“Sure.”
She went to the bucket to cover the turtle eggs gently with another towel, turning her back to him. “So few eggs…” she murmured. “I’m thinking I’d like to get these to the beach as soon as possible so I can bury them.”
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” he replied, his voice ragged as he bent to dry his legs. “We don’t know if those eggs are even fertilized.” He straightened and fixed her with a level gaze. “They’re probably not, you know.”
“They probably are. Eggs won’t calcify if they have not been fertilized. So, why shouldn’t these be?”
“Well, she’s been floating for a long time. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“Even so. Putting the eggs in sand is the best solution I can offer. At least it’s doing something.”
“You’re right,” he said, surprising her with agreement. He tossed the towel to the floor. “Can’t hurt to try. Seven eggs. That’s got to be a record small clutch.”
She nodded and wished he’d put a shirt on. “I wonder if she does have more eggs inside of her?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I could bring a box of beach sand back to bury the eggs in.”
“I guess that mean we’re on egg patrol. Come on, then,” he said, his shorts dripping across the cement floor. “Tempus fugit. You see if you can get some food into Big Girl and I’ll change her water. If we work together, we’ll be done in no time. Then we’ll head out to the beach and bury your eggs.”
“We? You’re coming with me?”
His crooked grin stretched out across his face, changing his serious demeanor to one of boyish charm. “I want to get some pictures of this for the record. If Big Girl does have more eggs—and with my luck she will—I reckon this will be the first of many trips.”
Hours later, Toy patted the sand then rested her palm on the dune. Beneath her hand, twenty inches down, seven turtle eggs nestled together incubating. She’d brought the eggs to Miss Lovie’s dune. It seemed serendipitous to let the spirit of old Miss Lovie care for them.
The sand was toasty warm on her palm and above, the sun beat down relentlessly. Beside her, Ethan bent low to take pictures of each step of the process. He moved around the dune, his fingers snapping pictures so fast she heard the faint click click click, as rapid as a typewriter. They’d attracted a small cadre of tourists on the beach, all thrilled that they got the chance to see the turtle eggs. They’d come from all across the nation and had a million questions, which Flo was only too happy to answer for them. She was the consummate turtle lady.
Toy had but one question, and it was for Ethan. “Why do you take so many pictures?”
He was bent on one knee, aiming his camera at the cluster of tourists standing near Flo. After another click, he rose and came closer to her. “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he replied. Then he lifted his camera to take a close-up of her. “But I’ll know when I see it.” His finger clicked again.
She stepped back, self-conscious at her photograph being taken. “But you only need one or two for the file.”
He lowered his camera. It wasn’t one of the compact cameras that the tourists were clicking as Flo put the familiar orange tape and wooden stakes around the nest to mark it. His was a black, professional Nikon digital with a zoom lens that stuck far out of the front. The relatively clunky camera hung from around his neck on a black leather strap.
For a moment he stood quietly, and she wondered if she’d offended him somehow. Then he began to speak in the manner of explanation.
“I started taking pictures when I began traveling. I didn’t have any agenda, except to take pictures of where I’d been. Nothing more than any tourist might want to fill albums with when they’re old and wanting to reminisce. But it was weird.” He looked at her earnestly and his voice was laced with emotion. “The more pictures I took, the more I discovered how I could catch the essence of an image, or a moment, with a camera. I looked at the photographs I took with the same wonder that I’d looked at the stars or the ocean or some glistening fish at the end of my line when I was a child. I liked that sense of wonder.”
“And you began to go after it.”
“Yeah,” he replied, encouraged that she got his meaning. “There are times when I look through the eyes of a camera that I feel a connection to the natural world that’s closer, more intimate, than what I see with my own eyes.”
He paused and shook his head. Toy sensed he was feeling self-conscious at having offered this zoom-in glimpse at himself. “I never thought about it quite like that.”
Ethan snapped the lens cap to the camera. She watched his long fingers move adeptly on the camera and she could almost hear the debate going on in his head. “I might only need one or two photographs for the file, that’s true,” he said in a level tone. “But I take more to see what else I can discover. Sometimes I see things in the photographs that I didn’t even know were there.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, take the pictures I take at the Aquarium. During an exam, maybe my camera will catch a glimpse of an infection in the throat when the turtle opens its mouth for a squid. Or a lesion on a fish that I missed. And those are just the pictures I take for work. Here, take a look,” he said, moving closer so that she could look at the small screen on his camera.
She was caught up in his enthusiasm as he flicked through several images in his camera of Big Girl—the scarring on her emaciated neck where bone had rubbed against shell, the way her rear floated upward in her tank, her huge jaw opened wide for a squid, the great turtle lying flaccid on her back as Dr. Tom did a procedure. There was a photo of the five round eggs in the red bucket, another of Toy on her hands and knees digging a hole in the sand with a half shell. When she saw the close-up of her hand curled neatly around the shell, her skin speckled with sand, she found it unexpectedly beautiful. Her attention was captured, however, by snapshots she had no idea he was taking.
There was Little Lovie, leaning over the nest with her hands on her knees, peering down into it, her face filled with wonder. One with a blond boy leaning against Lovie’s shoulder, two children united by their obvious love of turtles. In another, excitement shone like the sun from Flo’s blue eyes, her tanned arms and hands lifted in animation as she explained to the curious tourists the saga of the sea turtles. And finally, the close-up of her face, untouched by makeup, wisps of sandy blond hair across her pinkened cheeks, and in the pale blue eyes a vulnerability she knew too well.
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “You could be a professional.”
“Oh no,” he said with a laugh. “Technically I’m not that good. It’s pretty straightforward with this camera.”
“Maybe to you. I look at the camera and all I can do is push the button.”
He lowered the camera. “Most new cameras are almost fool-proof. Anything I take for work, I just put the camera to my eye and click.”
“But these other photographs,” she said, persistent. “These ones where you’ve captured such expression. How do you learn to do that?”
Ethan looked out over the water, squinting. Toy thought he seemed as far off as the horizon. “It’s all in the seeing, I guess.”
“The seeing? What do you mean by that?”
He smiled, almost self-consciously. “You have to disappear behind the lens of the camera and see the world through different eyes. When I’m behind the camera I’m not looking at the big picture. For me, the story is in the details. I don’t always know what I’m looking for. Sometimes you see it and you just know.” He paused. “Does that make any sense?”
You see it and you just know. Old Miss Lovie had said that many times. Only she’d been talking about life. Toy suspected what Ethan was talking about was pretty much the same thing, too. You see it and you just know. Toy had felt that, many times—when she saw the sun rise over the ocean, when she saw her daughter sleeping. And it was how she felt when she looked at Ethan’s photographs.
<
br /> “It does,” she replied, trying to contain her excitement. “Could you, I mean, is it possible for me to learn how to do that with a camera?”
“Not with that camera,” he said with a short laugh, pointing to her instamatic.
She felt a rush of heat flash cross her cheeks and tucked the cheap cardboard camera behind her back. “Oh, this thing. I just picked it up…” She couldn’t tell him it was all she could afford.
“You have to get a better camera,” he said, matter of fact. “Nothing too expensive. At least not right off. If the bug bites you, you’re hooked for life. It depends what you want and how many pictures you plan to take.”
“I figure I should at least take pictures of the sea turtles. I can’t keep asking you to do it for me.”
She turned to look at her daughter. Little Lovie was on her knees in the sand, holding tight to a wooden stake while Flo wrapped orange tape around the nest. The nameless little boy was holding fast to another stake. Their expressions were very intent and serious.
“But that’s not all.” She smiled and pointed to the children. Ethan turned his head. She saw the flicker of a smile spark in his dark eyes and immediately he lifted his camera to his eye.
“I’d like to learn to…how did you say it? Capture the moment.”
Medical Log “Big Girl”
June 23
Turtle passed whole eggs (7) and egg fragments. Brought eggs to Isle of Palms and dug a nest at standard 20 inch depth. We will continue to watch turtle closely. She’s eating and defecating a lot. (good). Still buoyant. (bad). Culture results came back from Clemson—negative.
Big Girl is certainly one for surprises. TS
10
In downtown Charleston, in the Medical University Infertility Clinic, Cara sat on a chair in the outpatient dressing room, buttoning her blouse. She stopped midway and let her hand drop to rest over her abdomen. She closed her eyes.
Beneath her palm, deep in her womb, her fertilized eggs had been planted. Her child was alive inside her body. Her and Brett’s baby…
Embryo, she reminded herself, opening her eyes. The light of the overhead fixture was glaring. She raised her hand to continue buttoning her blouse. It was early yet. She mustn’t allow herself to get too attached.
And yet, she couldn’t help herself. The embryo would grow to become a fetus, she just knew it would. The transfer of the 2-4 cell embryos had been painless; she didn’t feel any of the cramping she had the last two times. Surely that was a good sign?
She offered a tremulous smile to Brett when she stepped out into the waiting room. He rose from his seat like a shot, crossing the distance to her side in three long strides to take possessive hold of her arm. “Here, let me help you.” His tanned face appeared pale with worry and his blue eyes were beacons trained on her.
“I’m all right,” she said reassuringly. “Everything went like clockwork. Best ever. I just have to take it easy for a few days and wait for pregnancy symptoms. You know the drill.”
“Nausea and swollen breasts. Got it.”
She smiled again, a small tremulous effort, grateful for his humor at a time she felt weepy with maudlin sentiment.
He kissed her forehead. “Come on, little mama. Let’s go home.”
On the Isle of Palms, in her beach house, Emmi felt the walls closing in on her.
It was a dark, cloudy afternoon in late June. Roiling black clouds were heading toward the island from the mainland, swift and strong, providing a spectacular lightning show beyond the Intracoastal Waterway.
Emmi stood shivering in the middle of the dimly lit room. It wasn’t that the air conditioning was set too low, or that the thin cotton sweater afforded her too little warmth. Emmaline Baker Peterson suffered the chill of memories.
Her grandparents had purchased the small, three bedroom beach house on Isle of Palms after World War II, then passed it on to her parents, who then passed it on to Emmi. She’d spent most of her childhood summers here and when she married, she brought her children here, too. She was attached to the old beach house with its white enamel appliances, hearty pine paneling, lumpy sofas and framed photographs of three generations of family members cavorting on the beach or proudly displaying fish on lines.
Her big, showy house in Atlanta had been decorated by professionals and was a show place for Tom’s business entertaining. Here at the beach house, Emmi liked things the way they’d always been. She preferred to put her feet up, literally, on any surface she chose and just relax.
Only now, she couldn’t relax. She no longer felt at home, or even that she belonged here any more. Everywhere she looked, a memory of a happier time jumped out at her.
On that blue floral sofa, she and Tom had made out while the television blared loudly. She spied the frilly, black and white checked apron with ruffled edges, as old as the kitchen it hung in. Whenever Emmi had worn it, Tom came over to wrap his arms around her and nuzzle her neck. Under the front window was the scuffed and marred colonial table and chairs that she sat at as a girl. She could still see her sons, James and John, sitting there with their long legs curled around the spindled chair legs, shoveling cereal into their mouths, their hair sun kissed, their bodies tanned brown as berries. On the wood table by the sofa was an old black telephone that never rang. Her sons had not called once since she’d arrived.
She turned around, her eyes traveling from one object to another, from one memory to another. Emmi spun, her head getting dizzy, her eyes filling, her heart pounding harder. When she stopped short she felt her stomach continue spinning. She closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the echo of her family’s voices reverberating in her brain, mocking the silence in the spinning room. Her blood felt as though it was draining from her face, her chest, her legs and into the floor. Dizzy, her knees buckled and she collapsed into a heap.
She didn’t know how long she lay on the floor, howling like a lone wolf. When she was done her throat felt raw and her voice was hoarse. Yet, her bellowing had drowned out the sound of voices in her head. Dragging herself to a sitting position, she felt shaky and weak, but oddly better, as though her violent crying had purged her body of all the heartache it had carried for far too long. Slowly she drew herself back up to her feet and took several long, deep, shuddering breaths. The crazy panic had subsided and her heart beat normally again. Only the chill remained. It encased her heart in ice.
When she looked again at the room and objects that had once been so dear to her, Emmi felt a strange detachment. The golden paneling, the worn sofa, the sepia family pictures…
She knew what she had to do. She went to the phone and dialed the number of an old friend of hers, one of the few that was close to only her and not to her and Tom as a couple. She hadn’t talked to Cindi for a few years, but that didn’t matter with old friends. After a few rings, she heard Cindi’s rural southern drawl on the line.
“Hi Cindi! It’s me. Emmi.”
“Emmi! Well, hey girl. When did you come down?”
“A while ago. Sorry I haven’t called yet. I’ve had a lot of sifting and sorting to do. You know how crazy that can get.”
“I surely do. I’m just so happy you called. I was thinking about you just the other day. I drove by your house and saw the sweetest little car in the driveway. I asked Chip if he’d seen you then I got to wondering if you’d decided to rent your little beach house after all.”
Emmi swallowed hard. “No, not rent it. I want to sell it.”
Ethan’s presence in Toy’s beach house no longer was a novelty. At some point during the past month he had stopped eating take-out and begun to come early for dinner. Little Lovie had grown bored and stopped hanging around the table while they worked, preferring to play with her toys or read. In the past weeks, Ethan and Toy had made good progress on the grant, but in the past few nights as the grant neared completion, Toy got the impression that Ethan was in no hurry to finish. He took long breaks and they started taking their dessert on the porch
. They also began talking. Not about the grant or the Aquarium, but about personal topics never broached at work.
Toy learned that Ethan loved sharks, sailing, surfing and anything that put him into salt water. She also learned that she looked forward to his coming over every night in ways that had nothing to do with his being a valued colleague. Ethan discovered that Toy loved poetry, old movies, sketching in her journal and taking photographs.
How Ethan had found out it was her birthday, she didn’t know. She’d gone to great pains not to mention it to anyone at the Aquarium. He arrived at the beach house promptly at seven looking a little sheepish and carrying a box in his hands. He placed the gift-wrapped box with pink ribbon unceremoniously on the floor beside the table, then began pulling out the grant papers from his backpack.
Toy pretended not to notice the mystery box but secretly hoped Ethan noticed the fresh flowers on the table and, on the counter, the two-tiered carrot cake with cream cheese frosting that she’d baked specially for tonight. Her face was freshly scrubbed and void of makeup. She’d donned a clean, ironed white blouse over khaki shorts. She even spritzed a bit of the French lime and floral scented perfume that Cara had given her for her birthday, the expensive scent that she saved for special occasions.
It was also the last night of the grant writing effort. Tonight was merely a formality of checking the grant over before handing it in to Kate for mailing. They sat across from each other as they had most every night for three weeks and reviewed the grant page by page, making certain they’d crossed every t and dotted every i. Little Lovie hung close by, her radar on full alert that something was different tonight though she didn’t know quite what.
Ethan and Toy ignored her heavy sighs and worked steadily until the last page was turned. The end of the project was nothing more than a whisper of paper on paper, but it sounded to them like a gong. They both leaned back in their chairs. They’d done it. In unison, they smiled with deep satisfaction and their eyes met.
Swimming Lessons Page 14