Seashell Season

by Holly Chamberlin

  By the way, Verity told me Marion is sad about my going away again. Verity didn’t go on about it though, just stated it as a fact. I know she wasn’t trying to lay a guilt trip on me. I know because she didn’t even mention the fact that when I slammed the door of my bedroom after our fight, Marion’s mother’s vase—my great-grandmother’s vase—this old, delicate, almost translucent thing, had gone crashing to the floor and shattered into like a million pieces. I heard it fall. I saw the shards in the trash.

  Number Ten. When Alan screwed up by not taking his lawyer’s advice and accepting the plea bargain, Verity didn’t gloat. She was genuinely sympathetic and even urged me not to completely write him off. It doesn’t make a lot of logical sense, being so forgiving and kind, in front of me and everyone else at least (maybe in her heart she’s still pissed off), but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good thing.

  Number Eleven. There’s the website Verity set up all those years ago. That’s proof she never gave up hope I was alive and might come home to her.

  Twelve. There’s the ritual she performs each year on my actual birthday in March.

  And Number Thirteen. There are all the nice little things she does, like letting me have the little plush lamb that was my baby toy; to asking about my favorite foods so that she can make them for me, even when it’s obvious she doesn’t think I should be eating so much fried stuff (she’s probably right); to scolding me for putting my feet on the coffee table without first taking off my shoes (it’s a habit I picked up from Dad; no wonder our furniture, what there was of it, was always such a mess); and even to giving me a generous allowance when it’s clear she doesn’t have a lot of money to spare. Ellen and Richard tossing fifty-dollar bills and designer-brand watches at me is no big deal for them, but I see how Verity sits with the calculator and budgets out expenses for the week and how not once since I’ve been living with her have I seen her buy anything for herself, like a piece of jewelry (not even a fun plastic ring, the kind Annie wears) or a new T-shirt at that discount place Renys.

  I looked down at my hand, at the silver and turquoise ring she lets me wear.

  And I thought: You know what? Of all the adults in my life, the ones who are family, I mean—Alan, Ellen, Richard, Marion, Tom—I believe Verity is the one who truly loves me best, the one who always acts for my happiness first and foremost. Face it. Everything in my life with Alan was about him. His decision to kidnap me, to go on the run, to stay hidden. And yet look at how Verity reacted to my decision to cut Alan out of my life. She didn’t gloat and act all “I won.” She suggested I think more about taking such a drastic step as basically abandoning my father.

  In spite of what Ellen says about my deserving the opportunity to go to Greyson Academy, in spite of her telling me I’m the one giving her and Richard the gift of my relationship (if you can call it that), that’s not really what her offer is all about, is it? It’s all about what Ellen wants for Ellen. I don’t know her exact motives, but now I know, deep in my gut, that they’re basically selfish. If she really wants to give me money for school, why doesn’t she just write a check and leave me alone to be with my mother?

  Why doesn’t she leave me to be happy where I am?

  And I remembered what Verity had said to me when I first told her I was going away. About how she believed I was competent enough to make good decisions for myself.

  I’ll be honest. I’ve made some pretty stupid decisions in the past. Drinking. Smoking. Having sex without protection. Pissing people off for no better reason than that I could.

  I thought about how so shortly after I was born, my life was taken out of my hands. And all I’ve been doing in my life since then is reacting. And suddenly, sitting there with my sketchbook on my lap, in the home Verity had made for me, I realized I have the power to stop that trend of simply reacting: by taking active control of my life for the first time ever. By doing what I want to do. And I knew—I know—without one little doubt, that what I do not want to do is live with Ellen and Richard, who, if they really cared about my welfare, wouldn’t let me drink and wouldn’t want to wrench me away from my own mother!

  I closed the sketchbook, tossed the pencil onto the couch next to it, and went to find Verity.

  Chapter 109

  I looked up from my laptop, suddenly aware I wasn’t alone.

  Gemma was standing just inside the living room, her hands stuffed into the front pockets of her jeans.

  “Verity?” she said. “I mean Mom?”

  My heart began to thud in my chest. What else, I thought, what else can there be? “Yes, Gemma?”

  She walked over to the couch where I sat, and perched next to me, just on the edge, as if poised for flight if necessary. But she did look at me squarely.

  “Look . . .” she began. “I’m just going to say this. I’ve decided I don’t want to live with Ellen and Richard. I want to stay here with you. I’m sorry. I made the wrong choice.”

  It was what I wanted more than anything, for Gemma to stay. But I wondered if she was doing this for me and not for her. And that wouldn’t be right. I don’t need my daughter to make sacrifices for me. I don’t. I spoke as carefully as I knew how.

  “I want what’s best for you, Gemma,” I said. “What you feel is the right thing for your happiness.”

  “I know that’s what you want for me,” she said, pulling her hands from her pockets in what I thought might be a gesture of frustration. “It’s why I want to stay with the one person who really . . . Well, I guess the one person who’s not trying to buy me or lie to me. So, is it okay if I stay? I mean, I understand if you say no and—”

  “Gemma,” I said. “It’s beyond okay. It’s wonderful.”

  I literally tossed the laptop onto the cushions to my left and then turned back to throw my arms around my daughter. She in turn wrapped her arms around me, and I remembered how, earlier in the summer, I’d told Annie I wished my daughter could cry, at least that she would let me see her cry, and now, holding her and feeling her sobs rack her body, I felt ashamed and humbled and so very, very lucky.

  “I was being so stupid,” she said when she could speak again.

  “No. No, you were not.”

  And then she broke out of my arms and wiped the backs of her hands across her eyes. “I want to show you something. Can I get into my e-mail?”

  I passed the laptop to her, and a moment later she passed it back to me.

  “Read this,” she said. “It’s from Tom. This is what he said when I told him about Ellen’s offer.”

  I read. Verity has always lived up to her name. She’s always been a truthful person, never calculating or deceitful. You could do worse than being Verity’s daughter, Gemma.

  Now it was my turn to wipe the tears from my face. Truthful, I thought, but not properly forgiving. Never calculating or deceitful, but not generous enough in understanding.

  My father had suffered too. He lost a wife, then a granddaughter, and then a daughter.

  “Thank you for showing me this,” I said to Gemma. “I guess I’ve been pretty harsh with my father. Too harsh. He’s a decent man. He doesn’t deserve the treatment I’ve given him.”

  “Probably not.” She smiled. “I mean, if I can manage to keep wacko Alan in my life, you could probably manage to keep Tom in yours. Just saying.”

  “You’re right,” I said, more than a little ashamed.

  “What was the worst he did?” she asked.

  “I guess,” I said, “that his only crime was to be kind of emotionally obtuse at times, not able to show me any real support, especially after my mother died.” And after Gemma was taken, of course, but I didn’t say that.

  “Mom, if being an emotional idiot really were a crime, like, ninety percent of men would be in jail!”

  I laughed. “Probably.”

  “Seriously, though, you have to accept a person’s limitations if you’re going to give them your love or your friendship. You can’t punish someone you love for being flawed. So what if
Tom isn’t, I don’t know, isn’t David? He obviously loves you.”

  “Since when did you get so smart?” I asked jokingly.

  Gemma shrugged. “I think I was born that way. Or maybe,” she said, “I got it from you.”

  Chapter 110

  Annie and Marc and David had all offered to come with us when we confronted Ellen and Richard, for moral support and whatever other support we might need. (What did they expect? That Ellen would try to take me by force?) But in the end Mom and I decided we could handle Ellen and Richard on our own. I mean, who are they anyway that we should feel intimidated by them? Since when has money made anyone a better person?

  Not that I don’t like money.

  Verity sent Ellen a text, asking if we could come by the McMansion (actually, she just said house) to talk. Ellen texted back right away saying, Of course.

  She was waiting for us on the veranda, a glass of Prosecco in her hand, the bottle in the other. “I thought,” she said, “we could share a toast to our Gemma and her future at Greyson Academy!”

  Our Gemma? I glanced at Verity, who said, “None for me, thanks. I’m driving. Where’s Richard?”

  If Ellen was disappointed that Verity wasn’t interested in drinking with her, she didn’t show it, and then she led us inside to the kitchen, where Richard was sitting at the bar or island or whatever, frowning down at his iPhone.

  “Of course,” Ellen said, “I can’t offer Gemma alcohol. But would she like a seltzer?”

  “I don’t know,” Verity replied with a suspiciously big smile. “Would she?”

  I hid a smile of my own and said, “No, thanks, Ellen. I’m fine.”

  What a liar, I thought. She’s always offered me alcohol!

  “Hey,” Richard said, his eyes still fixed on his phone, on which he was busy typing something. Probably, I thought, he’s planning a corporate take-over, a move that’s going to put hundreds of people out of work. I mean, Verity did tell me he works in “finance.”

  But maybe I was being unfair. Richard has always seemed like a decent enough guy.

  Ellen, who looked exactly like she always did, perfect, chattered on. “I’m so glad the both of you are here,” she said. “And I’m so glad, Verity, that you realize our offer of Greyson is the only real way Gemma is going to have a chance to achieve greatness.”

  Richard finally lifted his eyes from his phone and looked at Ellen with an expression I couldn’t read. I wondered if she was drunk or just naturally prone to dramatics. I felt glad I’d probably never have to know.

  “Richard’s been in conversation with our contractor about making a few alterations to your room at the house, Gemma.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked. I really was curious. Weren’t the walls straight enough or something?

  Ellen waved her hand. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. I just thought we might open up the space a bit by knocking through the wall that backs onto a linen closet in the hall. We’ll lose that closet, of course, but that’s no big deal, as there’s plenty of cabinet space in both bathrooms, and your room will gain a few more square feet.”

  Ellen looked from me to Verity and back to me again, as if waiting for our enthusiastic response. When neither of us said anything—what was there to say?—she went on. Richard continued to frown and type.

  “And I suppose we should talk about Greyson’s homecoming weekend. It’ll be on us before you know it, and if we want to be in on the round of parties, then we’d—”

  “Ellen,” I said. “Stop.” I mean, I don’t even like the woman, but I was starting to feel bad for her being all excited about something that was never going to happen. That, and Verity was giving me a look that said, “Get on with it.” I’d told her I wanted to be the one to break the news to Ellen and Richard.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellen asked. She finished the glass of Prosecco and poured another one.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous. I mean, I knew she wasn’t going to take it well, and I really don’t like to upset people. Not anymore. “It’s just that I’ve changed my mind. I can’t live with you in Lexington. Actually, I don’t want to live with you. I’m going to stay here, with my mother.”

  I watched their reactions carefully.

  Richard put his phone down but said nothing. His face betrayed nothing. Not for the first time I wondered how committed he’d ever been to his wife’s plan to “rescue” me.

  But Ellen. Well, that was another story. The expression on her smooth and perfectly made-up face turned ugly, and she slammed her glass down on the bar, spilling her precious Prosecco.

  “What do you mean, you’ve changed your mind?” she said. Snarled, really.

  “Just that. I’ve decided I want to stay here in Yorktide, with my mother.”

  Ellen looked wildly to her husband. “I don’t believe this!” she cried. “Richard, do something!”

  Richard will take care of it.

  Not this time he won’t, I thought.

  Richard got off his stool, went over to the sink for a cloth, and began to wipe up his wife’s spilled drink. “It’s Gemma’s choice,” he said. He didn’t look at me or at Verity.

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Ellen,” Richard said. “It’s over.”

  Ellen put her hands to either side of her head and then thrust them into the air.

  “You’ve ruined our plans!” she cried. “You’re the most selfish, ungrateful person we’ve ever encountered. If you don’t agree to come live with us and enroll at Greyson Academy, we’ll cut you out of our lives—and out of our will. We’ve told everyone back home that you will be living with us. Now we’ll look like fools.”

  Verity opened her mouth—no doubt to defend me—but I shook my head at her. And then I laughed. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry you’re disappointed. But do you really think I care about your money? Okay, at first it was kind of fun, taking your presents. I’ll give them back if you want. But I know I made the right decision, choosing to stay with my mother. She doesn’t try to buy me, for one. And if you really care so little about the two of us that you’ll walk away, fine, do it. Good riddance. Right, Mom?”

  “Right,” she said. I thought she looked like she was going to cry. But she also looked happy.

  Ellen waggled her hand at me dismissively. “I don’t want anything from you. Keep the phone and the bike and the watch. People like you will probably need the cash before long.”

  For a split second I thought I was going to fly at her and punch her in the face. But then my willpower got to work, and I unclenched my sudden fists and loosened my tense shoulders. “Thanks,” I said.

  Ellen wasn’t finished. “You’ll never make anything of yourself without our help.”

  “You interfering—”

  “Mom.”

  Verity’s lips tightened, and I thought, Yeah, it’s costing her a lot to keep quiet.

  “I’ll make something of myself,” I told my father’s cousin, and my voice was like steel. “My mother did everything she’s done with her life with no help from anyone. Certainly not from your family. And I’ll be a success too. Watch me.” I turned then to Verity. “Let’s get out of here, Mom.”

  When we were almost to the door, I stopped and turned back. Verity put her hand lightly on my shoulder.

  “Wait,” I said. “One more thing. Why, Ellen? What was your point in all this? Or do you even know?”

  Ellen seemed to sag then. Literally, she slumped onto one of the stools and hung her head.

  “I think,” Richard said, “that you both should go.”

  We did.

  Chapter 111

  The beach was crowded with people young and old, with their blankets and chairs and umbrellas and coolers and kites and Frisbees. Seagulls were screaming. Toddlers were squealing. Music was playing. Lovely, happy chaos.

  Somehow, it seemed good for us to be part of it all after what Gemma and I had just been through.

  “Well,�
� Gemma said, as we headed down the beach toward Wells, the cool ocean water lapping around our ankles, “that was nasty.”

  “You handled it beautifully. Better than I could have in your shoes. That woman is toxic.”

  “Ellen’s a bully,” she said. “And I’ve had my share of experience with bullies.”

  “Still, I—”

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, though there were things about which I had questions. Like, is Ellen mentally unbalanced, and what really is Richard’s role in that marriage? An enabler? A caretaker? Not that Gemma would have the answers to those questions.

  Gemma bent down and picked up a shell the color of slate. “I want to start a collection of shells too,” she said. “Unless that’s, like, invading your territory.”

  “Of course not. We could also start a sea glass collection. I don’t know why I haven’t already.”

  We walked along in silence for a while, and I felt so very aware of the fact that this is what I’d dreamed of for years, to simply spend time with my child, to walk along the shore, to share meals together, to know that she chooses to be with me. A life lived side by side. It’s all worth so much more than what money can buy.

  I know it won’t go on forever. I know someday she’ll move on and she should. She’ll become an independent adult, and that’s a good thing. But for now, well, for now, I’ll cherish this greatest of gifts.

  “No regrets?” I asked after a time.

  “No regrets. You’re going to teach me to draw, right?”

  “Right. How about we celebrate at The Friendly Lobsterman?”

  “Celebrate what?” Gemma said. “My freedom?”

  “That’s as good a way to put it as any.”

  Gemma smiled at me. “You know, you could probably get me to do all the housework if you promised me a plate of their onion rings once a week. Hey, I’m not above a little bribery.”