the muted sounds of children could be heard – barely. And Nick knew Kay and his mother were out there somewhere, drinking iced tea, trying to convince the kids it was time for a quiet nap, and getting nowhere.

  Thanksgiving in Phoenix. Things never changed. The only difference this year was Becky’s deeply-felt absence. That’s what Nick liked to think, anyway, but it was more than that.

  He thought about Maddy often, talked about her never. It just seemed easier that way. If he didn’t say her name, Nick’s grief was held at a minimum. The “one day at a time” lesson he’d learned in rehab had resurfaced to help get him through the two months without her. Each morning he woke expecting the yearning for her to be a little less. And each morning he was severely disappointed.

  Tommy Junior raced into the room, his bathing suit dripping, and catapulted into Nick’s lap, sending his bare thighs into hypothermia.

  “C’mon, Uncle Nick! We’re ready to play Marco Polo now.”

  Recovering from the shock, Nick said, “Okay. Give me a minute to put on my trunks.” He stood with five-year-old Tommy – a damp, blond, leech – attached to his waist. A mischievous grin spread across Nick’s face. “It’ll be more fun if your dad plays, too.” He set his squirming nephew down.

  “He’s taking a nap.”

  “Yeah, and it looks like it’s gonna take a bomb to wake him up.”

  Tommy took direction well. The words were barely out of Nick’s mouth when all forty-five pounds of wet child performed a cannonball onto his father’s supine body.

  Tom Gillespie, Senior would have flown out of the Barcalounger if it weren’t for his son’s trajectory, which caught him mid-snore. The best he could manage was a combination grunt-snort, while Tommy shrieked, “Marco Polo!” three inches from his face, also waking the elder McKay in the process.

  “Tommy! What’ve I told you about how we wake people up?”

  “Uncle Nick’s gonna play with us, too!”

  Tom’s eyes searched the room until they found Nick leaning against the doorjamb, smiling.

  “You’re just lucky it’s Thanksgiving, and I’m feeling charitable.”

  Nick pushed away from the door and said, “See you in the pool.”

  With the sun down, the desert grew cold. Nick pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and made his way to the empty backyard. The lounge chair next to the pool looked inviting, and he sank into the cushions with a sigh.

  His parents had gone home half an hour ago. Tom was putting the kids to bed. Kay was in the kitchen doing what she did every Thanksgiving: making the adults a late-night snack.

  He’d talked to Becky the day before. She seemed happy enough to be spending Thanksgiving Day at Jim Kingston’s parents. Even Janet’s mood had improved lately. Nick had been stunned they’d actually been able to carry on a three-minute conversation without a single trace of sarcasm creeping into it.

  Now, it occurred to him that maybe the reason was his own slow acceptance of what life had to offer. He had concrete plans for the future. He lived close enough to his daughter to be a major player in her life again. And, hard as it had been for him, he finally knew what it was like to love someone. Which meant he could do it again. Not that he wanted to. Not for a long time.

  “Think you can choke down a sandwich?”

  A plate, attached to Kay’s hand, appeared in front of Nick’s face.

  Taking it from her, he said, “Only if it comes with a cold one.”

  “I thought you divorced Janet?” Kay replied, handing Nick a bottle of beer.

  “Hey, that’s pretty funny,” Nick said dryly. “Has Letterman booked you yet?” He watched Kay drag a chair across the patio and settle in next to him. “You’re not having any?”

  “I’ve been picking all day. My size twelve Levis are protesting.” She let her head drop back and gazed up at the half moon. “Free at last…”

  “Come on. You love it.”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Hey. I think I know you pretty well.” Nick plucked a piece of white meat off his lap and popped it into his mouth. “And if you didn’t want to do this every year, we’d be having leftovers from, like, Denny’s.”

  “Oh – ugh.”

  “Exactly. Where’s Tom?”

  “My guess is he fell asleep reading Tommy a story. I can’t tell you how many times I go up there, and there’s Tom, sawing logs while that kid’s wide awake.”

  Nick chuckled, then said, “Mom and Dad look pretty good.”

  “Dad was sure excited about your plans. I think he’s really serious about investing in it.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

  “What? Your baseball school? Or Dad investing?”

  “Well, I meant about Dad. But both, I guess.”

  Kay smiled at him. “Dad wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think it was worthwhile.”

  “So, that’s a yes?”

  “I think it’s terrific. And by the way, Tom’s got that five thousand burning a hole in his checkbook.”

  “Yeah, but he’s probably got better things to do with it.”

  “Didn’t you see his face when you were talking about it? He looked like a kid in a candy store holding a month’s worth of allowance.” Kay closed her eyes. “Besides, you can give him a better rate of return than anything else short-term out there.”

  Nick watched his sister and thought how much he loved his family. Every last one of them. He had uncles and aunts and cousins spread out across the country. Nick didn’t see them often, but the time he’d spent with them only reinforced how unusual – how lucky – he was. They were a good-hearted, salt-of-the-earth bunch. The kind of people who made you feel welcome, loved you unconditionally, and only expected the same in return.

  Some he hardly knew, but it didn’t seem to matter to them. When he was still playing ball, traveling from city to city, they’d take Nick in and he’d feel a little less lonely; a little more connected.

  The light from the pool reflected a pale blue-green, turning Kay’s face into a ghostly mask, but he could see the entire McKay/Latham family there. It was there in his face, too, he knew. All their lives people had asked if they were twins. And Becky was the spitting image of Kay when she was
her age, a happy twist of genes for which he was thankful, since his daughter didn’t have the misfortune of reminding him of Janet. Nick grinned to himself, thinking of his ex-wife and her husband having to look at a miniature version of Nicholas Patrick McKay on a day-to-day basis.

  Nick was still smiling when the thought came to him: he’d do anything for his family. Help them in any way he could. Protect them from every possible danger. Defend them until the last drop of blood had left his body.

  Suddenly, a groundswell of regret surged through him.

  “What’s that look for?” Kay asked, startling him out of his reverie.

  Nick was thoughtful for a moment then he said, “I love you very much.”

  Kay made a face. “What’re you getting all sappy about?”

  “I did something really stupid to Maddy.”

  His sister sat forward.

  “I know you’ve been waiting for me to spill my guts about this, so here it is – I let the woman I love go for doing exactly the same thing I would’ve done in her place.” He slowly shook his head. “God, I’m such an asshole.”

  “Tell me about it,” Kay said.

  Nick glanced at her with a wry smile. “I guess I deserve that.”

  Kay sighed with impatience. “No, you dope. I mean, tell me about it. What happened?”

  Nick gave her the short version, and finished with, “I acted like what she’d done was wrong. Didn’t even bother to see her side of it. Even when she begged me.”

  Kay was uncharacteristically silent, but only for a few short seconds. “It’s been killing me not to tell you this, but Becky talks about her all the time. And Danny. I guess he made a pretty big impression on her – something about drawing?”