Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  During the summer months, especially on days the receding tide left tidal pools on the beach, this was a favorite place for children to run and play, toddlers splashing through the shallow pools with dogs barking at their heels and mothers close by. She remembered the days when Palmer and Cara were that young and tethered to their mother by some invisible string.

  The turtle nest was below the tide line and too close to the motel. She and Flo were kneeling in front of a hole she’d dug in a dune and placing the turtle eggs into it when Lovie heard the low nasal buzz of an engine. Both she and Flo stopped what they were doing and looked at each other, frozen as they listened. They shared a knowing glance. They both heard the unmistakable sound of a small airplane. Memories washed over Lovie and, grabbing hold of her hat, she tilted her head to the sky. She could just make out a small single-engine plane coming in her direction. She rose as the thrum of the engine grew louder. Then she was running to the shoreline, eyes trained on the white airplane flying ever closer. She arched on tiptoe as it flew overhead, catching a fleeting glimpse of a dashing red-and-blue stripe. Her heart spontaneously leaped in her chest when the plane tipped its wing.

  “Russell!” she cried out.

  Questions whirled in her head and she didn’t have answers for any of them. But she did have hope. Lots of airy, bubbling, spine-tickling, utterly irrational hope. Lovie lifted her hand over her eyes to block the sun as she watched the airplane disappear down the coast. Russell had come back!

  “Lovie!” Flo called.

  She twirled to face her, grinning wide. “Russell’s back!”

  “You don’t know it was him,” Flo said as she walked toward her.

  “Of course it was!” Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  “Lovie,” Flo said in a censorious voice.

  Lovie responded to the tone and, slowly, her arms fell to her sides. She stood for a moment, blinking in disbelief.

  “What are you doing?” Flo asked her.

  In her mind, Lovie saw herself twirling like a girl, just at the thought of seeing Russell again. She couldn’t go back to those feelings. When would she learn? Yet even as her mind shouted the words, her heart pumped a heady, hopeful beat in her chest.

  Flo came to stand in front of her. “Don’t go back there,” she told Lovie. “You’ve made your peace.”

  Lovie studied her friend’s face, tan again, and her bright blue eyes filled with worry. She wanted to trust her with her feelings now, but couldn’t. “I can’t help my feelings,” she said.

  “If it is him, will you see him?”

  Lovie brought her hands to her cheeks and held Flo’s gaze, both shy and bold. She nodded.

  “Then I hope it wasn’t him,” Flo snapped. “Come on, we’ve got to finish this nest.”

  Lovie spent the rest of the day hovering near the phone, pretending to read. The thought that Russell might show up knocking on her front door kept her on tenterhooks. By midafternoon those puffy white cumulus clouds had turned into thunderous cumulonimbus. That night, the predicted storm rolled over the island, bringing flashing light, clapping thunder, and sheets of rain. She usually enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of a good summer storm, but tonight the wind whistled like a banshee, knocking over the rocking chairs on her porch and sending her baskets scuttling. When the worst of it blew out to sea, the rain sounded as drum raps against the tin roof. In time, Lovie’s lids grew heavy as she fell asleep to the tympanic beat.

  Olivia.

  Her name came on a breath of salt air.

  I’m here.

  His voice swirled around her, cool and moist like the mist that hovered over the sea. It was Russell. She recognized his scent, was overcome with sensations she recognized as her body’s welcome to him and only him. Then he was with her and they were floating, her hair swirling around them, long and studded with pearls, a seductive Siren of the sea. Russell’s long face was pale and unearthly, glowing in the phosphorescence. She was overcome with his scent, salt and sandalwood, when he pressed his cheek against hers. She felt the warmth of his breath on her face. As they floated like ethereal sea creatures in the blue, sun-kissed water, his beautiful long-fingered hands slid along her body like silk, from her calves, her inner thighs, her belly, and finally encircling her breasts. She clung to him in her dream, determined never to release him, crying, tasting salt water on her face as she arched up to meet him, his name on her lips.

  When she awoke, she was covered in a sheen of perspiration and tears flowing down her cheeks. Feeling bewildered and like she was swimming in seaweed, she frantically pushed back the sheet and shoved her loose hair from her face and neck as though it were strangling her. She rose from the bed in a rush, then teetered, lurching for the bureau as her knees went watery and tiny black dots swam in front of her eyes. When her head cleared, she went directly out on the back porch. Dawn’s rosy glow hovered over the pewter horizon. The world was silvery in the morning light, the decks were soaked with rain, and the herbs and flowers were standing tall, damp and perky. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling unsure and vulnerable after the powerful dream. Waking slowly, she inhaled the freshness of the air that smelled intoxicatingly of green and an overpowering sweetness that came after a storm.

  Lovie dressed quickly and made coffee. Opening the fridge, she groaned to see that again they were out of milk. While the children still slept, she drove to the Red & White grocery store. It was a breezy morning, still overcast with heavy clouds. She purchased milk, some local honey, and eggs Vivian wanted for a cake she planned to make. Walking back to her car, she waved at someone she knew but couldn’t name, and stopped at the village bulletin board to scan for sales and announcements. Other than a multifamily “Spring Clean” garage sale on Forest Trail, it was slim pickings. Turning, she glanced at the metal box that held the Charleston Courier. A bold headline caught her attention. She froze.

  FATAL AIRPLANE CRASH OFF MYRTLE BEACH

  Lovie stood motionless, her purse hanging from her arm and groceries against her chest, as the blood drained from her face. She blinked, making sense of what she was seeing. She saw a bit of rust at the corner of the metal bin that was nearly full of papers. A Styrofoam cup lay in the dirt in the corner. Time moved slowly as she walked to the bin. She’d never remember how she found the dime to insert into the coin slot. She pulled open the box.

  On the left of the front page was a large photograph of Russell Bennett. She dropped her grocery bag and pulled out a paper, her hands shaking as she brought it close. Her eyes greedily scanned the article, frantically grasping at words rather than complete sentences: crashed, storm, died instantly.

  Lovie’s hands squeezed, crumpling the paper to her chest. It felt like she was having a heart attack. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t release the moan she felt trapped in her throat. Milk spilled over broken eggs across the sidewalk. Lovie slapped a palm to her mouth and ran to her car. She tore open the door and climbed in and spread out the newspaper across the wheel, tossing aside the rest of the pages. The article covered the entire third page. There was an insert in the corner showing a map of the coastline of South Carolina, and an arrow marked the location of the plane crash. She mouthed the words as she read, letting them sink into the great chasm forming in her chest. She read that his plane had crashed in the storm the afternoon before.

  She reached up to trace the photograph of his face with her fingertip. It was a photo she’d seen before. Russell was standing by his plane, his hands on his hips. His face was deeply tanned. A wind had caught his white-blond hair and ruffled it. His smile, so elegant, so refined, showed white teeth. It was a happy smile, spontaneous, like the one he’d showed her every time he opened a door to find her standing there or she met him on the beach. She let her hands drop and, leaning her head against the seat, closed her eyes, still in shock. Not quite believing. Russell Bennett was dead. He was not coming to see her—not today, not ever.

  Olivia.

  Lovie’s eyes flew open
and she looked around the car. It was Russell’s voice. She sat clutching the steering wheel like a madwoman.

  “Where are you?” she cried. When only silence reigned, she rammed the gear into first and drove fast the short distance to the pier. Slamming the door, she ran down the long stretch of wood to the end and clung to the railing, her hair whipping in the wind and her eyes wildly scanning the sea. The ocean was a tempest of whitetops and waves. A deep gray mist settled far out on the horizon like a pall, and from it she heard the sonorous bellow of a foghorn, over and over like the tolling of a funeral bell.

  “Russell!” she cried out in anguish. “I’m here!”

  Startled by her cry, the seagulls took flight from the pier. They dispersed in the air, then circled close, squawking for food.

  She looked at the beach below the pier. She’d stood there just yesterday, she thought with grief. Saw his plane fly overhead yesterday. It had to have been his plane. He had to have seen her waving from below.

  Now he was dead.

  No! Not true, her brain screamed out. Impossible!

  Olivia.

  She startled, hearing again Russell’s voice, as clear as if he were standing right beside her. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she couldn’t doubt what she’d heard. Lovie stood very still, holding her breath, waiting to hear the voice again. Her body was going cold in the wind, and for one wild moment she thought of jumping into the water, to follow his voice. But the voice didn’t return.

  Lovie brought her fingers to her temples, wondering if despair could cause madness. But she wasn’t crazy. She’d heard his voice, she was certain of it. She’d heard it in her dream last night. The paper had reported that his plane went down in the Atlantic off the South Carolina coast. His body had not been found.

  Russell was out there, somewhere. Calling to her.

  Miranda opened the door a crack. “Hello!” she crooned softly.

  “I’m awake.”

  Miranda slipped into Lovie’s bedroom and quietly closed the door behind her. Lovie was lying on her bed, her small hands tucked under her head. She smiled wanly in welcome as Miranda approached. Outside, the rain had returned and made tympanic sounds against the tin roof.

  Miranda leaned over to place a kiss on her cheek. “You’ve been in here all day. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “I can see how fine you are,” Miranda replied. “I brought you some benne wafers to nibble on. And some praline cookies from Flo. She’ll be here later.”

  “Thank you.”

  Miranda placed the box of the crisp sesame cookies on the bedside table. “We heard what happened. We’re so sorry. Dr. Bennett was such a fine young man, with so much to offer. It’s a shame. But we have to accept it was his time.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a worn black Bible and held it out to Lovie. “I brought you this, too. It’s a special Bible to me. It’s helped me through some difficult times. I’d like you to have it now.”

  Lovie didn’t move to accept it. “I don’t believe in God anymore.”

  “That’s just your grief talking. It makes you angry. You’re looking for someone to blame for all that’s happened.” She moved to sit on the bed and placed the Bible on the mattress between them. She took a deep breath. “Darling, that’s the thing. There’s no one to blame. It’s just the way life is. Life and death. Joy and sadness. Good and bad.”

  Lovie turned her gaze away. She couldn’t bear to hear the religious platitudes. “Please, Miranda. Not now. I’m tired. I just want to be alone for a while.”

  “Oh, child, you probably think I’m some dithering old woman, chatting away, with no idea of the pain you’ve been through. No one knows your pain, right?”

  Lovie faced her again, shock and sadness across her face.

  “Do you think I’ve never felt a loss like yours?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that.”

  “And so has your mother. Twice, including the loss of her son. She was devastated when Mickey died. As I know you were, too. But you both survived and continued on with your lives. Though Dee Dee doesn’t come back to this house much, does she? Not that I can blame her. You, though, you’re stronger than she is. You know that Mickey loved this house and the ocean. His spirit is here. It’s what adds to the joy of this house. And so is Russell Bennett’s spirit. I feel it lingering here,” she said, looking around the room.

  Lovie’s eyes sharpened and she clutched her pillow, pushing herself closer. “You sense him here?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. Quite clearly. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Lovie said, her voice a harsh whisper. “I . . . I heard his voice calling me this morning. And in my dream.”

  “Did you?” Miranda’s pale blue eyes sparked with interest. “That’s very interesting.”

  “You don’t think I’m crazy when I say that?”

  “Crazy?” Miranda’s laugh was like a peal of bells. “Good heavens, no. I hear voices all the time. Well, not all the time,” she amended. “I’m not crazy, either. But sometimes old family houses are visited by spirits who feel a need to renew contact with us on earth. We all lead such busy lives we’re usually unaware of their efforts to reach out to us with, say, a rap or a rush of feeling. So often they will contact us directly. If we are attuned and accepting of their presence, we can hear them. But all of us can hear them in our dreams. We let our guard down then. You said you dreamed of Russell?”

  Lovie remembered the restless dream of the night before and, blushing, nodded. “It was so real. Not like a regular dream. It was like he was really there, but surreal. I felt him. Smelled him. And . . . I think I knew he was dead.”

  Miranda was excited. “Dream visitations are common. It’s when the spirits just want to reassure us that they are safe and well on the other side and don’t want us to worry about them anymore. But they aren’t really dreams at all, are they? They’re something more real.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  Miranda tilted her head in thought. “But to hear his voice this morning . . .” Her finger tapped her lips. “That’s significant. I wonder . . . Do you have unfinished business between you?”

  Lovie’s eyes widened. This was too private to share with Miranda. She slipped deeper under the blanket and shook her head.

  “Lovie, you may not believe it now, but someday—quicker than you know—you’ll be in your sixties like me and be able to look back at all this heartache and know it was all part of God’s plan. Now, don’t give me that look. I swanny, you and Flo are two peas in a pod. For now, you just have to take my word for it, honey.”

  Lovie didn’t speak.

  “Tell you what,” Miranda said in an encouraging tone. “I’m not going to sit here and preach at you. I’ll spare you that. You sit there and relax and I’m just going to read to you a bit. Okay?”

  Miranda opened the worn leather Bible, turning to where she’d marked the spot with a silken gold bookmark. She cleared her throat and then began reading. She’d selected Psalm 30, which spoke about rising from anguish and despair. She read in her melodious voice only those few passages that had held the message that had sustained her at her husband’s passing.

  When she finished, Miranda closed the Bible and left it on the mattress, inches away from Lovie’s hand. Lovie’s eyes were closed, but when Miranda left, Lovie’s fingertips inched over to the Bible.

  Later that afternoon, Lovie spotted Cara swinging her legs dejectedly on a long, low-lying limb of the old live oak tree in the back. The proud tree was at least two hundred years old and perfect for climbing, with branches that curled and twisted low like a herd of elephants’ trunks. It was Cara’s favorite place to read. Lovie often caught her daughter lying on the low branch, miles away on some adventure in a book.

  Lovie came walking from her bedroom porch in a slow gait. She stopped in front of the tree. “What are you doing sitting up in that tree like a cat?”

  “I’m just thinking,” Cara replied dully, moving to sit
up.

  “What’s the matter, precious?” Lovie asked. “Is everything okay between you and Emmi?”

  “Oh, she’s fine, I reckon,” Cara replied with a sigh. “She’s hanging out with Tom Peterson.”

  “Is he that new boy who moved here last summer?”

  Cara nodded. “Emmi’s got a crush on him.”

  “I thought you did, too.”

  Cara shrugged, but her face was pink and scowling. “Maybe before. Not now. It’s all stupid. Emmi’s stupid. She’s acting all weird and googly-eyed around him. I can’t stand it.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Cara’s scowl deepened. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “On accounta I’m never getting married.”

  “Oh.” Lovie brushed a mosquito away, wondering if her marriage troubles were having a bad influence on Cara. She’d been trying so hard not to let the children feel the underlying tension. Kids were so perceptive; it was the parents who were fooled. “Why do you say that, Cara?”

  “It’s like Emmi’s not Emmi anymore. She’s this other person or somethin’ when he’s around, and I don’t like her. Is that what happens when you fall in love?”

  Lovie tried not to laugh and forced a serious face. “Yes, it is. When you’re in love you act goofy. All googly-eyed. And it feels wonderful. Like nothing else in the world. It’s not Emmi’s fault. She’s happy, Cara. Someday it will happen to you.”

  She shook her head definitively. “Ick,” she replied, not liking that answer at all.

  “But the goofy part only lasts for a little while,” Lovie went on to explain. “Then it settles down into something different. Better.”

  Cara looked up at Lovie with skepticism. “Uh-huh,” she said, but her tone said she didn’t believe her.