Unearthly Things

by Michelle Gagnon

  Richard laughed. “I’ll bet! Oh, your dad loved April Fools’. One year we dumped itching powder into Alma’s lotion. I honestly thought she was going to kill us.”

  “So Alma has been with you that long?” I asked, surprised.

  “Since I was about Nicholas’s age.” Seeing my expression, he held up a hand. “I know how she comes across, but Alma was like a mother to me and your dad.”

  I tried to picture Alma nurturing another human being, and failed. She’d still barely spoken to me—in fact, whenever she saw me, she headed in the opposite direction.

  I suddenly noticed that Richard was examining me closely. He was frowning again. “Your parents never talked about any of this?”

  I shook my head. “Honestly, they didn’t talk much about how they grew up.” Which was weird, I now realized. When I was younger, I’d pestered them with questions about what their lives had been like when they were my age, but they always gave what in retrospect were overly evasive answers. After awhile, I stopped asking.

  “Well, we were quite close, the three of us. Inseparable, really.” His voice grew strained, he’d choked up again. I felt a flood of warmth for him. This was nice, sharing memories of my parents. Maybe he’d fill me in on more of their past; in a sense, that would keep them alive for both of us.

  “So what happened?” I asked, trying to imagine my mom and dad hanging around with a younger version of Richard Rochester.

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “We had a falling out. At the time, it seemed like a big deal. So we didn’t talk for a few years. And then, as time went on, we just never reconnected. I’ll always regret that.”

  There was a fine sheen of tears in his eyes. We sat in silence for a minute.

  “I’m sorry they dumped me on you like this,” I said awkwardly. “Mr. Briggs thinks they just forgot to update their will when I got older. But I know it’s bad timing.”

  Richard took a deep breath and blinked several times, then dug his hands back in his pockets. “The one thing I’ve learned, Janie, is that life has a way of surprising you. I think that in the end, your coming here will turn out to be a great thing for our family. I think you’re just what we needed.”

  There was an odd fervor in his voice. I wasn’t sure how to respond. Aside from Nicholas, none of them had exactly seemed delighted by my presence. “Um, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Let me leave you with this. San Francisco was your parents’ hometown. They probably thought that if anything unexpected ever happened, you’d end up here, living with your grandparents. And you’d get a chance to experience some of what their childhoods had been like.”

  “I guess,” I muttered. “It’s still weird to me that they didn’t change their will.”

  “Believe me, this was a wake-up call,” Richard said. “I realized that we hadn’t updated our estate planning since Georgina was born. It’s just one of those things that slips your mind, even though it shouldn’t. After all, you never expect—”

  He stopped speaking abruptly. My eyes were glassy again, the urge to cry had forced its way back up my throat. “I’m sorry, Janie,” he said with concern. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “That’s all right. I just can’t help it. I miss them so much.” A sob escaped, despite my efforts to choke it back.

  “I miss them, too,” he said quietly. “And believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re happy here.”

  “Thanks,” I said weakly. He was trying to be nice, but I couldn’t imagine any scenario in which I’d be happy. It was hard to imagine this house, this city, ever feeling like home.

  And yet everything in Hawaii would just remind me of them. It didn’t feel like I really belonged anywhere anymore.

  “Might as well start with tonight, right?” he said with forced cheer. “I should probably let you get ready for the big mixer.”

  “Right,” I said, glancing back toward the dress on my bed. A ball of dread was already forming in my stomach; how had I let Georgina talk me into this? But sitting around my room sulking wasn’t exactly helping matters. Maybe the mixer would turn out to be cool, if I gave it a chance. “Thanks, Mr. Rochester.”

  He held up his hands in mock exasperation. “What will it take to get you to call me Richard?”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Richard.”

  “Of course.” He paused in the doorway and threw me a stern look. “And no matter what Georgie tells you, there is a twelve o’clock curfew in this house.”

  “Midnight. Got it,” I said.

  “Good night, Janie.”

  Once he was gone, I turned back to the bed with a sigh. There was still a little time; maybe I should try to call Kaila again . . .

  “Open the door!” Georgina cried out.

  The intensity in her voice took me aback; I hurried over and threw open the door. She was standing there with a small suitcase. “Are you going somewhere?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Makeup caddy,” Georgina explained, huffing slightly as she rolled it into the room. She dropped the handle and straightened. “You already showered, right?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, as she unzipped the bag with a flourish. Inside, dozens of compartments were stacked with what appeared to be the entire contents of a Sephora store.

  “Well, hurry up. This is going to take some time.”

  “What’s going to take some time?” I asked as she pushed me toward the bathroom.

  “Your makeover, silly. Don’t wash your hair, it’ll be easier to curl if it’s a little dirty.”

  My new life is dominated by a series of increasingly painful shoes, I thought, shifting from foot to foot in the corner of Country Day’s gymnasium. The silver pumps with four-inch heels that Georgina had talked me into (for five hundred bucks, no less) seemed determined to zero in on my only remaining blister-free zones. My arches already ached, and I was terrified to move more than a few feet in either direction; I’d rarely worn heels before, and never ones this high. Outside the ocean, I wasn’t exactly graceful. I’d been forced to lean heavily on Georgina’s arm just to get here from the car; and as soon as we were inside, she issued an excited squeal and abandoned me, rushing off to her group of friends.

  At least I’d managed to make my way to the long table arrayed with food. Apparently this wasn’t a chips and salsa kind of crowd; there were actual trays of sushi. Tiny finger sandwiches stacked on tiered silver platters. A watermelon carved into a cornucopia, with smaller pieces of fruit tumbling out. Delicate puff pastries and mini-quiches and tarts. A catering crew bustled back and forth, refilling platters every time the slightest dent was made in them.

  No DJ, either, but an honest-to-God band. One that I’d actually heard of, with a hit song a couple years ago.

  Not that anyone was dancing. Clumps of teenagers huddled together, laughing and chattering as if this was all completely normal. The boys wore suits and ties, the girls expensive semi-formal gowns. Judging by the price tags I’d seen today, there was probably a million dollars worth of clothing squeezed into a high school gymnasium that reeked of sweat and floor polish. I felt an unexpected swell of gratitude toward Georgina; she’d been right, if I’d shown up in something from my closet, I would have looked like an alien.

  All in all, pretty darn intimidating, I thought to myself. It was like a scene culled directly from of those teen flicks my friends and I always scoffed at. I could practically hear Kaila protesting, Yeah, right, like a high school dance would ever look like that.

  Apparently they did, sometimes.

  I held a tiny plate stacked with food in one hand and let my eyes rove across the room, taking it all in. Despite the fact that my feet killed, and the dress was cutting off my circulation, I was still glad I came. This was definitely worth seeing once, although I doubted I’d ever go to another one.

  “Would you like another mushroom
quiche, miss?” A caterer asked, leaning over the table to be heard.

  I shook my head, since my mouth was already stuffed with two of them. I washed them down with lemonade. Unfortunately, I tried to breathe at the same time, and ended up having a coughing fit.

  I tottered away from the table in my heels, bent double. Sounding concerned, the caterer asked, “Are you all right, miss?”

  I waved to indicate that I was okay, even though it felt like I was choking up a lung.

  “Here.” A cup was forced into my free hand: Water.

  Gratefully, I gulped it down, instantly easing the tickle in the back of my throat. After wiping my mouth with my hand, I turned to hand the cup back.

  The “thanks” died in my throat. Instead of the caterer, pretty much the hottest guy I’d ever seen in my life was looking down at me. He was easily six-two or six-three. Built like an athlete, with broad shoulders. His hair was dark and wavy, and he had big brown eyes with long lashes and a cleft in his chin.

  He grinned. “Can’t let a Hamill girl die in the middle of a mixer. The alumni would freak out.”

  I realized that I was still gaping at him like an idiot. “Thanks.”

  “You are okay, right?” His brow furrowed.

  “I’m great,” I said, collecting myself. “Wrong pipe, that’s all.”

  Internally, I winced. Wrong pipe? Seriously, Janie?

  “Hate it when that happens,” he said sympathetically, tucking his hands in his pockets. Instead of a suit—which most of the other boys were wearing—he was in a navy jacket and khaki pants. “So, are you new?”

  “Yup,” I said. “I just moved here this week.”

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Pretty brave to show up at a shindig like this your first week.”

  “Tell me about it,” I muttered.

  “So where are you from?”

  “Hawaii. The Big Island.”

  “Yeah?” His face lit up. “I love the Big Island! Hey, have you been to the Four Seasons in Kona?”

  I shifted uncomfortably; the Four Seasons was by far the fanciest resort on the island, and that was saying something. I’d only been once, to visit a friend who was working in their beach shack. And they’d actually escorted me off the premises for not having “official permission” to be there. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

  “I love that place,” he said reverently. “We used to go for the holidays every year.”

  I sighed: yet another rich kid I could never relate to. “Great,” I said without enthusiasm.

  We stood in an awkward silence for what felt like an eternity. My eyes wandered to his tie, which had a weird and oddly familiar pattern of faces in black and white. I did a double take, suddenly recognizing it. “Hey, that’s the Sergeant Pepper tie!”

  His eyebrows shot up, and his grin widened. He held the tie out for me to examine. “The one and only. You like the Beatles?”

  “My dad had that tie,” I blurted out.

  “Oh.” His smile faded.

  I scanned the room for a hole to crawl into. God, you’d think I’d never talked to a boy before. Get a grip, Janie, I chastised myself. “That came out kind of creepy-sounding, huh?”

  “What, that I remind you of your dad?” His head tilted to the side. “I thought I had a good response to that, but then I said it in my head and it sounded even worse.”

  I laughed. “Oh, now you have to tell me.”

  “Nope. Not happening. Your dad has good taste, though.”

  “Yeah.” I flashed back to the last time he wore that tie: on my birthday a few months ago, when he flew us to Oahu for dinner. Suddenly I was blinking back tears.

  The boy looked alarmed. “Hey, are you . . . crap, what did I say?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled. “I’m fine. Thanks again for the water.”

  I stumbled away from him, tottering even more unevenly on the heels.

  Outside, I sucked in deep breaths of air. Tears rolled freely down my face. It felt like I was going to throw up everything I’d just crammed in my mouth.

  “You’re ruining your makeup.”

  I raised my head to find Georgina looking down at me critically. “What?”

  “I wouldn’t care, except I did a fantastic job with that smoky eye look.” She held out a flask. “Here.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t drink.”

  “Suit yourself.” She took a swig, then said, “I’m heading over to the after party. Coming?”

  “After party?” I managed to stammer. “But we just got here.”

  Georgina threw me a look of disdain. “Really, Janie. No one stays for the dance. You make an appearance, then you leave.”

  “I don’t feel very good,” I mumbled. “I just want to go home.” Another flash: of my old bedroom and the way it looked after the movers had left—barren and sad, with chipped paint and a dusty rectangle where my bed had sat. More tears came, too many to wipe away.

  Georgina crinkled her nose. “God, you’re a mess. Bob can take you back. I’ll catch a ride.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  I sank into a crouch and wrapped my arms around my legs. It was almost a relief to have Georgina acting normal toward me again; I didn’t know how to handle her being nice. A breeze swept over my bare arms, and I shivered. It was always so cold here. “I hate it,” I said out loud. “I want to go home.”

  But there was no home to go back to. I sat there wallowing in self-pity for a few more minutes. Then I dragged myself back to the car and asked Bob to take me home.

  Chapter IV

  To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow.

  When I woke up the next morning, sun was streaming past the curtains I’d forgotten to close. I climbed out of bed and went to the window. Sunlight glinted off the rooftops, casting them in mauve and violet. In the distance, the graceful red arches of the Golden Gate Bridge swooped toward Marin. Alcatraz Island hunched in the middle of the bay like it was trying not to be seen.

  Gazing at the water lifted my spirits. Remembering my total meltdown at the dance the night before, I cringed.

  Enough whining, I chided myself. You need to get a grip.

  The rest of my things had arrived yesterday, including my surfboard. I’d stacked everything in a corner of the room until I could figure out where to put them. My board stretched nearly to the ceiling. I unzipped the case and ran a hand lovingly over it, the bumps and ridges of surf wax familiar against my palm.

  “All right,” I said with determination. “Let’s go see how they do it on the mainland.”

  The house was still silent, and I didn’t encounter anyone as I clumsily carried the board downstairs. I came close to knocking a few vases off their perches, and heaved a sigh of relief when I made it to the front door without shattering something irreplaceable. I left my board propped against the wall and zipped to the kitchen to grab an apple.

  I had to take three different buses to reach my destination: Ocean Beach. Fortunately, there weren’t a lot of passengers at 6 a.m. on a Saturday. I sat in the back row each time, keeping my board propped at an angle so it was out of the way.

  During the ride I skimmed surf sites on my phone, checking conditions. According to them, Ocean Beach had one of the best surf breaks in the world, but it was also notoriously dangerous. Between the undertow, riptides, and freezing water temperature, there were lots of warnings about leaving this beach to the pros.

  I wasn’t a pro, but I’d been surfing from the moment I could stand on a board. My dad came to the sport later in life, but he was a natural, and he’d taught me everything he knew.

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  Paddle! Paddle! Dad cried. I struggled, digging my hands into the water frantically. The wave was already passing beneath me. I wanted to scream with frustration—I was missing it again!

  I can’t do it!

  You can, Janie! Now, two more big paddles, then stand!

  Dad was twenty feet behind me. My board was rushing toward the break. I drew a deep breath, dug in my right hand, then my left, then pushed quickly to my feet the way we’d practiced on the beach.

  And suddenly, I was flying, the board hurtling along the wave. I screamed and threw my arms up . . .

  . . . which sent me flying off the board. I broke the surface, gasping and choking. Dad was already there, an expression of glee on his face. He picked me up out of the water and swung me around, yelling, You did it! I knew you could!

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  I sniffled and inhaled deeply: No more crying, I told myself. At least, not today.

  After an hour and a half, the final bus deposited me at the corner of Sloat Boulevard and the Great Highway, where three sites claimed you could find the best waves. A breeze whipped off the dunes across the street, sending tufts of sand flying upward. Offshore wind, I noted. Perfect.

  At the first break in traffic, I trotted across the street and scrambled up the dunes. At the top, my heart caught in my throat.

  Spread below me was a glorious panorama. Dusky sand stretched in both directions, the tide lines marked by clumps of dark seaweed. Overhead, pelicans glided past in tight formation. The water was darker than I was accustomed to, more violent and wild looking in shades of green and black. But it was still the Pacific—my Pacific. The wind teased my ponytail. For the first time since arriving, I finally felt like I was home.