Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  “So,” I said, thinking I’d better change the subject before I got really annoyed, “how do you spend the time? I mean, does the day drag?”

  “Sometimes. But there’s the meals and time for exercise. That passes the time.”

  “Dad? Why did you tell me your parents were dead?” So much for changing the subject. “Okay, I know your father really is dead but—”

  “Because then you might have wanted to meet your grandmother. And that wasn’t possible.”

  True. I might have wanted to meet her. But he could have chosen to tell me that Marion was as violent a drug addict loser as Verity. Was one lie better, more effective than the other? Both lies had kept me from my family. None of it makes any sense to me. Sometimes I wonder if it ever will.

  “Marion showed me a picture of your father. And she told me that you used to like building sand castles when you were a kid.”

  “What else did she say about me?” he asked, and now there was a distinct note of alarm in his voice.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Not much.”

  I thought I heard him sigh. “Good. Okay.”

  I wanted to ask him if he was sorry for what he did, but I didn’t know where to begin. Sorry for abducting me? Sorry for lying to me about practically everything, including my own name? Sorry for hurting Verity and Marion? Sorry for stealing a car? And something else held me back from asking the question, and that was the answer he might give. No. Not sorry.

  Luckily, the guard cut off the call after Dad and I had exchanged a few more banalities. I felt suddenly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to take a nap. But when I tried to relax and close my eyes and let sleep come, it wouldn’t. I got up and went to find Verity.

  Chapter 38

  “Why did you leave my father?” I demanded. Verity was still in her studio upstairs. She whipped around from her drawing board and put her hand over her heart.

  “You startled me,” she said with a small smile. “I was so focused. . .”

  Focused on trying to hear my conversation with Dad through the floor vent? I wondered.

  “The short answer? I left for the sake of your safety and your future.”

  I laughed. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that it might have been better to stay for my safety and future? Dad wasn’t a bad man. He didn’t hit you, you told me so. He didn’t mistreat me, right? So why couldn’t you have just stuck it out? Then he wouldn’t have been forced to do what he did. It’s your fault, really, that he took me away. You gave him no choice. He was afraid he’d never see me again if he let you take me.”

  Verity put down the pencil she had still been holding. When she spoke, her voice trembled a bit. “I did consider staying in the relationship,” she said. “Of course I did. I weighed all the options, pros and cons, and in the end . . . I know I did what I thought was best.”

  I snickered. “Yeah, well, obviously, what you thought was wrong.”

  Then Verity finally lost her temper. Just a bit. “I don’t owe you an explanation of my thoughts and behavior,” she said. “I’m your mother. Please try to have some respect for me.”

  “You’re only my mother in name,” I shot back.

  Verity went pale. “More than just in name,” she said, “whether you like that fact or not. And you should understand that, and if you can’t make yourself understand, then you should at least accept that I always did what I thought was best for you, without demanding to know every painful detail of my thought process.”

  Well, I thought, at least she can stand up for herself. And then I turned and stomped—literally—out of her studio and down the stairs, back to my room. Where, of course, I slammed the door behind me.

  I can be very predictable.

  Chapter 39

  I felt bad I had lost my temper with Gemma. I felt bad I had played the pity card. Poor me. But it was bound to happen at some point. Still, that’s no consolation.

  It’s become a pattern. Alan calls Gemma. And then Gemma challenges or attacks me. I suppose it’s not a surprise that his calls have such a powerful aftershock. At the very least they must emphasize the enormous difference between what was and what is.

  And she must have so many questions! I know I still do, though I doubt I would ever get any coherent answers from Alan. Once, I thought I would welcome the chance to confront him face-to-face, to demand an explanation, an apology. But now, when the dream has come true—Alan located and in the process of being punished, Gemma home safely with me—now the last thing I want to do is speak with him, even via phone or letter. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. In some ways, I no longer care.

  Gemma assumed that her father had never mistreated her. But how to explain the time he grabbed her out of my arms and she came very close to falling to the hard wooden floor? He’d taken a big risk for no apparent reason—for no good reason, just his own warped vision of his world. It was something I could never tell Gemma. It was the turning point, the moment when I knew I had to leave and take my baby with me.

  How to describe the mingled feelings of relief and loss, of sadness and euphoria I experienced those first days away from Alan? The situation at Barbara’s wasn’t ideal. Gemma and I were in a small interior room without a window (it’s illegal to use a room without a window as a bedroom, but I didn’t know that then), and I worried that if Gemma woke at night and made a fuss, Barbara’s sleep would be disturbed and she would regret her decision to let us stay. And Barbara had two dogs, mixed breeds, both with long, shaggy fur, and though I love animals as much as the next person, as I said earlier, I’m very allergic to many of them. But Barbara was letting me stay with her in exchange only for my cleaning up after Gemma and myself and doing our laundry, so I wasn’t going to complain about sneezing fits.

  When after a few days it seemed that Alan was handling my defection with an unexpected degree of maturity—no midnight hang-ups, no hate mail, no dead animals left on Barbara’s doorstep—I suggested we meet on neutral ground, a public place, just us two. The first meeting went well. When I saw him walk into the diner I’d chosen as our meeting place, I had to fight back the tears. I had loved this man so much and for so long. I had given him so much of myself. I had given him a child.

  After that we met for coffee a few more times. And when at one point he asked if he could see Gemma, in my presence, in a public place, I said yes and took her with me when we went to the diner and to the park on my afternoon off. Alan didn’t demand more visits with his daughter—of course he didn’t, not when he was planning all along to steal her for himself!—and for the first time in years I saw some of the sweet, charming Alan from the early days, the man who had seemed to be taking care of me because he loved me, not because he needed to control me.

  I allowed myself to be lulled into a state of less than hypervigilance.

  And I’ve been paying for it ever since.

  Chapter 40

  There was another thing that was bound to happen. I’m sure we both knew it would someday.

  Mirelle Turner is a fixture in Yorktide, a woman in her mid-sixties now who lives in a lovely cottage out on Cherry Hill Lane. In all my years in Yorktide I’ve never known her to hold a job; how she paid for that charming little house was anyone’s guess, as there was no other outward evidence of a healthy private source of income. The woman dressed in clothing she must have kept from the seventies, and there were times when standing behind her on line at the convenience store was an odiferous experience. A literal filthy-rich eccentric? Maybe.

  I best knew her as a particularly ridiculous woman, the sort who regularly offends almost everyone with whom she speaks by saying the one thing most likely to cause pain. I don’t think she’s entirely conscious of the effect she has on others. I think she’s just very stupid. Fortunately for mankind, she never procreated, at least, not as far as I know.

  Now she rushed toward us, waving her hand madly as if we could possibly miss her. There was no way we could avoid a confrontation without being downright r
ude, turning away, and hurrying off, an incident she would embroider and circulate throughout the town of Yorktide by nightfall. I felt my grip on the strap of my handbag tighten.

  “I’m so glad I caught you!” Mirelle cried, putting her right hand on Gemma’s arm and her left hand on mine. Instinctively, rude or not, we both stepped out of her grasp. She turned her attention to Gemma. “I’ve been just dying to know. What was it like, finding out you’d been kidnapped?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Gemma snapped, and I opened my mouth to intervene. But before I could, Gemma said: “And what kind of a fucked-up question is that?”

  I winced. Mirelle Turner’s eyes grew to the size of the proverbial saucers, and for once in her life she seemed to be without something idiotic to say. In sync, Gemma and I walked around her, leaving her stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk. I know because I couldn’t resist looking over my shoulder once we were at the corner.

  “I told you about your unfortunate status as a local celebrity,” I said quietly as we waited for the light to turn green. I could feel the anger emanating from my daughter. “I’m sorry you had to experience it in that particularly obnoxious way. If it’s any consolation, Mirelle Turner’s got a reputation as, well, as being a very stupid woman.”

  “I know just what that woman is thinking right now,” Gemma said bitterly as we stepped into the street. “She’s thinking, what happened to that sweet little baby girl? That helpless little victim we’ve all been so worried about. How did she get to be such a bitch? The little victim is supposed to be all grateful and humble. And she’s also probably wondering if I was sexually abused or if I was used in a bunch of bizarre rituals with chicken blood and I don’t know, ceremonial knives or something.”

  I couldn’t argue with Gemma’s assessment. “Yes,” I said. “You’re probably right. But as I said, she’s a stupid woman.” Which is not to say that some people in town didn’t listen to her rattling and rantings and inane remarks. No doubt the tale of Gemma’s less than gracious response to Mirelle’s insensitive question would circulate rapidly. At that moment I didn’t care one bit. I still don’t.

  Of course I’d considered the possibility of taking Gemma away from Yorktide, but for several reasons I’d decided it wasn’t a good idea. Most obviously, I’d have to sell my house and give up my job, and who knew if I’d ever be able to afford to buy us a house of our own and get a good enough job to keep us in medical insurance and buy the other necessities. But more important, Gemma has spent her entire life on the run—even if she hadn’t quite known it—and I just don’t think running away again is the answer for her. I knew from the moment she came home to me that I would have to trust the good people of Yorktide to give Gemma the time and space she needs to settle into a steady life among them. And so far, with the exception of Mirelle Turner, people have responded well to my requests for privacy, even that guy from the church who wanted to give Gemma a party.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  I was acutely aware of how that last word—home—hung in the air between us.

  Chapter 41

  Annie and Cathy came over for an hour or two this afternoon. The four of us were on the back deck—the awning fully extended against the sun, which even in Maine can burn skin to a crisp—drinking iced tea and talking about nothing and everything. Well, Gemma was drinking iced coffee and not saying much other than the occasional yes or no. I wish I knew exactly what she’s thinking when she goes all quiet. Was she always this way? Or is this new behavior, brought about by the discovery that she isn’t the person she thought she was?

  “Look!” Cathy cried, pointing toward the Gallisons’ house. “The twins!”

  “What are their names again?” Annie asked. “I am so bad with names.”

  “Molly and Michael Gallison. The parents are Peter and Grace.” I waved at Grace, who waved back.

  “Oh my God, they are so cute, I can’t stand it.” Cathy turned to Gemma then. “Don’t you just love little kids?”

  Gemma shrugged. “Not really. I mean, why?”

  Well, I thought, at least she’s using her words.

  “Just because they’re so cute!”

  “I’ve never really been around little kids,” Gemma said. “A girl I knew once had a half brother who was ten years younger. She always got stuck babysitting him when her mother wanted to party. Which was, like, all the time.”

  My hand tightened around my glass. What sort of people had my daughter grown up among? Of course, there’s nothing I can do about her past now except try to make things better for her future.

  Cathy sighed. “I can’t wait to have kids of my own.”

  “Not before you’ve finished college and have a good job,” Annie said.

  “Duh, of course!”

  “I’m not ever having kids,” Gemma said. “They take up all your time.”

  Except, I thought, when they’re stolen from you, and all you dream about is getting them back and never letting them out of your sight ever.

  “Do you ever think about that nursery song, the one that starts with ‘Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top’?” Annie said. “I mean, how is that supposed to comfort anyone, let alone a child? The bough breaking, the cradle falling to the ground, the impact probably crushing the baby to death.”

  “Mom, you’re so weird! It’s just a song.”

  Annie gave Gemma and me a conspiratorial look. “This is the respect I get. I cook, I clean, I put up with a bunch of kids who want to be anywhere else but math class, and what do I get? I get called weird by my own daughter.”

  Cathy jumped up from her chair—the adults had the lounges—and bent down to give her mother a hug. “And one for you too,” she said, coming over to me.

  And the moment Cathy put her arms around me, I was intensely aware of the contrast my daughter and I present to Annie and Cathy.

  Cathy went back to her chair, and while she and Annie talked about what they were going to get Marc for his birthday and Gemma sat silently, thinking whatever it was she was thinking, I thought about how I want nothing more than to hug my prickly daughter and not have her stiffen in my arms. She tolerates it when I touch her arm when I want to point something out to her when we’re in the car or walking in town. But anything more than that would be unwelcome. You don’t have to be particularly sensitive to see her resistance to touch in the way she holds herself, the way she folds her arms across her chest even when she’s sitting alone, halfway across a room from the nearest person. And the look on her face . . . Maybe that’s why when I first introduced Gemma to Annie, Annie made no attempt to touch her. She saw. Cathy, not insensitive but with the exuberance of youth, flung her arms around Gemma, who stood, her own arms at her sides, her lips a thin line of—was it really anger? Maybe it was fear. I don’t know.

  I was brought back to the moment by the piercing wail of one of the children next door.

  “Uh-oh, Molly fell,” Cathy announced. “Poor little thing! I’m sure her mommy will kiss it and make it all better.”

  Gemma got up from her chair. “I’m going inside.”

  Chapter 42

  It was probably rude of me to just get up and walk away from everyone like that, but jeez, Cathy going on about the kids next door was driving me crazy. It had brought back this memory I’d thought was long gone. I wish it really were gone.

  Thing is, I don’t know how I can remember something that must have happened when I was in, like, first grade or maybe even kindergarten. I could have made it up, I suppose, but why would I? Or it could be something I saw happen to someone else or maybe on TV, and later on my brain made me think it was a memory of something that had happened to me. I’m not a neurosurgeon or a psychiatrist, so I don’t know.

  Anyway, this is what happened or didn’t. Dad and I were in a grocery store, and he was looking at the big table of bananas. I wandered away a bit, not far (I was very attached to Dad in those early days), and was looking at the apples or pears or somethi
ng when this woman came up to me and said, “You have such beautiful hair.” Then she reached out to touch my hair, and I just stood there, kind of stunned, I guess. Then the woman said, “But your mommy should have brushed it better this morning. Look, there’s a big tangle.”

  And suddenly in my memory Dad was there, and he was furious. “Don’t touch my daughter!” he yelled, and the woman scurried off, probably afraid he was going to hit her.

  And that’s it. But when Cathy was going on about Molly and Michael, I remembered the incident. And I also remembered that when Dad asked what the woman had said to me, all I said was, “You have nice hair.” I didn’t tell him the mommy part. I thought it would make him feel bad, that he wasn’t my mommy and that he had done something wrong by not brushing my hair enough.

  See? Wasn’t I too young to make that judgment and to have those feelings or insights? So maybe the incident never happened.

  Funny about the hair, though. It seems I got my hair, thick and dark and straight, from Verity.

  Mommy.

  Anyway, I don’t believe in maternal instinct. I mean, come on. Take a look around. How many women with kids even really wanted them in the first place? How many times do you see a woman yank her kid’s arm when he’s being stubborn and won’t walk as fast as she wants him to, or yell at her kid when he won’t stop crying? I’ve seen that sort of thing a lot, and you can’t tell me those women are really glad they had kids.

  Maybe I’m a selfish person but the idea of always having to sacrifice for someone else who probably doesn’t even appreciate what you’re doing sounds ridiculous. I want stuff for me.

  Besides, who says I’m qualified to be a decent parent? Isn’t it like an extreme act of ego to think you’re smart enough to have a kid and not screw him up entirely? There should be a test or something to determine who’s allowed to have kids and who isn’t.