Nick rushed up, scooping their daughter into his arms. He placed Stella upon his shoulders. “Check it out,” he said, pointing to an eagle flying near eye level. “Eagle,” he said. “Bird.”
Stella kicked his chest, bouncing happily on his shoulders. “Agua,” she said, pointing instead to the lake sparkling like diamonds below.
Laura launched into a history lesson, one-upping her uncle. “Uncle Nick? Remember, you said el Torre del Homenaje was built in the thirteenth century, well it wasn’t, you know. The castle was built on top of an older eighth century Nasrid watchtower. Only later it was used by el casa de León, and that’s when they named it the tower of tribute.”
“Cool,” Nick said, speaking her language, and Laura immediately changed topics.
“Can we go swimming later? La playita is open and Pepi said there are lifeguards over there and you can see your feet on the bottom, clear as can be.”
“Sure, why not,” Nick said, but he looked at Caía. “Okay with you?”
“Of course,” she said. “If it’s all right with Marta, it’s fine with me.” And then she stopped, turning around long enough to take in her surroundings.
Five years had changed so much.
This high up, it seemed as though they must be closer to God. It was impossible not to see the beauty surrounding them and not know there was something bigger. The sky was so damned blue. The clouds so puffy and light. For just one moment, even the wind stilled, as though the world itself held a reverent breath. It was here she felt most at one with the Universe.
Right here.
Caía resisted the urge to pull her cell phone out of her pocket, to photograph the view, staying in the moment.
Hey, Ma . . .
Caía smiled.
There you are, Jack.
Nice gear.
Caía peered down at her hiking boots. Hardcore, with nice treads. Nick had picked them out for her. The house in Jeréz was filling up fast. There was a full-time nursery, and they only just moved Stella into her own room. Caía patted her belly, peering down at the wedding band on her left hand, a simple band engraved with each of their names on the underside.
Caía had decided to pursue a career as a professional interpreter. She was now fluent in Spanish, English, and Polish, and was adding French, Italian, and German to her list.
On the other hand, Nick still hadn’t figured out what he wanted to do. He was too content with his roles as uncle and dad, and he still walked Laura to school every day. The money he’d earned in Chicago was well-invested, and Caía didn’t foresee that he would be in any hurry to make a different decision anytime soon. By the choices he made, he reminded her daily of the things that were important. You would like him, she said to Jack, and knew it would be true.
If her son had to go the way he did . . . there was comfort in knowing Nick’s eyes were the last he’d met. She understood, firsthand, what that felt like, and she knew what her son must have seen in the depth of Nick’s eyes . . .
Everything’s gonna be all right, Ma.
Caía inhaled a breath, and Nick came up behind her, placing a hand around her waist, patting her belly but saying nothing, pulling her close. Stella’s shoe tangled itself in her hair.
A cell phone rang, the sound distant and muffled, and neither Caía nor Nick moved to answer, or even to check to see who was calling.
The ring fell silent, and then all she could hear was the sound of breathing, the rustling of leaves, and an eagle squawk, like the punctuation of a sentence without words, and the occasional squeaking of the rubber sneaker tangled in her hair.
*
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt acknowledgments to Rose Hollander, Eric Gerstner and Mary Beth and Mike Acosta, whose fellowship in Spain enriched Redemption Song.
And also to Jose Maria, whose lovely home was an inspiration, even if the details have changed.
Also by Tanya Anne Crosby
Zoe Rutherford wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she returned to Sullivan’s Island. The house on Sullivan’s hadn’t represented home to her in decades. It was the place where she endured her father’s cruelty. It was the place where her mother closed herself off from the world. It was the place where her sister disappeared. But now that her parents are gone, Zoe needs to return to the house, to close it down and prepare it for sale. She intends to get this done as quickly as possible and get on with her life, even though that life seems clouded by her past, both distant and recent. But what she discovers when she gets there is far beyond her imagining and will change her in profound ways.
The Girl Who Stayed is a remarkable exploration of the soul by a writer with a rare talent for reaching into the hearts of her characters and her readers, a novel of transformation that will leave you moved and breathless.
Here is an excerpt:
Of all the times Zoe had imagined her sister walking out the door and never coming home, not once did she ever truly expect it to happen.
Her gaze was drawn toward the house next door, where Gabi Donovan had arrived like a hurricane and less than a year later was hauled away, literally kicking and screaming. Zoe couldn’t remember where she’d gone, but thought Gabi’s grandparents had sent her to live with an uncle. Zoe never saw Gabi again, and that was soon enough for her . . . especially after what the little bitch had said.
Even now, all these years later, it made Zoe angry. Everyone claimed they hadn’t believed Gabi, but a seed of doubt had been planted just the same.
Moving cautiously up the front steps, Zoe examined the stairs. The wood was rotting and needed to be replaced. This close to the ocean, if you didn’t keep wood treated and painted, it didn’t last very long. On the top step, careful to avoid the rot, Zoe turned to survey the yard. From here she could see over the sweet myrtle and azaleas into the neighbors’ yards. On the one side, the house was newish, built sometime after Hurricane Hugo. The other house—Gabi’s house—was exactly as Zoe recalled. Like theirs, it was a relic of the island’s military past. Although well kept, it was nothing like the sprawling beach houses that had cropped up in recent years. It was a mishmash of styles—part cedar siding, part cinderblock, part board and batten.
At thirty-nine, Zoe had not yet lived long enough to forget the pain of standing here on this porch step, waiting for her dad’s pickup to pull into the driveway.
She pictured him now as she’d seen him that life-altering day, sliding out of the passenger seat, his expression full of confusion and fear. In the short time since he and Nicky had left the house, her dad had aged. He appeared years older as he emerged from his truck, his gaze somber, his lips thinner. His gaze had honed in on her mom, never on Zoe, as though to see her might have somehow broken his back.
Standing next to her, her mother had worried dry, cracked hands. “Did you check the Mound? You should check the Mound, Rob. I tell the kids never go there. But Hannah doesn’t listen.”
That day had been a first for many things. It was the first time her dad had looked past Zoe, as though both his daughters disappeared that day. It was also the first time Zoe recalled her mother ever acknowledging Hannah’s impetuosity. And it was the first time her father had ever snapped at her mother in front of the kids.
“Not now!” he’d said, storming past, into the house, slamming the door behind him. Marge had followed him inside.
Zoe had pulled Nicky into her arms as he’d ambled up the steps, partly because she’d needed a hug and partly because she’d sensed Nicky shouldn’t follow them inside. That day, as she and her brother had stood embracing on the front porch steps, the first threads of their family tapestry began to unravel.
Or maybe it began before that day? That probably wasn’t something a ten-year-old would know. Or a six-year-old for that matter. Hannah was only eight the day she’d disappeared.
Zoe examined the house next door. Like Kin
gdom’s, the paint job was faded, but not so much that it had become an eyesore. The low-pitched roof was in better shape than Kingdom’s, and the oaks were majestic enough to conceal any of the house’s imperfections. The patchy grass was cropped short, and the mailbox stood straight, painted with numbers that could easily be read. Above the house numbers, there used to be a sign with the house name, but Zoe could no longer remember what it was. The sign was no longer there. Crazy house. Loony bin. That’s how she thought of it now.
Not that “Kingdom” was any better.
For a while, she’d used a local firm to handle rentals for their property, but the broker seemed more inclined to rent it out to high school seniors. Considering the scars on the island house and their lack of incentive to fix the place up, Zoe was never overly concerned by the prospect of renting it out for much. But considering that the island had ordinances against overnight rentals, she had anticipated somewhat more thoughtful tenants. The condition of the house had suffered as a result.
It was unrentable in its current condition.
Of course, Nick couldn’t be bothered to care one way or the other. Her brother made it a point to stay clear of the house, and Zoe couldn’t decide whether his decision was driven by a sense of self-preservation or a desire to appear like something more than his tarnished roots. A spark of anger flared. He and his lovely wife lived in a cute little cottage in Summerville, with a perfectly manicured, chemically enhanced lawn that he saw to himself, just as far away from the salt spray of the ocean as he could manage. His wife looked like a model straight out of a Sears catalog—even after two kids, and she was a teacher so she could rush home to be with their little darlings every day after school.
Perfect.
Pristine.
Zoe was pretty sure Beth had no knowledge of the things that had transpired here in their Kingdom by the Sea. She ran her fingers across the stair rail. It was shedding years of bad paint jobs, like a molting snake, but, unlike the stairs, the rail was sturdy. Still it would probably have to come down since it was attached to the stairs. Flakes came away at her touch as she looked inside through the screen. Over the years, the blue ceiling of the porch had faded to a Confederate gray, as though rebelling from years of neglect. The house had an expectant aura—a ringing silence that felt more like a scream.
The furniture, what little remained, was familiar to Zoe: a sturdy white rocker that once belonged to her Nana. With ten years of tenants, it was surprising no one had stolen the damned thing. To begin with, they’d left the house fully furnished, hoping to appeal to vacationing families. It was never intended to be a year-round rental.
Next to the rocker sat an odd little octagonal table that had once shouldered a vase with roses from her mother’s garden. Even after Hannah, Marge had kept her resolve to fill that tulip-shaped vase. Old English roses were her favorite, complicated flowers that were perfect despite messy blooms.
Zoe knocked awkwardly on the screen door, not altogether certain why—maybe to ward away ghosts? Or maybe to alert the homeless who might have taken up residence inside? There was no one living here now, although some part of Zoe hoped leaving it empty would curry some favor with the Universe. The place had terrible karma. It bore an aura as dank and dark as one of Poe’s fetid tales. Although in reality, leaving the house empty was more a matter of avoidance than any sense of altruism, because Zoe wasn’t anyone’s savior, not even her own.
Searching for the door key at the bottom of her purse, Zoe thought about her car. It needed a tune up. Chris was the one who usually handled such things, but since he wasn’t going to be around anymore, she resolved to do it soon.
She didn’t need a man in her life.
The screen door wasn’t locked. There was a simple latch inside the door that couldn’t be hooked from the outside, but the lighting was better outside, so Zoe continued searching out on the steps. After just a few moments under the sweltering sun, she reconsidered the wisdom of placing the key on her keychain, although she probably wouldn’t do that. It was one thing to come back here to take care of business, yet another to incorporate the house into her life. Somehow, placing a key on her keychain implied a certain permanency she wasn’t willing to consider.
Finding the key beneath a pack of gum, Zoe pulled the door open, finally stepping into the shade of the screened-in porch. Without a breeze, the room wasn’t all that much cooler out of the sun, but that was the great thing about living near the sea: ocean breezes were godsends in the muggy May heat.
In the early days, before Hannah went missing, her mom would have been at this door before the three of them ever started up the drive, waiting to usher them inside, with promises of cold lemonade or cookies. Sometimes both.
A vision of the three of them—Nicky, Hannah, and Zoe—accosted her now. Hannah laughing over something—always something—Nicky elbowing his way past Zoe to see what treat their mother had in store, and Zoe meeting her mother’s fragile gaze, as though to issue an unspoken apology: I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help today. I’m sorry you look so sad whenever we leave. I’m sorry mom, because it seems you lose your world every morning at 7:00 a.m., each time we walk out the door.
Zoe had sensed the loneliness her mother felt, sending the last of her brood off to school. And Zoe, being the eldest child, had been careful to be sure Nicky always held her hand when crossing the street. The two of them looked both ways, while Hannah barreled ahead, heedless of oncoming traffic. Luckily, there hadn’t been all that many cars around back then. Even now, the island was mostly locals, while nearby Isle of Palms catered to tourists and folks who thought it was funny to brave a swim at Breach Inlet.
“Dead tourist!” her dad used to exclaim whenever he’d spied the orange-bellied Coast Guard choppers overhead. Nearly always it had been because someone thought the rules of nature didn’t apply to him—usually some strapping military dude, head shaved, tattoo on one bicep. Her father had never seemed overly aggrieved by the prospect, but Zoe had always felt solemn, thinking of somebody’s mother crying into her hands. Of course, after Hannah, her dad never cracked that joke again—or any joke for that matter.
Absently reaching into her purse, Zoe plucked out the pack of chewing gum, prying one out of the pack. Dropping the rest back into her purse, she unwrapped the piece of gum in her hand, put it into her mouth, and crumbled the silver wrapper, dropping it back into her purse.
“Can I have a piece?”
“Where’s yours?”
“I gave it to Gabi.”
“Then no. You can’t have one.”
The memory eddied like a vapor, ready to be swept away. It was easier not to remember. Except that, like the heat of jalapenos on a burger, even after you’d plucked them all away, it left Zoe with a smoldering sadness.
Despite the stagnant air, the porch was aerated enough not to smell closed up. Still, she detected a hint of mustiness in the air—only a hint. It would be worse inside, but Zoe went for the door anyway, determined to get this over with. The sooner it was over, the sooner she could get on with her life. Even now, she sensed the ghost of Hannah’s bike parked out on the driveway. The somber weight of her grief was still heavy in this island clime.
The master key slid into the lock easier than she expected. You’d think by now the keys were old enough to warrant a little wriggling, but without any effort, it seemed to Zoe that the house was so anxious to see her it removed all barriers to her entry.
So here we are . . .
Zoe pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Like many of the bungalows on the island, it was an elevated single story. The front door dumped you straight into the living room and behind that sat the kitchen. Another long corridor acted as a tributary, spilling you into various rooms—four bedrooms, two bathrooms. From the outside, the dormers appeared to be upstairs rooms, but they peered out from an insulated attic. When Zoe was young, she remember
ed talk about converting the attic into an upstairs suite but, of course, that never happened.
The curtains, thick sheets of yellowed-ivory material, were drawn against the early morning sun, casting the living area into shadow.
Zoe made her way over to the front window, drawing open the curtain. The thick, sticky material offended her fingers. One day her mother up and replaced her grandmother’s thin, lacy ones that tended to billow in with the breeze with thick ones that hung like theatre curtains off stiff wooden facades—as though to conceal everything inside from prying eyes, thereby curtailing all Good Samaritans from friendly neighborhood interventions.
At least that’s the way it appeared through a child’s eyes, and it was an impression that never left Zoe. It clung to her even now, like the cigarette smoke that stuck like amorphous carbon layers to the yellowed curtains.
“Why do you keep on her like that, Rob?”
“She’s got a shitty attitude and a shittier mouth. I want her to learn her place.”
“A woman’s place, you mean? Like mine?”
“Goddamn you, Marge. This ain’t about us. It’s about a mealy-mouthed teenager who ain’t smart enough to keep her goddamned trap shut.”
Silence.
“Admit it.” Soft sobs. “You blame her, Rob. You blame her; she knows it. This is why you can’t leave her be. Of course she’s mouthy. She struggles the same as you and me.”
With a great, big tug, Zoe ripped down the curtains, determined to replace them once and for all. They were dirty, old. It grossed her out to think how many tenants had fingered them before her. Sunlight burst into the room, stabbing its disapproval into all the dark corners.
Redemption Song Page 18
