Remember Me

by Deborah Bedford

  “Traveling through?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “How long will you be around?” he asked.

  She voiced the stunning thought—“I’ve got reservations for two weeks. Only, it could be longer”—before her heart seized. Was that saying too much?

  He seemed to sense, as he’d often sensed when they were young, that she needed a route of escape. Which he gave her by diversion.

  “Hey. You got a minute? You have to hurry off or anything?”

  “Nope. Don’t have to hurry. Don’t have anywhere else to go right now.”

  “I seem to remember a girl who was the best clam digger in all of Tillamook County. She taught me everything I knew.”

  “Well, not anymore, Sam. You should have seen how I did today.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You went clamming today?”

  “I bought a clam shovel and went out—”

  “You bought a shovel today?”

  “—It was so bad. I don’t know what was wrong. I kept digging the right places—”

  “You’re the one. Shame on you.”

  “I’m the one, what?”

  “You bought the last clam shovel before we had a chance to get it. You.” He reached over and goosed her in the ribs the way he’d done what seemed a lifetime ago.

  She doubled up. She knew exactly how to protect herself. “Stop it.”

  “I’m going to have to take your new shovel and teach you a lesson or two. I’ll bet I’m better at digging clams than you are.”

  “You are not.” She reached over and goosed him back. And suddenly they were laughing again, the untroubled laughter of the young, innocent and pure, as sparkling as the droplets that flew toward the sun when a wave crashed onto shore.

  The laughter went deeper, lasted longer this time, before wariness overtook them again. When words left them, Sam sat down on the edge of the patio, scrutinizing her up and down, making her slightly uneasy. “You were a silhouette at first. If not, I would have known you. You’re just the same. You have the same smile, the same expression in your eyes.”

  That was nice. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.” Then, “I shouldn’t tell you this, should I? I drove past your old house the other day. Did you know that?” he asked as an electric zing shot through her. “First thing I did when I came into town.”

  She felt too breathless to laugh.

  “I did.”

  “You’re crazy, Sam Tibbits.”

  “That’s not the first time you’ve said that to me, Aubrey. But look now. Here you are.”

  “Did you ever tell your parents that it wasn’t you who got those clams that night?”

  He beckoned her toward the stoop, that old glint of challenge in his eyes. “Why should I risk my reputation like that? Of course I didn’t tell.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “You haven’t forgotten any of it, have you?”

  “No, Aubrey. I haven’t.”

  Suddenly, he found something interesting beyond the toe of his right shoe. She sat on a step, propped her elbow on her knee, her chin in her palm. He reached behind her for the guitar and fingered a B-minor. She arched her neck and examined the stars.

  He strummed the chord. “I mean, it all comes back, you know?”

  And she said quietly, “I know.”

  “We ought to go out to dinner and really catch up, find out what each other have been doing. What do you think about that?”

  “We could,” she said tentatively, “since we’re both here.”

  Sam began to pick a tune, to tap the rhythm with his foot, and she listened a while. She scratched her arm and was glad there weren’t mosquitoes this close to the water. The ocean breeze kept them away.

  “I didn’t know you played the guitar.”

  “I didn’t.” He turned a screw, strummed the same chord as if he heard a note that dissatisfied him.

  “I like it. That’s what made me notice you down here.”

  “That came . . .” But he hesitated, seemed to rethink what he’d been about to say. “. . . later. That came later in my life.”

  Later in my life. A sudden sense of loss blindsided her. She grieved for the snapshots of his life which she would never see, scenes she’d thought, when she’d been young, that she stood a chance of playing a role in.

  “So what do you do,” she asked, “for a job?”

  When he hesitated, it was clear to her that he didn’t want to say.

  “Is it that funny? Is it that bad?”

  “I’m a minister,” he answered.

  She threw back her head and lost it, her mirth pealing sharp and pure into the night. Her heart had ricocheted from one thing to another in these past few minutes, and now this.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “A minister? Of a church?”

  “I used to talk about it some.”

  “You did? Never with me. You never said anything about that to me.”

  “I’m a man of God who likes to dig clams. What’s so funny about that?”

  “You don’t look like a preacher.”

  “Oh, really. What’s a preacher supposed to look like then?”

  “Oh, you know. A dark suit tailored at the hips with a flashy tie. The hair slicked back with pomade. The jowls that jiggle when you say”—she acted it out, lowering her voice for him, raising her hands —“‘Praise the Lord!’”

  “I’m working on the jowls. It’s taking time and a lot of cheesecakes.”

  The snapshots I missed aren’t what I expected.

  “So, whatever happened to old Mox?”

  “Little Mox. Poor Moxie.” To her horror she began to cry. From laughter to tears in, what, something like fifteen seconds? Her emotions sprang dangerously close to the surface. “He died.” She touched the corners of her eyes with her fingers, trying to regain her composure.

  “I never should have asked that question right now. Something that I already knew would have a sad ending. Of course Mox died. If he hadn’t he’d be, oh, how many years old by now?”

  “Don’t count the years,” she shrieked. “Whatever you do, don’t count the years. Especially not dog years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He got hit by a car.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  The teenager he’d come with was inside his cottage and the television was still going strong. “I think it would really work, going out to dinner,” Sam said, glancing toward the door. “I don’t think my nephew would mind.”

  It was ridiculous, but she caught herself thinking, Oh, he’s a nephew. He isn’t a son.

  Aubrey glanced at Sam’s left hand, looking for the telltale gold band, and grew flustered when his eyes followed hers. She couldn’t recall ever glancing at a man’s hand before. She hadn’t wanted him to see her checking. She hadn’t noticed him checking hers. And that was good because it felt safer. Maybe he didn’t care.

  She didn’t know what sort of church he was the pastor of. Maybe he couldn’t.

  He wore no ring. But then, neither did she.

  “No, he isn’t my son.”

  “Oh.”

  Then, in an old-fashioned way, as if the two facts could be connected in some way anymore, “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.” And she didn’t know why she felt relieved at that. She didn’t know why it felt like a gift for tonight, except that she’d just found him again and she didn’t want to have to share him with anyone.

  “If you don’t want to leave him—”

  “It was my idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s do it.”

  “It’s late, Sam. I ought to let you go.”

  “I’ll talk to him. We can hang out tomorrow. Just someplace simple where we can talk. Maybe the Sea Basket—”

  “No. Not the Sea Basket. I’d like to go somewhere else.”

  “Tomorrow the
n. I’ll come knock.” His voice seemed to transport itself over years.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  After she traversed the grass to her own patio, she stood there for a long time, her back braced against the clapboards, before she heard the gentle closing of his door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sam awakened the next day to a soft fog out the window, a gray as soft as a dove’s wing. Mist hugged the seacoast every morning; it would burn off by eleven o’clock.

  From his vantage point, Sam could see Hunter’s nose still burrowed against the pillow in the bed next to his, his hair poking in a dozen different directions. Hunter was snoring slightly. His lips, thick with sleep, hung open at the same angle as a halibut’s.

  Seeing Aubrey the night before might have been a dream.

  If the rental had a kitchen, Sam would have fixed breakfast. He would have snuck into the market while Hunter slept and bought pancake mix and butter and maple syrup. He would have fried them fluffy on the inside, crisp and brown on the outside. His nephew would have awakened to the mouth-watering smell.

  Sam was hungry enough to eat a bear!

  Hunter had stayed up late last night watching TV. He would sleep for at least another hour. In haste, Sam shoved back the covers and headed for the shower. After he’d dressed, towel-dried his hair, and left Hunter a note as to his whereabouts, Sam tiptoed out the door and latched it quietly behind him. He took his car through the nearest carwash. He found a bakery with a sign that advertised “hearty breakfasts.”

  That fit the bill. Sam walked inside to lights and morning chatter and the steaming cappuccino machine. Mountains of flaky croissants and fresh-baked pastries waited inside polished glass cases. He ordered eggs and bacon, and then pointed out to the hostess which baked goods he’d like. Yes, he was selecting more than he needed, but who cared! They looked so good that he couldn’t decide.

  It seemed his senses had sprung to life. When had he last looked forward to something? Sam found a table in the shade along the sidewalk where he sipped the most robust, fragrant coffee of his life. When the waitress brought his meal, he lowered his head and thanked his heavenly Father. When he began to eat, the bacon crunched against his tongue and tasted of hickory. He dug into the crisp, white sack and slathered a croissant with butter and strawberry jam. He sank his teeth in, closing his eyes in bliss.

  I saw Aubrey last night, and I’m going to see her again tonight. We’re going to catch up.

  The thought felt laden with possibility and bottomless. Sam’s stomach filled with apprehension. His fork paused in mid-air. He stared at his half-eaten eggs and realized that he’d been insane to order all this food.

  He wasn’t hungry anymore.

  When Sam returned to their rented room, he found Hunter’s bed empty and the shower running. Sam unloaded the goodies he’d bought, laying them out on the bureau like treasure—a quart of cold milk and the pastries, a raspberry turnover, a blueberry Danish, and a sticky bun. When Hunter turned off the water, Sam knocked. “Hey, you sleepyhead. There’s food out here.”

  The fog outside had begun to dissipate, not fading away exactly, but interspersing with strands of blue. Sam couldn’t stop himself from glancing toward the sliding door, the patio. Would Aubrey be sitting there? Or would she be running around Piddock Beach, doing the things he’d expect her to be doing, shopping along Main Street and seeing old haunts, digging clams, visiting friends? He didn’t know. He wanted to know.

  What could she be doing this minute?

  Hunter appeared behind him. “Where did that come from?”

  “What, the pastries? I bought them. Some bakery down the street.”

  “No. Not the pastries.” Hunter pointed toward the glass. It was the first time that Sam noticed the clam shovel propped against the door. “I’m talking about that.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. Oh. Then, “I can’t imagine.”

  But, of course, he knew. After hesitating a little, he said, “Aubrey must have brought it over.”

  “Aubrey?”

  “Aubrey—” Sam realized he had no idea what her last name might be.

  “The lady you were talking to last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she, anyway?”

  “An old friend.”

  There was a silent moment which begged to be filled with explanation. Sam didn’t choose to fill it.

  “She’s letting us borrow a shovel?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Why would she do something like that?”

  Sam shrugged offhandedly.

  “Hey, is she an old girlfriend or something? You’re acting kind of weird.”

  Sam opened the door, picked up the shovel, and examined the blade with great care. “The two of us thought we might go out to dinner tonight, if you didn’t mind.”

  Hunter backhanded his mouth, smiling as if he’d discovered some forbidden knowledge. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “Let’s go clamming, Hunter.” Sam weighed the shovel handle in his hands. “I’d like to show you how.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “You need to understand what it means when someone doesn’t answer your questions. It means that person doesn’t want to start a discussion.”

  With shovel in hand and the tide waning, they stepped over rocks of bloodstone and pyrite, agates and shale. Sam showed Hunter how to find the most promising spots for clams. The boy dug, piercing the earth, digging deep and fast into the watery sand while his uncle gave directions.

  The clams burrowed with astonishing speed. After about a dozen fruitless tries, Hunter finally quit, spearing the ground with the shovel and leaving it to stand. “No wonder she gave you this stupid thing. It’s no use. There’s no clams on this beach.”

  “That’s what everybody says when they start.” For days now, Sam had been afraid to touch his nephew. He’d needed to, he knew that, but the gesture had felt contrived. Now, with great care, he cupped his hand against Hunter’s neck, gave the boy’s head a fond jostle. This time, it felt right. “That’s what I said, too. But they’re down there, Hunter. It’s patience and timing. You’re coming along.”

  Walking back, they stopped to examine tide pools that had appeared in bowls of rock. They found a green sea anemone lying open like a flower, boldly colored sea slugs, tiny undersea sponges. They watched a thumbnail-sized hermit crab scurry along in a borrowed shell.

  A flock of seagulls scuttled behind them, curious and fat, the wet sand mirroring their white bellies and gray wings. Something caught Sam’s eye in the distance and, when he surveyed the heavy smudge of blue that marked the meeting of sea and sky, he saw a plume of water.

  “There’s a pod of whales out there,” he told Hunter, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder again. “Most migrate north and south along the coast, but there’s a group of grays that spends the year here. Can you see?”

  Hunter shaded his eyes, shook his head. “No.”

  “There to your left. Look where I’m pointing, as far out as the eye can see.”

  “I don’t—”

  “There goes another plume. It’s a whale, Hunter. It’s spouting.”

  Hunter stepped away from Sam’s touch. “You know so much about this place.” He picked up a piece of beached kelp, the leaves dark and leathery, flung it high overhead. “When you came before, how much time did you spend here?”

  “A week, maybe two weeks, each summer. With Mom and Dad.”

  “Why did you stop coming?”

  As Sam spoke, he examined the horizon, couldn’t find the whales anymore. The sun, which had hung overhead, had slipped almost imperceptively toward the west. What had been a clear panorama now flashed and moved, impossible to see.

  It occurred to Sam that Hunter was the same age now as he had been when he’d been running around these beaches with Aubrey. How could he have ever been so young?

  “I grew up, I guess,” he
answered Hunter.

  “That shouldn’t make any difference.”

  “Or maybe I grew up because I had to stop coming, I don’t know.”

  When he and Aubrey went out that night, Sam drove west, past the agate shop and the Old Cannery Building, rusted and foreboding, with the huge picture of a salmon on the side. They said nothing important to each other in the car. All was still and serene, two adults having a benign conversation together, until he mentioned that the car wasn’t clean enough for her, and apologized because it smelled of dog. “I tried to clean it out when I found out I’d be driving you around. I took it to a car wash this morning, if that counts.” He fumbled to roll down the window, and the car swerved a little bit.

  “Careful.” Aubrey grabbed her handle, and they laughed self-consciously at this being together, just the same as when they’d been teenagers. She was embarrassed that she had immediately chastised him, sounding like the wife or the mother she was.

  “No sense getting in a car accident before we even get a chance to catch up.”

  “I had a car with automatic locks and windows,” he explained as she cranked her own window down a bit, “but Ginny kept stepping on the knob and locking herself inside.”

  She had no right to the jealous urge that rose within her. She had never been able to picture Sam with someone else. A girl’s name—

  He glanced sideways at her as if he’d felt her go still. “Ginny. My golden retriever. Maybe we should have brought her with us, but she was lying on the carpet in there with her four paws up in the air. She has a bedtime she doesn’t like to ignore.”

  “Oh.” Oh. Aubrey shot him a smile.

  This time he reached to pull out the ashtray and the car wobbled again.

  She reached for the wheel to stabilize it. “What are you doing now? Let me do it. You’re driving.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  And he smiled. “My gum.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to throw it away in the ash tray. I hate pitching gum out the window. Comes from too many years of finding it on the bottom of my shoe, I guess.”

  Aubrey held out her hand.

  “You want it?”

  “I’ll wrap it in paper or something. I’d rather do it than die on the road.” She couldn’t keep the unbidden thought of the two of them being found dead on the road together from surfacing. What would her family think?