Sea Change

by Karen White

  I sat down clumsily on one of the two Chippendale-style side chairs placed in the upstairs hallway for lack of a better space after I’d rearranged the furniture in the front parlor. I stared again at the handprint and locked door, almost hearing the scrape and thud of a shovel moving earth. Matthew had been looking for something in the old root cellar. I was sure of it, almost as sure that I knew what it was. And when he hadn’t found it, he’d gone to the attic to look, but perhaps had run out of time and had locked it to take his shower, hoping to finish at a later time. He must have known that at some point I’d make my way upstairs again, and he’d wanted the attic off-limits when I did. Matthew knew me well, much better than I apparently knew him.

  I looked at the book in my hand, the energy required to negotiate myself down the stairs gone. My cell phone rang downstairs from the hall table where I’d left it, and I recognized the ringtone I’d assigned to Matthew. I heard the beep alerting me to a voice mail message, and then the sound of the house phone ringing, and I finally understood my mother’s aversion to the phone.

  They think I killed her. A tremor of uncertainty crept up the back of my neck. I opened the book to a random page to calm down, to help rearrange my thoughts, promising myself that I would speak with Matthew when he returned home, clinging to the hope that I could believe whatever he told me.

  I looked down at the book, to a chapter with the heading “St. Simons Island and James Madison’s War.” Unfamiliar with this war, I scanned the first page, looking for reference dates, then realized that the author was referring to the War of 1812. Seeing as how the actual war wasn’t officially over until 1815, it made sense to call it something else. I grudgingly credited the stuffy-sounding author with the more appropriate name. I skimmed over a few more pages, reading about how the British, in their attempts to antagonize their former colony, had been plundering American ships and conscripting their sailors, conduct that had precipitated the declaration of war by President Madison.

  I flipped a few pages, then stopped at another pen-and-ink drawing of a British officer tending to a child lying on a bed. I read the caption: A surgeon of the Royal Marines tends to a young child with malaria. He is credited with saving at least one life during their short stay in February of 1815 before their evacuation on March first following the signing of the Treaty of Ghent.

  I stared at the uniform, imagining I could smell the musty scents of wet wool and leather. I looked, too, at the man’s face, a nondescript depiction made by an artist who hadn’t known what his subject really looked like. The hair tied back with a black ribbon was dark, and I found myself shaking my head, as if I knew that the hair color was wrong, that it should have been a light shade of auburn.

  I leaned my head back against the wall, feeling dizzy. After a few deep breaths, I flipped a chunk of pages over and looked down to see where I’d landed. The book lay open to the page I’d seen before of the woman on the beach with the figure of a man behind her. The name came unexpectedly and effortlessly to my lips. “Geoffrey,” I said quietly, my fingers brushing the page, recalling the name I’d said as I’d reached for Jimmy Scott after my fall. I remembered, too, the blue sky and eyes of the same hue. But Jimmy’s were brown. I knew this because I’d checked when he’d come to visit with Tish and brought a bouquet of flowers from his garden.

  “Turn around,” I whispered to the one-dimensional figure, with the unsettling feeling of knowing what he looked like, but unable to clearly see it in my head. My attention focused on the woman again, and I thought about calling the frame shop and having them ship the three framed prints to me. I immediately discarded the idea, as the prints were to be a surprise to Matthew, and if they were delivered, he might be the one to get to them first.

  I studied the woman, the dark hair and the widow’s peak, the almond-shaped eyes. I know you, I wanted to say. I tried to think whom she reminded me of or resembled. My finger traced the lines of her face, and I found myself desperately wishing that I knew her name.

  I closed the book and struggled to a standing position with a renewed sense of purpose. I’d call Tish and ask her where I should begin my research. Maybe once I knew the woman’s name, I would stop being rattled with the unsettled feeling I got every time I looked at her picture. Or thought of the graves of her husband and children and her own absent one. And maybe it would even overshadow my growing unease about Adrienne and her calendar, and the reason Matthew had locked the attic door and taken the key.

  I put my hand on the newel post and paused, hearing the whispering of voices through the upstairs hall, a cadence of sound whose source seemed to come from inside my head. I closed my eyes, believing I could hear harsh words, but I couldn’t distinguish what was being said.

  I abruptly let go, as if the wood had become a conduit to the past I’d wanted to disconnect from, the voices now diminished but their echoes remaining like the glow on the screen of an old television set after it was switched off. The empty hallway greeted me as I stared around me, looking for a source of the sound, then began my long and precarious trip back downstairs.

  I was on the bottom step when my cell phone rang again. I hobbled over to it and saw Tish’s number flash up on the screen. I picked it up eagerly. “Hi, Tish. You must have been reading my mind. I was just about to call you—”

  She barely let me finish my sentence before she interrupted. “Are you sitting down?”

  I frowned into the phone. “Is everything all right?”

  “It depends. It’s not about Matthew, if that’s what you’re worried about. Are you sitting down?” she repeated.

  “Sure,” I lied. “What’s up?”

  Barely contained excitement danced in her voice. “You remember when you fell and you hit your hand on something hard?”

  I rubbed the outer edge of my hand, no longer bandaged but still feeling sore. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

  “Well, you told me that it seemed too smooth and shaped to be nature-made, so I went out there with my daughter, Beth, who, if you remember, teaches history at Frederica Academy and I thought might be able to give me some insight if we did find something.”

  She paused and I imagined her filling her cheeks with air as she waited for my response.

  “And?”

  “It’s definitely a grave marker. What’s so interesting is that we could tell it was probably a piece of scrap marble or taken from an older, broken tombstone because of its irregular shape. And it wasn’t carved by anybody who knew what they were doing, either. A complete novice managed to chisel just the initials ‘T.E.’ and the date, 1815. At least, that’s what we think it says, since it’s apparent whoever did the carving had absolutely no skill whatsoever.”

  “Wow, that is a find.” I paused. “Was there…anything else there?”

  “Beth has a contact at the archaeological institute, so she called him and he sent out a few guys with tiny shovels and sifters to see if this was just a discarded stone or an actual grave site.”

  Again she paused, and I wished she were standing in front of me so I could shake her. “Did they find anything?” I prompted.

  “Yes,” she said, dragging out the “s” sound. “There are definitely remains, although they are terribly decomposed. It’s too early to tell, but it looks like the body’s been there for a very long time.”

  I swallowed, thinking how close I’d been to it. “About how long?”

  “A very long time. There are mostly only bone fragments left, and what appears to be the back of a skull. But they also found a few metal pieces, including a small lead ball, and gold buttons.”

  “Are they thinking Civil War then?” I asked, remembering Tish’s stories of the desecration of Christ Church cemetery during the Union occupation.

  “Or earlier. One archaeologist said the button looked British.”

  I looked down at the history book I still held in my hand and imagined I heard voices again, smelled the thick odor of wet wool. “Oh,” I breathed as a cool chill
rippled through me. Like somebody walking over your grave. I shivered, remembering Matthew’s words.

  “The institute is very excited, and they promised they’re going to make this a priority. They’ve already got the whole area taped off.” I could almost imagine her cackling with glee. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “Very,” I agreed, still unable to completely eradicate the bone-deep chill that had settled in my veins like poured concrete.

  “When do you go back to work?” she asked.

  “Tuesday—after the long weekend. Why?”

  “Because we need to visit the Georgia Historical Society’s library and archives in Savannah. I have extra help at the shop on the weekends so that would be the best time for me to go if you could get the day off. They’re open every first and third Saturday of the year, but I’m assuming they’re closed this Saturday because of the Fourth of July weekend. Put it on your calendar for the sixteenth and we’ll drive down together, all right?”

  “Yes. That sounds great.”

  There was a short pause on the other end. “Are you all right? I thought you’d be more excited.”

  “I am. Really. It’s just…I don’t know. I think I’m tired of being cooped up here in the house.” And finding out things about my husband that I don’t want to know.

  “Well, that will be over with soon, and Beth’s on her way over now with a casserole. Y’all can talk about babies. I’m sure that will perk you up.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, probably.” I thought for a moment. “Do you think the archives might have more information about Matthew’s ancestors? I really want to find the name of Geoffrey’s wife.”

  “Absolutely. The archives have everything—deeds, marriage records, newspapers—just about anything you want to know. If you can’t find what you’re looking for there, it doesn’t exist.”

  My phone clicked, and I looked to see that Matthew was calling. “I’ve got to go, Tish. Matthew’s on the other line. I’ll talk to you later, okay? And keep me posted on what’s going on at the grave site.”

  “Will do.”

  She hung up, and I hesitated only a moment before clicking over to Matthew’s call. “Hey,” I said as casually as I could.

  “Hey, yourself. I was getting worried, because I’d called you before and you didn’t answer. I kept picturing you sprawled in your garden among the tomato plants, unable to stand.”

  “There are worse places to fall,” I said, a smile tugging at my reluctant mouth.

  “Glad to know you’re all right. It looks like I’m going to be late tonight. It’s the birthday of one of the doctors in my practice, and I’ve been invited to join them for a little celebration. I’m afraid it’s going to be way past midnight when I get home.”

  “Why don’t you just stay in the apartment there?” I tried to tell myself that my reluctance to have him return home was about his safety and not about postponing asking him the questions I needed to ask.

  “Because I don’t want to be away from you any more than I have to. Besides, who would carry you upstairs to bed?”

  “You don’t need to. I’ve already managed to get upstairs on my own.”

  He waited for a moment before he responded. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s not safe for you to attempt the stairs when you’re by yourself.”

  I gripped the phone tighter, not wanting to wait any longer. “I tried to get into the attic, but the door was locked and the key was missing.”

  There was no pause this time. “Sorry about that. I had a feeling you’d try to go upstairs on your own, and might even attempt the attic stairs. But they’re steeper and not very level, and it would have been too dangerous for you with your boot. Instead of telling you not to—which we both know would mean nothing to you—I locked it.”

  “But where’s the key?”

  He chuckled. “I was just thinking about that this morning. I have a reproduction American flag from 1812 in the attic and I wanted to hang it outside for July Fourth. But when I tried to remember where I’d put that key to open the door so I could get it, I drew a complete blank. Not to worry; I’m sure it will come to me. Hopefully in time for the holiday.”

  “Yeah, hopefully,” I said, my relief at his plausible explanation tinged with something much heavier and darker. “So are you still coming home tonight?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’d miss you too much if I didn’t.” He spoke the words close to the phone.

  “I miss you, too,” I said, closing my eyes, and felt him next to me.

  “Don’t wait up, and I promise not to wake you. But I’ll see you in the morning.”

  We said good-bye, my eyes still closed as I imagined my husband’s face, but behind my closed eyelids his eyes had turned blue.

  This time, the ocean sang with its own voice, the melody familiar, the lyrics garbled as if sung in a foreign language. I knew that I was dreaming, but I clung to that space between wakefulness and sleep, feeling something besides the persistent fear. I turned my head toward the music, hearing the old lullaby sung with the words that only I seemed to know.

  My heart squeezed as if I were drowning, as if I couldn’t draw air to breathe, but I was on land, my bare toes digging into damp sand, and the pain in my chest had nothing to do with sinking beneath the waves.

  The sky was clear in my dream-night, the moon saturating all in a haze of blue. A form approached from over the dunes, the figure of a tall man, and my heart squeezed again, and I knew this pain as one of loss and a grief so tangible that my vision furled at the edges like a burning leaf. I opened my mouth to call out his name, but couldn’t remember what it was.

  The waves rolled up on the sand, their white crests like creeping ghosts along the surface of the water. I wanted to back away, but instead I felt myself stepping forward, toward the water, my clothes soaking up the water, making them heavy. A large wave engulfed me and I was in the water, unable to scream or shout or to see the shore where the figure of the man had stood. I opened my mouth, the salt water filling my lungs and stealing the words I wanted to say, snatching my breath. I awoke with a sob, my cheeks and pillow wet.

  I sat up, startled to see the moonlight filter in through the slats of the blinds. I blinked, seeing a room that was familiar but not, the furniture and bed placed in the wrong spots, although I vaguely remembered helping to rearrange them myself. For a moment I imagined bare windows, the sashes open to allow in the air and scents of a summer night. And a quilt with a wedding-ring pattern on the bed. The vision was so clear I was sure I could smell the briny aroma of the marsh and the decay that meant death and life at the same time.

  I lowered my hand to the mattress next to me, expecting to find the small body of a child pressed against mine, that shadow sister of my childhood dreams there to comfort me through the nightmare of my adult world. Instead, my hand fell on a broad and hard chest, and just then the name that I’d been searching for rose to my lips. “Geoffrey.”

  A firm hand touched my arm and the room settled back into familiarity, the furniture in its proper place and the plantation shutters back on the windows.

  “Ava?”

  I recognized Matthew’s voice, and a breath of relief and uncertainty invaded the air between us.

  “Ava? Are you awake?”

  I collapsed against him, feeling the solidness of him against me as I gasped to suck enough air into me, as if I’d been without for too long. I nodded into his skin, unable to form words.

  We lay silently for a long time, breathing in each other’s breaths, his heartbeat strong beneath my head, the name spoken in my dream hovering like a specter above us.

  “That was your third nightmare this week,” Matthew said softly.

  I nodded again, not wanting to speak, as if to do so would make the man I’d seen in my dream vanish and the grief return.

  He pushed up on an elbow and looked down at me. “I can help you, Ava. Please let me.”

  I pressed my palm against his jaw, then up into his hairline, as if to
reassure myself that he was real. “You mean by hypnosis?”

  He turned his head and kissed the palm of my hand. “Yes. Your nightmares are trying to tell you something.” I felt his eyes on me in the darkness. “A lot of adult nightmares are rooted in childhood.”

  I didn’t say anything, afraid to acknowledge what we were both thinking: about how a child could have sustained multiple bone fractures with no memory of it. Or how an adult could have dreams of drowning when she’d never even been swimming.

  “What if I don’t like what I find out?”

  “It’s a possibility. But once a truth is discovered, a person then has something tangible to deal with.”

  I breathed in deeply, trying to catch the scent of the marsh mud again. “Will it make the nightmares go away?”

  “Usually. And possibly your fear of water, too. It’s been my experience that once the source of a fear is discovered, it disappears. It’s almost like your subconscious uses your dreams to point something out, and once you notice it, it leaves you alone.”

  I thought about my imaginary childhood companion, and the shadow figure on the beach, and was no longer sure that I wanted them to go away.

  As if Matthew could read my mind, he asked, “Who’s Geoffrey?”

  The moonlight behind him threw Matthew’s face into darkness, but I knew he was watching me closely. “I don’t know.” I lifted my head and kissed him. I thought about telling him that I thought it was Geoffrey Frazier, and how his story seemed to haunt me. But I could not, as if in the telling I’d diminish something significant, relegating Geoffrey and his sad story to a familial anecdote and nothing more.

  “Let me help you,” Matthew said again, his voice whispered close to my ear.