Taking pictures of people is also good for creating characters. Like, you get stuck writing the same people over and over, the same people around you. Looking at real people in the real world makes me think harder about whoever I make up.
Like right now, people were loading up boats, which I definitely have not seen in Santa Fe. A bunch of older guys were carrying stuff. One had a cooler, and I liked the way his arms strained. Click. Another had a red hat and red shoes. Click. Onboard, they slapped each other’s backs, and one stripped off his shirt, showing a really hairy back and chest. Ew. But I shot it anyway.
A lady was stomping up the ramp. She had red hair and a white dress that showed off her skinny arms and legs. Even from a distance, I could hear the shouting. She was mad.
I zoomed in to capture the flailing arms of the angry woman, the way the man she’d yelled at bent his head.
Suddenly I realized that one of the other guys on the boat was glaring in my direction. He waved an angry hand at me, like Get out of here.
Embarrassed, I left.
And just like that, I got a flash, a disconnected memory of somebody reaching for me, laughing all around—
It kind of roared around my head, like a movie going by in my brain, really fast. It was so loud and sudden that I stumbled and had to catch myself on the railing.
It slammed through again, louder, the same clip, a face I didn’t know, a hand coming toward me, laughing, and a sense of being out of control, like a nightmare where you’re going too fast to stop, and you know it’s a dream but you can’t wake up.
Only this wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.
I gripped the railing. Five things. Silver metal, tiny daisy growing in the wall, a bright-red scarf on one of the people on the beach, clouds like puffballs, my own hand with chipped-off fingernail polish, a thousand years old.
I was back in my body, not in my brain.
And all of a sudden I saw myself at school, hiding in my hoodie while everybody laughed at me behind my back. My friends haven’t talked to me. My so-called boyfriend has dropped me. I am alone.
It is awful. And it is mean, and I hate them.
And I am sick of feeling like this. Sick of being alone.
I headed up to the cliff on the other side of town, thinking I would go to the store and go back home maybe, start cooking. It might be fun to cook something on that weird stove.
I had to walk through the park to get to the store. A bunch of little kids played on the swings and slide, and it seemed like a good place to grow up, with a view of the ocean always right there. I shot some of that, too, the kids and the ocean and the day.
At the edge of the park near the forest was a big tree with giant balls of seeds on it. Sitting beneath it was a knot of teenagers, three guys and two girls, sharing a bag of chips. One of the girls had a bad pink dye job, like something she did over the sink with no help, but it did the trick of setting her apart. I wondered if they knew Molly.
One of the guys saw me watching them. He was skinny and blond, wearing a coat even though it was a billion degrees. Good face with a strong nose and clean jaw. He’d photograph well.
“Hey, you, camera girl,” he called, and it was so cute, the accent; even though I’m kind of used to it, it’s different when it’s a guy. “Come on over.”
For a long minute, I didn’t know what to do. I miss having friends, but that hasn’t gone that well, right? I waved my hand, shook my head, kept walking.
The blond guy jogged out to walk beside me. “Hi,” he said. Up close, his eyes were light green. You don’t see green eyes all that often, but in Axestowe, it’s pretty common, like a genetic thing in the village. “Are you shy?”
“Not exactly,” I said, which is true. My mouth felt a little dry, and I swallowed a couple of times, but another part of me didn’t want him to go. I am scared of the things people can do, but I am also tired of never being around people my age.
“I’m Isaac,” he said.
“Isabel.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I shook my head. “I’m not shy. Just careful.”
“Are you visiting from America, Careful Isabel?”
“Kind of. Visiting my great-grandmother.”
“Oh!” He nodded. “You’re the girl Molly met the other day, right?”
“I met a Molly a couple of days ago, yeah.” I met his glittering gaze, and an almost-forgotten something whispered up my spine. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“We all are.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the others. “We live in the council flats over on the other side of the river.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded like I knew. Maybe apartments or something.
“You should come over and hang out with us.”
I looked at the group. They were looking our way, but nobody seemed hostile. Still, I couldn’t seem to say yes. “I have to go to the store.”
He grinned at me, coaxing, and I suddenly felt a yank of memory.
“Sorry,” I said, and I hurried away.
“Next time!” he called after me.
What I suddenly wanted, more than anything, was to visit my grandmother. It felt urgent and important, and I switched directions without even giving it much thought to head into the village and the Kitchen Witch.
Chapter Eighteen
Poppy
In addition to the worry over Diana and now Jennie, and the urgency I felt over my mother, work was extremely busy. The Axestowe Festival, the biggest event of the year, would take place next weekend, and I had a lot to get ready still. The doldrums of late afternoon were our best prep times at the shop, and we were working on dry sachets. I was fretting as I worked, honestly, fretting over how to get in to see my mother, and wondering if I knew anything about Diana that hadn’t really clicked.
And Jennie, damn it. Where was the girl?
With a sudden insight, I realized someone who might know. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Mia. “Watch the shop for a few minutes.”
The sun was unexpectedly hot, but I only had a little walk, down the high street to the Rose and Crown. A chalkboard outside advertised steak pie for £10.95 and ploughman’s lunch for £8.50. I smelled bread as I ducked into the cool interior, and I found the tables well occupied with a prosperous group of tourists, a good portion of them Germans of a certain age who’d come in with a coach tour and enjoyed a glass of beer with their midday meals, men and women alike.
But I wasn’t interested in tourists. I wound my way through the dark rooms to the bar, where a handful of dedicated drinkers held down their favored stools. One of them was Alan, Jennie’s father. So early in the day, he was still upright and tidy. I slid on a stool next to him. “Hello, Alan.”
He startled a little but sat up straighter. I wasn’t the belle I once was, but men over fifty still took notice. He looked at my breasts.
A burst of laughter rolled out of a corner booth, and I saw a table of well-heeled men, strangers, lingering over the remains of their lunch. No doubt one of the fishing parties that had cropped up so often lately, ready to set sail for the week ahead. The weather would be fabulous.
“Where did Jennie go?”
“How would I know?” he replied gruffly. “She ain’t spoken to me in nearly a year.”
“You know things anyway, don’t you? Her boyfriend—”
He made a noise of disgust.
I looked over my shoulder at the room, thinking how many hours he’d sat here. “She went to Exeter. Do you have family there? Someone she might have contacted?”
“Nah. We’re all here, and south.”
Another big blast of laughter. I glanced over my shoulder. “What kind of fishing do they do?” I asked idly.
“Hell if I know.” He raised his pint, elbow on the bar. “Don’t think they’re bringing in many fish.”
“Why do you say that?”
He glanced toward them. “They got no coolers, not big enough for that lot.”
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“What are they doing, then?”
“Getting drunk. Playing poker and dice.” He took an oddly delicate sip of ale. “Bunch of fat rich fucks.”
The bartender came over, and I waved him away. “Your daughter is missing, Alan. I don’t know where she is or why she’s not answering her phone, but you might want to give it a little more attention.”
“What do you want me to do? She ain’t been living with me since I kicked her out over that baby.”
“I just thought you’d want to know.”
I walked out, wondering how many young people faced parents like this, people who abandoned a job they hadn’t really wanted in the first place.
And then I heard my thought and stopped in my tracks. I had abandoned my child too. But it was different, because I’d left her with my own mother, who doted on her, who piled more love and attention on her than I ever could have.
Hadn’t she?
A passerby bumped me, then uttered a quick apology. It jolted me into moving again. Not quickly, because my gut burned with something that felt very much like shame, and the pain of it radiated outward, encompassing my entire being.
I thought of my seven-year-old Zoe, with her long braids and big wide eyes and grasshopper legs, her skin so brown all summer that she looked like a chocolate Lab.
But I couldn’t think about that. Not today.
A small voice said without judgment, Then when?
I was getting a drink of water when the bell over the door rang. I looked up to see Isabel. My heart bloomed at her beauty, the wild curls, her large brown eyes. Had the heavens ever produced a more beautiful girl? I couldn’t think of a single one.
“Isabel! I am so glad to see you.”
“Hi.” She frowned and closed the door, and then stood there as if she didn’t know what she was doing.
“Did you come for another lesson in tarot?”
“Maybe? I just”—she looked over her shoulder—“I just wanted to come here.”
I inclined my head. What was this about? “All right. We’re bored with ourselves here, so why don’t we all sit down and play with the cards?”
Mia had been as restless as a cat all day. “Yes. I am so for that idea.”
“Come, my lovelies,” I said, gathering them with sweeps of my hands and moving them toward the alcove. A bay window bowed out toward the sea, and I’d covered the table with a hand-printed cloth from Jaipur, where I’d landed to study with a guru after my world had fallen to pieces. I had been so very ill, and Baba had given me the tools to heal my shredded heart.
So many teachers. I’d been blessed to find them all, one after the other, in Glastonbury and America and Jaipur and Kolkata and Kanchanaburi and Bodh Gaya.
Overhead, the speakers played ragas, music that stirred up spiritual longings and hopes. “Mia, will you pour us all glasses of lavender lemonade?” I’d made it this morning, moved by some impulse I didn’t question, and now I knew why.
Isabel didn’t quite roost. She sat on the edge of her chair, heels braced on the lower rung of the chair as if poised to leap away at the slightest provocation. “How is your mother?” I asked.
“Fine. Or well, not fine, because she’s sad about Diana, and I think she’s worried about Gigi, but you know. Fine-ish, I guess.”
I gathered the decks, wondering which ones we should use. “Did she tell you I stopped by?”
“No! Did you talk to her, to my mom?”
“I did.” I passed my palms over the cards, the decks, feeling them for the right energy. “She was not happy about it, but we talked.”
“I’m shocked.” She frowned, tucked her hands under her knees, looked over her shoulder. “Maybe I should go. Maybe this is not a great idea.” But it distressed her.
“Isabel, you are not responsible for either your mother’s happiness or mine. You only have to do what feels right. I will not be angry if you feel you must go. I’m sure we will have many opportunities to get to know each other.”
“I asked my dad about it, and he said the same thing. That if I want to know you, I can figure out a way to do that without involving my mom.” She leveled her strangely mature gaze at me. “He also said you really hurt her. Scarred her, really.”
Scarred seemed a bit harsh, but I let it go. Nodded.
Mia returned with three tall glasses filled with faintly purple lemonade served with circlets of lemon. “It smells lovely,” she said, settling everything and taking the empty chair.
Isabel leaned in and sipped it. “That’s nice! I wouldn’t have thought you could drink lavender.”
Scarred, I thought, feeling the word through my heart. It burned like acid through the tenderest parts of that space, sizzling and crackling. Authentic. Had I scarred my tender and lovely daughter?
A glimmer of something broke through my careful walls, something bigger and darker than I could manage just then. I would think of it later.
On the hill I could see through the window, the search party looked for clues to Diana’s disappearance. I’d read the warnings in her cards, as I’d seen death in Jennie’s abbreviated life line.
Lost girls. I’d found them everywhere, all over the world, all longing for hope, for love, for an answer to their hungers in a world that did not honor them.
Mia among them. She was restless and lonely, mourning the woman she’d left behind. “Shall I read?”
Her energy was jagged, and I placed my hand over hers. “Allow me.” Listening to my intuition, I laid three cards facedown in a triangle and asked Mia to turn them over, one at a time. She revealed the Three of Cups, the Ace of Coins, and, at last, the Queen of Coins. I smiled. “What do you see?”
Even Mia couldn’t hold on to her resentment under the force of such a positive set of cards. “Sensuality, the physical, the material world. Fresh starts,” she said. “And a woman.” Her lips quirked.
“Good.” I touched the Queen of Coins. “A lush, sensual woman, by the look of this. Someone very secure and comfortable in her skin.”
Her body softened, all at once. “That would be awesome.”
“Fresh starts, yes,” I added. “Unexpected joy. Happiness and hope.”
She raised her clear eyes, and I saw hope in them, which was the whole point of telling fortunes. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, dear girl. This is a rest period, that’s all.”
“I hope so.” She took the cards, lifted the Queen, and surprised me by kissing it. “I’m so lonely. I want to find my soul mate.”
“We all have so many,” I said. “You’re bound to find one of them very soon.”
“We do?” Isabel asked. “I thought it was only one.”
“Poppy!” Mia protested at the same moment. “You don’t believe that! Many, not just one? That doesn’t even make sense.”
I thought of Ravi, standing in the doorway of a temple, his face as calm as the winter sky. “Some carry more weight than others,” I agreed, “but each one brings a gift. If you’re so focused on finding just the right person, you might miss the ones who bring you everything you need.”
Mia narrowed her eyes, shuffling, shuffling. “You had a soul mate, though, didn’t you?”
I dropped my gaze to her hands, glad to see her working with the cards as I’d taught her to do, but guarding my secret heart nonetheless. A flash of Ravi’s high brow and brown throat crossed my memory, that blue kurta he wore so often. “No.”
“Aha!” Isabel said. “I think you did have one. Was it my grandfather?”
“He was one of them,” I said, touching her wrist. One day, she might read the cards, but for now I could touch her without her knowing that it wasn’t Ben I’d loved so fiercely.
“Mmm.” Mia smiled slightly and laid out a spread, facedown. “Shall we see?”
I covered her hand. “No,” I said. “Not today.” I left the table, set the kettle to boil. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mia turn the cards over anyway, but I didn’t rebuke her. What would she see? What would s
he learn?
The Magician placed at the center of a circle. Around him the Lovers, the World, the Wheel of Fortune, the Ten of Cups, Death. “Bloody hell.” She frowned. “I’ve never seen so many major cards in a reading.”
The eyes she raised to me filled with tears. “More than a soul mate,” she said softly.
I turned my back, feeling the rare baying pain rise and twist—Ravi’s hand in mine, growing cold, the vastness of time before me, empty without him.
She was wise enough not to press. Looking out the tiny window to the narrow alley, I thought of the Ten of Cups, the family card, the happy card. How happy we had been in the midst of a long and terrible storm! Our tiny family of two, but a family nonetheless.
“Is that why you left my mother?” Isabel asked. “For a guy?”
That thin knife blade of loss and shame and confusion slid around my ribs. “In a way,” I said. “But it’s more complicated than that.”
Isabel leveled a cool look at me, stacking cards in a way that was steady and not at all nervous. An old soul. “I’m listening.”
I gave Mia a glance, and she made an excuse to leave the table. “You want to know why I left your mother.”
She nodded.
I sighed, trying to gather the pieces, the right pieces, to tell her. “None of this will make it all right. And I don’t offer excuses: only what I know is true for me.”
“Okay.”
“I loved your mother from the first moment she arrived in the world,” I said. “But I did not love being a mother, and I most certainly did not want to be a wife.”
“Then why were you?”
“That’s a good question. I thought I had to. I didn’t know, not for a long time, that I had any other choice.”
“But it was the eighties! Not, like, the fifties.”
“I know. But women were still not as free as you’ve become. You’re not free still, but it’s better.”
“I don’t feel free.”
“There’s still work to be done.” I sipped lavender lemonade and let the purple scent move through me, calming and soft. “We had some freedom. The pill made it better, and I was freer than my mother had been to explore what I wanted.”
The Lost Girls of Devon Page 11