by Meg Donohue
Rosalie studied me. I could not tell what she was thinking.
“You’re sixteen,” she said at last. “I think you’d have a say about what happened to you.”
“It’s never felt worth the risk to us.”
We both fell quiet then, listening to the music. I was almost asleep, and thinking of San Francisco, when I murmured, “What’s it like?” I opened my eyes and looked at Rosalie.
“Hmm?”
“San Francisco,” I said. “What’s it like?”
She smiled. “Oh, I don’t think I should describe it to you, Merrow. You’ll see it yourself someday—someday soon, I hope—and when you do, I don’t want my words to be the ones that come to your mind. You should have the experience of seeing it through your own eyes first.”
I was disappointed. At that moment, it felt as though I might never live anywhere but Horseshoe Cliff. Rosalie was so sure I would go to San Francisco, but what if I didn’t? If there was a life for me beyond Osha, I had trouble seeing it. Rosalie Langford didn’t know anything about me. Homesickness overtook me again—I’d never faced a night away from Horseshoe Cliff.
“Maybe there are times when it’s better to see something through the eyes of someone else first,” I said. “For example, if you went to my home, you’d probably only be able to see a little shack groaning in the wind. You’d see a saggy front porch with peeling paint and a broken step. You’d smell an outhouse and wonder how someone could live with the stench. And when you walked far enough to stop smelling the outhouse, you’d start smelling the chickens. You’d pass a dry patch of garden and scrub grasses stretching to the horizon, where the edges of cliffs crumble straight into the ocean. That view, on the edge of the cliff, might impress you. But that’s about it.”
Rosalie watched me as I spoke. I closed my eyes and thought of home.
“But if you let me describe Horseshoe Cliff to you, then you’d know about the eucalyptus grove, which smells like heaven and is full of hiding spots and fog so thick you can open your mouth and drink it. You wouldn’t know until I told you that we used to have horses, and that their hooves beat the path that leads down to the beach. You wouldn’t know that when you sing in harmony with someone else in one of the caves that are carved into the cliff, the sound is more beautiful than any other sound in the world. You wouldn’t know that if you really want to be unreachable and you’re very brave, you can sit in the back of the deepest cave, the one that curves up to a ledge, and watch the tide roar toward you until it sweeps over your toes and then your ankles and then, just as you’re getting really worried, it slouches away as though all it ever wanted of you was a taste. And the sunsets—it’s just not possible that there is anywhere on earth that has more spectacular sunsets than the ones we see from our back porch. And the fog! It’s like the whole world has been shrunk down to the size of the whitecap on a wave, and you’re just hugged within it, the wash of white and gray, the bit of sun that filters through . . .”
I trailed off. I opened my eyes.
Rosalie’s head was cocked, her lips set in a curious smile. “How beautiful,” she said. “If I were half as eloquent as you, I’d attempt to describe San Francisco now, but I’m not. And frankly I’m more convinced than ever that you need to see it through your own eyes. Perhaps when you do, you’ll tell me what you see. I’d love to hear what you make of it.”
I smiled, basking in the glow of her compliment. Eloquent.
“Do you keep a journal?” Rosalie asked. “Do you write these sorts of descriptions down?”
I nodded.
“Maybe you’ll study writing in college. Or art history. Your teacher seems to have given you quite a head start.”
“I don’t think I’ll go to college.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “But you have to go to college! You’re clearly very smart, Merrow. I bet you could take the GED tomorrow and pass.”
“Oh, I already passed the GED.”
Rosalie leaned toward me. “Have you applied to any colleges? I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I hope you realize that there are many organizations that could help fund your education.”
Rei often spoke to me about college, too. I listened as Rosalie listed a few of the scholarships that she thought I might be eligible for. She didn’t know, as Rei did, that I would never leave Amir behind at Horseshoe Cliff. Like an echo of my heart, my leg throbbed.
“I think I might need another one of those pills Doctor Clark gave me,” I said, interrupting her.
Rosalie looked surprised. “I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t upset you . . .”
“No, no. It’s just that my leg is starting to hurt again.”
Rosalie retrieved the pills from the kitchen counter and handed me one along with a glass of water. “Would you like me to help you to your room?”
She held my elbow and guided me down a hall that was lined with beach photography. She stopped and opened a door. “Here you are.” We looked into the room. The bed was huge and white, and I felt a little thrill just seeing it. “I’ve put some pajamas in the bathroom that’s just through that door, and you should find everything else you might need in there as well.”
“Thank you.” I was tempted to say more—something about how much nicer she was than I’d expected her to be, perhaps nicer even than I deserved, considering how I’d trespassed into her life. But before I could speak, the strangest thing happened. Ever so briefly, Rosalie lifted her hand to the side of my face just as she had done with Emma.
“Good night, Merrow,” she said.
“Good night,” I said quietly. As she turned and walked away, I touched my face and swallowed away the lump that had formed in my throat.
Alone in the bedroom, I stood still and listened but could not hear any sound except my own breathing. The carpet was thick below my bare feet. I limped into the bathroom and shut the door. I lifted the blue dress over my head and carefully folded it. The pajamas Rosalie had left for me were made of white flannel and trimmed with blue silk. On the counter there was a toothbrush still in its packaging and a bar of face soap. Three jars of lotion sat in a pretty row on the vanity. I dipped the tips of my fingers in each of them and rubbed the lotions onto my face and neck. I loosened my hair from its plait and brushed it with a large-toothed comb that I found in one of the drawers of the vanity.
When I finally slipped into the cool white sheets, my thoughts turned again to Amir. I hated not knowing exactly where he was at that moment in time. Was he in his room? Had Bear forced him out to the shed again? Was he hurt? Worried for Amir, I was sure I would toss and turn all night.
Instead, I fell into a restless sleep that I awoke from with a start. The sheets were wet and cold; in my dream, I’d been drowning in a freezing sea, my own limbs unfamiliar and weak. It was a terrible dream, with my oldest friend, the sea, betraying me. I sat up, shivering and shaken, and tried to remember where I was, but for a long, fearful moment I could not. I blinked against the black room, searching for something familiar. I heard a noise.
Someone was in the room with me. I was sure of it. My tongue was thick in my throat, choking me. When the figure moved in the darkness, I began to scream.
Chapter Twelve
It’s me, Merrow,” a woman’s voice said.
I twisted away from the light that suddenly flooded the room.
“You called out, and I . . .” I felt a cold hand on the side of my face. “You’re burning.”
When I tried to open my eyes, the light stung them. The bedsheets felt like ice and the tears on my cheeks were hot.
A wet cloth was pressed to my head. I could not stop shivering.
“I want to go home,” I managed to whisper.
The voice that answered me was so tender that my trembling body stilled.
“I know, dear. We’ll bring you home very soon. But for now, just rest and let us take care of you.”
It was my own mother standing over me. It was Marigold Shawe. She’d returned, just as my father had always sa
id she would. I felt a rush of warmth spread through my body, a sense of peace and security, my mother’s love enveloping me for the first time in so many years. This is what it feels like, I thought. This is it.
WHEN I AWAKENED, sunlight was streaming into the room. Rosalie was asleep in a chair. There was a cup of water on my bedside table and I drank it greedily, my mind racing. Something had happened in the night, but I could not remember it clearly. When I set down the cup, Rosalie stirred.
“Hello,” she said. “You developed an infection in the night, and a fever. How are you feeling now?”
My leg throbbed, and I felt groggy, but I didn’t think I had a fever. “I’m okay.” I thought back over the night, trying to remember. “Did the doctor come again?”
“No. I called him, and he talked me through bringing your fever down with wet washcloths and ibuprofen. He’ll be here later to take another look at the wound.”
I glanced toward the window. The sunlight did not seem like the thin light of morning. “What time is it?”
Rosalie checked her watch. “It’s nearly noon.”
I had never slept so late. At Horseshoe Cliff, Amir would have been awake for hours by now, wondering where I was. I moved to push the sheets aside, but Rosalie stood.
“Rest a bit longer.” She smoothed the sheets over me. She wore pale gray cashmere pants and a top. I could not tell if they were pajamas. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and white-blond strands framed her face, which was long and as pale as her children’s, her eyes a bright blue. Everything about her seemed softer than it had the day before. I was amazed to think of her sleeping in the chair at the foot of my bed.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “What would you like? Scrambled eggs—”
I must have pulled a face because she laughed.
“Not a fan of eggs?”
“We have chickens at Horseshoe Cliff. A lot of chickens. So . . .”
“A lot of eggs. I see. Well, we did bring a box of chocolate croissants from the city. If Emma hasn’t already eaten them all, would you like one?”
I grinned. I’d never had a chocolate croissant—or even a plain croissant, for that matter. “Yes, please.”
When Rosalie left, I sunk down below the covers and pressed my face against the soft pillow. I would need to remember this feeling, to etch it into memory.
Rosalie returned with a tray that held two croissants and a glass of orange juice. The croissant was warm in my hand and when I bit into it, chocolate dripped from the other end of the pastry and landed on the white plate below. I didn’t pay any attention to Rosalie while I ate, and by the time I finished both croissants and she came into focus again, her expression was troubled. I felt embarrassed for eating so quickly, but not so embarrassed that I didn’t lick each of my fingers clean. I was debating licking the plate when Rosalie spoke.
“You were very upset last night. You screamed in your sleep.”
My face grew warm. “I’m sorry that I woke you. I don’t think I knew where I was.”
“There’s no need to apologize.” Rosalie hesitated before speaking again. “You were screaming your brother’s name over and over. Bear.”
I looked down at the plate on my lap. The smears of chocolate were as dark as mud.
Rosalie spoke softly. “You were scared.”
I did not look up. What if I just told her how worried I was for Amir’s safety? What if I told her how Bear treated us? Rosalie was not who I’d thought she was when I first met her—I could see now that she was someone who would try to help us. My heart began to race. What a relief it would be to finally tell someone!
“Bear . . .” I began.
Her face was set in an encouraging expression.
I thought of the aloof way she had looked at Amir. I had made a promise to him in the shed on that night years earlier—a promise not to tell anyone how Bear treated us. Yes, we were sixteen now, but we were not adults. Amir could still be taken from Horseshoe Cliff. We could still be separated.
I forced a laugh. “I remember now. I was dreaming that a bear was chasing me. It was one of those awful dreams that felt real. It must have been the fever.”
Rosalie sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Well,” she said slowly. “I’m glad it was just a dream.”
I could tell that she did not believe me, and I was grateful that she didn’t push me on the subject.
THAT AFTERNOON, I sat with Will on the patio, awaiting the doctor’s arrival. A lawn sloped steeply away from us, ending in a neat row of bright hedges. The woods beyond the lawn had been cleared just enough to catch glimpses of the ocean, but it seemed very far away, much farther than it actually was. It was odd to see the ocean but not smell it or hear it. The view was like a backdrop for that neat lawn; it seemed more like a drawing of the sea than the sea itself. Even so, the glimpse of blue was a comfort, a touchstone that put me more at ease. The air was cool, and I shivered within the sweater that Rosalie had given me. I wore her jeans, too, and a pair of black rubber boots that were at least a size too large for me.
Emma, in a long red sweater and leggings and sequin-covered sneakers that made my inner ten-year-old writhe with envy, turned cartwheels down the sloped lawn, gaining speed until she collided with the hedge and released a squeal of surprised laughter.
Will and I sat at a table, reading. I had borrowed Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast from the bookshelf in the living room. Will read a thick textbook with pages that fluttered in the breeze. I watched his eyes scan back and forth down the length of one page and then another. He was a fast reader. He did not take notes, but he paused every so often to consider something he’d read, his expression serious. He looked out toward the view in those moments, but I did not think he was aware of what his eyes saw; he seemed lost entirely in his own thoughts. I caught his eye during one of these ruminations and smiled. He blinked before offering a polite smile in return. I had the sense that he’d forgotten I was there.
“How’s the book?” he asked.
“I like the descriptions of Paris. I like books that are set in places I’ve never been.” Then I laughed. “Which is everywhere but Osha.”
His expression relaxed into a more natural smile. “That must make picking out your next read easy.”
“Yes. The world of books is my oyster.”
Will laughed. “Mine, too.”
“But I bet you’ve been to Paris. You’ve seen it in person.”
He nodded. “I went as a kid with my parents, and then again a few years ago when I was in college. Some friends and I took the train from Paris to the French Riviera.” He grew enthusiastic as he told me about the trip, his eyes brightening. He laughed telling me how his poor French had landed his group on a two-hour train ride in the wrong direction during one leg of their journey. But they were helped by an older couple who invited them to spend the night at their flat in Nice. Will was still in touch with this couple and had taken their grandson out to dinner in San Francisco when he was in town.
“It’s the people you meet when traveling,” he said, “that I love the most. Well, and the history. And the architecture. The cafés. The food! Who am I kidding? I love it all—I even love the trains themselves.”
I was leaning toward him, taking in every word. Rosalie had given me a thick wool blanket to spread across my knees, and when it slipped from its place, Will reached down and scooped it off the ground. My stomach fluttered at the possibility that he might spread the blanket over my knees, but instead he handed it to me.
“I’ve never been on a train,” I said.
Before Will could respond, Rosalie and Doctor Clark stepped onto the patio from the house. Just seeing the doctor made me think of Amir and Horseshoe Cliff. I felt ashamed of how enthralled I was of Will, when I should have spent the day worrying about Amir.
“How are you feeling?” Doctor Clark asked me. “I heard you had an exciting night.”
“Yes,” I said. “My first fireside picnic.�
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Rosalie smiled. “I think he means your fever.”
“But my experience of the fever wasn’t actually very exciting. And it’s gone now.”
“Can I take a look?” Doctor Clark said, gesturing toward my leg.
I nodded. Will tucked his textbook below his arm, gave me a sympathetic smile, and then walked toward the house. Rosalie asked if I’d like her to stay and I said yes. It was only my leg, after all. Will had raced off as though I were about to undress.
After rolling up my pant leg to check the wound, Doctor Clark recommended a course of oral antibiotics to stave off an infection.
“I stopped at Horseshoe Cliff this morning,” he added. “Bear agreed that if the Langfords will have you, it would be best for you to stay here another night.”
I stared at him, wondering what it was that Bear had really said, because there was no way that he had actually expressed interest in doing what was best for me. “What about Amir?” I asked. “Did you see him?”
Doctor Clark nodded and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a smooth gray stone of the sort that Amir and I spent hours stacking on the beach. “Amir asked me to give you this. He thought you might want a piece of home while you stay here. He said it might help you to believe that he doesn’t think you should travel until your infection is fully under control. I don’t know why a stone would convince you to take your health seriously, but there you have it.”
I turned the stone in my hand. It was warm from the doctor’s pocket, but I imagined the warmth that I felt was from Amir’s hand.
“Why don’t you at least stay until my husband returns from his fishing trip later today?” Rosalie asked. “We’ll have a car then and if you still want to leave, I’ll drive you myself.”
I nodded. Once Doctor Clark left, Rosalie took the seat across from me. Emma returned from wherever she had wandered off to and dropped herself with a sigh in the chair beside mine.
“Are you staying?” she asked.
“Just for the day.”
“Do we have time for a game of Monopoly?”
Rosalie gave a wry laugh. “Watch out,” she warned. “Emma is a Monopoly shark.”
