Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Computer equipment. And some other random electronics. The police think our thief—or thieves—didn’t care at all about art supplies but probably were frustrated when they couldn’t find anything they wanted in your studio, so they smashed up a few bits just to say they were there.”

  I sighed. “Any idea who might be responsible?”

  “Well, the police wouldn’t tell me anything specific, but it seems there was a similar event last week at a small college on the New Hampshire border. They said they had some leads.”

  Leads that might go nowhere. I know all about those.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait, Verity,” Martin said. “I’m afraid I’ve got more bad news.”

  “Go on.”

  “That class you planned out for the fall semester, on the patination of metals? It looks like we might have to cancel it. I’m sorry, Verity. It’s a great idea but preadmissions records are showing we’ve only got three students signed up for it. We need at least ten to make the class worthwhile.”

  “To make paying me worthwhile,” I said. “Sorry. I know it’s not your fault.”

  “Look, there are still a few weeks before the semester starts. Things could change. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

  “Thanks, Martin. I do appreciate it, really.”

  “And if we do have to cancel the class this time around, we can always try again in spring. Got to run. Roberta and I just got back yesterday, and what with the robbery, I still haven’t unpacked.”

  I said good-bye to the department head. This bit of news meant I’d have to take a closer look at our family budget. I’d been counting on the money from that extra class, not that I’d been foolish enough to spend it before it was earned. And some of the art books I kept at the studio were old and valuable, in a financial as well as a sentimental way. It would be awful if any had been badly damaged. I can’t afford to replace them.

  I was just about to hunt down my bag and keys and head off for the college when Gemma came back into the living room. “Have you seen my blue hoodie?” she asked. I thought she might have been crying—her eyes were red—but maybe it was her allergies. She’d been sneezing a lot in the past few days.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s in the laundry bin.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. That was something I hadn’t seen in weeks. “But I want to wear it.”

  “I didn’t get to the laundry yesterday.” I was about to add my usual I’m sorry, but I didn’t. The truth was, I wasn’t really sorry about not doing the laundry. It wasn’t a crime or a sin or an insult.

  “How long does it take to do a load of laundry?” she demanded.

  “Why don’t you do one sometime and find out?”

  The words were out before I was even quite aware I’d spoken them.

  Gemma folded her arms across her chest. “Ellen and Richard have a housekeeper,” she said.

  I laughed. “Well, bully for them!” And then I got ahold of my better nature. My adulthood. At least, a bit of it. “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry about your father not calling but—”

  “This has nothing to do with my father!” Gemma shouted. “I just wanted the freakin’ hoodie!”

  “Yes, well, you can’t have it, not at the moment. I’ll do the laundry when I get home. I have to go to my studio for a while.”

  Gemma snickered. “You care more about those stupid blocks of wood and lumps of clay than you do about me. You promised you’d do the laundry, and you didn’t.”

  Sometimes, no matter how famed you are for your self-control, you can only take so much.

  “You understand, don’t you,” I said, “that I’ve devoted my entire life to you, even when I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, and you can’t even show me respect enough to do a load of laundry now and then?”

  Gemma looked at me with such hatred and misery then that I shuddered.

  “Screw you!” she shouted. “I don’t need all your sacrifices. I didn’t ask for you to care. I don’t owe you a thing!”

  “We live here together,” I said, my voice shaking. “We both have to participate.”

  “I don’t have to do anything. You can’t force me to be your daughter!”

  “Am I really so horrible that to acknowledge that you’re my daughter would make you unhappy?” I asked. Really, all I wanted to do at that moment was throw my arms around her, but I knew that would be a disaster.

  “I’m already unhappy,” Gemma cried. “I don’t need you to make it worse.” Then she grasped her hair at the roots with both hands. “God, everything is so messed up! I can’t . . . I thought I could . . . Never mind.”

  Before I could react, she turned around and fled back into her room, this time slamming the door shut behind her. The force dislodged a delicate vase on the shelf over the fireplace, and before I could dash across the room to grab it, it fell to the floor and shattered.

  The vase had belonged to Marion’s mother.

  Gemma’s great-grandmother.

  Chapter 97

  I must have paced from one end of this room to the other and back again about a thousand times in the past few hours. This room that has become mine, however temporarily.

  Pacing can sometimes make thinking things through easier.

  Here’s a fact. I’ve pretty much lost my father. I mean, he didn’t even call today when he was supposed to. Yeah, he could be sick or something, but I know better. Coward that he is, he probably decided he didn’t want to listen to me being angry at him. Or, and this is a real possibility, he did something stupid again, like pick a fight and hit someone, and got himself in trouble. Lost his privileges. Proved once again he’s an ass.

  Whatever the reason he didn’t call, one thing is for certain. A life with my father is no longer a possibility. Our future together is gone.

  That’s his fault.

  And now I’ve lost a future with Verity, too. And that’s my fault. After the stupid, hurtful things I said to her, why would she want me to stick around? I mean, of course she doesn’t care more about her work than she does about me. What a jerk-off, childish thing to say. And of course I’m not unhappy. Well, right now I am, but I wasn’t, not all the time. Not anymore.

  It’s like I told you earlier. I can be combustible. But there are consequences to that.

  Things were going so well. I don’t know why I had to ruin it.

  Yes, I do. Because I’m stupid like my father. I’ve got this dumb arrogance. This isolating pride.

  And now who’s left for me to turn to?

  Happy where I am.

  I’ve backed myself into the proverbial corner.

  I remembered earlier in the summer when, for about an hour, I was convinced that in the end I was the one really responsible for my parents’ breakup and then for Alan’s stealing me away. And if that’s the truth, that all this crap has happened because of me, whether or not I meant anything bad to happen, and I didn’t, how could I, then maybe it would be best for me to walk away from both parents (that’s not entirely accurate, but you know what I mean) and let them get over me, the daughter who turned out to be a major annoyance all around. A major disappointment.

  But of course, Verity has to agree to let me go. Legally, I’m under her control.

  I can guess how she’ll react when I tell her I’m going to live with Ellen and Richard. She’ll probably be pissed (she’ll think I’m an ungrateful bitch after all she’s done for me, and I’ll have to let her think that, though I am grateful), but she’ll also be seriously relieved to get me out of here. There’ll probably be another big fight. I’ll try to keep my temper this time and not say anything I really don’t mean. It’s not Verity’s fault all this shit has happened.

  My mother.

  I took my cell phone out of my pocket and called Ellen’s number. She answered right away.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Gemma.” And then I rushed on, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d lose the nerve. “I’ve decided I’ll
go to that school and live with you.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Ellen cried. “Oh my God, Richard will be so excited when I tell him!”

  “Maybe you’d better wait a bit,” I said. “See, I haven’t told Verity yet. She might not like it.” Because she’s my mother . . .

  “Don’t worry about her,” Ellen said firmly. “If she makes a fuss, Richard and I will come right over there and take care of everything.”

  But I didn’t want Ellen and Richard in Verity’s home. Not because I’m ashamed of it in any way, but because . . . I don’t know. It’s been nice here, and there’s a good feeling.... I mean, there was a good feeling.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “There’s no rush. If she doesn’t want me to go, you can talk to her over the phone. Tomorrow.”

  “All right,” she said. “But you call me immediately if you feel she’s pressuring you to change your mind. Promise?”

  “Yeah,” I said. But I knew Verity wouldn’t be pressuring me.

  “Good. I’m going to call Greyson’s admitting office right away and have them send out the application form, though it’s only a formality at this point. Richard’s taken care of that. Oh, Gemma, I’m so glad you’re coming to live with us!”

  I almost believed her, but I couldn’t tell her I was glad, because I wasn’t. I’m not. “I have to go now,” I said. “There’s someone at the door.”

  I got off the phone. Ellen had said she and Richard would “take care of” Verity if she tried to stand in the way of my leaving. She had said that Richard had “taken care” of my getting into Greyson.

  Dad used to say that all the time when things weren’t going right. “Don’t worry,” he’d say. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I’ve never liked the sound of those words.

  I sank onto the couch. My couch. I put my hands over my face. And then I started to cry.

  What’s done is done.

  Chapter 98

  When I got back from the college earlier, both doors to Gemma’s room were closed. I could hear her inside. I thought maybe she was talking to someone on her phone, but maybe she was talking to herself. About me?

  I poured a glass of wine and went out onto the deck. The sky had been darkening since midday, and now there was the distinct feel of rain in the air. Several inches were predicted. I hoped the repair done to the roof at the end of the winter would continue to hold. It had cost a lot, but a leaky roof isn’t something you can ignore.

  Money.

  With Gemma to support, a good income is more important than ever, so if the course I’d planned for the fall were actually canceled, I’d have to make up for the lost income somehow. I could always wait tables, though with so many restaurants closing down for a good part of the winter, the jobs would be scarce. In the old days, after Alan had absconded with Gemma, I worked as a housekeeper in one of the big hotel resorts during the off-season. I’m not too old or too proud to scrub someone else’s floors, but honestly, it’s not something I’d looked forward to doing ever again.

  More immediate to consider, if less important, is the issue of the damage done in my studio. The broken easel could be repaired or replaced at the college’s expense, but the sight of it lying there on the floor, one leg snapped in half, had made me feel incredibly sad. It seemed to symbolize what I was scared might have happened to my relationship with my daughter. And unlike the easel, a relationship could not so easily be repaired, and it could never be replaced.

  Marion’s mother’s vase, I’m sad to say, is a lost cause. I wonder if Gemma heard it fall.

  Back to the chaos in my studio. The thief or thieves had indeed overturned the largest bookcase, the one I had built, causing every single book to spill out. The police, after dusting for prints, had righted the bookcase. (Really, I should ask college maintenance to nail it to the wall.) While I was putting the books back onto the shelves according to categories like Greco-Roman art, Medieval European art, and contemporary American sculpture, I found that one of my favorite books, a volume of images from the British Museum’s permanent collection, had been badly damaged. The spine had broken, and several pages had been folded and heavily creased. I remember the day I bought that book at a wonderful secondhand shop in Portland, not long after starting my job at YCC. I hadn’t bought myself anything unnecessary or frivolous since Gemma had gone missing. I hadn’t thought I was worth a gift for having been so stupid about Alan and his intentions, so blind. Buying that book for myself had been a landmark, an act of partial self-forgiveness, and the start of a more normal stage of my life.

  If any stage of my life since meeting Alan can be considered normal.

  I felt a drop of rain on my head and then another, so I went back inside the house. There was still no sight of Gemma.

  I lost my temper with her this morning. That’s not an excuse; it’s just the truth. All the frustration and fear I’d been feeling about Ellen and Richard courting Gemma, the only half-acknowledged resentment I’d been feeling toward Gemma herself for choosing to spend time with them instead of with me, the one who had waited so hopefully for her for seventeen years, it had all come to a head after that upsetting phone call from Martin McGinty.

  I thought everything had been going so well. Had I been fooling myself, thinking we were finally bonding?

  No, I don’t think so.

  It was such a stupid fight, the kind of fight all people who live together experience, no matter if they’re married or roommates or like Gemma and me, child and parent. Would she understand that? That a big stupid fight didn’t need to be the end of a relationship?

  It’s wrong of me to demand love and respect from my daughter—demanding love, if not respect, is Alan’s big problem, or one of them. I wonder. If he had called this morning as he was supposed to, would Gemma and I have argued?

  If I hadn’t gotten the call from Martin, would we be in this sad state of alienation?

  Silly questions. And what do they matter now?

  Now we have to pick up the broken bits and start over.

  Easier said than done.

  Chapter 99

  She didn’t come out of her room for dinner. When I finally went to bed at eleven, she still hadn’t emerged. I left a note telling her what there was to eat. When I came down to the kitchen this morning, the note was still there, but nothing in the fridge had been touched. Not even the last doughnut from the bakery in town. The doughnuts had been a treat for Gemma.

  I started the coffee brewing and took a carton of eggs from the fridge. And then I heard the back door to Gemma’s room opening, and a moment later she joined me in the kitchen. She looked exhausted. She looked as if she had been crying. I wondered if she had slept. I hadn’t, not much anyway.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  That was a start. “I thought I’d make omelets for breakfast.”

  Gemma shrugged. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” I said. “Cheese and ham, okay?”

  Go gently, I told myself. Slow and careful. I began to assemble the ingredients: salt and pepper, oil for the pan, a chunk of ham, and a few slices of Swiss cheese.

  “I’ve decided I’m going to live with Ellen and Richard and go to that academy.”

  The knife I’d been using to slice the ham seemed to stop in midair on its own accord.

  In the space of less than twenty-four hours, the wonderful life Gemma and I had been building had come crashing to the ground.

  I put down the knife and turned to face her, trying very hard to hide the shock and pain and hurt I felt. Gemma wouldn’t—couldn’t—meet my eyes.

  “You don’t have to go, you know,” I said.

  “I know.”

  Did she, really?

  “That fight. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

  Gemma shrugged again. “Yeah,” she said. Not an apology, but oh, I think she would have apologized to me if she could have! I could feel her sorrow like a physical presence in the room.
>
  This has to be about Gemma, I told myself, and not about you. Be the adult!

  “I want what’s best for you,” I said. I could hear the trembling in my voice, but I was too weak to get ahold of it. “I want you to be happy, and if it will make you happy to leave here, then I won’t stand in your way. And if it will make you happy to stay here, with me, then I’ll welcome you. We can start all over again.”

  “I already told Ellen. I called her yesterday.”

  But nothing is set in stone! I wanted to say this, to argue, to plead, but what I said was: “I guess then I should talk to her.”

  “There’s no rush.”

  “It’s only a few weeks until the fall term begins. There’ll be a lot to do before—” I swallowed hard before going on. “Before you have to leave.”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  I turned back to the stove and went about preparing our breakfast. Gemma remained leaning against the dishwasher. Neither of us said anything more.

  When the omelets were cooked and the bread had toasted, I brought the plates to the table.

  “Breakfast is ready,” I said. “Come and eat.”

  Gemma sat in her usual seat. “Thanks,” she said, and began to eat, though not with her usual gusto. She didn’t once look up at me.

  The food was tasteless to me, but I made a show of eating along with her. Normalize the situation, I told myself. Don’t create drama. “I have confidence in you, Gemma,” I said, pouring her a cup of coffee. “Confidence that you’re mature enough to make an important decision for your future. And for your happiness.”

  The words were inadequate. I knew that. And I wasn’t even sure I believed what I had said, that she was capable of making good decisions for her life. But I felt I had to say something positive.

  Gemma didn’t reply. I have no idea if she believed me.

  I think that was the saddest meal I’ve ever shared with anyone.

  Chapter 100

  I didn’t even feel hungry, which is not like me at all, but I ate the omelet and a piece of toast and drank a cup of coffee like it was any other day in our bungalow on Birch Lane, and Verity and I were going to hang around, doing something fun or nothing more exciting than living our life.