On Folly Beach

by Karen White

  She existed in a black-and-white world, as if she’d suddenly been struck with color blindness. Even noises seemed muted, tastes dulled. She imagined that life underwater must be like this, looking up toward the filmy surface from her liquid cocoon, and seeing the rest of a world that she was no longer a part of.

  The only color that still existed in her world was Peter. When they were forced to share company, he was solicitous to her, even kind. The way a stranger might treat a stray dog. But his eyes—those beautiful amber eyes—shone with startling clarity as he watched. And he was always watching her, as if waiting, the way the wind waits for rain before a hurricane.

  At least she’d been spared the wedding, as Peter had balked at being married in a Catholic church, adamant that a conversion would not be considered, so instead Cat and he had gone to Charleston and been married by a justice of the peace. Lulu had been sick, so Maggie stayed home, glad for the excuse to not attend the ceremony. She didn’t know or care whom Cat had chosen as a witness instead.

  Maggie and Lulu had moved all their belongings into Lulu’s old room so that Cat and Peter could have the larger bed, and through the whole process, Maggie was glad of the numbness. As she tucked the corners of the fresh sheets on the bed where Peter and Cat would sleep, she felt nothing. Instead, she began to plan. She and Lulu would have to move. Not just to another house on Folly, but to another corner of the world. Not that it would matter, really. No matter how far away Maggie could go, she knew it would never be far enough. It reminded her of something Jim had told her—something like wherever you go, there you are. And she finally knew exactly what he’d meant.

  She was glad to have Folly’s Finds because Cat had stopped working there. The pregnancy was proving to be a difficult one, and most days she didn’t get out of bed. It seemed that the mere act of placing her feet on the floor made her retch, and she’d lost so much weight that Peter had called the doctor to come to the house and demanded to know what was wrong. The doctor assured them all that nausea was common in early pregnancy and should be disappearing after the fourth month or so.

  Shortly after the wedding, Maggie heard Cat crying out during the night. She pressed her pillow over her head until Lulu nudged her, telling her that Cat was calling for her. Maggie rose from her bed and threw on her robe and crossed the hall. Peter, still fully dressed, stood by the bed, his watchful gaze lighting from Maggie to Cat, then back again. Finally, he took a pillow and went downstairs. Maggie stayed for most of the night, trying to console a miserable Cat while wondering how long her mother expected her to keep a promise made so many years before.

  She barely noticed her exhaustion at Folly’s Finds the next day. The store had been busy with people eager to purchase newspapers because of all the news about the capture of the Nazi saboteurs who’d landed in New York and Florida. The war had finally come within the United States borders, and people were scared.

  It was near dusk by the time Maggie made it home from Folly’s Finds. No lights shone from the house as Maggie dragged herself up the front steps. None of the blackout curtains had been lowered yet, which meant Cat was lying up in her bedroom in the dark.

  Peter was gone even more than before, and when he was home, he spent a good deal of time at McNally’s on Center Street. When he came home, he was reeking of cigarette smoke but never of alcohol. And if it had been Maggie’s business to question, she’d have wondered what he did for all those hours at Folly’s biggest nightspot.

  With trepidation, Maggie slowly climbed the stairs, pausing outside her old bedroom door, hoping Cat was asleep.

  “Mags? Is that you?”

  Maggie stepped forward into the room and went to the window. The room smelled of vomit even though Martha had been in earlier to clean out the basin. “Yes, Cat. It’s me.” She closed the blackout curtains, then turned on the small bedside lamp.

  Cat lay on her back, her skin sallow against the white of the pillowcase, her small frame shrunken under the bedclothes. She looked like a scared child and not like a mother-to-be.

  Maggie remained standing. “Why are you lying here in the dark?”

  Cat attempted a smile. “Because I didn’t want to catch sight of myself in the mirror. I know I’m a fright.”

  Maggie said nothing to reassure Cat. It wasn’t out of animosity or any feelings, really, except that her gaze had strayed to the empty spot in the bed beside Cat.

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  Cat shook her head. “Martha made some chicken soup but I didn’t have the energy to get any. The doctor said I needed to eat so the baby will be strong and healthy, so I’m going to try.” She licked dry lips, her hands with chipped red nail polish clutching at the sheets. “Since I’ve got nothing to do all day, I’ve been thinking of names. If it’s a boy, I’m going to name him after your father. But if it’s a girl, I’d like to call her Margaret. After you.”

  Maggie frowned as she studied the dip in the blankets where Cat’s pregnant belly lay. It was the first time she’d associated a name with the unborn child, making it more real. A tiny person. Peter’s child. “You have plenty of time to think about it, Cat. Besides, Peter might have other ideas.”

  Cat turned away. “Peter liked the idea of naming our daughter after you.”

  For a brief moment, Maggie was filled with hope until her eyes settled on the simple gold wedding band on Cat’s left hand, and she was glad Cat couldn’t see her face.

  Cat turned back to face Maggie, her eyes wet. “You blame me for this, don’t you?

  Maggie quietly regarded her cousin, the once-beautiful gold hair now matted and dark with dirt. The question surprised her. In all of her internal battles, she’d only ever blamed herself for being so gullible. But now, staring into Cat’s troubled eyes, Maggie thought she knew the answer. “No. I don’t. I feel sorry for you, but I don’t blame you. We should all share a portion of the blame somehow.”

  Maggie thought Cat would defend herself, never having been able to stand anybody’s pity, especially not Maggie’s. Instead she lay there like a wounded animal in the middle of the road, her eyes turned up in silent supplication.

  “I did something horrible to Peter, Mags. Something you should know.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. I don’t want to know. Because none of it matters anymore. What’s done is done.”

  Their eyes met and held for a long time. Finally, Cat spoke. “Do you hate me?”

  As a child, Cat had asked that often. Her childish pranks always held a hint of maliciousness in them, the hurt she inflicted not always repented—not at first. Eventually her conscience would bring her nightmares that had her calling out to Maggie. The need to comfort and be comforted had filled a void in each of them, carving a whole person out of two motherless girls. And always, there was Maggie’s promise that bonded them together, regardless of the myriad hairline cracks that ran through it.

  “No, Cat. I don’t hate you.”

  “You should.” She began sobbing as Maggie sat on the edge of the bed, clutching Cat’s fists and trying not to feel the cold metal of the gold wedding band. “Peter doesn’t love me, you know. He never has. It’s all my fault. I just . . .” Cat was sobbing so hard that she began gasping for breath. Maggie put her arm around Cat’s shoulders, the bones alarmingly prominent through her nightgown, and hoisted her cousin against the headboard. “I just couldn’t stand having somebody not love just me. I don’t know why I’m that way—I just am. It’s like I see my father in all these men—and I want them to love me and stay with me. It killed me to see you with Peter, knowing he didn’t know I existed when you were in the room. It blinded me until I couldn’t see straight. And now . . .” She burst out in a fresh bout of sobs.

  Maggie stared down at her cousin, remembering an old Christmas from their childhood. Their maternal grandmother had given Cat an extra gift: a set of two gold bangle bracelets. Maggie had always been suspicious that their grandmother loved Cat more because of her gol
den curls and bright green eyes, and that had been confirmed when her grandmother had brought out the box from Croghan’s Jewel Box on King Street in Charleston. Maggie had even been hopeful enough to think that there was another box under the tree for her.

  Doing her best to hide her disappointment, Maggie had begun to pick up all the torn wrapping paper and ribbons, her hurt growing with each crumpled ball until Cat stopped her by handing her one of the bangles. It had always been the small, unexpected acts of kindness that allowed Maggie to love her cousin, and to accept her shortcomings. Cat’s maliciousness stemmed from a deep-seated insecurity that had begun to grow the day her father abandoned her; but her kindness came from a part of her heart that only a very few were ever allowed to see.

  “Forgive me, Maggie,” Cat said into Maggie’s shoulder, her tears dampening the collar of her blouse. “I feel so sick, and I look a fright. But I know this is my just punishment for what I did. I just want to die.”

  Maggie shook her shoulders. “Don’t say that, Cat. Do you hear? It’s a sin to even think that. And you’d be killing an innocent child.”

  Cat wiped her hands across the blankets that covered her, as if cleaning up something no more meaningful than a messy spill. She began to sob harder. “I don’t care. I don’t want this baby. I want everything back the way it was.”

  Maggie watched her cousin cry, unable or unwilling to comfort her. “Stop it, Cat. You’re only making things worse. Peter will be back any day now, so you’ve got to pull yourself together.” A thickness formed in her throat, but she pushed it back as she’d learned to do from an early age. “I’m giving you and Peter the house as a wedding present, seeing as how you’ll need the room once the baby’s born. Lulu and I will be moving out to give you some privacy. I’ve written to Daddy’s sister, Aunt Edith, in Galveston. Remember how I used to say I always wanted to visit? Maybe, if I like it enough, I’ll want to settle down there. It’s on the Gulf, so I’ll have my beach. Won’t that be nice?”

  Cat went still, her bloodshot eyes staring up at Maggie. “No! You can’t leave me! Not now—not after all we’ve been through together.”

  Like Jim? Maggie wanted to say but remained quiet, alarmed at Cat’s state.

  Cat continued, her voice pleading. “Dr. Brown said I shouldn’t be exerting myself, that I need somebody looking after me. Martha already told me that she can’t be here any more than she already is. And with Peter traveling, I’ll be alone too much. What if I fall? Or start bleeding or something? What will happen to the baby if nobody’s here to help me?”

  Maggie looked down at the sapphire ring she still wore. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t taken it off, but sometimes, as she lay in bed in the darkest part of the night, she’d begin to think that the best part of her life had already happened to her, and all that she had left to remember it by was the ring. She spun it on her finger, thinking about her plans to move to Galveston and how even now they seemed as transparent and fragile as a cobweb.

  Her throat tightened, and she wanted more than anything to tell Cat that it was time she went after her own dreams. But her refusal warred in her head with an old promise, and with a sickening relief that she wouldn’t have to say good-bye to Peter so soon. She hated herself for that, eagerly shoving that dark truth into the blackest part of her heart.

  “Isn’t there anyone else, Cat? I’ll use some of the funds from the sale of Folly’s Finds and pay someone to stay with you.”

  “They’re not blood, Maggie. This baby is not their blood. What if I die in childbirth? Who will take care of the baby?”

  Maggie stared into Cat’s widened eyes, resignation creeping up inside of her like a choking vine, spreading beneath her feet and rooting her to the floor, while at the same time setting her free.

  She stood and walked to the door, noticing the tiny rose wallpaper that peeled down from the corners of the room. She remembered her mother hanging it, and how she loved it still along with the scrubby grass outside and the peeling paint of their neighbors’ houses, all worn and familiar as a favorite chair. She would stay for a while longer, at least until the baby was born. It was the only thing to do. But even as she made the decision in her head, a terrible dread loomed beyond her peripheral vision, the same way she could tell the approach of a storm by the color of the clouds.

  Turning to face Cat, she said, “I’ll stay. For a while. But if I do, you’re going to have to try harder to make sure the baby is strong. You’re going to have to eat—do you understand? Even if you don’t feel like it.”

  Cat nodded, her relief a palpable thing that reached out and grabbed Maggie’s heart, a small reassurance in an ocean of doubt.

  “I’ll go heat some soup for you and bring it up. I’ll feed it to you if you don’t feel like you can do it yourself.”

  Cat’s voice made her stop. “Thank you, Maggie. Nobody has ever loved me like you do.”

  Maggie turned her head and met Cat’s eyes. She tried to see the beautiful girl who’d been dancing and laughing with the officers the night on the pier when Maggie had met Peter. But all she could see was a pathetic woman who’d made the colossal mistake of getting what she’d wished for.

  Without responding, Maggie left the room and headed downstairs, trying to pretend that she wasn’t straining to hear the opening of a door latch and the sound of Peter’s footsteps. Because still, after all that had happened, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t forget her promise to wait for him, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 20

  FOLLY BEACH, SOUTH CAROLINA

  September 2009

  On Sunday morning, Emmy squatted in front of the last batch of books in her living room, feeling oddly bereft to see the dwindling piles. She’d been organizing and shelving all of the books without notations written in them, categorized by the authors’ last names like they would be in a library. She’d also prepared a worksheet that listed the books by title and author for quick cross-reference.

  She wasn’t sure who the list was for since Heath would have little interest in searching for any of the old books. There’d been a good number of first editions and hard-to-find books she’d unearthed, and these she indicated with an asterisk in the first column of the worksheet. In the back of her mind, she envisioned listing the books on her new Web site, with the option to purchase. She relished the research involved to come up with a fair price, and was almost excited over what other books she might find to add to the collection.

  Her quads still protested every move she made as they had for the three days since her walk on the beach with Heath. She’d prepared herself to lie if he’d called and asked how she was, but he hadn’t. Which was a good thing, she kept telling herself.

  After situating herself, her laptop, and her coffee in front of the books, she slowly slid the first book toward her and began her search. It took her almost an hour before she’d reached the first notation, this one written in the man’s handwriting:I watched you today while you were at the beach, envious of the sun’s touch on your hair and skin. Just once to be as it was before. We can change all of this—just tell me. You know where.

  Emmy put the book aside and pulled out the next book, eager to find something more—something to fill in all the empty spots in this dialog. It was like watching a movie in which all the scenes had been switched around in no apparent order—a puzzle to figure out the beginning and the end and all the missing pieces in between. The one thing she was sure of was the buzzing in the back of her head, telling her that everything she needed to know was right in front of her; she only needed to figure out what it was.

  She went through the few remaining books without finding anything else. Frustrated, she stood and poured herself another cup of coffee. Her limbs shook with restlessness, as if these strangers had become friends and were now leaving her. She didn’t even know their names. She thought of Maggie and Jim again, and wondered if Lulu’s denial about an affair between them had been too adamant. But how could an affair between two people who’d
been dead for years be a taboo subject still?

  Emmy moved out onto the back screened porch, sipping her coffee and watching the marsh move like a sigh under the morning sun, the tall stalks of grass bent gently as if in deep thought. A stack of wood waited its turn to be attached to the still-unfinished dock, reminding her of what Abigail had told her about Heath and his unfinished projects. She was impatient for the dock to be completed, still hesitant yet oddly eager to walk farther into the smells and sounds of the marsh, its beauty still an enigma to her.

  Emmy paused with the cup halfway to her mouth, realizing it was the first time she’d thought of the marsh as beautiful and not simply strange. She straightened, studying the marsh at low tide with its mud flats and barren oyster beds bared to the sun. A hush seemed to hover over it, the summer sounds of insects and birds muted as the mud and river prepared for winter. It reminded her of the cornfields of home and the way the harvest signaled the end of yellow summer and the beginning of bleak winter. But Heath had told her that the marsh never died during winter, but remained always changing with the seasons, perpetually waiting for the outgoing tides to return and flood the marsh with new life.

  She’d ask Heath to take her out in his boat and show her the marsh. Maybe then she could understand how something that seemed at first to be merely grass and water could be captivating enough to inspire songs and poetry, and make her stoic mother long for it in the silences of Emmy’s childhood.

  Emmy’s gaze strayed to the bottle tree. She knew she’d find no more notes in it—she’d been dutifully informed by Lulu—but the fact hadn’t diminished Emmy’s curiosity. If anything, her interest in it and all of the trees Lulu created had become a sort of obsession. She’d even volunteered to take the digital photos of each tree that she’d planned to use on the Web site catalog so she could study them without Lulu shooing her away. Emmy hoped that by studying them through the lens of her camera, she might begin to understand Lulu’s motivation for making them, and why the older woman worked so hard to keep the dark spirits at bay.