Sea Scope

by Debbie De Louise

  Sarah pushed her plate away and stood to face him, hot tears burning behind her eyes. “I also know couples who have healthy and adorable children thanks to today's technology. You can't put a price on a family, and I'd even be willing to adopt if you're really against in vitro. As far as our not needing assistance, I can't see it happening like the Immaculate Conception. We hardly make love anymore.”

  Derek sighed. “Sarah, I'm sorry. Come here.” He opened his arms and walked around the table. She fell into them crying against his shoulder. “We'll work this out, honey. Believe me.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Sea Scope: Present day

  I woke with a start from a vague memory of the dream, or was it a dream memory? Derek and I had been discussing his decision for us not to proceed with fertility treatments. I had only learned of Glen's death the week before. Although Derek remained steadfast in his opinion that things would work out for us without intervention, I still prayed he would change his mind. We'd walked on the beach afterwards, but it hadn't been the same. Neither had it ended with a romantic encounter.

  I got up and showered using one of the rose-scented soaps Wanda left in the guest bathrooms. It was a concoction she prepared from all-natural ingredients. I substituted it for my Dove body wash and indulged myself in the scent. Afterwards, I threw on a pair of jeans and a bright lemon t-shirt that Derek said brought out the honey color in my hair. Glancing in the vanity where I'd once tried on makeup that I'd sneaked out of Aunt Julie's room and been grounded for a week, I applied a quick touch of my own cosmetics. I noted that my normally pale skin had a slight glow to it. I wondered if it was the rumored effect of pregnancy. Since I'd come to Sea Scope, I had very little time to reflect on the baby or my relationship with its father. A part of me realized that, like the fetus in my uterus, a tiny seed of hope was growing inside me now that Derek was joining me at the inn.

  As I began to leave the room, I suddenly stopped. A note had been slipped under the door. I held my breath as I picked it up. Unfolding the paper, I found it was another crayon clue. I read the message: “Check out the boxes in the studio.”

  I contemplated finding Donald and showing him the paper immediately or sharing it with Carolyn who'd probably advise me to do the same thing. Then I remembered my friend had likely spent the night with Russell and my aunt with Donald. The retired detective had advised Aunt Julie to lock the inn's doors at night, so I couldn't understand how Wendy had gotten in to leave the note. I considered that Carolyn and Russell, having been the last ones to return to Sea Scope after the movies, may have forgotten to lock the door behind them. The other alternative was, despite Donald and my aunt's search of the house, Wendy was on the premises somewhere they hadn't looked. A chill ran up my spine at the thought of Wanda's daughter lurking outside my room.

  I glanced back down at the message. Like Glen's old scavenger hunt game, the note was a clue. Should I go up to the studio? Was Wendy hiding up there? The sensible part of me wanted to seek Donald's professional advice but, as I stepped out into the quiet of the hall, I decided to head upstairs. My feet led me to the stairway at the end of the corridor. It was then that I saw the cat. He was stalking imaginary prey, possibly a fly near the stairs.

  “Al, do you want to come upstairs with me?” I whispered. He obeyed and followed me.

  I switched on the light, although sunlight was already streaming through the skylight. What a wonderful place to paint, I thought again. Where to begin? I didn't want to spend much time up there, but there were quite a few boxes lined up against the far wall, and I didn't know what I was looking for. I started my search in the right corner. Al was sniffing, padding around on his velvet paws.

  “Okay, I'll check that one first,” I said as Al poked his head into an open box.

  The box was heavy, but I managed to move it a few inches toward me, so I could reach in and pull out the contents lying on top. Al scooted away and jumped atop a stool, surveying me with his green eyes as I crouched on my knees laying the notebooks and file folders across the floor. I recognized Glen's handwriting immediately. These were his case files.

  When Aunt Julie cleared out his apartment, she found the keys to his practice and went there to retrieve any personal items he may have kept in his office. She also contacted those who hadn't read of the accident in the paper or had seen it on the news. She'd never mentioned that she'd brought patient records back to Sea Scope. She told Mother she'd handed everything over to the state. As I looked through the files checking their labels, I realized that instead of the numerous names I expected to see, there was only one. The books and files dating back to 2012, two years before Glen's death, were all marked with one name. Wendy Wilson.

  From the Notes of Michael Gamboski

  (Angels Gate Lighthouse, Wikimedia Commons)

  The Los Angeles Harbor Light, also known as The Angels Gate Lighthouse, has stood at the entrance of Los Angeles Harbor for nearly 100 years and has withstood numerous earthquakes, a tidal wave, and the impact of both curious visitors, and vandals. The original name as designated by the Lighthouse Service was “San Pedro Breakwater Light Station.” In 1914, the name was changed to “Los Angeles Harbor Light.”

  (from the article, “Los Angeles Harbor Light—The Angels Gate Lighthouse” by Marifrances Trivelli, Director, Los Angeles Maritime Museum

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Los Angeles: Two years ago

  The Los Angeles International Airport was crowded with people. Sarah was happy she'd only brought along an overnight bag, so she wouldn't have to search for her luggage at baggage claim. Glen had tried to persuade her to stay longer than a weekend. He wanted to show her the sights of the city including Hollywood, but she said she couldn't do it this time and promised to be back for a longer visit in the future. If Derek had joined her, she might've extended her stay, but he'd asked her to take the trip alone. “I'd feel like a third wheel between you and your brother,” he said. “You two have a lot to catch up on, and the spring semester is almost over. I have a ton of finals to grade.”

  Despite the large number of people swarming the arrival gate, Sarah spotted Glen immediately. He was leaning against an airport pole, a lazy smile on his face similar to the one he wore when he took a slice out of Ms. Wilson's peach pie behind her back. His hair had darkened and was longer than she remembered. He'd grown a thin moustache and wore sunglasses perched atop his head. As she recognized him, his eyes met hers and he waved. She excused herself as she weaved through the crowd bumping a few shoulders and apologizing as she headed toward him. When she reached him, he threw his arms around her and embraced her in a huge bear hug. “So glad you made it, Silly Sarah.” The use of her childhood nickname put a smile on her face. He eyed her bag still slung over her shoulder. “I'll take that. Do you have any cases?”

  She shook her head. “I packed light. I'll only be staying until Sunday.”

  He looked disappointed for a moment as she handed him the bag. “Let's get out of here. My car isn't far.”

  She followed him to the parking lot as he jangled a bunch of keys and pressed a button on the chain that lit up the headlights of his red Mazda.

  “Nice car,” she said as he unlocked the passenger door.

  “Thanks. It gets me around. Pardon the mess.” A bunch of cigarette butts and empty beer cans lined the car's floor.

  Glen started the car and reached into the dashboard drawer where he withdrew a pack of Marlboros. “Want one?” he offered.

  “No, thanks. I don't smoke. When did you start?”

  He lowered his window, lit one, and took a few quick puffs. “About the time I took up drinking again. Didn't you know that shrinks are the most addicted people around, Sis?”

  Sarah changed the subject. “How is your office? I know you opened your own practice.”

  He shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the console and then tossed the remainder of the smoke under his feet. “I have a few clients. They're all crazy.”
He laughed at his own joke. “I'll show it to you. It's actually below my new apartment.” He put on his sunglasses, reversed out of the parking spot, and tapped on his CD player. A loud '80s tune she didn't recognize blared from the speakers.

  “Sorry.” He adjusted the volume. “I like loud music when I drive.”

  Once they were clear of the cars exiting the airport and were on the open road, she noticed his driving speed matched the tempo of the song. It was faster than she was used to traveling in her car or as a passenger in Derek's.

  “I can't believe it's been five years, Sarah. You look the same. Prettier, actually.”

  “Thank you, Glen. You haven't changed much yourself.” She remembered when he left for college at UCLA after earning his Associates Degree in Psychology from Nassau Community College on Long Island. He'd saved money from part-time jobs and summer work, also earning a scholarship. When he turned twenty-one, Glen also came into possession of a trust fund his father had set up for him when he was born. Sarah received her money two years earlier and used it to pay off the balance of her student loan.

  Their mother had been surprised at Glen's decision to move away, but she hadn't talked him out of it. Sarah secretly believed her brother's choice of relocating to the West Coast was to escape the memories of Sea Scope and their father's suicide. She sat next to him as he navigated the tangle of cars entering the freeway. As he honked his horn and occasionally swore at drivers, Sarah realized Glen hadn't been successful. The anger and frustration had followed him across the country.

  As they pulled into the parking garage next to Glen's building, he warned Sarah to watch her back as she got out of the car. “This isn't the safest place to live,” he explained. “In fact, it's one of L.A.'s highest-ranked crime areas, but I chose it for that reason. I get plenty of patients here.” He winked as he grabbed her bag from the back seat and hoisted it over his shoulder.

  Sarah couldn't help sticking to his side as they walked from the garage out into the bright, smarmy Los Angeles street. It was earlier than her body expected, and she wondered if jet lag was already setting in as a dizziness assaulted her. Glen noticed and interpreted it as fear. He took her hand. “Didn't mean to scare you. It's pretty safe in daylight most of the time.” As they walked to the front of Glen's building, Sarah glanced across the street at the rundown stores, a few porn shops, and tattoo parlors. Motorcycles roared by. Rap music blared. She was aware of people passing on the sidewalk—young women in short tight skirts and low blouses who she thought might be prostitutes and men of all races sporting tattoos spread over their exposed bodies.

  “L.A. isn't all glamour and riches,” Glen said, watching her look around. “If you were spending more time here, I'd give you a tour of the other side. We could head out to Hollywood and do the sightseeing thing. For the weekend, I'm afraid you're stuck in L.A.'s version of Hell's Kitchen.” He stopped in front of his building, a shabby multi-floored structure with graffiti etched across it proclaiming, “Jesus is Watching.”

  “Home sweet home. Watch yourself on the stairs, Sarah.” She was amazed he used no key or intercom to enter. “Don't worry. I have keys to my room and office,” he said, and led the way down a corridor that smelled of tobacco and sweat.

  They ascended one flight of grimy stairs to a metal door that opened with a creak after Glen turned his key in the bolt. He switched on the lights, and she entered his office. It was disorganized but clean. Papers were piled on the makeshift desk—a table that had one shortened leg supported by the L.A. yellow pages. Behind it was a black leather chair, the only item worth more than fifty dollars in the room. The patient files stood in open-sided crates. The walls were a light brown covered with posters of famous psychologists. She recognized Freud and identified the others by their labels—B.F. Skinner, Ivan Pavlov, Carl Jung, and John B. Watson. Glen's diploma in psychology also hung there with a UCLA banner. There was a copy of the DSMV on a side table next to a Keurig coffee maker with a revolving holder of assorted K-Cups and Styrofoam cups instead of mugs. Lastly, Sarah noticed the obligatory couch against another wall and one lopsided lamp with a tall rusted base. A few psychology books were stacked by one end of the couch. There was only one window in the room, quite high, with a dirty white shade covering it.

  “I got this stuff secondhand from garage sales,” Glen said. “Have a seat on the couch, Sarah. There aren't bugs on it that I can tell.”

  He placed her overnight bag by the table/desk and went to the coffeemaker and plugged it in. “I need caffeine. What about you?”

  Sarah smiled as she sat tentatively on the sagging couch. “Sure. I'll have a cup. Is coffee another of your addictions, Glen?”

  “You bet. It'll help your jet lag, too.” He made them both a cup and joined her on the couch. “Don't worry about spilling it. There are enough stains on this sofa already.”

  Sarah didn't ask him what he meant. She'd already avoided the areas with spots.

  “I'm glad you could make it,” Glen said, sipping his drink. “I don't have much space upstairs, but it's cleaner and more comfortable. I'll bed down here for the weekend. I don't mind.”

  Sarah had offered to stay at a hotel, but Glen insisted he had space for her. “Are you sure? I can still book a room somewhere.”

  He waved his free hand. “I promise you it's not too bad. There's a dead bolt up there, and I'll be right here below you. If you're really worried, I can sleep on the floor up there with you.”

  Sarah didn't think she'd sleep much at all. “I don't want to put you out.”

  “Silly Sarah, you're my sister for gosh sakes.”

  Sarah took a sip of coffee and felt less shaky. “Glen, if you need money…”

  “Stop,” he waved his hand again. “I'm fine. You and Derek need the money more.”

  She was afraid the conversation would turn to this. She'd spoken to Glen about their problems conceiving, but he didn't know Derek was against fertility treatments.

  He must've noticed the change in her expression because he added, “You guys haven't had any luck yet, have you?”

  She hid the tears that suddenly gathered behind her eyes and looked away.

  “Sorry. I wish there was something I could do. I'd love to be an uncle. I might know a few people back in New York, or you could try resources from infertility associations.”

  “Glen, no. You don't understand.” Sarah put her coffee cup down. “Derek doesn't want us to pursue treatments.”

  “What? How come? Is it the cost?”

  “I don't know.” She glanced at him and saw the sadness in his eyes. “Please let's talk about something else. How are you doing? Any special ladies in your life yet?”

  Glen sighed, but she thought she saw a quick flicker in his eyes before the lashes she always envied came down to hood them. “Who would want to come back to a place like this?”

  “You could always go to their place.”

  He chuckled. “I spend so much time working; it doesn't leave much opportunity to meet women.”

  “Do you see people on the weekends?”

  “Yes, nights, too. That's when most of my clients can come. I've cleared my schedule for the next two days, though, to make time for your visit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I'll take you upstairs now if you want to get settled and rest a bit. The fridge is stocked with food, but I usually eat out or order pizza from the local delivery service. We can have dinner out of town later. We still have a lot to talk about and this place is not the most conducive to pleasant conversation.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Sea Scope: Present day

  When I'd gotten over the shock of discovering that Wendy had been a patient of Glen's, I remembered visiting him in California a few months before his accident. We'd spoken of his patients, by first name only, but he'd never mentioned Wendy. Then I recalled what Wendy's mother said about Wendy disappearing for days at a time both during her marriage and when she moved back home with Wanda. I
could understand Wendy feeling more comfortable seeing Glen than another therapist since they shared a childhood connection, but why the secrecy?

  I picked up the most current notebook from the pile around me. They were all dated and arranged with the latest on top. My heart lurched at Glen's small, tight handwriting on the cover. It read, “May 2014 -.” I had visited him that same month and year. I assumed the dates hadn't been completed because he died that July, ironically close to the time of Michael and our father's deaths.

  As I opened the book, I jumped at the sound of a thump, but it was just Al abandoning his perch and heading back downstairs. The first page was dated the day after my visit with Glen. Unlike the clinical notes I expected, it was more of a diary. I crossed my legs and placed the notebook in my lap as I read my dead brother's words.

  It was so good to see Sarah this weekend. I almost told her about Wendy. I think she would understand, but we need to be cautious. When Wendy contacted me last year, she begged me to keep our meetings secret. Her mother had sent her to other psychologists because of her continued nightmares, but she thought I could help. She said her marriage was in trouble, and I was her last hope. I explained that therapy required regular visits, which weren't possible with our being in different states. She insisted, so I agreed to talk with her and give her an initial consultation. I didn't expect her to keep coming, nor did I expect how beautiful a woman she'd grown into or my non-professional attraction to her.

  I caught my breath and read on, a growing sense of disbelief working its way through me as I anticipated Glen's next words.

  I don't think either one of us expected it to happen. I've had infatuations with my patients before, but this was different. Maybe it was our common background, those days as children playing in the South Carolina sand. Maybe I'm being romantic, but the fact is I fell in love with the grown-up Wendy despite the fact she was married. I continued to see her against my better judgment. I started paying her travel expenses because her husband began asking too many questions about the missing money from their account.