Sea Change

by Karen White

  Ashes. Despite the hum of central air-conditioning, I smelled ashes from the working fireplaces that I knew remained in every room. I looked at Matthew in confusion, then forced a smile when I saw the worry had returned to his eyes.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, taking in a formal living room with Chippendale sofas and red flocked wallpaper before walking through to the adjoining dining room. The walls were a dark blue, the rug and draperies all period patterns, the furniture and accessories antique yet surprisingly approachable. A beautiful arrangement of gladiolas and blue hydrangeas in a cut-crystal vase sat in the middle of the table, the aroma not quite masking the permeating scent of fireplace ash.

  Passing a door to the left that led to a butler’s pantry and beyond to what looked to be a kitchen, I walked through a doorway at the back of the dining room to what appeared to be a later addition of a cozy den, a large flat-screen TV looking incongruous mounted inside a built-in bookcase. It was tastefully decorated, albeit in a masculine style, but I couldn’t help but think its existence was superfluous, and imagined I’d spend much of my time in the original parlor.

  “So this is your bachelor pad,” I said, wondering why he’d chosen to live here alone instead of living full-time near his clinic in Savannah, where he worked as a child psychologist. He had an apartment nearby where he spent the nights for the three days a week he worked there, but he always returned home to St. Simons. To this house.

  “It’s home,” he said, his answer almost too abrupt. He took a step toward me. “I’ll show you the rest of the house in a bit, but right now I want to show you the bedroom.”

  I laughed at the gleam in his eyes, the threads of tension that had been tugging at me since I’d touched the newel post suddenly snapping loose.

  I nuzzled my nose in his neck. “As long as you promise me that we’re all alone.” I’d said it in a teasing voice, but Matthew pulled away, his dark eyes serious.

  “What do you mean?”

  My smile faltered. “I was just wondering whether the house was haunted. Aren’t all old houses supposed to be?”

  A shadow shuttered his eyes, and for a moment I didn’t recognize the man I’d married.

  “Hello?”

  We both started at the sound of the woman’s voice and a hard rapping on the doorframe. A petite woman in her mid- to late fifties with short, wavy brown hair stood smiling at us. She wore sandals, capris, and a sleeveless blouse—what I’d been told was the standard island uniform—and was smiling broadly. She held a bouquet of sunflowers, their stems wrapped in pink iridescent paper. “The door was wide-open,” she said in explanation, but I had a feeling that a closed door had never held her back. She held up the flowers. “And I brought more flowers from Eternal Carnation to welcome the newlyweds.”

  “Is that the name of the local flower shop?”

  She beamed. “Yes—right downtown in the village.”

  “The flowers are lovely,” I said. “Thank you.” I took a step forward and stuck out my hand to shake hers. “I’m Ava Whalen. I mean Frazier.” I flushed. “I’m not used to my new name yet.”

  Matthew took the flowers from the woman and bent to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Tish.” He turned to me. “This is Tish Ryan. Not only does she own and operate Eternal Carnation, but she’s also responsible for keeping this house running and making sure I don’t starve to death.”

  She smiled at me, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Although I’m sure we’ll talk about any new arrangements now that you’re here, Ava. I knew Matthew’s parents and feel sort of responsible for him. And you know how men are—they’re kind of lost unless somebody puts food in front of them or clean laundry in their drawers.”

  “Believe me, I understand. I have four brothers.”

  “I know,” Tish said.

  Both Matthew and I looked at her.

  Seeing our confusion, she continued. “When Matthew e-mailed me yesterday to tell me he’d be coming home today and bringing a new wife, he told me your name and where you were from, and I sort of put two and two together.” She crossed her arms. “Your brother Stephen and I were married for about two months when we were both eighteen. You weren’t even born yet. We’ve sort of lost track of each other over the years. Must admit to being surprised to hear that the Whalens had another baby, but I guess they never stopped trying for a girl. But there must be, what, nineteen years between you?”

  “Twenty-one,” I said. “I never knew he’d been married before.”

  “It was pretty forgettable. We were horribly young and it didn’t last long. But you know how impulsive teenagers are.”

  She smiled at us, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know how teenagers were. I’d grown up surrounded by adults, and never had time to experience any type of teenage rebellion. Except for my choice of careers, I’d always done what was expected of me, always hoping somebody besides Mimi would notice.

  Tish glanced at Matthew, then back at me. “I guess I should be leaving—I can wait to get all the details of your whirlwind romance and wedding—in fact, I’m thinking of throwing a party to introduce you, but we can discuss that later.” She held up the flowers. “I just wanted to make sure the lights were on and the flowers in a vase, but I guess you beat me to it. Oh, and there’s a casserole and salad in the fridge and a loaf of French bread on the counter. Didn’t know if you’d have had time to stop at the grocery store.”

  “Thank you, Tish,” Matthew said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I added. “I wouldn’t even know where to find a grocery store, much less know what to cook or how to cook it.”

  Again, Tish glanced from Matthew to me. “Yes, well, there will be plenty of time for you to learn both, but in the meantime I’m here to help. I wrote down my name and numbers on the pad by the phone in the kitchen—call me anytime.” She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned around. “Matthew says you’re a bit of a history buff. I’m the secretary for the St. Simons Historical Society, and I’m always on the lookout for new members. It’ll be a great way to get to know your new home. And Matthew’s family history. It’s very fascinating, and even has a few skeletons hanging from branches of the family tree that you might find interesting.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, almost meaning it. There was so much I didn’t know, but maybe I already knew everything I needed to.

  Tish shot Matthew another glance before opening the door and stepping outside. “Oh, before I forget, what line of work are you in, Ava? I write a blog about happenings on and around the island that’s followed by mostly locals. I like to include a list of newcomers, and I always list occupations. It’s a great way to drum up business, especially if you’re new to town.”

  “I’m a midwife. I worked with a group of obstetricians back home, and I hope to find another similar arrangement here.”

  “A midwife?” Her brows rose.

  “Yes,” I said, unable to read her reaction. “I’m a certified nurse-midwife. Using a CNM has become a very popular alternative to a doctor-assisted delivery.”

  She put her hand on my forearm. “Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for you to take offense. I know what midwives are. I actually used one for my second child. I’m just…surprised, since Adrienne…” She lifted her hand and waved it dismissively. “Never mind, it’s not important.” She smiled brightly. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ava. The next meeting of the historical society is held the last Thursday of the month at seven. I could pick you up at six thirty if you like.”

  “I, um, well…”

  Matthew put his hand on the door. “She’ll call you and let you know. She’ll need time to get acclimated first before diving into the island’s politics.”

  Tish headed down the tabby steps. “Call me then. But go ahead and put it on your calendar just in case.” With a final wave, she headed across the drive to a vintage station wagon with wood paneling on the side, her sandaled feet crunching over oyster shells as she wal
ked.

  I closed the door and, when I turned around, found that I was trapped between Matthew’s arms. His eyes darkened as he looked down at me. “So. Where were we?”

  I placed the flat of my palms against the hard smoothness of his chest, tempted to give in to the rush that always accompanied Matthew’s touch. But something Tish had said prodded at me like a finger. “Who is Adrienne?”

  His retreat was almost imperceptible, and I sensed it more than saw it. It had been that way between us since the moment we’d met, both of us so attuned to each other that it was as if we moved within the same skin. Matthew dropped his arms and stood away from me, and my body felt suddenly chilled.

  “She was a midwife, too.” His words were mechanical, as if he’d practiced saying those five words over and over again to eliminate any emotion from them.

  “But who was she?” I asked. “Why would Tish have been surprised to find we were both midwives?”

  He touched my shoulder, his long lashes hiding his dark eyes as he looked at where his hand touched my blouse. “Can we talk about this in the morning? I don’t want your first night here to be spoiled.”

  I rubbed my hands over my arms, feeling the gooseflesh under my palms. I wanted to lean into him, to forget about Tish’s look of surprise and Matthew’s reluctance to tell me more, but it was as if an unseen hand urged me to press on. I shook my head. “No. I’d like to know now. Who was Adrienne?” I tried to inject humor I didn’t feel. “Was she an ex-girlfriend?”

  The eyes are the mirror of the soul. Mimi’s words came to me as I looked into Matthew’s eyes. It was the first thing I’d noticed about him as I’d stood next to a plant at the Atlanta medical conference meet-and-greet trying to blend into the foliage. He’d approached with some now forgotten comment and I’d looked into his dark eyes and simply felt my heart say yes.

  But now as he faced me his eyes were shuttered, and I felt for a moment as if I were looking into the face of a stranger. He is, my mind shouted, but as with all things where Matthew was concerned, I brushed away the doubt.

  “No,” he said, his voice soft. “She was my wife.”

  Pamela

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  FEBRUARY 1805

  The young woman on the dirty mattress moaned again, her cries weaker now and hoarser from the screaming that had started nearly fourteen hours before. The moss-stuffed mattress was soaked from her sweat, the odor stifling in the small room. The fire blazed to ward off the chill from the winter day, but there was not enough heat to warm the cold that gripped me as I looked down at the expectant mother.

  I dipped a clean rag into a bowl of tepid water and wiped the woman’s forehead again, trying to give the only comfort I could. She was barely nineteen, and so slender she could have been mistaken for a boy except for the mound of her stomach. Her eyes flickered open, settling on my face in silent supplication. I had no reassurance to offer her, and I turned away to dip my cloth back into the water, indicating for the house servant, Etta, to heat more on the fire. My own child stirred in the womb, a gentle reminder of life’s fragility.

  Leaving Etta with the laboring woman, I walked wearily to the door and stepped into the narrow hallway, the winter’s dusk casting shadows along the walls. No candles had been lit but would need to be soon if we were to navigate the stairs. It must have been the wife’s task, or her servant’s, so the lamps remained without fire and no light to fight the darkness.

  A man stirred from a chair by the door from which I had exited. He stood, swaying on his feet, and I could smell the rum on his breath. “Is the child born yet?”

  I shook my head. “No. There are…complications.”

  The backs of his knees hit the edge of the chair, causing him to crumple into the seat. He did not bother to stand. He stared at me as if I should know the answers to the questions he did not know how to ask.

  “The child is feet-first. I have waited as long as possible for the baby to turn, but he is large and Mary is quite small. I can try to move the baby. It is dangerous and painful, but it might be the only way.”

  He looked at me, his eyes bleary in the dusky light. “Will that save them both?”

  The baby in my swollen abdomen stirred again, and I pressed my hand against him to still the movement. “I will try. Perhaps you can send for someone to be here so you would not be alone. Perhaps a mother or sister…”

  “I have no one. The fever took them all last summer.” He raised the bottle to his lips again, then returned to staring in stupefaction at the wall.

  “Then I suggest you begin to pray.”

  His eyes shifted toward me briefly as he lifted the bottle one more time, and all I could see was the suffering of the young woman on the other side of the door. I grabbed the bottle from his loose grasp and slung it against the wall, glass shattering like broken hope. He looked startled, but I knew in his state he could not hurt me. “Honor your wife, sir. She is dying trying to bring your child into this world. Respect her last hours by being sober.”

  A sharp pain on my left hand brought my attention from his slowly blinking eyes. A shard of glass the size of a thimble had embedded itself into the skin at the base of my thumb, on the left side of the knuckle. Angrily, I plucked the glass out and watched with surprise as bright red blood seeped from the deep wound. I tore a strip of fabric from the bottom of my shift, then wrapped it tightly across my hand to stop the bleeding.

  Wiping my hands on my apron, I returned to the birthing room with slow steps, my own child now still and quiet.

  I did not return home until sunset the following day, my back and heart weary, my limbs leaden with exhaustion. I left the wagon and horse out front for Zeus to tend to while I went in search of Geoffrey. He stood on the dock facing Dunbar Creek toward where it bled into the Frederica River, watching the sun in its glorious descent. It always seemed to me that the sunsets on St. Simons were God’s assurance that he had not forgotten us in our brutal home, this place of fevers, heat, and storms, but also a place of indescribable beauty.

  Geoffrey folded me in his arms, our child moving between us. My father once told me that the Mocama Indians had over one hundred words that meant love, but as I looked into my husband’s face I could not imagine that there would be enough to describe my feelings for him.

  His thumbs brushed my cheeks as he searched my eyes with his unspoken question.

  “The mother is lost, but I saved the child.” I bent my forehead to his chest, remembering how I had bathed the small boy and placed him in his cradle, his father too grieved to hold him. I prepared his mother for burial and cleaned the house as best I could, then left with a stew simmering on the fire. I did not question my motives, knowing I was attempting restitution for my failure, punishing myself for my inability to save both mother and child. And knowing, too, that there was nobody else who would. I left instructions with Etta for care of the child, then sent for the minister. I had done all I could, and that was the most disheartening part of it all.

  “My brave girl,” Geoffrey said, kissing me softly. His eyes became suddenly fierce. “Never leave me, Pamela. Never. I could not face a day on this earth without you here by my side.”

  I touched his face with my left hand, the gold band suddenly heavy on my finger. It was the ring I had found on the beach after the storm, and it had seemed right to both of us that I would wear it. I held my hand up to him. “Forever, remember?”

  He took my hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Forever,” he said, but beneath his conviction I sensed his uncertainty, too.

  We stood side by side and watched as the ball of fire sank into the river like butter melting in a frying pan. My child stirred again, reminding me how close life is to death, and death to life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ava

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  APRIL 2011

  I awoke in the bed alone, the crisp sheets beside me smooth and unwrinkled. For a moment, before I’d opened my eyes, I th
ought Matthew was there, feeling the familiar sense of a presence pressed against my back. Since I was small, I’d imagined an invisible sister, her constant presence the creation of a lonely little girl surrounded by giant brothers. Mimi called her my imaginary friend, and Mama called her something best forgotten. As I grew into womanhood, I had left her behind, my need for an imaginary friend eclipsed by my career and relationships. But she’d never been completely forgotten, recalled only briefly during moments of loneliness, an unidentifiable shadow with the power to comfort.

  I sat up, the shadow dancing away. I didn’t know where Matthew had slept, only that he had been apart from me on our first night together in the house. Tears stung the backs of my eyes as I recalled our argument, and how I’d refused to let him touch me until I could understand why he’d avoided telling me, even in the short time we’d known each other, that he’d been married before. I wanted no secrets in my marriage. I’d grown up in a world of adults who suddenly began whispering their adult words when my presence was noted. It was as if the house was full of secrets, secrets like ghosts that dissipated as soon as you looked at them but always seemed to hover in the corners. I did not want to live in such a house again.

  The sounds of my new home settled around me like a warm blanket, welcoming yet strange at the same time. The old house creaked and popped under its burden of years as unfamiliar birds cawed and yipped outside. I pushed back the heavy duvet and for the first time wondered whether Adrienne had lived in this house, had picked out the toile curtains and plantation shutters on the windows and planted flowers in the garden below. As my hands clutched the soft bedclothes, I wondered, too, whether she had slept in this bed.

  I slipped from the four-poster to the floor, my feet finding my slippers before heading to my suitcase for a suitable bathrobe. All of my functional clothing, including my terry-cloth bathrobe and sweats, was being shipped to me. I was left with my honeymoon clothes, impractical things like sheer silk nightgowns, short skirts, and high heels.