Sea Change

by Karen White

  I didn’t want to tell him that my reservations weren’t about the water at all. I nodded into his shirt, then pulled back. “Before I reconsider, let’s go now; let’s change our clothes and put the boat in the water.”

  I quickly slid out of his embrace; then we ran upstairs to change. I left my clothes on the floor so I wouldn’t have time for second thoughts. We walked downstairs together, holding hands but not speaking, the old wooden floorboards whispering beneath our feet.

  I helped Matthew carry the Ava to the dock, then watched as he put her in the water. He kept asking for assurances that I felt all right, that I wasn’t fearful. I wasn’t, and I told him so, unable to explain how I felt almost numb in the way one feels when going through familiar motions. Yet I’d never been on a boat before, had never wanted to be this close to the water.

  He helped me put on my life vest, then secured his own, and then with one last assurance that I was all right, he helped me onto the boat and settled me on one of the two seats before untying us from the dock.

  I watched a swarm of gnats dance around the dock post, undulating with the water’s movement, cohesive in their uncertainty. Matthew picked up the oars he’d stored on the johnboat. “Are you ready?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Definitely.” I tilted my face into the warm breeze as he pushed off from the dock. I kept my hands resting on my knees, feeling no need to clutch the sides of the boat or to flail at the air like a dying butterfly. The world moved beneath me like a hand rocking a cradle, and I imagined that if I closed my eyes I’d feel the night wind on my face and hear the loud, harsh squawk of the yellow-crowned night heron as my boat propelled me toward him. I opened my eyes, blinking in the harsh light of a summer afternoon, trying to see the face of the man who’d been waiting for me.

  “What are you thinking?”

  I faced my husband, my thoughts jangling together like two colliding trains. “I’m thinking about how natural this feels. As if I’ve been doing it all my life.”

  Where I’d been expecting to see relief in his eyes, I saw hesitation, a flash of uncertainty, a sense that he’d had this conversation before. But not with me.

  He glanced away, focusing on moving the oars through the water, pushing the boat away from the dock and the house. “I thought we’d just stay in this area here, where you can still recognize where you are until you’re more comfortable.”

  I shook my head. “No. I want to go as far as the Frederica River, maybe farther. I want to…” I paused, no longer remembering what it was I wanted, only that I felt the need to reach the end of my journey, wherever that was, where somebody would be waiting for my return.

  I looked at Matthew in astonishment, wanting to share with him what I’d just discovered, but I swallowed back the words when I saw the reservation in his eyes, as if he were ready to turn around now and head back to the dock.

  “Let’s get as far as the river,” I said instead. “Then we can see how we feel and decide what to do then.”

  His chin set in a hard line. “The johnboat is made for calmer waters, so we won’t be able to go much farther than the river. The flat front isn’t designed for cutting through waves, so we have to steer clear of other watercraft. It can get a bit busy this time of year.”

  I nodded, not really listening, as I was too preoccupied with the onslaught of conflicting sensations. The fear had returned, but it had retreated behind all the other emotions, as if waiting its turn. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was on the creek and not the Atlantic, that my shoreline was filled with cordgrass and fiddler crabs instead of dunes and screeching gulls. But my anticipation eclipsed all other sensations, even the fear, and when my gaze drifted to Matthew’s broad shoulders and the strong, capable hands grasping the oars, I knew his presence was helping to keep the fear at bay.

  I was aware of the slap of oars against water as Matthew navigated our way through the fingers of the creek, aware, too, of the heat of the day and the cloudless sky. We spotted an osprey nest tucked inside the cradle of the branches of a dead tree, and a tall egret standing elegantly still, but I was aware mostly of a serenity that had settled on me like a shawl, as if my whole life had been leading to this moment.

  We passed three people fishing from small boats like ours but with motors on the back, and every once in a while we could hear the moan and whir of engines in the distance, the sound like persistent mosquitoes. The marsh became sparser as we neared the river, the water wider, yet I still wasn’t ready to go back, was still unsure of my destination.

  I was about to tell Matthew that I wanted to row, to see whether it felt the way I imagined it would, the way my hands seemed to remember it, when the sound of something scraping against the side of the boat made me whip around to see what it was.

  A gnarled and twisted limb from a long-dead tree floated past us in the current, spinning in circles as if the years trapped inside it were struggling to escape. Tangled in the twiggy fingers of a branch was a lady’s scarf, wide white stripes against a sea of red. I thought of the woman who owned it, and how it had found its way into the water, and whether she missed it still. And I wondered about all the lost things in the water, and how most of them would be carried out to sea and never seen again.

  I looked up to find Matthew watching me as if he’d heard my thoughts, as if we’d been in conversation and I’d spoken out loud. “Jimmy Scott found Adrienne’s briefcase in the creek.”

  He stopped rowing for a moment, the air suddenly still around us. “He didn’t tell me.”

  “He didn’t know it was hers, because all the papers had been ruined by the water. But I saw her initials on the lock.”

  His expression gave nothing away. “How did he find it?”

  The whirring of an engine droned in the distance, but neither of us looked away.

  “He was fishing. It must have gotten stuck on something in the creek; otherwise it would be somewhere out in the Atlantic by now.”

  The droning became louder, but our gazes were locked in a dance to which neither one of us knew the steps. I waited for him to tell me that he knew nothing about the briefcase or how it had ended up in the creek. The water rocked beneath us as I held my breath and waited.

  “Yes,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes widening. “It should have.”

  I’m not sure what I meant to say as I reached for an oar, wanting only to begin rowing back home, as if I could escape from a truth I couldn’t face. Before my fingertips brushed wood, we both became aware that the droning was no longer in the distance, but saturated the air as a slim white boat erupted from the bend behind us, its trajectory in a direct line of collision with our boat.

  I half stood in reflex, forgetting all the safety rules Matthew had drilled into me before he’d allowed me to step foot inside the boat. With a powerful tug on the oars, Matthew barely managed to push our boat out of the way, avoiding collision but turning us parallel to the choppy wake left behind by the other boat.

  “Ava! Don’t stand….”

  His words were lost as a large wave hit us broadside, and the last thing I remembered before my body hit the warm water was Matthew’s hand reaching toward me.

  I tasted briny water as the world went silent around me, a liquid world I vaguely remembered from the beginning of a journey. What was only seconds felt suddenly like a lifetime, a moment in time spent immersed in the peacefulness of knowing everything and nothing at the same time, of understanding how the water could carry us in any direction regardless of how hard we fought against the current.

  Hands tugged on my life jacket, lifting me up, yet all I could think about was Jimmy saying something about flowers needing to figure out how to bloom wherever they were planted. I looked up into the faces of strangers, searching for Matthew, feeling angry and confused, yet seeing with brilliant clarity all that lay behind me and all that was in front of me, and how I was simply in the middle of my journey working to understand what to plant in my garden, and what to weed out.


  I was lifted up and then over the side of the white boat and laid gently on a bench seat. Through stinging eyes I saw Matthew bending over me, hearing his words again: They think I killed her. I turned my head away as I was handed towels and asked whether I needed a doctor.

  I insisted I was fine and allowed them to help me back into the johnboat, touching Matthew’s hand briefly as he helped me into the boat, then letting go quickly. I felt the water move beneath me again as the boat turned toward home, trying to make sense of all I’d seen and why Matthew had not seemed surprised that Adrienne’s briefcase had been found in the creek.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Pamela

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  FEBRUARY 1815

  A cold rain pricked my skin, the wind blowing it nearly sideways. I barely noticed as the numbness grew from my insides like a cancer. I was nothing more than a hollow shell left on the beach, waiting for the next wave to sweep me into the ocean.

  Robbie was getting stronger with each dose of the nearly depleted medication, but despite Geoffrey’s assurances that he was getting better, too, I knew from the dullness in his eyes that he was fading from me, his ghost already inhabiting his shadow. He had been unable to hold down any food for two days, weakening his already fragile state, and although the fever and chills had stopped, I knew that it was only a matter of days before they began their round again.

  I urged the horse forward, my aged mare hardly noticing. My hands were frozen, the wind and rain easily cutting through the worn leather of my red gloves, but I kept my gaze firmly on the road in front of me. Each day for over a week I had not waited to hear from Thomas, but had sought news from him in his camp. I knew he had responsibilities, but I was too impatient to wait for him to come to me. And waiting for the sound of his horse had been like a knife slowly cutting into flesh, the disappointment of his absence like the severing of a limb.

  I had become a familiar sight in the camp, yet I saw virtually no one, as most of the soldiers encamped there had retreated into their tents to escape the inclement weather. I had the hood of my cape pulled far over my face, trusting my horse to find the way. I tied my horse behind the big house, then trudged through the mud toward the medical tent, where a large oilcloth had been stretched on poles over the space in front of the opening to protect it from the rain. I drew up abruptly in front of the closed flaps at the sound of a familiar female voice.

  “I have the money to pay you, Thomas. My husband is a very wealthy man.”

  Thomas spoke in low tones, his words unintelligible.

  “It is a very small thing I ask. I know you can help me if you wish to.”

  I recognized the animosity in my sister’s voice, the very sound making me want to take a step backward, Georgina’s unforgiving nature having made a permanent mark on me.

  Thomas’s voice was louder, as if he’d stepped closer to the tent’s opening. “It is not a question of money, ma’am. It is simply that I am not allowed to leave St. Simons without risking getting shot as a deserter. I assure you that I am doing everything that I can to obtain the medicines I left behind on Cumberland.”

  Georgina’s voice came back as a hiss rather than the deceptive cajoling tone she usually used to get her way. “Do not think I am without influence. I can make things very uncomfortable for you here. I am hoping that the next time we meet you will have a more satisfactory answer.”

  The tent flap opened suddenly and I fell back, finding myself staring into the astonished faces of both my sister and Thomas Enlow. He looked apologetic, while Georgina looked only smug.

  “I hope you have not come to ask for the doctor’s help, sister, as he is quite unwilling to do anything for us.”

  I put a hand on her arm. “Have you come for Geoffrey and Robbie?”

  Her eyebrows rose as if she were considering my question. “Yes,” she said slowly. “They are so ill, and Dr. Enlow is our only hope.” A spasm shook her and she raised a handkerchief up to her mouth as she turned away to cough.

  I frowned at her back. “Are you ill?”

  She nodded, dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchief, her eyes on Dr. Enlow. “You know how the wet and cold always seem to settle in my chest. As soon as it warms up, I am sure I will be fine.”

  She turned to the doctor with a smile. “Remember what I have told you.”

  “It would be difficult to forget, ma’am.” He made a short bow, but I saw his sardonic smile.

  “I must go.” A thin smile stretched Georgina’s lips. “Geoffrey has asked that I visit more often. I hope you are not neglecting him.”

  I knew there was no use in defending or explaining myself. She had always had the ability to turn and twist one’s words so that they fit into her side of any argument. She would claim that she had won, when in actuality her opponent had either simply given up or refused to participate.

  “You are welcome to visit as often as you like, Georgina. Robbie especially enjoys your company, as you help him forget that he is ill. He keeps asking when you will bring him another caterpillar. His last one changed into a butterfly in the fall and she flew away.”

  Her clear eyes widened, as if they were seeing more than me and the rain and the muddy encampment. “They do that, don’t they? They go to sleep as caterpillars and then awaken as butterflies. It is fascinating, is it not?” Her eyes met mine. “Tell Robbie I will bring him the first caterpillar that I find in the spring.”

  She coughed again, her handkerchief covering her mouth as she waved to me, then stepped out from under the cover of the oilcloth and into the rain. She turned back once more, her eyes bright, as if she were hiding a secret. “I would return home to your husband, Pamela. Each day you ride here, he watches you leave and then watches you return. He is sick but not blind. Do take care.” She dashed away before I could respond, but I continued to stare after her for a long moment until the heat in my cheeks faded.

  Despite Thomas’s invitation to join him in his tent, I stayed outside under the makeshift porch in full view of passersby, huddled in my cloak. “Any news?” I asked, knowing from his expression that there was not.

  “I’ve been given no leave as yet. I promise I will get word to you as soon as I do. Trust me to understand the depth of your need.”

  I nodded, looking down at the muddy hem of my skirt and boots so that he could not see the tears in my eyes. “I know you do.” I reached under my cloak for my reticule, then drew out two pieces of paper. “My son and I created two more stanzas for you. He is getting restless staying in his bed all day, so I asked for his help. I thought he was very clever.”

  A weary smile lit the doctor’s lips. “He is a very clever boy—very much like my William. Thank you—thank you both.” His eyes were soft. “I am sorry I have nothing to give to you in return.” He hesitated. “But maybe some advice for now?”

  I looked at him warily. “What sort of advice?”

  He pursed his lips, measuring his words. “Trust your heart, and your own eyes and ears. You cannot be misled by them.”

  I tilted my head as I regarded the doctor, not entirely sure what he meant. “I shall try, Thomas.”

  “Good. Now go home and sit in front of a fire to thaw out before you return to nursing. You are no good to either patient if you are not well.”

  “I cannot rest, Thomas. It is better for me to bathe foreheads and change bed linens to keep my mind occupied. I am afraid of where my thoughts might travel if they are not otherwise engaged.”

  He took my hands as his eyes warmed. “I know what it is to love deeply, and I understand your pain.”

  “Do you?” I asked. “Do you know what it is like to share a breath as if it came from one body? To die a little with each moment spent apart? I did not think that such a love was a common thing.”

  “It is not, Pamela. Therefore you and I are two very lucky souls.”

  I smiled and pulled my hands out of his grasp. “I hope you are right.”

  I took my l
eave of him and rode back to my tabby house, oblivious of the icy rain as I thought of caterpillars and butterflies, and of a love that was meant to last forever.

  When I stopped in front of my house, I looked up at our bedroom window and saw Geoffrey staring down at me. I lifted my hand to wave, but the only response I received was the curtains falling back into place, and I was left staring at the empty window as if he’d never been there at all.

  Gloria

  ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA

  JULY 2011

  I stood on the back stoop with a glass of iced tea and looked at Ava’s garden, wondering why there were stakes in the ground marking off a path, but no other work had been done. I stepped closer, feeling Ava’s absence the way a person feels the sun fade on a winter’s day. As a baby she’d clung to me, following me from room to room as if she, too, could find no warmth without me. That’s when my aversion to the phone began; I always feared when the sun might leave me forever.

  Thoughtfully, I studied her practical garden, full of herbs she didn’t know how to use in her kitchen. But I could see where flowers should be, right up to the kitchen house, where visitors to the backyard would be greeted with a fragrant and colorful surprise. I wondered whether she’d thought of that, of at least placing her beloved passionflowers where she might enjoy them.

  The first flower name Ava ever said as a young child was “passionflower.” It was so much harder to say than “rose” or “daisy,” but nothing Ava did surprised me. The passionflowers attracted the Gulf Fritillaries like brilliant stars falling from the sky, as if she’d known all along that’s what the flowers were for. For Ava, the rest of my garden was simply a place to dig in the dirt, to grow things with the sun on her back. But her passionflowers were her personal claim to magic.

  Her love of the passionflower caught me by as much surprise as did her fear of water. Mimi said it was because Ava was an old soul, and told me that I could see it in all the shadows of Ava’s brown eyes. But all I could ever see in her eyes was my own reflection, and that scared me most of all. Why would a little girl gaze out into the world with all the questions and uncertainties of a middle-aged woman?