Sea Scope

by Debbie De Louise

  I dried my eyes with a tissue and picked up my phone again. I had one last thing to do before bed. I needed to call the person pretending to be Glen. If it was really Wanda, I'd only be calling over to the West Wing. I was disappointed but not surprised when the call went immediately to voicemail. I should've expected that, as well as my reaction when I heard Glen asking me to leave a message and he would get back to me. My heart did a somersault at the sound of his voice. Glen would never get back to me because he was dead. I hung up and texted a reply to the message I'd received earlier. “Who are you? What do you want?” Before I hit 'send,' I added, “If you don't reply, I'm contacting the police.”

  After I checked that the message was delivered but not yet read, I put the phone back in its charger and changed for bed, my mind filled with so many questions.

  I tossed and turned for a half hour before getting up to check the phone again. I saw that my text still hadn't been read.

  I knew that it wasn't the strange bed that kept me from sleep but my mind refusing to wind down. I had an idea that concentrating on something other than my situation would help, so I turned on the light and went to the bookshelf. I told myself it wouldn't matter if I read a children's story, as long as it distracted me from my problems. As I searched, I suddenly noticed a book tucked the wrong way among the neatly lined shelves. I pulled it out to find the diary I'd lost when I was ten. Bringing it to bed, I wondered how I'd feel reading it after all this time. I opened the cover to reveal a penciled sketch of Sea Scope that I didn't recall drawing. Throughout the diary was my doodled artwork along with my descriptions of the people and events from 1996.

  Instead of reading through the first few entries, I decided to choose a random date. I flipped through the pages until my hand rested on one toward the back of the book, the entry dated June 29th. I recalled that was the day we'd all celebrated Michael's birthday. I propped up the pillow behind me and leaned against it as I began to read my account of the party.

  From the notes of Michael Gamboski

  One of Michigan's 124 lighthouses (Pixabay.com)

  There are lighthouses in 31 states. States without lighthouses include Arizona, Colorado, Iowa, Kansas, Montana, and Nevada. The state with the most lighthouses is Michigan (124).

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sea Scope: Twenty years ago

  Wanda let Sarah and Glen help decorate Michael's birthday cake after it had cooled. Since Glen wasn't very good at frosting and often ended up making a mess, Sarah was chosen to use the butter knife to spread the white icing over the chocolate cake. She had a hard time resisting licking the buttercream topping, but Wanda stood watching, her eyes passing on a secret warning. Glen's job was to place the small lighthouses and boats Aunt Julie had found in a craft store in a circle around the top. Ms. Wilson had already written 'Happy Birthday Michael' in light blue icing in the center and added the 2 and 1 numeral candles behind the greeting.

  Sarah's father was blowing up balloons while their mother was hanging the inflated ones around the patio because the party was taking place outside in the warm summer night. Aunt Julie had found string lights in the attic and citronella lamps to keep away the mosquitoes.

  Everyone was excited as they waited for the guest of honor to appear. He'd left after dinner, as usual, to work at the lighthouse. He always brought his notebook, library books, pens, and a camera with him stuffed into a satchel that Sarah considered a grown-up version of a school backpack. He spent about two hours each night at the lighthouse, wrapping up around eight. Occasionally, he let her and Glen tag along and help him with his research. He hadn't asked them that night, and they were glad because they wanted to help prepare for the party.

  Once everything was in place, Ms. Wilson offered to be the lookout to alert them when she saw Michael approach. She stood by one of the oak trees at the end of the drive, a thin silhouette in a floral dress that Sarah had never seen her wear before.

  It was hard for Sarah to stay quiet but even more difficult for her brother. Their mother kept putting a finger to her lips and telling them to settle down. Wendy didn't need to be reminded because she was naturally soft-spoken. She'd stacked all of Michael's gifts on a table in the corner as her mother had instructed and stood in silence guarding the pile. Even the children had given Michael presents. Sarah had contributed a writing pad; Glen a paperweight from the science museum; and Wendy a batch of cookies she and her mother baked along with the cake. Sarah didn't know what was in the large package decorated with lighthouses or the medium sized one with boats. She only knew her father was giving Michael a gift card to the bookstore and that Aunt Julie hinted that she'd found a perfect shirt she thought Michael would love. Sarah had also seen a small, unwrapped white box tucked behind a plant on the gift table. She didn't think it was one of Michael's gifts, but she wondered why it was there.

  When Michael hadn't returned to the inn by nine, Sarah's father proposed he go to the lighthouse and see what was keeping him. Even though school had let out for the summer and Sarah, Glen, and Wendy could stay up late, everyone was eager to get the party underway.

  Sarah watched as her father joined Ms. Wilson at the end of the walk who, having tired of standing, had propped herself against the tree. Sarah could barely make out their figures in the growing darkness. Aunt Julie hesitated to switch on the outdoor lights because she was afraid it would ruin the surprise.

  Even though Sarah couldn't see them, she caught their words that drifted back through the night.

  She heard her father say, “I can get him. I don't mind.”

  “That's silly,” Ms. Wilson replied. “It's late and growing dark. You go back and wait with the others.”

  “We can go together.”

  “Ms. Brewster may need me.”

  “Everything is ready. She just needed someone to wait for Michael, but he's already an hour late.”

  Sarah wondered why their voices were rising. Were they arguing? Then she watched as Ms. Wilson crossed her arms and leaned back against the tree as her father turned and began walking in the direction of the lighthouse. He'd gotten his way with Ms. Wilson as he usually did in disagreements with her mother.

  It felt like forever but was probably no more than twenty minutes or so before the two men ambled up the path. Side by side, they were about the same height, but Sarah's dad was stockier than lanky Michael. Although he was old enough to be his father, Mr. Brewster was in great shape. At forty-five, he could easily pass as Michael's older brother.

  Ms. Wilson, who was still standing by the oak, stepped in front of them. She took Michael's hand, and led him to the patio where Aunt Julie switched on the lights at that exact moment and everyone stood up and yelled, “Surprise! Happy Birthday, Michael!”

  Sarah couldn't be sure from his expression if he was truly surprised, but as soon as the announcement was made, Ms. Wilson threw her arms around him. Before letting him go, she whispered in his ear, but the words couldn't be heard over the chattering of the crowd. Sarah's mother was next. She gave him a brief hug after which Mr. Brewster shook his hand and patted him on the back. Glen, Sarah, and Wendy gathered around him chanting, “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you,” but Aunt Julie told them to save their singing for the cake. She gave Michael a quick kiss on the cheek and led him to a seat.

  “I don't know what to say,” Michael replied. “You're all so kind. Thank you.” In the lights hanging from the porch rafters, Sarah saw he was blushing.

  “It wasn't my idea, Mike,” Sarah's dad said. I would've taken you out to a bar since you're now old enough to go.” He glanced over at the children. “Blame my sister. She always likes an excuse for a party.”

  Aunt Julie tapped him on his arm. “I didn't hear you complain too much, Martin.”

  “Ouch,” Sarah's father said in reaction to the light punch.

  “Why doesn't Michael open his gifts now?” Ms. Wilson suggested.

  “That's a great idea,” Sarah's mother said. Sarah noticed she ha
d stepped away from the group who were gathered around Michael and was eyeing the unopened champagne bottle on the table by the other drinks.

  Aunt Julie said, “Since Wendy did such a good job putting out the gifts, maybe Sarah and Glen can help bring them to you, Michael. Sarah, can you bring over the first gift, please?”

  Sarah and Glen took turns bringing the wrapped packages to Michael to open. The medium-sized gift was the nautical shirt that Aunt Julie had mentioned. It was light blue to match Michael's eyes, with short sleeves, a button-down collar, and a lighthouse on the left breast pocket. After Michael said how much he liked it, Sarah's father handed him the envelope with the bookstore gift card. Michael had already opened the gifts from Sarah, Glen, and Wendy, so there was only the large gift remaining. Sarah brought it over, wondering what it could be.

  “I think I'll need help opening this,” Michael said.

  “Maybe you should read the card first,” Aunt Julie suggested.

  Sarah noticed that Ms. Wilson had edged closer to Michael's chair.

  Michael slipped open the envelope. Sarah caught a glimpse of the card inside. It featured a picture of a lighthouse in the setting sun. Sarah considered she would love to paint like that if her aunt could teach her, but Aunt Julie only painted people.

  “Thank you, Wanda,” Michael said closing the card. Sarah wondered why he hadn't read it aloud, but he was already tearing open the gift's silver wrapping. Sarah helped him by undoing the tape on the other side. Ms. Wilson looked on with a nervous expression as if she wasn't quite sure what Michael would think of her present.

  When the wrapping was removed, Sarah could see from the photo on the box that it was a stand for his camera.

  As Michael lifted it out, Ms. Wilson said, “I thought you could use a tripod for all those photographs you're taking.”

  “That's very thoughtful of you,” Michael said, and Ms. Wilson pursed her lips. She didn't look happy about how he'd received her gift.

  “Now let's have cake,” Aunt Julie said.

  “I have a bit of a headache,” Sarah's mother said coming out from the shadows. “Please excuse me, Michael. I think I should go to bed.” As she walked to the patio door, Ms. Wilson followed. “I think I'll join you. Sorry I can't clean up, Ms. Brewster. I'm very tired. Enjoy your night, Michael.” She looked toward her daughter. “You can stay if you want, Wendy.” The girl nodded and moved next to Sarah.

  “More cake for us,” Glen whispered as Aunt Julie lit the candles and lowered the lights.

  It was the three children and Sarah's aunt and father who remained as Michael blew out the 2 and1 numeral candles and the one for good luck that Aunt Julie had added.

  They sang as Michael closed his eyes and, in one breath, blew out all the candles.

  Sarah's father patted him on the back. “Good job. I hope you get your wish.”

  Aunt Julie then asked Sarah and Wendy to help her cut slices of the cake to serve on the happy birthday plates decorated with lighthouses. Sarah's father popped open the champagne bottle but asked Glen to pour lemonade for the three kids.

  “Can't I have a taste of that?” Glen asked as his father passed Michael the first glass of the sparkling liquid.

  “You know you're too young, Glen,” he said, as his son pouted and grabbed one of the larger slices of cake.

  Aunt Julie declined the champagne and joined the children in drinking lemonade. Sarah's father proposed a toast to Michael on his twenty-first birthday, and everyone clinked glasses.

  As the party wound down, Wendy offered to help Aunt Julie clean up. Sarah and Glen went back inside, and Michael and their father remained talking on the porch.

  Upstairs, Sarah noticed the light was on under her parents' door and realized her mother was still awake.

  “Do you think we should check on Mom to see if she's okay?” Sarah asked her brother.

  “You can if you want. I'm going to bed.”

  Sarah noticed Glen was holding a folded-up napkin. “What's that? Don't tell me you sneaked out another slice of cake.”

  He grinned.

  “Aunt Julie will be mad if you get crumbs all over your floor.”

  “I'll clean them up. I promise.” He opened his door. “Goodnight, Sarah.”

  Sarah waited until he was inside and then walked across the hall to tap on her parents' door. It took a few minutes, but then her mother called her to come in.

  Sarah stepped into what was known as the Garden Room, her mother's favorite because it looked over the back garden. The shades were drawn, so the room was dark. Her mother sat on the bed, an empty bottle at her feet, wadded up tissues next to her. Even in the shadows, she could see her mother's eyes were red, a combination of drinking and crying.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Sarah asked in a low voice.

  “I'm fine. Now you go to bed. It's late.”

  Sarah didn't want to upset her mother more by disobeying her, so she turned to go. As she had her hand on the door, her mother called to her, “Goodnight, honey. Thank you for helping with the party. I'm sorry I'm such a party pooper.”

  “That's okay, Mom. I know you get bad headaches.” What Sarah knew was that the headaches usually followed not preceded her mother's drinking bouts.

  On the way back to her room, Sarah thought she saw Ms. Wilson going downstairs in her robe. She figured she was headed outside to get Wendy and finish helping Aunt Julie clean up. It had been an interesting party, but Sarah didn't think a happy one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sea Scope: Present day

  I looked up from the diary. Along with my comments, there'd been several sketches scattered among the pages—a drawing of Michael's cake, the birthday card featuring the lighthouse, mother sitting in the Garden Room with the empty bottle on the floor and the tissues at her side. I saw the talent in the budding artist, although the sketch of my mother wasn't very accurate. Aunt Julie was the portrait artist in the family.

  I was beginning to feel tired enough to sleep. I put the diary back on the bookshelf hoping to read more during my stay. Besides bringing back childhood memories, it might lend a clue as to what was presently going on at Sea Scope.

  I'd turned off the light and gotten under the covers when I heard a noise outside the door. It was a soft scratching. Then I remembered the cat. Did he roam the halls at night or sleep with my aunt? I slid my bare feet into slippers and opened the door. There were no lights on in the hall, but I could still make out the dark shape of the cat as he stood watching me from bright, glowing green eyes.

  “We meet again, Al,” I said leaning down to pet his head, but he was off in a flash. I was about to close my door, when I heard another sound. A shuffling noise came from the room across from mine, what used to be my parents' room. As far as I knew, the room was unoccupied because my mother hadn't yet arrived. Before I could check it out, someone whispered my name. I jumped.

  It was Russell in pajamas. “Sorry to scare you, Sarah. I couldn't sleep and was thinking of going downstairs for a nightcap. It looks like you haven't had any luck in the snoozing department either. Want to join me?”

  I was conscious of my thin nightgown. I hesitated.

  “If we're lucky, Wanda may still have a few of those delicious cookies left.” His grin put me at ease.

  “I don't want any cookies, but I'll come along. A nice glass of milk might help me get to sleep.”

  Russell let me go ahead of him down the stairs. The house was quiet on the lower level. I assumed everyone upstairs was asleep except for whoever was in the room across the hall. I hoped it was my imagination and that the noise I'd heard had only been part of the creaks and groans of the old house.

  To Russell's delight, a few cookies were still covered on a plate on the kitchen table. He went to the refrigerator and poured us both a glass of milk. “I feel like a kid having cookies and milk before bed,” he said sitting across from me.

  “Thanks for pouring my milk.” I took a sip.

  “You sure you do
n't want to share the cookies?”

  I looked into his blue eyes. Maybe it was the late hour or my memory of our childhood friendship, but I found myself blurting out my concerns of the last days. “Russ, odd things have been happening since I arrived at Sea Scope and even while I was on my way.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he bit into a cookie. “You know I was always a good listener. Tell me what's up, Sarah.”

  I took a breath and relayed all the incidents to him starting with the text message and ending with the noise in the Garden Room.

  “Hmm.” He considered. “Sounds mysterious and like someone is playing a cruel joke on you. You should tell your aunt about it.” He paused. “By the way, I'm very sorry my dad and I didn't come to Glen's funeral. We were away at the time. When we got back and heard the news, we sent your mom and Aunt Julie condolence cards. I considered Glen a younger brother back then because I didn't have one.”

  I felt a lump gather in my throat. “I don't know who's behind this. Carolyn believes it's Wanda, but I have no idea why she would do it.”

  He finished his cookie. “Let's go upstairs when you're done with your milk. I want to take a look at that phone and the note.”

  Russ accompanied me back to my room and then went across the hall and opened the Garden Room beckoning me to come inside with him. He switched on the lights and looked around. It was empty and a little musty, although I noticed the window was open a crack to let in the warm night air. There was also a fresh arrangement of flowers next to the bed.

  “No one appears to be here,” he said after checking the closed doors of the bathroom and wardrobe.

  I glanced in his direction. The room was familiar, the same queen-sized brass bed with the rose-covered quilt and light pink walls. My mother had loved this room, seeing it as her private oasis while my father hardly visited it except to sleep.