Other Shepards

by Adele Griffin

  Then, before we can react, or in Geneva’s case, escape, we are clamped inside the jaws of Dana Hubbard’s steam-shovel grip. I quickly inhale a supply of air before my face gets squished by a generous square of shoulder pad.

  “Can we have some breakfast?” Geneva asks as she staggers away to a safe distance. “We don’t know where Annie went, and we’re starv—”

  “We know you weren’t expecting us,” I say, cutting off Geneva mid-demand. “And we’re sorry we didn’t call ahead, but you usually come down later. We thought we’d be alone here.”

  Dana keeps looking over her shoulder as if Ryan might appear any moment, and her sentences come out all crooked and in halves. “No, we pushed it ahead a few weeks, the warming trend and all, but your parents never.… I need to talk to Lydia. And Ryan, he has to … oh dear, just a minute.” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a handkerchief, which she uses to blow her nose. Her eyes are damp, and I feel conspicuously unemotional in contrast.

  “I’m hungry,” Geneva declares.

  “Right.” Dana clicks her nails together, as if snapping herself to action. “Let’s put some breakfast in you. Food first, questions later.” Then she breaks her own just-made rule by asking, “But how? How did you get here?”

  “Plane,” Geneva answers. “I’m actually very calm at flying. Plus, Annie was with us. The lady who painted your tree,” Geneva adds. “She’s a painter.”

  Dana raises her eyebrows. “Annie the painter. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the pleasure.… But that tree, it’s a very special part of the house. Anyway, breakfast … eggs and potatoes. There’s baking powder, which I think …” She squeezes my shoulders as we move out to the kitchen, and throughout the morning I notice how Dana’s squeezes mark the forks in the paths of her speech.

  Ryan Hubbard is outside by the back door, where he is in the process of unloading groceries from the Hubbards’ car. He is huge, almost a giant, but his craggy face is softened by his thin, wire-rimmed glasses and button nose, so I am not scared to look all the way up, up, up at him. Although he does not have the kind of face that allows you to figure out exactly what he is thinking, his surprise to see us is not the angry kind. There is a second round of introductions, accompanied by hugs that make my ribs creak.

  “So you don’t mind that we’re here?” I ask.

  “Oh, we’re …” Dana squeezes my sister, who is in closest squeezing distance. “It’s a wonder, that’s what it is.”

  “Out of the blue,” Ryan adds. He gives me a bag to take into the kitchen, and from another bag lifts a bunch of orange flowers. “Glad we got these,” he says, handing them to his wife, “seeing as it’s a celebration kind of day now.” He and Dana really do seem joyful, I realize. Their smiles are broad, their eyes wide as they look at each other and us.

  “Tiger lilies!” Geneva exclaims. “They’re gigantic!”

  Dana tucks her hair behind her ears and begins to unbutton her gauzy sleeve cuffs, preparing herself for her role as chef. Sieves, bowls, and mixers pulled from shelves too high for me to reach begin crowding the counter.

  “Who wants banana muffins?” she asks.

  “Me, me, and coffee, too.” Geneva points to the coffee pot. “I know how to make it all by myself.”

  “Okay, chief, let’s see you brew us up a pot,” Ryan says.

  Suddenly Dana bangs her measuring cup of flour on the counter with a noise that startles Geneva and me; as we turn to look at her, we realize the bang was on purpose. There is silence, and I have a feeling that the food-first-questions-later rule is about to be broken again.

  “Why are you girls here by yourselves?” Dana crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the counter, regarding us evenly. “Why aren’t your parents with you? Do they know where you are?”

  If I look at Geneva, I know I’ll want to lie, so I keep my eyes on Dana as I answer. “They do now. I left them a message from the airport yesterday. We didn’t exactly let them in on our plans until we knew they couldn’t stop us.”

  “Oh, Lord. I have to call,” Dana says to Ryan, using the low, grim voice of adult responsibility.

  “Wait,” pleads Geneva. “It’s only one call for you two, but Holland and I are going to be grounded for longer than Lent. We just barely got here, and it took us so much work. Besides, we’re safe, right? Because you’re looking after us now. Right?”

  Ryan scarcely can hold in a smile at Geneva’s plea. “Let’s wait until after breakfast,” he advises. “Conversations flow better on a full stomach.” Dana seems unsure. She has to think a moment before she agrees with a short nod. The mood turns more cheerful as breakfast takes shape. Ryan cracks eggs into foamy omelettes while I pulp bananas for the muffins. Geneva makes coffee and pours juice. When we sit, I am reminded of our coffee afternoons with Annie.

  “I wish you could have met our friend,” I mention. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  “No,” agrees Geneva, tight-lipped. “She’s gone.”

  “Did she have family … other people to visit?” Dana asks.

  “She had to make sure we got here safely,” Geneva says. “Her job’s done now. She’s gone.” I notice Dana and Ryan exchange a covert glance of skepticism.

  “Can we go to the beach today?” I ask.

  “I’m a fantastic swimmer,” Geneva adds. “If you want to see.”

  “We’ll pack a picnic,” Dana suggests. “Spend the day at the ocean. There’s so much to see, too much to fit inside a weekend. You girls need to come again.… A full vacation, in the fall—”

  “After hurricane season,” Ryan interrupts. “December’s best, especially for birding, after the migratory—”

  “Not that young girls would be interested in birding,” Dana cuts in. “But there are some amazing species; driving up, we saw a clay-colored robin and a bare-eyed thrush, both visible without our binoculars.”

  Ryan and Dana Hubbard remind me more of their marching-binoculars photograph once they start talking about their hobbies, and it’s easy to see how well they get along. They keep interrupting each other as they discuss their bird-watching and nature hikes and favorite Seattle restaurants. In turn, they pepper us with questions about school and the parents. The morning is long and talky, full of second and third helpings and refilled cups of coffee. When I push away from the table, my stomach pooches the skin of my bathing suit, but I feel wonderfully full.

  Ryan washes the dishes while Dana makes a new mess preparing a basket lunch.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” Geneva says. “I was hungrier than I thought.”

  “The legendary Shepard appetite,” Ryan says. I catch my reflection in the pan he is toweling dry; I look surprised.

  “Did you see them a lot? Before, I mean?” I venture.

  “Twice a year, sometimes more,” Dana answers. “We would visit your family in Saint Germaine over the kids’ winter break, and then they’d all come out to our place in the Catskills in the summer. This was a long while back, before we moved to Seattle. Ryan and I used to stock up an absolute mountain of groceries before they arrived.” When she looks over at Ryan, her eyes are sad, but she manages a smile. “I’ll go give Lydia a ring,” she says.

  I decide I had better take matters into my own hands and face the parents’ anger before the Hubbards speak with them. I dart out to the front room and reinsert the phone jack, then sit on the couch, take a deep breath, and, after a few bumbles with the zeroes and ones of the long-distance code, call home.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad, it’s Holland.”

  “Holland.” I hear Mom in the background, the flurry of muffled words between the parents.

  “How are you both?”

  “How are we? How are you? We’ve been calling nonstop. What were the two of you thinking?”

  “Did you get hold of your parents?” Dana calls from behind the kitchen door. “Don’t hang up until I have a chance to talk.”

  “Holland, are you all right?” Mom ha
s the phone now. “This was a very, very stupid thing to do. We haven’t slept a wink. We didn’t know whether to call the police or the British embassy.”

  “I have a right,” I say, my words stubborn, harsher for the deep distance that separates us.

  “Your father and I look so foolish.” Mom’s whisper sizzles against my ear. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t think you could just come to us first. All this secrecy, and no one to look after you. So irresponsible, all of this, it’s hard to believe I raised you not to know better. Now listen, your dad says if we phone the embassy, they’ll send someone—”

  “No, wait, because guess what? Ryan and Dana are here. Isn’t that great? We met them and everything. So we do have people taking care of us, okay, Mom?”

  There is more agitated mumbling between the parents, but by now both Hubbards are at my side, reaching for the phone. “I’ll put Dana on, okay?”

  “We—” But before Dad can finish, I pass the receiver to Dana.

  “Hello, my dears,” she says. “I’ve just fed your wonderful daughters.”

  I withdraw to the kitchen.

  “How much trouble?” murmurs Geneva.

  “Hard to say,” I answer.

  “Cross your fingers.”

  The conversation is not long, and mostly I hear Dana saying, “I see,” and “Of course,” which seems like a good sign. When they come back into the kitchen, the Hubbards’ faces are passably serious but not angry.

  “I’m not going to lecture, because it’s not my duty, and because you’ll get plenty of it when you get home,” Ryan says as Dana nods in agreement. “Your spontaneity put a few more gray hairs in your parents’ heads, but in terms of the weekend, we’ve got it all smoothed out. I better have a look at your return tickets, though, so we can make arrangements for when your parents need to get you at the airport.”

  Geneva smiles at her lap, where she’s hiding her crossed fingers.

  “Strange to hear Lydia’s voice.…” Dana says, more to herself than to anyone else, as she busies herself with the basket lunch. “Not so changed, but then …” There is a wistful twist in her mouth as she remembers. “We went to City College together, you know. Just seventeen when we met.”

  For Dana’s benefit, I make my mouth into an oval of amazement, but it’s impossible for me to picture Mom as a young person. She has been old forever, although it is not hard to refocus Dana into an oversized, gangly girl with a swing of black hair and a laugh kind of like Kathlyn’s.

  Dana holds her nostalgia close throughout the day. I hear her whispering the parents’ names to Ryan as we walk ahead of them down the crushed shell trail to the beach, where we set up a big striped umbrella and spread out towels in the sand. But even if the Hubbards are weighted by memories, they pay us so much attention that for the first time in her swimming history, Geneva doesn’t have to shout, “Look at me! Look at me!” while she does her water acrobatics.

  “You’d think the Queen of England and the Queen of France decided to come visit. I never saw two people get so worked up about meeting a couple of strangers,” Geneva says, all smug, after she has worn herself out with headstands and flips.

  Ryan has brought along a foam-rubber ball, and the three of us dive into the water for a catching game while Dana suns herself, like Cleopatra on the banks of the Nile. We play Jaws and Monkey in the Middle and a made-up game of catching the ball with left hands only.

  The water of Saint Germaine is different from my dreams. It is warm, slivered by cooler currents, and bright enough to see down to my toes. There are fish, too, tiny white schools of fish that look like columns of starlight shooting through sky water.

  “This is the best ocean I ever saw,” Geneva says. “It’s more real than any other water I’ve ever seen.”

  “Bluer,” I say. “Wetter.”

  Geneva and I stay in the water long after Ryan gets tired and leaves us, until our underwater skin is soaked pale and our exposed shoulders burn tender with sun, and then we join the Hubbards for lunch. I did not think I could be hungry again after my breakfast feast, but I’m starving. We get a choice of tuna or egg salad sandwiches and apple or grape juice, and we crunch through tangy mouthfuls of potato chips. There is fruit for dessert; the sand that blows into my bitten peach adds a nice grainy seasoning.

  “You ought to stay out of the sun for the rest of the day,” Dana admonishes my sister as we pack up to leave. “You’re turning pink. I remember how Kevin burned easily. Your mother used to make him wear long-sleeved shirts in the middle of the day; otherwise he’d blister. Your skin reminds me of his.”

  “You think we look alike?” Geneva asks. “Holland and me?”

  Dana holds her mouth, thinking. “No,” she finally answers. “You both look mostly like yourselves, although you have Kevin’s coloring and Holland has something in her that makes me see Elizabeth—I’m not sure what. But the two of you, no. Two very different-looking girls. Now let’s hurry and pack up, or we’ll be caught in a downpour.”

  When we get back to the bungalow and are in the bathroom, changing out of our suits into dry clothes, I see how the Saint Germaine sun has separated me from my sister in more ways than how it colors our skin. The salt water has lightened Geneva’s hair while the humidity has caused mine to frizzle, and all my freckles stand out, littering my neck and nose, while Geneva’s pinkness is smooth, like a boiled Madame Alexander doll.

  “Listen.” I incline my head. “They’re in the kitchen. They’re cooking. Again.”

  “Have you noticed how they both do snorts in their laughs?” Geneva imitates the sound, and we press our hands over our mouths to hold in the giggle attack.

  “They’re nice,” I whisper when I can breathe through the laugh-wriggles that stick in my throat.

  “They are,” Geneva agrees. “But also they’re so … floppy. The way they talk and eat so much, and laugh with snorts. No wonder the parents stopped liking them. They have nothing in common.”

  “Nothing in common anymore,” I say. “Who knows how it was before.”

  “They act like how I wish the parents would.” Geneva loses her smile as she blurts our thoughts out loud, and her face blushes beneath her sunburn. “They’re real people. Being here is awful in a way, because it makes me see how it used to be, before everything, before us.”

  “How it will be,” I reassure her. “We’ll come back, Geneva. I promise.”

  The front room has turned dim and cool. Just as Dana had predicted, an afternoon rain starts, pinging the roof like a popcorn parade, then turning more tidal, washing water over the lawn.

  The Hubbards have made tea and warmed up a black-walnut-apple cake. We decide to eat in the front room, lounging in the recliners. The Hubbards sit together on the couch, not truly touching, not Ick, but close enough that Dana’s dress laps over Ryan’s leg, close enough that they must sense each other’s pulse, smell each other’s smells. Their togetherness reminds me of the parents; it is one thing they do have in common.

  “Why does it rain so hard here?” Geneva asks. Ryan perks up.

  “It’s because of the tropical hydraulic cycle,” he answers. He goes on to explain the rain, describing the weather as the world’s most ancient music. Through his words, acts of evaporation, condensation, and precipitation become the movements of a majestic water symphony. After he is finished, we applaud along with the pocking on the roof.

  “You sure know a lot about storms,” Geneva says.

  “Ryan’s a meteorologist,” Dana explains. “Of course, you girls must get science lessons every other minute with Quentin in the house.” I think of Dad, the stripe of light beneath the closed door to his study.

  “Are you a scientist, too?” I ask her.

  “Obstetrician,” she says. “I help deliver babies. I assisted with John, in fact, my first year out of medical school. Didn’t your parents ever tell you that?”

  “They don’t say much about either of you, actually. Not to us, anyway. They�
�re awfully private.” A silence follows, and I hope I have not hurt the Hubbards’ feelings.

  “They turned to each other,” Dana remarks after a moment. “It’s understandable. That kind of tragedy is hardest on parents. But Ryan and I missed those children, too. Miss them still. We spent some of our happiest times with your family. I suppose it’s partly why we keep coming back here.” She looks around the room. “Only I had no idea how dusty my memories were until I saw you girls. You shine up everything for me.”

  I must have napped, lulled by the rain. When I wake up in the front room, the sun has emerged, another juice-bright sunset to match yesterday’s. Geneva’s chatter calls me to the kitchen. I stumble through the pantry door and see Dana at the counter, busy with her cooking. Geneva and Ryan are on their way outside.

  “Aha, look who decided to join us,” Ryan says. “You’ve been sleeping a couple of hours now.”

  “We’re going to look at frogs,” Geneva says. “Ryan says they get big as oysters!”

  “Big as hamsters,” he corrects. “We’ll be out back. You coming, Holland?”

  “She’ll be out in a minute,” Dana answers for me. “I need a little help right now.”

  Once they have banged through the kitchen door, I sit at the table, watching as Dana finishes chopping scallions, which she scrapes from the cutting board into a saucepan of sizzling butter. I get a feeling that Dana wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how to begin. The bite of hot scallion juice fills the kitchen and smarts my eyes as I wait.

  “Your mother told me everything,” she says at last. “All about your imaginary friend, Annie. I had an imaginary friend once, when I was a little girl. I fell off a ladder and broke my leg in three places, and I had to lie flat on my back in a cast for six weeks. I named him Dickins, after the boy in The Secret Garden. He came to visit me every day. We’d chat and tell jokes and make plans for all the things we would do together after my leg healed. It saved me, I think. Having a special friend.”

  “Imaginary?” I laugh. “Annie’s not imaginary, she’s as real as you or me. She’s a painter, she painted that tree in the pantry, and she painted our whole kitchen back home. Why would the parents say such a funny thing? Imaginary, ha.”