by Karen White
“Because it involved me and how much longer I would be staying. Quinn’s been thinking of homeschooling, but that wouldn’t be a practical idea unless I were to stay longer than I was planning.” Marnie crossed her arms over her chest, making her look like a schoolteacher despite her shorts and bare feet.
“I’m his mother,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be the first person considered for even discussing the idea?”
Nobody said anything, and I felt the blood rushing to my face. I stood, knocking the table with the chess pieces, and watched my queen fall forward on her face. “Go to hell,” I said as I stumbled away from the table.
“Wait,” Trey said, but I ignored him and continued toward the door. “My sister said you left these at the library.”
I stopped, feeling suddenly light-headed, and turned around.
He stepped closer. “I forgot to mention that was the other reason I stopped by.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a thin paperback book and a small tube of denture cream and handed them out to me. “I had to take them out of their bags to fit in my pocket better.”
“They’re not mine,” I said.
He continued to hold them out to me. “Tally was pretty positive they were yours. Said nobody else had been in the psychology section but you. She wasn’t sure about the drugstore package but figured it had to be yours because it was with your book.”
“They’re not mine,” I said again as I turned back to the door, threw it open, and walked inside before I had to listen to any more.
I stood still in the quiet house for a moment, waiting for my heart to calm down and my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. I must have stood there for a full minute before I realized that Gil was standing in front of me, standing completely still as if he hoped I wouldn’t notice him.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, reaching a hand out to him but quickly pulling it back when I saw him shrink away from me. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. “Please don’t be afraid of me anymore. I’m on my medication again and I’m feeling much better. I never meant…” I swallowed. “I would never hurt you. You know that, don’t you? It wasn’t my fault before. I didn’t know what I was doing because I wasn’t taking my pills and I was listening to the wrong—” I stopped, knowing that anything I said wouldn’t matter to him. All that really mattered were his memories of him and me on the boat in the dark, and nothing could ever change that.
I blinked hard, trying to clear my eyes of the tears. “I love you, Gil,” I said, blinking into the darkness and realizing that I was standing completely alone.
Marnie
I watched Trey’s truck pull away and turned to my grandfather. “What do you think that was all about?”
Grandpa was already furiously flipping through his dog-eared Bible until he came to rest on an opened page. He held it up for me to see and pointed out a passage with a yellow-stained finger. I took the book and read the passage out loud. “‘And they will deceive every one his neighbor, and will not speak the truth: they have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity.’”
I handed the Bible back to him and then picked up the two items that Trey had placed on Diana’s vacated chair. One was a thin book and I flipped it over to read the title. “‘Mental Disorders: Environment or Genetic Predisposition.’” I showed this to my grandfather and then picked up the second item, a tube of denture cream. “What do you think this is for?” I opened the box and took out the tube to make sure that was what it really was. I knew it wasn’t for Grandpa. He still had a mouth full of strong, straight teeth on account of what he called “clean living.” I had to agree, seeing as how I’d never seen him touch a drop of alcohol or caffeine.
I picked up the book again and held it out with the cream to my grandfather. “I understand the book and why she might not admit to having purchased it. But I don’t understand the cream. I’d say we’re both in agreement that she’s lying, so I guess I’m just going have to find her and ask her why.”
I kissed my grandfather on his cheek again, wondering at the odd look in his eyes. Then I went inside to go find my sister. I saw Gil’s picture forgotten on the table on my way out and picked it up, too.
I climbed the stairs to the attic, remembering that she’d always run to her studio when she needed to find a place to lick her wounds. The locked door confirmed my guess. I gave the door a few quick raps. “Diana, it’s me. Can I come in?”
I waited for a long time before knocking again with the same result. I was beginning to think that I had guessed wrong when I heard her unlock the door. She didn’t open it or say anything, so I knocked again. “Diana? I’m coming in, okay?”
After a long moment without a response, I opened the door. It was stifling in the room. All the windows were closed and the draperies were drawn. The heavy scent of paint and cigarette smoke permeated the air, making it hard to breathe. Huge metal lamps were trained upward toward the ceiling, illuminating Diana’s time line. I saw that she’d made a good deal of progress on it, as evidenced by the two new figures that had been painted next to the first two. They, too, had their stories drawn in calligraphy beneath their portraits.
Diana sat on a step stool smoking a cigarette and watching me closely.
“You forgot these,” I said, laying down the picture but keeping the tube and the book.
She didn’t say anything.
“I get the book, and would like to read it when you’re done. Maybe we can discuss it. But what’s with the denture cream?” I forced a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Are you losing your teeth and are embarrassed to tell anybody?”
“Screw you, Marnie,” she said as she stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray, then stood. “I use it to mix with my paint for the walls. Gives it more texture so that it’s more three-dimensional when seen from across the room.”
She snatched the book and the tube out of my hand. “And it’s none of your damn business,” she said as she opened a desk drawer and threw them both inside.
“Sure it is. Gil’s my nephew and you’re my sister. I’d definitely be interested in hearing what a professional has to say about my chances of inheriting a mental disorder, not to mention any chances any future children that I might give birth to might have.”
“I don’t think you need to worry on either account,” she said derisively. “Anybody can look at your artwork and tell that you’re absolutely normal. Secondly, I wouldn’t worry about passing anything on to your children. You’d have to have sex first, and I can’t think of any guy who’d willingly bother to get past your ugly school matron clothes and dowdy manner to do the deed with you.”
I felt myself flush, but didn’t allow myself to take the bait. Arguing with her would accomplish nothing, as I had learned long ago when dealing with my mother. And I remembered what Quinn had said about recognizing the signs of another episode. She was agitated and combative, and I wasn’t going to feed her emotional state to the point where she couldn’t find the road back anymore.
Ignoring her, I turned to the wall mural. “You’ve been busy.”
She didn’t say anything but I heard the click and flare of her cigarette lighter.
I stepped closer, admiring the rich details of the brown-haired man and the blond woman, their clothing style less ancient than Rebecca’s and Josiah’s before them. My gaze scanned down to their wall and I read aloud. “‘Jonathan Baker and Hannah Maitland.’” I stopped reading and faced my sister. “She didn’t change her name either?”
Diana took a long drag from her cigarette. “Nope. Records from the time indicate that since she was the only surviving Maitland child she would keep her name to pass it on to future generations.”
“Her husband was very accommodating. Or he must have loved her very much.”
Diana shrugged. “Didn’t much matter. They had eight children, seven who died before the age of five. The only surviving child was a girl.”
“How do you know all this?”
&n
bsp; “Mama was interested in genealogy and had started gathering information before…before the accident. Last year, I was looking for something and found her notes in the attic. Grandpa had put most of her stuff up there.”
Something niggled at the back of my mind, something that wasn’t sounding right, but I ignored it, pleased at having found a topic with which to have a civil conversation with my sister. I chose my words carefully, not wanting to set her off again.
“But why paint them on a wall mural? Why not just put it all down in a journal or something?”
She gave me a crooked grin. “I know this sounds strange to you, Marnie, but I’m an artist. It’s how I tell my story.”
I ignored her insult. Instead, I said, “But what story are you trying to tell?”
Her eyes darkened. “The Maitland curse, of course. What other story could possibly be more interesting?”
I could think of at least a dozen others, but I kept quiet. I turned back to the mural and read what Diana had written beneath Jonathan’s and Hannah’s portraits. “‘Seven of their eight children died of yellow fever, none of them reaching the age of five. The last child, a girl, was saved by her father when her mother, Hannah, committed suicide by walking into the ocean carrying the baby. He was unable to save his wife.’
“That’s so sad,” I said quietly, almost feeling the cold water sweeping over my head, my mouth filling with salt water. And then I remembered what had been bothering me before. “There was nothing in the attic, Diana. When we had the leak after Hurricane Hugo, Grandpa got rid of everything up there.”
“Then I found them in her room, or here—I don’t remember. I just know that they were Mama’s papers.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead she stood and stubbed out her cigarette and pulled aside the drapes of the large turret window. “I like the light right now. Quickly, take off your shirt and go sit in that chair.”
I wasn’t going to argue. She needed me. I didn’t know how or why, but she did. It was the old and familiar sister’s sixth sense, and all the water in the ocean couldn’t dilute it. I did as she asked and sat on the edge of the seat, pulling my hair loose until it rested on my shoulders.
“You should wear it like that on your date with Quinn,” she said, focusing on mixing her paints.
“It’s not a date.”
She snorted. “Sure. You know, there’s something about how Quinn and I met that—”
She stopped and I looked up at her expectantly. “That what?” I prompted.
“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”
“He told me that he wanted to buy one of your paintings. That’s how you met.”
Pausing, she looked at me, her lips pale and thin. “What else did he tell you?”
“That’s pretty much it. He says you still have the painting because you’d never sell it to him.” I looked around at the crowded walls of her studio. “Is it in here?”
“I have no idea. I might have sold it or thrown it away, even. It wasn’t very good.” She dropped her brushes on the easel with a clatter and took a deep breath, effectively ending the topic of conversation. “I need you to turn around and sit still, with your profile next to the window.”
I did as I was asked, avoiding looking up at the mural, and tried to think of reasons why she would be lying to me.
“Don’t close your eyes,” she barked.
My eyelids flickered open and I could tell by the new position of the sun that I had been dozing. “Sorry. I’m not sleeping very well. I think it’s the humid air.” I took a deep breath, smelling salt.
“I don’t sleep very well, either. Maybe it’s genetic.”
Our eyes met briefly, then skittered away.
“Actually,” she continued, “it’s because I’m worried about Gil. I’m worried that I’m losing him.”
She focused on the canvas in front of her, her hand moving the paintbrush in quick dabs.
Diana wouldn’t expect me to lie, so I didn’t. “I think you’re right. I think he’s scared to death of you. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what happened that night on the boat with him that started all of this.”
Her lips went white as she dabbed a little harder with her paintbrush. “I need to spend more one-on-one time with him, that’s all. He just needs to get used to me again.”
Forgetting to pose, I turned to face her. “He doesn’t want to be in the same room with you when there’re other people around. How can you expect him to want to be with you all alone?”
She plopped her paintbrush into a cup of water and faced me. “I’d like to bring him with me to the nursing home. The old lady I visit said she’d like to meet him. She’s an artist, too, and I’ve shown her some of his paintings. She doesn’t have any other visitors except for me, and I think it would really be nice for her, as well as giving me an excuse to spend time with Gil.”
“Have you talked to Quinn?”
I saw a flash of anger shadow her eyes. “Yes.”
“And I’m guessing he said no.”
I watched as she made a conscious effort to hold in her temper. She knew as well as I did that lashing out at me would get her nowhere. “I need you to talk to Quinn.” Her voice was dry.
“Why do you think he’d listen to me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re either incredibly stupid, Marnie, or I’m not the only crazy one. He likes you. A lot. The way he looks at you makes me want to puke. But he listens to you, which is the only reason why I’d even tell you what you’re too stupid to notice yourself.”
I put my shirt on, concentrating on the buttons so that I didn’t have to look at the desperation in my poor damaged sister’s face. There was so much between us, most of it bad. But there were still all those years where she’d been my brave, strong sister, my protector. And nothing could ever erase that, regardless of the animosity brought about by the events of one night long ago that had fanned out into our lives like the ripples from a single drop of water.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said as I buttoned the last button. “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll at least talk to him.”
Our eyes met for a long time across the room. Finally, Diana spoke. “Why would you do this for me?”
I wasn’t sure of the answer myself. My gaze flitted around the room, trying to catch on to something that might give me a concrete answer, until I caught sight of Gil’s drawing. I walked to the table where I’d left it and picked it up. I held it out to her. “For Gil. Because you and I both know how much a child needs his mother.”
She took the picture without looking at it and I turned to go. I had my hand on the doorknob when she spoke again.
“And no other reason?”
I turned to look at her, and I suddenly knew the answer to her question, just as I knew that she did, too.
“Because you’re my sister. And I once loved you best. I guess a person doesn’t really ever get over that.”
I didn’t wait for her answer as I quickly opened the door and let it shut behind me. I was halfway down the hall when I registered her parting words as I left.
“I know,” she had said. “I know.”
CHAPTER 17
To touch the bow is to rest one’s hand on the cosmic nose of things.
—JACK LONDON
Quinn
We took the jon boat into town. It was quicker, and Marnie and Gil both seemed to be okay out in the creeks, as long as I stayed away from deeper water.
I tried not to stare too much at Marnie. It had been my idea to ask Diana for some of her old painting clothes to borrow. Marnie would be getting pretty grimy working on the boat and hadn’t brought anything with her that she didn’t care about ruining. I’d wanted to argue that point, seeing as how I’d be just as happy to see all of her shapeless dresses and too-long shorts thrown overboard. Besides, she had changed in the short month she’d been back. Her movements were more liquid now, her limbs more at peace within her skin. She moved like a barefoot girl on the
sand, all confident strides and sun-bronzed skin. I don’t think she realized it yet, but she would. If I had to hold a mirror up to her and point it out to her, she’d see it.
Looking at her now, with a too-tight T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jean shorts, made my breath a little shorter. She sat with her arms folded in front of her and her knees pressed tightly together. Still, she couldn’t hide her curves or her slim legs, and I’d even caught Gil giving her a sidelong glance every once in a while. It was good to know that he wasn’t blind, too.
“You’re fidgeting, you know, and you don’t need to. You look fine,” I said, trying to get her to relax. “Nobody’s going to notice anything different about what you’re wearing.”
She sent me a withering look. “I look like a sixteen-year-old with nothing in her head except catching a good wind, and not like the twenty-eight-year-old schoolteacher that I am.”
“That’s not a bad thing, Marnie. Besides, I have a strong feeling that the sixteen-year-old is still in there, waiting for a chance to come out.”
She shook her head but didn’t say anything, just watched the boat cut through the greenish-brown water of the marsh.
Trey greeted us with a white-toothed grin and a wave as we approached the long aluminum building in the back of his shop on Jeremy Creek. I watched as he gave Marnie an appreciative glance while explaining that half of the building was used for boat storage for out-of-towners and how the other half was relegated to his boat-refurbishing business.
As he pulled open the large door, I was immediately thankful for the air-conditioning. The smells of paint and varnish were strong, the stained cement floor testament to the fact that Trey had a booming business.
Trey followed my gaze. “Just got finished with an Island Packet 38. Now that’s a beautiful boat—and fixing one is probably the closest I’ll ever get to one, too.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Had a bashed-in keel from getting a little too up close and personal with some rocks. The guy was snorkeling with his girlfriend and forgot to drop anchor.” He shrugged. “Hey, stupidity is what makes up half of my business.”