Seashell Season (5 page)

Chapter 11

I
lied to Verity earlier at dinner when I said I didn't like to eat fish. Honestly, I'm not sure I've ever
had
fish. Well, except for shrimp. We were at this chain restaurant once with some guy who worked with my father at the time and the guy's wife ordered shrimp with beer batter. She let me taste one and it was pretty good, but maybe it was the fried coating I liked. Anyway, Dad doesn't like fish, so we never have it at home. We never
had
it at home.

Why did I lie? Because I don't want to be happy here. Because I want things to be the way they used to be.

I didn't tell her, but the chicken thing she made was really good. And there were roasted red potatoes and green beans. I'm not a big vegetable fan, but the beans had some sliced nuts over them, and they were actually pretty tasty. Way better than the stuff in a can, which is what Dad and I mostly eat. I guess I should say, what we mostly ate. Past tense. Until some other time in the future . . .

She's so thin, I guess I expected her not to eat a lot, but she ate as much as I did, and I'm taller and bigger all around than she is. More like Dad. But her hair is so like mine, down to the widow's peak. It's kind of creepy to sit across the table from someone you have absolutely no memory of but who everyone says gave birth to you and is the reason for half of you being the way it is. Her eyes, too, are mine.

I should probably be saying my hair and my eyes are
hers
, not the other way around. She came first. Then me.

I wandered around the room for a while—my room—though there isn't much to explore. There's a small bookcase with only a few books in it, mostly novels but nothing I've ever heard of. I wondered if Verity had cleared it out so I could use the shelves for my stuff. Not that there's much of it. There's a small desk and chair. I opened the long shallow top drawer of the desk. It was empty; maybe she'd done that for me too. There's a dresser with three rows of drawers. I thought about unpacking my bags and putting my stuff away and then didn't. Somehow that would make this all too real—this place suddenly being my new home.

My new home and my “new” name. I know Verity would like it if I agreed to be called Gemma, the name I was legally given when I was born. And it still is my name in the eyes of the law, like I care about The Law, the entity that tossed my father in jail and sent me across the freakin' country to live with a total stranger Dad had always told me was pretty much the devil incarnate. That was his term, by the way, and the first time he used it, he had to explain to me that it meant the devil made flesh, the devil here on Earth. Pretty useful term, actually. I've met a whole bunch of devils incarnate in my life.

To be honest, I never much liked my name—Marni never felt right, like a pair of jeans that are baggy in the butt—but right now the last thing I feel like admitting to this woman calling herself my mother is that I like the name she gave me better than the one Dad gave me. So when she asks if I want to take back the name she gave me, I'll tell her I have no interest in calling myself Gemma, and if to other people I'm still Gemma, then that's their business and I simply won't reply to them. I know it must make her feel weird to call me a name my father gave me, the guy who in her eyes stole me from her before I even really knew who she was—my mother. But I don't really care about her feeling weird, do I? What matters is that
I
feel weird, weird and unhappy and resentful and depressed, and I have every right to feel all those things.

I didn't bother to open the bed in the couch—Verity had asked me if I wanted help with it, and I said no—I just lay down on it and folded my hands across my stomach. It's a habit. Sometimes I sleep all night like that. Dad once said I look like an Egyptian mummy when I'm asleep. I know that whenever I was sick, he used to watch me sleep, sitting for hours in a chair in a corner of my room, or on a plastic milk crate when we didn't have a chair to put in my bedroom. He's a worrier, my father. He's one of those protective sorts.

And I wondered what Dad was doing at that very moment, if he was scared of the future or if he was feeling brave about all the crap that was going to happen. The trial and all, whenever that would be. Maybe he was thinking of me, wondering how I was feeling. Maybe he was asleep. There was a time difference, though; it was two hours earlier in Arizona, but I don't know if the prison guards enforce a mandatory lights-out for the prisoners and if a prisoner gets punished for using a flashlight under the covers to read. Stupid thought. Why would a prisoner be allowed to have a flashlight he could use to smash in someone's skull?

“Dad,” I whispered into the dark, not at all believing he could somehow hear me. “I love you.”

Chapter 12

“D
o you have any Froot Loops?”

I restrained a grimace. “Afraid not,” I said. “But I do have Cheerios.”

Gemma shrugged. I brought the cereal to the table and watched as she dumped three teaspoons of sugar into her bowl. Let me be clear. I'm not anti-sugar, but so far it seems to me that Alan hadn't done a very good job of teaching our daughter the basics of proper nutrition. That would be up to me now.

I'm nervous about how Gemma's going to react to her local celebrity. The community has been invested in the kidnapping since the very day it had taken place. Right from the start people, strangers and acquaintances, had brought me food, like they would bring food to a grieving widow, all of it meant to comfort and sustain the body if not also the spirit. Casseroles and breads still warm from the oven, and coffee cakes. People had voluntarily nailed signs to posts and distributed them throughout Yorktide and as far away as The Berwicks, signs asking:
HAVE YOU SEEN BABY GEMMA
? Local businesses had offered rewards for any information as to her whereabouts. One wealthy couple, since deceased, offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for Gemma's return.

Now that she was finally back here with me, with us, that caring community had to be acknowledged, if also kept at bay. I've given it a lot of thought, and I feel it's best to meet it head on, not to keep Gemma virtually hidden away. That might only fuel people's curiosity and, worse, it would make Gemma feel like a prisoner. Annie, too, thinks that immersion into the community might be the best way to proceed.

“I took today off work so I could show you around a bit,” I said. “Yorktide has its charms. And we can drive into Ogunquit, too, maybe have lunch by the water.”

“You're a teacher,” she said bluntly. “I thought teachers have the summer off.”

“I need the money,” I said frankly. “My salary isn't huge, so I teach concentrated summer courses at the college. Some classes count toward a student's degree. Others are open to the general public, anyone who wants to make some art.”

“You sell the stuff you make? Statues?”

“Sculptures, yes. If I'm lucky. But you can't count on being lucky.”

Gemma didn't respond to that; she just got up and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot by the sink.

“Do you want milk with that?” I asked. She shook her head and dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup.

“So, I'm really already seventeen,” she said, a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Since March twenty-sixth.”

“I've always celebrated my birthday on August sixteenth. I'm supposed to be a Leo.”

“Do you believe in astrology?” I asked.

“Not really. I had a Leo necklace once. It broke.”

I'll buy her another one,
I thought.
A good one that won't easily break.
And then I thought,
No. I'll buy her a necklace with the sign of Aries, her real birth sign. The ram.
And then I thought,
Slow down, Verity.

“That scar on your chin,” I said. “How did it happen?”

“Fell off my bike.”

“A long time ago?”

“Yeah.”

I wondered if the cut had been stitched. It probably hadn't been, to leave such a scar. I fought down a surge of anger, directed, of course, at Alan. “You'll probably be wanting a bike now, I imagine,” I said.

“I don't really care.”

“It's not terribly easy to get around without wheels of some sort,” I explained, “unless you don't mind walking a few miles each way. There's a trolley service in summer, but it caters to the tourists, not the locals who don't live in the heart of town, going to and from the motels and resorts.”

Gemma didn't answer. She reached again for the sugar bowl, and I bit back a comment on sugar intake.

After breakfast Gemma went back to her room for close to an hour. I don't know what she was doing in there. I wanted to knock on the door, ask if she would be ready to head out soon, but I didn't.
What do I do,
I wondered,
if she doesn't come out all day? Can I demand that she appear? Should I? Or should I just leave her alone? Let her set the pace?
I was in the midst of trying to answer these troubling questions when she emerged and said in a flat voice, “I'm ready.”

First I took her through downtown Yorktide, where the town council had erected a massive banner across Main Street. It read:
WELCOME HOME, GEMMA
! in bright-pink letters. Gemma couldn't have missed it, but she said nothing. Neither did I.

From Yorktide I took her past beautiful farms and famous historic buildings; I showed her the grammar school and the high school; I pointed out a few of the more popular lobster pounds and the YMCA. Here and there we passed more handmade signs welcoming Gemma home, some on front lawns, others posted on storefronts. She said nothing at all about those, either, or to my running commentary, but she did seem to be looking at what passed before her eyes.
But what,
I thought,
is she really seeing?
We were sitting mere feet away from each other in the front seat of my car, but it felt to me as if we were miles and miles apart.

We were.

At noon I took her to Barnacle Billy's in Perkins Cove, though it's not a place where I can afford to eat frequently. But it is one of the most picturesque spots in Ogunquit, a lovely town, and if I was hoping to win her over with the sight of a beautifully created garden and well-maintained boats bobbing peacefully at their moorings, I think I can be excused.

“It's not really the season yet,” I explained as we were led to a table for two on the patio. “We're lucky. After July fourth, it's near impossible to get a table in any of the restaurants without a reservation or a long wait.”

Gemma didn't reply to this, just opened her menu and frowned at it. I suddenly realized I had little appetite, but in an effort to make this first day together as normal and drama free as possible, I decided I would have to eat. Families eat meals together. And we are a family, Gemma and I.

“Gemma, what would you like?” I said when our waitress arrived.

“Marni,” she said. It wasn't the first time she'd corrected me since we'd met, but I thought that this time she didn't sound particularly upset.

Gemma ordered a cheeseburger, which came with French fries and a soda. I didn't press her to choose water instead. I ordered a spinach salad. Children learn by example. But Gemma is no longer a child, not entirely. At this point I have no idea if anything I say or do will have a positive impact on her continued growth into maturity. I have no idea if she'll simply choose to ignore me.

No one approached us while we ate our lunch, though I did have to shake my head in warning at one woman I vaguely recognized from around Yorktide who seemed on the brink of rushing over to us. If Gemma noticed the woman or my signal to her, she didn't say.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” I asked her when the waitress had taken our plates.

Gemma shrugged. “It was okay.”

You know, you take what you can get in this life.

Chapter 13

I
unpacked this morning after breakfast, before Verity took me on a tour of what she keeps calling “my new home.” I'd never realized how little I own all to myself. I mean, Dad bought me everything, but it's mine because he gave it to me. And it all fit in those two old bags. Not that I'm complaining. I've got plenty. T-shirts, hoodies, two pairs of jeans. My sneakers, though they are kind of falling apart. I guess it's Verity's responsibility now to buy me a new pair. That makes me feel weird. I don't want to have to rely on her at all, let alone for something so personal like my clothes. Dad and I never had many books around the house, and when I had to leave the place we'd been living, I found only seven and took only two, a paperback copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
that I got at a yard sale and a copy of
The Hobbit
a neighbor we had once threw away. I saw it sitting on top of his garbage can; it was a bit damp, but it dried out soon enough. I'm not one of those girly girls, so I've never accumulated makeup or jewelry or fuzzy toys. In fact, the only piece of jewelry I have is a mood ring that doesn't work anymore. I don't know why I don't just throw it out.

Anyway, it took about ten minutes to put all my stuff away, but I stayed in the room for about an hour. Just breathing. Just being on my own. When I finally came out, Verity looked relieved, like she had expected me to hide from her all day. I'm not pathetic. And I'm not afraid of her.

We drove around for a while, with Verity pointing out things I guess were supposed to interest me—a farm stand she likes; a really old cemetery; some local stores she says I'll get to know—and I kind of cringed every time we passed a sign welcoming me home, like this was ever really my home. At least nobody waved at the car, which was something. I might have been tempted to flip them the bird, because why not? I'll be in and out of this place as fast as I possibly can.

Finally we had lunch at this restaurant in a place called Perkins Cove—hey, I'm not going to pretend it wasn't pretty much the nicest place I've ever eaten in—and after that, she suggested we drive to the beach, which is, like, three minutes from the Cove. I didn't argue. What was the alternative? Go back to the house where I don't want to be living?

There were a bunch of bikes in the parking lot at the beach, chained up to bike racks. I remembered Verity suggesting I get a bike so I can get around on my own. But I don't want a bike because I don't want to be part of this place. What's the point of getting around if I'm only going to be here for a little while?

We walked down a slight decline to the sand, and for the first time since getting out of the car, I really looked at what was all around me.

“Have you ever been to a beach before?” Verity asked. “I mean, the ocean, not a lakeside beach.”

“No.”

“I've never been to the desert. I'd like to visit the Southwest one day.”

I didn't respond, because I didn't have a voice, other than to utter another one-word answer. Really. I was so totally stunned by all that water! It's not like we don't have horizons and vistas in the Southwest, but this was so completely different, I felt like I'd landed on an alien planet. I felt totally terrified but also totally impressed. You know how a lot of people overuse the word
awesome?
Well, looking out at all that shimmering, rolling water that looked like it went on forever, I thought:
This
is what should be meant by awesome. I felt awestruck. At least, I think that's what I felt. I do know that I'd never been affected by any place so strongly before.

Verity suggested we walk along the shoreline. “You might want to take off your sneakers,” she said, kicking off her sandals. “The tide's coming in, and it can come in fast.” So I took them off—not because I was obeying her, but because wet sneakers can get smelly—and kind of followed her down the beach. What I mean is, I didn't walk right next to her, like friends would do, but a few feet behind and to the left. I wondered if people would think we had just had a fight or something.

Anyway, every few feet Verity would bend down and pick up a shell and either toss it into the water or put it in her bag. I didn't ask her why she was collecting shells or why she rejected some and kept others. I was kind of curious, though. And I wondered if after so many years living here, she was blown away by how beautiful this all was—if she ever had been—or if by now it was all just background.

As we walked along, the thought did cross my mind that if I had a bike, I could probably come here to the beach and not have to talk to anyone. It stretches for miles and miles—or for what looks like miles and miles—and I bet it's easy to be alone even when other people are sunning themselves or playing Frisbee or whatever else people do here. (I saw a lot of people reading, but I mean, if you have this truly awesome view to look at, why would you want to stick your nose in a book?)

When we had walked for what seemed like an hour maybe, Verity suggested we turn back. I could have stayed on that beach all day and into the night, except I was getting hungry again so I said, “Whatever.” Of course it took close to another hour to get back to the parking lot, and during that time neither of us spoke much, and I only said things like yeah or no in response to Verity's few questions. “It's a beautiful afternoon, isn't it?” And, “Do you have a pair of sturdy sandals?”

I fell asleep on the ride back to Verity's house.

 

The minute I walked into the bungalow, I noticed that on every windowsill (well, at least on the first floor) there was a line of pure white seashells in descending size, large to small. (Or ascending, I suppose, depending on your point of view.) I wondered how long it had taken her to collect all the shells (there have to be way over a hundred), and then I thought maybe she bought most of them, or maybe they're fake. But somehow—and I really don't know how, because I don't know Verity at all—I don't see her as the type of person to buy a ready-made collection of anything. And then I thought about her picking up the shells earlier when we were at the beach.
So that's what she does for fun,
I thought.

What happens when she runs out of windowsills?

“Come upstairs,” she said. “I'll show you my bedroom and studio space.”

I followed her up the steep narrow stairs and into a smallish room. The bed fills almost the entire space. I've never slept in a bed that big. It must be a queen size or something. There's a dresser and a small table. On both of those there are framed pictures of a baby. An infant. Of me, I guess. The earliest photo that Dad had of me was my kindergarten class picture. I'm in the back row. I wonder if he has the picture, any pictures, with him in jail.

“This little lamb,” Verity said, picking up a small plushy toy from the dresser. “It was yours. Alan left it behind for some reason.”

Suddenly I felt really uncomfortable. I mean, she seems nice enough on the surface, but am I really supposed to feel all sympathetic for her, hanging on to this stupid little toy for seventeen years? I said nothing.

Verity pointed to a row of three smallish paintings on the wall over her bed. They were pictures of seashells, about three or four different kinds, not the kind on the windowsills. I think one of the shells is called a conch, but I'm not sure. “The paintings are mine,” she said. “I'm not a painter primarily, but I do like to try my hand with oils on occasion, and more often with water-color.”

So she collects and paints shells. One more bit of information that's probably useless to me in “my new home,” but there it is.

“The studio,” she said, “is across the hall.”

The studio is tiny. It's crammed with stuff, but everything looks neat and orderly.

Dad is super neat. He likes everything in its place. That's something he says all the time: “Everything is best when it's in its place.”

“Those sketches are preliminary studies for a new piece I'm contemplating,” Verity was saying, pointing to some sheets of paper pinned to a board on an easel.

Still, I said nothing. What was I supposed to be saying? “Oh” and “That's nice” and “I see”?

“And that's it,” she said. “Now you've seen the entire house. Well, except for the basement. It's unfinished. There's nothing down there but the boiler and a few old bits of furniture I keep saying I'm going to restore someday.”

“Okay,” I said then. “When do we eat?”