by Unknown
No, Hannah wasn’t Michael’s daughter. She was from some man Keeley had met in a bar or at a party, some one night stand. Rose had also heard rumors that Keeley had considered an abortion, which sounded just like her.
Rose started walking again. She knew exactly what she had to do. She had to tell the poor girl the truth. She had stood by idly for far too long. Hannah might stand a chance, might overcome her mother’s depraved influence, if she only knew the truth.
“Beauty inside, beauty outside,” she chanted as she walked, using her favorite mantra to bolster her resolve. She really didn’t know what she would do if it wasn’t for Dr. Omin. These routines and mantras had made all the difference. She felt so much safer now. It was all going to be okay. “Beauty inside, beauty outside,” she trilled more loudly.
Halfway down the island, right where the houses became smaller more modest bungalows, was Michael’s house, a tall gray shingled house that stood straight and proud in its little sandy lot. She stopped in front of it and stared up at the windows. She should stop by and say hi. She walked up to the front door and was surprised to find in closed, as it usually stood open with only the screen door as a barrier.
She knocked and waited. No one answered. She stepped back and looked up again at the house. Where were they? Maybe they’d gone to the mainland for dinner. That was probably it. But why shut the door? She opened the screen door and tried twisting the main door’s handle. It was locked. Stranger and stranger. No one locked their doors on the island, only over the winter.
She walked around to the back deck, noting that the windows were all closed, which was also bizarre. Maybe they’d gone home early? But why didn’t Michael tell her? Approaching the deck, she saw that their rough-hewn trestle table and pretty willow chairs were gone, and in their place was a cheap white plastic set of deck furniture. Rose’s eyes grew wide and her hands went involuntarily to her mouth. Plastic! It was horrible! She would have to say something when she saw him; rib him a little about this faux pas.
Walking slowly back across their sandy lot to the boardwalk and observing that their dock was empty, the boat gone, she had that fuzzy off-kilter feeling again. Wasn’t there something else she was supposed to be doing? She thought hard as she walked down-island, unable to pin it down. It was growing dark and her parents would wonder where she was. And the island was so quiet. Where was everyone? As she started to slow down and turn back, she saw lamplight in the windows of a house three doors down. Was that-
Memory flashed into her mind, Hannah O’Brien was here! That’s right! How had she forgotten? She shook her head as if to shake something off, and put her hand on her head, letting it slide down her hair to where it ended at her neck. Her beautiful long hair was gone, missing. Someone had chopped it off.
She stopped, feeling dizzy, and took a long shuddering breath. But of course. It was cut just like Jackie’s, though the haircut looked better on her friend. Rose took another long breath. Something was wrong with her lately, out of focus. She had to see Dr. Omin soon. The calls weren’t enough. But right now, she had to go and talk to Keeley’s daughter, had to find a way to tell her the truth about her mother. And she knew she had to hurry before the fog moved in again, reach the girl while things were still clear.
Rose moved forward again, speeding up to a light jog, heading down the boardwalk toward the low flickering light of a hurricane lamp that stood near the window of the house, beckoning her to complete her mission.
Chapter 34
Hannah sat on the couch with her feet tucked under her, staring dully at the photo album in her lap. She’d brought a few of the albums back to the house the other day, thinking she’d want to look at them in the evenings when the Barefooter house grew too cold. Pam’s house, unlike most of the houses on the island, was well-insulated and comfy, without any of the drafts cutting under windows and doors and through old walls as was typical of most of the older summer houses on the island. The house was just like her aunt, warm and accommodating, wrapping her in its embrace.
Still, Hannah found herself shivering from time to time; not from cold but from exhaustion. Yet her eyes would not shut, they popped back open when she had tried to go to sleep earlier, crawling into bed and hoping to escape into dreams. After two hours of trying to sleep, she’d gotten up and went back downstairs. Now she sat on the couch and alternated between staring off into space or at the open album in her lap, the tomato soup she’d heated up growing a maroon puckered skin on its surface, sitting cold and untouched on the glass-topped coffee table.
She looked up, feeling a bell-like alertness. Someone was outside the house. She could hear the soft thumping of someone walking up the boards nestled in the sand that led up to Pam’s house, the crackle of a leaf being crushed underfoot. Then the person mounted the stairs and crossed the porch to the front door.
There was a loud confident rapping at the door. The person didn’t ring the cowbell that Pam had put there, tongue firmly in cheek, so it wasn’t a friend.
Hannah slid the album from her lap, putting it on the couch beside her, and stood up. Should she answer it? It was around seven, not that late. But who could it be? Was it Mr. McGrath? She walked across the room to the window by the door and peered out. She could see the back of what looked like a woman’s head, her dark brown hair cut in layers so that the hair ended in a little curl at the base of her neck. She could see the back of the woman’s shoulder, clad in a creamy woolen fisherman’s sweater, as well as the lightweight khaki skirt she was wearing with her legs bare in spite of the cold temperatures. At least the woman wasn’t barefoot in this weather, wearing what appeared to be the de rigueur canvas boat shoes of the island.
She saw the woman’s hand moving and realized she was counting off her fingers, over and over, one through five. What was she doing? Timing how long she’d wait for a reply to her knock? Well, better not keep her waiting any longer. It was only a skinny little woman with no butt counting the seconds, not some hulking strange man slapping a crowbar against his palm. Maybe this was Mrs. McGrath?
Hannah went to the door and opened it, the screen door still standing between her and her visitor.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Hannah! It is Hannah, right? Hannah O’Brien?”
The woman, hands now clasped primly in front of her, smiled widely at Hannah. Her dark hair was spiked up in spots, looking windblown, but she was still very fashionable with her edgy haircut and neatly applied eye makeup. Although Hannah could see that the woman had once been beautiful, her features classic and of pleasing symmetry, her skin had an odd lumpy-shiny quality that reminded her of many older women in Greenwich who thought, with enough money, a good dermatologist, and a plastic surgeon, they could stay young forever. More alarming, though, were the pink stripes that ran down the woman’s forehead and across her cheeks. They looked like fingernail marks.
“Um, yeah! I’m Hannah. And you are?”
“Hello, I’m Mrs. McGrath. From up-island? You were talking to my husband, I believe.” She said the last with a slight narrowing of her eyes.
Hannah wanted to laugh. Was this woman jealous? As if she had any interest at all in that pissed-off bald-headed old man! She restrained herself and said, “Yes, I did meet him briefly the day I arrived. He said that this is your quiet time alone on the island, so I’ve been trying to keep to myself and not bother you.”
“Oh, no, hardly knew you were here at all,” Mrs. McGrath said, craning her neck a little to look past Hannah, her hands dropping to her sides. “So, it’s just you and your boyfriend staying here? Wait, so you’re not staying at your mother’s house – that little tiny house at the end of the island – you’re staying here. This house belongs to…”
“It’s Aunt Pam’s. She’s letting me stay here. And my mom doesn’t live at the Barefooter house anymore; she’s got her own house now with my stepdad.”
The woman winced a little, squinting her eyes and ducking as if Hannah had said something horrific. Hannah t
hought about what she just said. What? What did she say? This woman was a little strange.
Mrs. McGrath, recovering from her wince, suddenly brightened and smiled widely again. “Well, isn’t that nice? This is a lovely house. Are you two having a nice time?”
“Two? Uh, no. It’s just me. But yes, it’s nice to be here.”
“Huh…, I thought I saw you on the island dock with someone?”
Hannah swallowed hard, trying to push down the painful lump rising again in her throat. “Oh, he was just stopping by. Just saying hi.”
“Oh,” Mrs. McGrath said and made a tsking sound. “All by yourself out here. You must be lonely. Is there anything I can do? Would you like some company?” She glanced past Hannah to the living room again.
“Uh,” Hannah said, realizing the woman wanted an invitation inside. Any other day she would’ve welcomed her, especially during those long empty days during the last few weeks when she’d craved a little company. But the place was a mess with her things spread everywhere from her search for her ring, and she hadn’t unpacked Daniel’s box; it still sat on the floor where she’d left it, the word “fun” written in bold letters on every side. Worse, she, herself, was in shambles. The thought of making light conversation made her brain hurt.
Mrs. McGrath seemed to pick up on her hesitation. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’m sure you’re just relaxing for the evening, but, well, I’ve known your family forever. It would be nice to catch up.” She looked away for a minute and then back, her eyes wide. “I know! Why don’t you come over tomorrow for lemonade and cookies at our house? We can sit out on the back deck and visit? I can tell you all about what your mother was like when she was young. I was older than she and her friends, but I remember her well.”
Hannah looked at her visitor with renewed interest. This woman knew her mother? She’d wondered about that. How come she’d never met the McGraths before? Mrs. McGrath seemed friendly enough. Maybe it was that whole up-island down-island thing. Though that had never stopped Zo, and Aunt Zo was very up-island, still owning her parent’s huge Victorian wedding cake of a house up there.
“Yeah, I’d love that, thank you,” Hannah said. “When?”
“Oh, good. What about tomorrow, let’s say around 2ish?”
“Sure. What number house?”
“Oh,” Mrs. McGrath said and paused, looking down. Hannah could see her eyes darting back and forth. Didn’t she know her own address? Mrs. McGrath’s head jerked back up. “Number 38! It’s the tall narrow gray house, shingled?”
“38? Isn’t that more mid-island?” Hannah remembered the house. It was right next to Amy’s family’s house in the middle of the island, right where it unofficially became “down-island”. And today, when she and Daniel spotted the McGrath’s boat and it turned back, it headed past that house, heading north. That slim dark-haired woman in the boat, the one that had been shrieking about something, was definitely the woman in front of her.
The woman see-sawed her head back and forth, “Well, yes, I guess. I grew up up-island. I guess that’s why I always say that.”
“Oh, I see. Your husband must have grown up there too.”
“No…, why?”
“He said the same thing, about up-island. It must be one of those married things. Thinking alike.”
Mrs. McGrath’s brows knitted together, her face growing tight. “Um, certainly, yes,” she said and puffed out a big sigh, and she started a rhythmic patting of her hands on her sides. “I’d better be going now. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes, see you then! Thank you! I really look forward to hearing about my mom, I mean, from someone who knew her when.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. McGrath said, something flitting behind her eyes that Hannah couldn’t read. “I know her well. Very well. Okay, see you.” She gave a little wave, and turned and walked away down the path to the boardwalk. Hannah admired the woman’s straight back and long elegant neck as she walked away. Mrs. McGrath reminded her of one of those old-school actresses with perfect regal posture, the way she moved smoothly as if she was wearing a ball gown and a tiara, even clad in casual island-wear.
“Bye!” Hannah called and then slowly closed the door. She stood for a moment, staring off and wondering. Piecing over the conversation, she found holes and ragged patches in it: the mid-island house, her rude husband, the weird nervousness of the woman, and it tempered her burgeoning excitement like small splashes of water on a growing fire, slowing but not stopping its spread.
At two o’clock on the dot the next day, Hannah stood at the McGrath’s front door. The house looked locked up, the front door shut firmly and the windows all closed, not even one cracked open to let in the breeze. She had paused at the dock when she noticed that the McGrath’s boat was nowhere to be seen, the sand of the beach cluttered with tidal droppings of seaweed and shells and a few pieces of garbage. That surprised her. The McGraths seemed like fastidious types, the kind who swept their beach every morning and never allowed garbage or even natural things like seaweed to sully it. She guessed she’d pegged them wrong.
There was only one explanation for the missing boat: Mr. McGrath had taken it to go somewhere and it was going to be just her and Mrs. McGrath. That was fine by Hannah, particularly after that dagger-like look the woman shot her when she’d mentioned her husband. The last thing she needed right now was for some polite remark she might make to him to be misunderstood by his wife as flirting.
When she woke that morning, the free-floating anxieties she’d felt about the woman had formed into a definite heavy wariness, but she still wanted to – was dying to – hear about her mother in her youth. Perhaps have a few mysteries answered. What was her mother like as a little girl? What were her grandparents like when they were on the island? Had they, like their daughter, been at the center of it all? Had Mrs. McGrath known Michael, her father?
Hannah pulled open the front screen door and it squealed loudly on rusty springs. She reached for the clamshell-shaped iron door knocker affixed to the front door when she heard a voice to her left.
“Hello, Hannah!” Mrs. McGrath said, standing in the sandy lot on the side of the house. She was dressed very smartly, overdressed for the island, in a pair of black dress slacks and a red cashmere sweater set, a string of pearls around her neck. Hannah glanced at her shoes. At least they were flats. Shiny and black and far too dressy, but flats.
Mrs. McGrath lifted and scooped her arm at Hannah. “So glad you could come. I’m in the back. Come round this way.”
Hannah climbed off of the elevated wooden walkway that led up to the house onto the packed sandy dirt, followed her around the house, and climbed the short flight of steps to the deck. Here, it looked more lived-in. An American flag waved gently from a flagpole mounted on the railing and a dark blue tablecloth had been placed on the table. A platter of chocolate chip cookies that looked suspiciously like Chips Ahoy and an ornate crystal pitcher filled with lemonade sat on the table along with two pretty gold-edged china plates, folded linen napkins lined up alongside, and two stemmed crystal water glasses half-filled with ice. The elegance ended with the cheap white plastic Kmart-special bucket chairs that were pulled up to the table.
“You didn’t have to do all this, Mrs. McGrath! And I didn’t even dress up. I didn’t know this was-“
Mrs. McGrath waved her hand at Hannah. “Oh, poo. Don’t worry about that. I just felt like dressing up; I was feeling festive. We’ve got so much to talk about! Please, sit.”
Hannah pulled out a plastic chair and sat down, glad she’d worn a windbreaker over her thin sweater and jeans. It was cold today, even in the sun. Mrs. McGrath lifted the pitcher and filled Hannah’s glass with lemonade, and then, using silver tongs, picked up two cookies and put them on Hannah’s plate. Hannah nearly laughed. Silver tongs and Chips Ahoy? For that was definitely what these were. She’d seen and eaten them many times. Even set on a gold-rimmed china plate, they still looked like the factory-made cookies they wer
e: uniformly round, tan, and pitted with chocolate chips.
Restraining herself from remarking about them, she focused her attention on her lemonade. She took a sip. Now this was good. Homemade, definitely. “Delicious,” she said and smiled at Mrs. McGrath.
Mrs. McGrath had sat down and was spreading her napkin carefully on her lap. She looked up. “Oh, I’m so glad you like it. It’s my mother’s recipe. You crush the sliced lemons with a potato masher - it gets all the flavor out of the zest.” She raised her glass to Hannah and Hannah picked hers back up. “To finally getting a chance to talk. It’s really long overdue.”
Hannah touched her glass to Mrs. McGrath’s and took another sip, smacking her lips to take in more of the delicate sweet flavor. “Ah, it really is great lemonade. But, you say it’s overdue, us talking. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at any of the Barefooters’ parties? I should, shouldn’t I?”
Mrs. McGrath winced, shoulders jerking up briefly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll remember. My family has lived on this island forever.”
“And you knew my mom? When she was little?”
“Oh, yes. She was always hard to miss, your mom.”
“Really? How?”
Mrs. McGrath’s mouth twisted, her red lipstick half-gone, transferred to the edge of her glass. “You really want to know?” She eyed Hannah, flicking her eyes over her before focusing on her cookies. She picked one up off of her plate and bit into it as if it was a delicacy. “Mmmm! Oh, does this taste bring me back. Michael always-“
On hearing his name, Hannah couldn’t resist interrupting. “You knew Michael?”
Mrs. McGrath chewed, smiling, and rolled her eyes. She swallowed and said, “Of course I knew Michael. Michael Ferguson and I were an item, back in the day.”
“You? You dated him?” Hannah was thrown. This was new. She thought only her mother had dated him, that the two of them had been the “item”, together through their teenage years.