The Sea of Lost Things
Kelly St-Laurent
For Alex, who believes
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
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Copyright 2019 by Kelly St-Laurent
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover by: Hang Le Designs
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Photography by: istockphoto.com
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Edited by: Kara Malinczak
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ISBN 978-1-9991721-1-4 (ebook)
Created with Vellum
Prologue
I can clearly remember being six years old. I remember the house we lived in, the tree-lined street. The neighbor’s golden retriever Astro, who always waited for me after school. On the weekends, Mom would spend the days gardening. She loved sunflowers. We had rows of them in the front yard. Dad was always in the garage tinkering with some project or another.
There was a lot of laughter.
I remember thinking it would last forever. I would grow up and be just like my mom. Everyone said I looked like her. The same golden hair, the same green eyes. I couldn’t wait to be as beautiful as her.
It was just the three of us. Well, four, if you counted Grandpa. He lived a few streets over, and if I wasn’t at home, you could usually find me there. He always let me eat cookies before dinner, we’d play piano, and I’d listen to his records, to music that I’d never heard before.
There were no aunts or uncles, no cousins. Not even other grandparents. I never felt lonely though. Never believed something was missing. We were happy, and I was loved, and to a child what else is there?
Nothing stays the same, of course. Change is inevitable. Sometimes it’s slow to come. You put away your toys, not knowing you won’t pick them up again. Your interests shift. Grow. You start to see things differently.
Some changes, however, are rapid. Devastating. Altering things in the blink of an eye. An accident. A car flipped over. A child survives but her parents don’t.
When I think about my life, I see two versions. The one before and the one after.
We were once four, and then we were two.
Grandpa did his best with an impossible situation. He’d lost his daughter, his only child. Then all of a sudden, he found himself raising another. Over time, the sharper edges of our grief ebbed away. We let ourselves remember. We started to laugh again. To listen to music.
For twenty-four years, it was just the two of us.
Until six months ago.
Then it was just me.
1
The pile of exams on my desk nearly topples over, and I quickly rebalance them. There’s a wine stain on the top booklet, an angry red blotch that threatens to reveal my dirty little marking secret. I pull a random exam out and cover the evidence. Grading thirty music theory papers calls for pinot noir. A lot of pinot noir. It’s not something I want my students to know, though.
There’s a knock at my door, and I look up, expecting Simone. She said she’d stop by my office around four. It’s not the professor I see walking in, however.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Reynolds,” Imogen says sheepishly, taking a tentative step inside.
I give her a warm smile to let her know it’s no bother at all. I know I’m not supposed to have favorite students, but Imogen is one of the brightest, most talented I’ve ever taught. She eyes the exams on my desk, her face falling slightly.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my three years teaching at the University, it’s that the students who worry the most about their grades are usually the ones who don’t need to. I can’t tell her that she aced the exam, just as she excelled in every other aspect of the class. She’ll have to wait for the results like everyone else.
Instead I say what I know she needs to hear. “You’re going to have an incredible future in music, Imogen. Don’t doubt yourself.”
Her face lights up. “I was so nervous during the recital.”
“You want to know something? I’ve never not been nervous playing in front of others.”
“Really?” She takes a step forward, her movements more animated. “I saw you perform Schubert with the Seattle Philharmonic last year and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone play piano like you do.”
It’s impossible not to be moved by her compliment. “That’s very kind of you to say. But I’ll be honest, I was barely able to eat the entire day leading up to that performance. Nervousness is part of it. But you can take that energy and apply it to your playing.”
“How do you mean?”
I try to find the right words to explain. “It’s about being present. From the moment your fingers touch the keys, you become part of the music, and the energy you feel will affect what comes out. You can’t erase the nerves, but you can channel them, let them move through you. The second I start to play I let go of any anxieties and trust that it will all come together.”
“And does it?”
“Usually.” I see her confusion and laugh. “I’ve made mistakes. We all do. But you play on.”
She nods, the tension in her face relaxing. “I just wanted to come by and say thank you for everything you taught us this semester.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say in earnest. “Thank you for all the hard work you put in.”
She moves over to the door, hesitates, and turns back. “I did have something I wanted to ask.” Her eyes go to her feet. “I’ve decided to stay in Seattle this summer, instead of going back to Missouri, and I’m applying for a serving job, and I was wondering if you’d be a reference for me.”
She says it so quickly that it takes me a moment to process. “I’d be happy to.”
Relief washes over her. “Thank you, Miss Reynolds. Thank you so much.”
“You have my email. Send me a message when you need one, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you. I hope you have a great summer.”
“You too.”
She gives me a smile and turns to go.
“Don’t forget,” I say before she leaves. “No matter what, play on.”
Her smile brightens. “I will.”
A few minutes later, there’s another knock at the door. This time it is Simone. From the second she walks in, I can tell there’s something weighing on her mind.
“Hey,” she says, taking a seat on the edge of my desk. A lock of dark curly hair falls free from her ponytail. She tucks it behind her ear.
“Everything okay?”
; She gives me a knowing look. “I just got out of a budget meeting.”
I have a sense of where this is going. “Let me guess. Cutbacks?”
“Nothing’s set in stone yet. We’ve got another month to rearrange some things, see if we can find extra funding.”
“And if you don’t?”
She lets out a sigh. “If we don’t, then we’ll have to reevaluate staffing for next term.”
I take a seat, figuring it’s better to be seated if the conversation is going in the direction I think it is.
“You know how much I appreciate you. We all do. The faculty, the students. You’re a fantastic teacher, Charlotte.”
“But...”
“It’s the same thing we’ve discussed before. Every year it’s getting more difficult. It’s happening across the entire profession. Teaching without tenure means there’s no security. But I can’t help you unless you meet me in the middle.”
“You’re talking about the PhD.”
She nods. “Your master’s degree has gotten you this far, but it’s a competitive market, and we can’t keep pushing out applicants with PhDs, no matter how talented you are.”
I lean back in my chair. It’s not an entirely unexpected conversation. We had a similar one six months earlier. “And what if I don’t want to do the PhD?”
She looks at me, a slight crack to her composure. “Let me ask you this. Do you still want a career in academics?”
It’s a question I’ve found myself asking for a while now. Time hasn’t brought any clarity. “I love teaching,” I say.
“I know you do. But do you want to keep teaching at a university level?”
I’m not sure what my hesitation is. It should be a simple answer. Simone has fought for me for years, but I know I’m wearing out her patience. “When do you need to know by?”
“There’s a staffing meeting in a month, at the end of June. If you can tell me by then that you’ll do the PhD, then I’ll make sure there’s a position for you come September. You can teach part-time while you study. There are grants, scholarships you can apply for that will make up for the loss of income.”
I feel a pang of guilt. I wish I could give her the answer she wants.
“I know it’s been a tough year,” she says gently. “That’s why I want to give you as much time as I can. But I’m at the end of what I can offer here. I can’t keep you on as a lecturer. I need a professor. And you’ve got everything it takes to be a great one. Please, take this time and really think about what it is you want.”
What I want. It should be an obvious thing, shouldn’t it?
Simone gets up from the desk. “Are you playing anywhere this summer?”
“No plans yet.”
She thinks on that a moment. “Make sure you do. I think it’ll help you make your decision.”
I don’t have time to question what she means. She’s out the door before I can form a reply. In the wake of her departure, I glance around my office, overcome with a sinking sense of uncertainty. It seems an easy enough choice. If I do the PhD, I can keep things the way they are. It’s the natural progression of the career path I’m on, after all.
But why am I so reluctant to follow it?
The whole thing is laid out before me. All I have to do is say yes.
So why is there a part of me that wants to say no?
Frustrated, I grab my bag and turn off the lights. The decision can wait another day. It’s the excuse I’ve been using for a while now. I’m sure it’ll hold a little longer.
* * *
The sun is still high by the time I get home. My living room is bathed in its soft glow, a swirl of peach and violet bouncing off the walls. I throw my keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and walk over to the window. Elliott Bay glistens below. There’s something calming about it. Hypnotic.
I’ve always felt that way with water. It’s the reason I picked the apartment, pretty much the only reason. The rest of the place is fine. It’s a modern two-bedroom, close to the university, and there’s only three other people living in the building. I could have found a similar place for much cheaper, but the second I saw that view I knew I needed to have it. Even with the high rent.
Some things are worth the cost for how they make you feel.
Heading down the hall towards my bedroom, I pass the spare room and pause. The door is closed. I’ve kept it that way since last November. Unless there’s a specific reason to go in, I don’t. It’s not exactly like it keeps the memories at bay. More like it stops them from spilling out all at once.
My fingers are on the handle before I realize. Slowly, I push the door open. The air is stagnant inside, and my arrival upsets dust on the closest dresser. It’s like stepping back into the past.
* * *
His homecare bed is in the corner, along with all the medical devices he needed up until the end. I should donate it all. Give it to a hospital or a living facility. It’s only right that it should be used to help someone. The thought of it being gone, though, fills me with dread.
I walk inside and see his boxes in the corner. His most precious possessions. I haven’t been able to find the courage to look through them. There’s something too heartbreaking about it.
His entire life reduced to three boxes.
The pocket watch he wore every day is still on the dresser along with a few photo frames. I pick up one of him and me at my high school graduation. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. He was so proud. I don’t think he stopped smiling the whole day. I remember how much it meant to see his face in the crowd. That we had come that far after everything we’d been through.
We have albums of photos like that. Celebrating birthdays, vacations, every concert he ever took me to, every recital I ever performed. A lifetime of memories between the two of us. A surge of grief hits me, and I put the photo down and go to leave when I notice another. It’s of my parents on their wedding day.
My mom’s long blonde hair is down to her waist, her eyes alight with happiness as my father holds her in his arms. I’d always been told I look like her, but it’s something I’m only starting to see for myself. She was thirty-two in the photo, a year older than I am now. My hair isn’t as long, only just down past my shoulders, but it’s wavy like hers, and the same color.
As Grandpa got sicker, and his mind frail, he started confusing me with her. In those last months, he called me Iris more than he did Charlotte. But I didn’t mind so much since it seemed to bring him peace.
I look at my parents’ smiles and can almost hear their laughter. They look so excited, so ready for a lifetime ahead of them. They had no way of knowing that sixteen years was all they’d get.
The room is starting to feel more and more like a mausoleum. I leave quickly and close the door behind me. My phone rings from the kitchen, Beethoven’s Sonata No. 21 carrying down the hall. I hurry to it and see Fiona’s face lighting up my screen.
“Hey,” I say, answering it.
“I’m so excited,” she says as though I’ve entered the conversation midway.
“Excited?”
There’s silence on the other end. “You didn’t forget, did you?”
I rack my brain for what she could be talking about. A baby’s cry pierces through the speaker and Fiona makes hushing noises, giving me a little extra time to figure out what it is I’ve forgotten.
“Charlotte.” Her voice is stern. “I’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days now. This morning Kayla vomited up on me three times. It’s still in my hair. When Denis gets back from work, I’m handing him our daughter, jumping in the shower, and then I’m going to put on something that makes me feel like a human woman. And then I’m going to take an Uber to the restaurant to meet you and Zoe, because that’s what we planned. Dinner and drinks.”
Fuck. The dinner.
“And that plan is still in place, isn’t it?” She speaks it more like a statement.
I’m not in any mood for socializi
ng, but she’s one of my best friends, and apart from the not wanting to let her down aspect, Fiona would never let me hear the end of it if I did.
“What time are we meeting?”
My question is met with a gleeful squeal. “Denis will be back any minute. I’ll need an hour to de-mom. Is eight good?”
“Works for me.”
She sighs dreamily. “I can’t wait for a martini. I’ll see you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After we hang up, I stare back out the living room window. The peach and violet shades on the walls are deeper, the sun slowly starting its journey to sleep. I can’t help but feel envious.
2
It’s eight fifteen by the time I get to the restaurant. My indecisiveness has seemingly stretched into dressing. I tried on three outfits before settling on black jeans, black boots, and a burgundy off-the-shoulder top. Then it took half an hour to decide how to wear my hair, which I ended up leaving down anyway.
I’m not sure why I felt the need to make such an effort. Fiona and Zoe have been my best friends since college. They’ve seen me at my worst. The worst of my worst. Maybe it’s the pressure of being single again, needing to appear as something for someone I’ve never met and don’t have any interest in ever doing so.
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