Wash Ashores

by Anne Fall

  "The garden, my heel sank into the mud, and I tripped…" Her voice trailed off with the entrance of Eric, the fourth person on the greenhouse stage. He examined the situation leisurely, steadily.

  "I found her, Vivian. She was trying to make it to the house, and I helped her inside. She didn't want to take you away from the party."

  "You should have gotten me! Sylvia, never feel that way in this house." Her tone was beseeching, asking Sylvia for forgiveness. Why did everyone want her pardon? What had they all done to her? Perhaps, for Vivian, it was not just that she had been seen, but that she had been seen through the eyes of a child. The replica of herself startled her.

  "I'm sorry, Aunt Vivian. I didn't want to ruin your party." The man she did not know stepped closer.

  "Viv…" Her aunt's name was abridged, condensed, underlined by the absence of its fullness.

  "Go," she said in a slow moan. He paused for a moment to look at her longer but slipped out and disappeared, refusing to meet the gaze of anyone else there. Only she existed for him. Vivian was the one hurt the most. Vivian, with her hair tangled in a silhouette of previous pleasure, lips bruised, red on her cheeks and neck. The transition between those two roles was too much for her, and she was transparently wavering, trying to recall who she was now. Watching them, Eric took note of Vivian with calculated composure, and the sudden tears of Sylvia in conjunction to each other. He did not remark on the gentleman's presence or departure.

  "I'll go get Adam." He left the room for the second time, and the two women sat silently near each other, considering the implications of Adam's pending presence.

  Within moments, Adam entered the room like a light turned on. Immediately assessing the situation, he did not see his smeared wife, he only saw a young woman who was hurt and needed manly assistance. Lifting Sylvia up in his arms, Adam carried her back to the house and through the party with her face hidden in his shirtfront. He was always heroic, Sylvia thought. He just never normally had an occasion to show it. People made way for them like the sea at the staff of Moses. He had not questioned any of them, only decided what needed to be done and did it. Sylvia gained, if not respect, at least sympathy for him. He was not a bad man. Placing her on top of her bed, Adam turned and looked at Eric and Vivian, now standing in the doorway. "She's covered in dirt. She must have had a hell of a time getting out of the garden to the greenhouse. Adam’s stance was convincing, bold. "She'll need a cold bath, that will help with the swelling, too. Where is Hanna? Hanna?" He roared out Hanna's name, as if she could hear him above the noise downstairs.

  "I'll get Hanna." Eric slipped out, back into the murmuring downstairs. She could hear the questioning hum of concern and excitement below.

  "You'll have to help, Vivian, but Hanna should be able to get her in and out of the tub." Adam explained their roles to them easily, seeing the start to the end before they had understood the beginning.

  "No, please. I'll just wash up with a cloth. Please." Sylvia's eyes filled with tears again.

  "You need a bath. No one will look at you." Vivian's hand took hers, silently appraising her. The idea that they had decided she needed a bath at a time like this was beyond Sylvia. Could they not see she just needed to be alone? Hanna bustled into the room with concern in her face.

  "What happened to you? Your ankle? You poor thing! It's those shoes. Mark my words. Eric's getting ice from downstairs. Out, now, Adam. I'll take care of the rest of this."

  After Adam had left, the two women undressed her from the tangle of her evening clothes. New just hours before, they looked like a crumpled victim of the night. Hanna brought a towel from the bathroom and wrapped her up discreetly. Vivian had drawn a cold bath. They lowered her into the water, allowing the towel to get soaked. It floated around her strangely, dark and green like moss or seaweed.

  "Now, when you're ready, just leave that wet towel in the tub, and I'll get you a dry one when you get out." Hanna kept her eyes averted the whole time.

  "Do you want me to stay with you?" Vivian's voice came out pleading, and Sylvia could not deny her. It was her only way to tell her it was okay.

  "Yes, Aunt Vivian, if you'd like to." Vivian sat down on the closed toilet. Sylvia remembered bathing as a child with her mother sitting like that, watching her play in the bubbles and water. They were alone, and it was quiet.

  "I am so sorry you saw that." Vivian's eyes focused on her hands, polishing the nails against her palm. Sylvia remained soundless, soaking and drifting. "It's not easy, sometimes, being a woman. It can be very lonely and strange like a dream, a waking dream. You lose yourself after a long time of being married, and there comes a time when you'll do anything to get yourself back. To even remember." Vivian met Sylvia's eyes, and Sylvia could see the green magic of Vivian's eyes. She conveyed everything in a look: the hours of loneliness, the lack of children, the upkeep of propriety, and the meaninglessness of it all. It was all illustrated in her eyes, a collage of images flickering. It came to her then that maybe not everyone could read Vivian's eyes like that. Some bond of blood or resemblance let her see.

  "I am so tired, Aunt Vivian. What is happening to us all?" The bewilderment swirled in her mind, and she did not want this change to continue. If only it would stop, and she could go home to her mother and father.

  "Don't try to understand it. It's not worth it yet. I don't know if it ever is…" Her voice trailed off as Hanna entered the bathroom with a knock and an averted face.

  "Eric brought the ice. I'm ready when you are, Sylvia." She sat up in the tub, the water rushing behind her to fill the unexpected absence of her torso. When Vivian turned around, Sylvia saw the dark red marks on her back, but she could not seem to place what they were from. The two women helped her out of the tub with a fresh dry towel. Limping, she made her way to the bed.

  Hanna turned down the blankets and put several extra pillows at the foot of the bed. The two women almost lifted her up to the bed. Vivian dressed her in a white nightgown, and Hanna lovingly iced her ankle until Sylvia could not stand it any more. They gave her two aspirins that she took with a grimace, unfamiliar with swallowing pills. She lay back in the bed, and they propped her ankle up with the extra pillows.

  "We'll let you sleep. It will be easier in the morning." Vivian kissed her forehead and touched her cheek with a cool dry hand. "Goodnight, Sylvia, goodnight."

  That night, sleep came to Sylvia quickly. Her mind and thoughts swirled in one final cry, and she fell deeply down and down. The cool ocean air from the window left ajar slipped and cooled her heated face. Even nature recognizes children and longs to soothe them.

  CHAPTER 4

  A week passed with Sylvia mostly resting in her bed. The ocean wind, ever present, pressed into the room and begged her to come outdoors, to taste the scenery with the tip of her tongue. She languished in the bed, boredom dancing around her in grey shadows. Aunt Vivian, discovering her love for the books in the glassed case, brought her novel after novel.

  Day after day, she read, dreamed, and watched the sky drift past in quiet motions, a silent film. Her heart, slowed now, felt protected and safe in the sickroom. Hanna lavished attention on her, and the pained anxiety that had begun to flood her disappeared. In her weakness, Sylvia was still a child, something easily explained. She stayed there longer than necessary, unwilling to rise.

  When she did rise, she began walking around the second storey. She drifted in and out of the empty bedrooms, which felt haunted and ghostly. Each bedroom was done in a different color, like changing moods every time she went into a different one. She began to rearrange things in the rooms, and it gave her a great sense of satisfaction to do so. She longed for her mother. Aunt Vivian faithfully told her of the conversation between the two sisters regarding her health. Guilt plagued Sylvia, because she did not want to cause her mother pain or even bother to call. Why didn't she come to her? Wasn't she hurt and alone in this great big house? Why, why didn't she come? Sylvia saw her mother in her mind leaning over, sewing, t
asting dinner in pleased smiles, holding her hand out to Sylvia in the sunlit glory of a park in June. Mother, the eternal and faultless, the goddess of children.

  After a week had passed, Sylvia returned to the routine of the house. The dining experience brought them all together in a dangerously close medley. Her heart returned to pounding. Catherine and Eric touched often, and she watched them touching like it was a lesson or a trial. Vivian and Adam maintained their smooth formality, proper and faultless in their roles as husband and wife. What she had seen, that night in the greenhouse, was separate from Vivian and Adam. It did not feel like a part of their marriage, the scene just stood as the eventual result of Vivian's circumstances, like rain falls from clouds or ruin comes from loneliness.

  They all appeared to have given up on Sylvia’s entertainment. Days passed in silence until she had a guest. Vivian escorted Ella into a front room with damask couches and overpowering crown moulding. When Sylvia entered the room, Ella was standing and touching an ashtray with a look of desire.

  "Ella! How sweet of you to come." Ella turned at the sound of Sylvia's voice and faced her in cool but contrived confidence. Her dauntless auburn hair looked like something to be hidden, and the last time Sylvia had seen her came to mind abruptly.

  "It's not as sweet as you think. My grandmother practically dragged me here." Her eyes regarded Sylvia calmly, without warmth or friendship offered. "I am to invite you to a party on the beach tomorrow night."

  "Thank you, I would love to attend." Sylvia found herself retreating to chill formality in the face of Ella's honesty.

  "I don't mean that I don't want you there, and I don't want to be rude. I just don't know you. They always push me into things." Ella's hands were animated, exasperated and ready to smack.

  "I know. I feel the same way here." Sylvia continued to regard her quietly, lightly—but honesty must be met with honesty.

  "Good. It's tomorrow night, at eight o'clock on the beach near town. I'll come to pick you up. My grandmother always insists on sending a driver with me. You’d better bring a jacket. It's cold on the beach at night."

  "I will." Sylvia, feeling suddenly unafraid, walked across the room and hugged Ella's stiff thin body. In the embrace, Ella softened like a piece of clay, warmed in the hand.

  "Wear something a little less young. You'll fit in more." Ella went out of the room with her adultness worn as a crown about her forehead. Sylvia, left standing in her wake, watched her go without fear. What else could they do to her here?

  That night, Catherine came to Sylvia’s room and helped her pick out what to wear to the party. Catherine, all knowing in her feminine wisdom, selected clothes carefully. "It will be a test. You must not be afraid there. Look at them all with your indifference, and they will fall at your feet and worship you." Catherine's eyes sparkled as she spoke, reliving her youth.

  "I will try, Catherine. Do you think I should go? Is it necessary?" The effort of this could not possibly be worth the exertion.

  "Of course, darling. It will be good for you, to be with people your own age. It's a hard time of life and to go through it with friends is the only way to survive." Filling her head, the advice did not appear real—it felt like a staged platitude meant to silence her.

  Ella and her driver took Sylvia to the party. It was only the third time she had left the house since coming here. She and Ella found things to laugh about in the backseat, and Ella gave her a cigarette, showing her how to inhale between outrageous bouts of coughing and laughter. Suddenly, Sylvia remembered that she was young. The escape from the adult world from which she had come felt like a relief. Here was girlhood, embraceable and perilous.

  Downtown passed quickly. Shops, lit up by historic replicas of light fixtures, welcomed all in their nighttime folly. The streets overflowed with people in summer clothes, dressed for the evening. Children ran ahead of their parents, and the parents meandered, arm in arm, believing that nothing wrong could happen on their vacation. They were safe here. It was only a temporary place, not real. It only took a few more minutes to get to the beach.

  Ella stepped out the car with her legs accentuated by high heels. Sylvia followed her, practising her posture before the crowd could see her. The two of them went down several flights of stairs crafted of grey wood worn by the sea winds and sand. She thought the word splinter. On the second landing, Sylvia could see the ginger light of several bonfires in the dark landscape below. Her skirt flared out around her widely, and she had a hard time seeing her steps on the stairs. Nevertheless, she made it to the sand. She and Ella leaned down and removed their shoes from matching ankles. Comparing their feet to one another, Sylvia saw that Ella had nail polish while she was nude. Lazily strolling towards the scene that awaited their presence, the sand cradled their feet, urging them forward and into the night, closer to the water.

  Pressing Sylvia's hair away from her face, the wind danced around the two of them like a multitude of children laughing. The bright orange and warm yellows of the fire against the blackness of the seascape looked like candles floating on the sea, its immensity distorting perspective. The bonfires moved closer and closer to them, as if of their own accord, rather than by any movement the feet of two girls made in the impressionable sand.

  The small groups surrounding the bonfires were stretched out on worn blankets or standing around and slowly danced in circles, their shadows thrown behand them. Someone had a radio, and the songs of the summer played at full volume against the conversation of the sea. Couples moved together in the darkness, close to the shore, touching each other in the acceptable act of dance.

  "Ella, you're here!" His pale blue dress shirt and slacks were pressed perfectly, and Sylvia disliked him immediately.

  "Of course, I'm here. Why? I don't know." Retaining her appearance of boredom, Ella hid under the languor that protected her in a variety of environments.

  "Who's your friend?" Pleased and distant from her, he jutted his chin in Sylvia’s direction.

  "Sylvia, this is Mark. Mark, Sylvia." Ella reached into her purse and lit another cigarette. Sylvia wanted one, needing to look as unmoved and self-assured as Ella did.

  "Well, nice to meet you." Mark backed away. "Come on, it's all going on near the bonfire. I'll get you a drink."

  Once they were near the bonfire, the scene became clearer. Beautiful girls were sprawled out, legs and arms everywhere. The interaction between the groups of people fascinated Sylvia. She and Ella began drinking beer, and it tasted bitter to Sylvia, the sea and sand combined. She drank it easily. The heat from the fires gave her a thirst.

  The moon appeared, veiled by huge moving clouds. Sylvia, brushing against the bodies all around her, tried not to throw sand on the couples lying on blankets. The music faltered around her, static appearing and disappearing like the clouds.

  Mark approached them repeatedly. Eventually, Ella and Sylvia found a place on a blanket near the fire. Beer after beer was finished. Slow sensual awareness of her movements overcame her. Sylvia felt dragged down and slowed. Her legs were too long and cumbersome, dragging against each other and moving in the sifting sand past the edge of the blanket. Her shoes were lost, and Sylvia could not remember where they had placed them.

  "So, who's Sylvia?" Mark addressed Ella.

  "She's Vivian Fanning's niece, here for the summer." Mark turned to face Sylvia in a new light.

  "Ah. A summer girl." He appraised her as he said it.

  "Something like that." Sylvia watched Ella, wondering, for a moment, if perhaps the listless boredom was real. Maybe Ella did see something here that was obvious and tedious.

  In the firelight appeared the two girls from Hanna's kitchen. They were dressed so differently that, at first, Sylvia did not recognize them. Wearing pretty floral skirts, their blouses were tied in a high knot under their breasts.

  "They're here. Look at the two of them. Townies." Ella's words rolled off her tongue easily.

  "Townies?" Sylvia spoke quickly the slight she did not u
nderstand.

  "They live here year round, working and what not. After the tourists all leave, they're still here."

  "Oh, I see. Did you know they do catering at my aunt's house?" Ella silenced her with a look as the girls approached. Mark stood to greet them, giving them each a familiar touch.

  "Amy, Laura. You look beautiful tonight, as always." His hands rested on each of their waists, and the two of them stood as close as twins. It was too familiar, how he touched them.

  "What's that bitch doing here?" It was the first time Sylvia had heard the word to describe herself. Ella, without warning, was upon them as viciously as if it was her they had struck.

  "Get them out of here, Mark." Rather than bringing her closer to Ella, the defence she had made for Sylvia brought her further away from her.

  "Who do they think they are?" Ella asked the question to no one in particular, but the handful of people on the blanket nodded with the same look on their faces.

  Sylvia stood up, almost fell in the uncertainty of the sand, and began to walk toward the water. She felt weak and dizzy but physically excited with the strength of her limbs, her movement. The water enticed her, called her toward its sound. Moving through the sand slowly, she did not feel rushed, rather, all time stood before her in patient waiting. The couples near the surf continued to dance to music that could barely be heard.

  It tore Sylvia's heart to be alone, and she felt more unaccompanied than ever. For the first time since she had been there, she touched the water with her toes. Gradually she went deeper, until the water was up to her waist and her skirt was drenched. Just past the breaking of the waves, she stood, arms stretched up toward the moon. The waves rose against her breast, and she felt herself alive with the cold madness of the night. Instead of turning back, Sylvia kept walking out until she was forced to swim, her clothing clinging to her in dark heaviness. She floundered once, and it frightened her. Swimming toward the shore until her feet found the sand, Sylvia walked back out of the water. The couples still dancing on the shore barely noticed her. She knew night swimming alone was madness, but did it matter? They were all mad here.