After last summer we never heard from Ellen and Richard again, not a peep. It still kind of freaks me out when I think about how they just swooped into my life—into our lives—expecting me to just go off with them. And I almost did! That was a seriously close call. I try not to think about that whole disaster of that stupid fight with Mom and then telling Ellen I’d go to live with her and Richard, and then of how I was miserable until I worked up the nerve to tell Mom that I’d changed my mind and wanted to stay with her in Yorktide. I feel embarrassed when I think about all that, even though I’m only embarrassed in front of myself, which is somehow bad enough. You don’t need other people around to make you feel like an idiot.
Money’s an issue for Mom and me—though compared to how Alan and I lived, I feel rich here with Mom, and in more ways than one. So even though it was kind of tough getting used to juggling homework with after-school activities—hey, I might not like sports, but here I’m required to do something athletic if I want to graduate—I managed, and then, back in January, I got a job watching Molly and Michael next door one night a week so that Peter and Grace can get out on their own for dinner at one of the bazillion clam shacks around here or to a bowling alley they like in South Berwick. The money isn’t much, but it helps, and I like spending time with the twins. And because I live right next door there’s no commuting! This summer, though, I’ll be working at—you guessed it—a clam shack in town. Sophie Stueben got me the job—she’s been working at The Clamshell for a while now—and though a portion of what I make will go to our household fund (that’s my idea), I have a plan to buy a piece of turquoise like the one I saw at that Native American museum when I was a kid. Maybe I’ll wear it as a pendant, to go with my ring and bracelet from Mom. Note: Tourmaline is Maine’s official stone, and it can be green or pink or a combination of both, watermelon tourmaline, which is pretty cool. But I like to wear turquoise as a reminder of my childhood in the Southwest. After all, there were some good times.
Oh, more about our financial situation. Even though Verity’s class on the patination of metals went ahead for both the fall and spring semesters, it’s not as cheap for two to live as it is for one, so I’ve decided to go to Yorktide Community College for two years, work my butt off, avoid taking any classes by Mom because that would be weird, and apply for every scholarship I possibly can. I think I’d like to stay in Maine after that, maybe go to Adams College in South Berwick or Maine College of Art in Portland so I can come home on holidays without it costing a fortune.
Home. Yorktide, with Mom. It’s not such a bad place to live after all. By now (except for that week when the results of Alan’s trial were made known) people have pretty much learned to ignore the fact that I was The Little Kidnapped Girl. At least, they leave me alone—even that obnoxious Mirelle Turner turns the other way when she sees me coming—and only speculate about the first seventeen years of my life behind closed doors. I haven’t decided what I’ll do about my past in my future, by which I mean, will I tell new people I meet in places far away from Yorktide that I was kidnapped by my father when only an infant and returned to my mother seventeen years later? I suppose I’ll have to come clean. It is, after all, my life and while I’m not thrilled it started out the way it did, I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not even ashamed of Alan, though I doubt anyone would criticize me if I were. He’s obviously got a screw loose, to put it mildly, and you don’t choose to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic, to put it even more mildly.
Thank God, not all my family is screwed up. I keep in touch with Tom, and I tell my mother about what’s going on in his life, like the time he sprained his ankle while he was mowing the lawn and the fact that he and Valerie are going to Aruba on a packaged trip next year. But Mom also exchanges e-mails with him sometimes, and they’ve even talked on the phone once. She said it was an awkward conversation but that she was glad she had called. He’s invited us to visit him in Florida anytime, and I told Mom I thought we should go. I think she’s almost to the point where she’s going to say okay. I mean, Tom’s a nice guy. On my birthday—my real birthday—he sent a check for twenty-five dollars, and I spent it on taking Mom and me to dinner at Flatbread one night, this amazing pizza restaurant. (We went to the one in Portsmouth.) Well, the bill was more than twenty-five dollars, but the money helped and we had a good time. We shared this completely decadent chocolate brownie dessert, too, and both of us felt jittery after from all the sugar. It was awesome, the dessert, I mean—not the jitters. By the way, I’ve cut way down on coffee. Not so much sugar, as you can see!
I really like David. He’s a good guy, and he’s so into my mom and not just because she’s kind and talented and can make even simple ingredients like a can of cream of mushroom soup, some onions, some cut-up chicken, and a box of noodles taste fantastic. And face it, he’s hung around since I’ve been home, and I haven’t always been easy to put up with. A lot of other men would have gone running from a woman whose screwed-up (through no fault of her own) teenage daughter suddenly got dumped on her doorstep, but David didn’t. Plus, he’s smart, and I like talking to him about all sorts of things, from movies (we both really like Pulp Fiction and Fargo; in fact, David introduced me to them) to all the crazy shit that’s going on in the world on any given day, like wars and terrorist shootings and weird sex scandals among politicians. I guess I wouldn’t mind if he and Mom decided to get married, though that would mean we’d have to move out of this house, which is way too small for three people, and into David’s, which is just about big enough for three people. Or maybe we’d have to sell both houses and buy a new one. Anyway, before too long I’ll be out on my own, and it would be nice to have a place to come home to when I lose a job or get kicked out of an apartment by a roommate from hell. Not that I would ever take advantage of their welcome. I’m not the type to be pathetic like that. Mom knows that. Well, it’s up to them, what they do, though I’ve hinted pretty broadly to Mom that she’s got my okay if she wants it.
For the first time ever I celebrated my real birthday, the actual day of my birth, March 26. I asked Mom what she remembered of that day, and no big surprise, I guess, she remembers every little detail—well, until she was too tired to even notice what was going on, and that was after I was born and it was noted I had the requisite number of arms and legs, etc., and it was okay for her to basically pass out.
Mom asked what I wanted to do to celebrate my eighteenth birthday and honestly, because it was such a strange thing to think about, having a birthday in March, which is still really winter here, I said I just wanted to stay home and have a cake, just the two of us. Mom suggested maybe we should also have Gram, and I said okay to that. So it was just we three. Gram brought along the pictures she’d already showed me a million times, the ones she’d taken of me and Mom in the hospital, and Mom made a cake with—get this—homemade vanilla icing, which I’d never had before, and chocolate ice cream, and given my well-known sweet tooth, I was pretty content. I got cards, too, from David, and from the Strawbridges, and from Tom. Of course, Alan didn’t acknowledge the day, and I didn’t expect him to. Honestly, I’m not sure what he thinks is real at this point. Clearly, he’s come to believe an awful lot of his own lies, and so what’s the point in reminding him I was really born in March and not August when his brain might not be capable of comprehending that?
Even though I’ve joked with Mom about celebrating two birthdays every year now—meaning, I get two cakes—I don’t think I’ll go ahead with that plan. I mean, why? Maybe it’s better to keep as much as I can of my false life before Yorktide firmly in the past. Alan’s a huge reminder, of course, and maybe he’s enough of a reminder. And if he sends me a birthday card this August, well, I can’t help that. His reality was never anyone else’s reality, was it?
Overall I feel a lot calmer than I did at this time last year. Well, that makes sense! I mean, at this time last year my world was exploding, and the pieces were falling back to earth in all sorts of random bits. Now those pieces
have sort of solidified, and there’s structure where there had been none. People need structure. Which is not to say I’m calm all the time. At least once in every conversation I have with my father, I can feel my pulse start to speed up, like when he says something so unbelievably stupid, like getting into one of his paranoid fantasies again. And even—though I kind of hate to admit this, after all she’s done for me and keeps on doing—Mom can get on my nerves, like when I sneeze and she starts running for the aspirin. But then again, it’s human to be both happy and sad, both calm and agitated, right? As long as you don’t let the sadness and agitation turn into something nasty that makes you attack the people who love you. That’s the hard part.
But it’s not impossible.
Gemma Elizabeth Burns-Peterson has been living here with me, her mother, for just over a year. My daughter. And my hero.
I mean, really, to have gone through all the unexpected upheavals and radical changes she’s gone through in the past twelve months or so and to have come out the other end so strong and so steady . . . Well, it’s a pretty big achievement.
Still, I worry. It’s a mother’s habit, and it won’t be shrugged off. I wonder if Gemma’s really as happy and as adjusted to this new life as she appears to be. I don’t mean I think she’s consciously hiding unhappiness or discontent—Gemma is nothing if not real—it’s just that she’s come so remarkably far, or has seemed to, that sometimes I fear a sort of backlash. I fear she’ll finally collapse after all and, I don’t know, run wild, run away. And then I think, no, that’s not my daughter. For whatever mysterious reasons, Gemma, the girl Alan called Marni, is so much stronger than I was at that age and certainly so much stronger than her father ever was at any age.
We celebrated her eighteenth birthday on March 26, the first time we’d celebrated her birthday together. I wondered if there was any point in my going down to the beach at dawn, as I had done for all those years in a row, to perform my annual ritual of hope. Because now there was no need to launch a promise of remembrance and love out into the wide world, not with Gemma right here with me, flesh and blood. But I found it too hard to let go, so in the end, before Gemma woke that morning, I did go down to the shore and this time, instead of sending another little missive onto the waves, I said a very heartfelt thanks to who or whatever forces had helped to bring Gemma home to me. The air was raw—we were expecting a snow squall later that day—and I stood there shivering on what little there was of the sand (it being high tide) until I felt sure someone or something out in the universe had heard me. Then I went home, passing on my way a few local fishermen already back from their run out to sea. I suspect this solitary ritual, now one of gratitude, is something I’ll be doing for every year of my daughter’s life, no matter where the future takes us.
When I got back to the house, Gemma was in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee. The look she gave me let me know she knew where I’d been and probably why. Neither of us said anything about my excursion, though, and we went on to have a very pleasant day, culminating in Marion’s joining us that evening for dinner, cake, and presents.
I spoke to David that night from my bedroom, with the door closed and my voice lowered. “How did it go?” he asked. “And are you all right?” I was all right, I told him, and Gemma seemed to be all right too, though she had been a bit subdued all day. Of course, Ellen and Richard sent no acknowledgment of Gemma’s birthday, not that we had expected them to. They had sworn to cut us off, and so far they’ve been true to their word. All I can say is, if they ever come sniffing around my daughter again, well, I won’t hesitate to send them packing with a few choice words. To have cared so very little for Gemma not to even have pretended to accept her decision to stay with me with some degree of grace, some show of goodwill . . . I shudder to think what her life with them would have been like. But all that’s gone into the past. Amen.
David and I have talked again about marriage, but I’m still not entirely sure it would be the right thing to do for Gemma’s sake. If we had lived together as a run-of-the-mill single mother and child, I’d still hesitate before settling into marriage—I’d consider carefully the quality of the man I was bringing into the life of my child—but given Gemma’s and my odd situation, I find myself cautious about introducing another big change to her life. David understands this as he’s understood so many other things about me through the years. He’s even promised me that if we married, and if Gemma wanted it, he would be more than happy to officially adopt her. Close to a saint he might be, but still, he has a right to live a happy and fulfilled life, and I can’t keep him hanging around for much longer without making a decision either way.
I want to marry him. I believe he thoroughly respects my relationship with Gemma, and I want to spend the rest of my life at his side, and with him by mine. But sometimes Gemma will be standing in between us, and how that will really feel to David, he can’t know for sure until it happens.
I know. A leap of faith is what’s required now, faith in myself, in David, and in Gemma. I’m not the same person I was the last time I contemplated marrying someone—and thank God for that—and David is as far from Alan as a man can be. Thank God for that, too.
Gemma, my wonderful daughter, has been key in my reconciling with my father, in helping me to forgive him for not being able to help me when I needed help the most. I’ve come to understand why I reacted so negatively to my father’s fumbling attempts at consolation back when Alan (it was supposed) made off with Gemma, and I think I can be forgiven those negative feelings, but that doesn’t mean my decision to keep him at arm’s length was the right one. And the only thing Valerie ever did wrong was to not be my mother. The only crime she ever committed was to love my father. I’ve been unfair to her, too. Anyway, Gemma and I are hoping to get down to Florida for a visit next February, when YCC and the high school have a weeklong break from classes.
I’m very happy to say that Gemma’s nascent artistic skills are advancing rapidly, and it thrills me to see how she embraces each step of the journey, understanding that failure is part of success and that nothing worthwhile ever comes easily.
Ain’t that the truth!
I don’t know if she’ll pursue a career in art—that’s entirely up to her—but I do hope she continues to live her life with art. Art makes life so much more bearable and meaningful.
That’s something Alan could never understand.
What is there to say about Alan? He’s made his bed and now he’s lying in it. A harsh sentiment, but it’s true, at least to a great extent. Alan’s poor choices—to the extent of which he was capable of making choices independent of his mental or emotional problems—landed him behind bars for the next ten years. We all live and die alone—another harsh reality—and in the end Alan will be the only one facing his truth head on, that he stole a child from her mother and deserved what he got in return.
Poor Marion is taking Alan’s sentence badly, as any mother would, of course. But she’s long since given up making excuses for him, and so I hope she can achieve some peace of mind soon. Gemma is good to her grandmother, visiting her once a week (mostly on her bike, as we’re sharing one car at the moment), and getting her out of the house for walks and fresh air, not something Marion is likely to do on her own.
Gemma has also made a few friends here in Yorktide, and she sometimes hangs out with a girl named LaJuana, whose mother also teaches at YCC. Cathy, of course, is still in the picture, but as I suspected a year ago, before Gemma came home to stay, Cathy and her friends are just too different from Gemma to allow for a really close fit. As long as Annie’s daughter and mine aren’t tearing each other’s hair out, all is good.
When I ask about boys, which I do on occasion, Gemma informs me I’ll be the first to know if she’s interested in someone but that I shouldn’t hold my breath. Like I want her to get involved with a boy! No, I’m happy about her celibacy, believe me.
I’m happy about a lot of things.
For so long I thought I wou
ld never be able to say my life was whole, complete. But now it is. Whole. Complete.
Lovely.
I think I am quite possibly the most grateful person on this earth.
Please turn the page
for a very special Q & A
with Holly Chamberlin!
Q. What made you decide to write about a teenage girl who had been kidnapped at infancy?
A. My editor came across an article about a stolen child and he asked if it would be a topic I’d be interested in exploring. I said sure. I mean, talk about a subject ripe with opportunity. Once I started the preliminary research into cases of abducted children and the damage done to the family left behind, I was hooked. It’s a fascinating and, unfortunately, an all too common crime.
Q. Talk about your biggest challenge in telling this story.
A. The biggest challenge was to make Verity, the mother, more than merely a sad and depressed victim. Yes, she spends every day since her baby was taken grieving her loss. But in order to be a compelling character, one with whom a reader actually wants to spend time, she also had to have an interesting and successful life. Equally as challenging for me was to make Gemma, the daughter, more than just a bundle of fury and rejection.
Q. Gemma is tougher and more experienced, if not necessarily more mature, than most of the teen characters you’ve created in past books. And she’s certainly lived a more difficult life, even going hungry at times. Was it fun to write her?
A. Maybe not fun, exactly, but I very much enjoyed creating Gemma. She’s smart and a survivor. She’s tough, yes, but she’s basically a decent and caring person with a conscience. It was a challenge to show how her feelings for her father change from the time of his arrest to a year later, after his trial and sentencing. It was also a challenge to show how her feelings for her mother change over this period. As for Gemma’s relationship with Ellen, her father’s cousin, I wanted to show that while Gemma is savvy, she’s still a child, susceptible to a cunning or even just a pushy adult, and full of self-doubt at the same time she’s full of bravado. When Gemma decides to go off with Ellen and her husband, she really believes she’s choosing the only path still open for her. She really believes on some level that she’s to blame for the mess that is her life. Why? Because she’s a vulnerable child who’s been lied to consistently by the adult who raised her. Her sense of identity has been badly undermined. Frankly, my heart broke writing those chapters between the time Gemma declares that she’s leaving Verity until the time she finds the strength to tell her mother that she wants to stay.
Seashell Season Page 36
