by Luanne Rice
“That’s what you have to look forward to if you take us to France,” Quinn said, pulling away and brushing herself off. Several elastics had come off in the melee, and she set to fixing her braids.
“What’s that?” Dana asked.
“Allie turning into a hysterical mental case ten times a day.”
“Hmm. I didn’t think she was out of line.”
“Excuse me?”
“I seem to remember an Ariel doll,” Dana said, handing her an elastic that had shot onto the sofa. “She was your Kimba. You wouldn’t put her down, couldn’t go to sleep without her.”
Quinn slid her a slit-eyed gaze. She seemed about to speak, but instead she clamped her jaw tighter and kept working on her hair.
“That was your favorite movie. The Little Mermaid—you’d watch it all day if we let you. Then one day your mom and I went to the New London Mall, and what do you think we saw in the card shop window?”
“Cards,” Quinn replied in her best sarcastic tone.
“Ariel,” Dana said steadily.
Concentrating on repairing her braids, Quinn flinched. Dana saw it but made no move to embrace her or encourage a response. She knew her niece was on the edge: of leaving childhood, of leaving the country, of leaving home. Wishing Lily would inspire her with the right message, Dana held her breath and waited for it to come.
Whatever the wise words might have been, they were too late. Before Dana could say anything more, Quinn let out a fiery exhalation and ran two stairs at a time into her room. As Dana stared at the mantelpiece, her gaze traveled unfocused over photos, shells, the broken Atmos clock, one of her mother’s old driftwood sculptures. Something was missing, but she couldn’t make out what it was.
She was too busy thinking about the last moments with Quinn, wishing she had said something better, something wiser. Checking her watch, she walked into the kitchen to wait for the car and wonder why her decision to leave suddenly felt so wrong.
QUINN FLOPPED ON her bed, on her stomach, pointing the remote at her TV. Would she have her own TV in France? Dubious. Seething from what had just happened downstairs, she clicked the button and started the movie.
So Aunt Dana thought The Little Mermaid was her favorite movie? Well, think again. Pressing rewind to the best part, she let the tape begin to play.
Silence. A long corridor. First a shot of a man’s big feet. The sound of his breathing. Shadows moving in clear Sunday-morning light. A woman’s whisper: “Get ready. Here she comes!”
Quinn’s heart began to pound. The suspense was killing her, as it always did. The man reached for the woman’s hand—there! You could see their fingers clasp right on the screen, which meant he was holding the video camera with one hand. “Come on, honey,” the woman said, out loud now, pleasure and excitement audible in her voice. “Quinny! In here!”
Six more seconds: six, five, four, three, two, one—and then, bursting on the scene, the star of the movie. Aquinnah Jane Grayson! Baby extraordinaire. No teeth, no hair, the meanest crawl you ever did see. Arms scrabbling and feet kicking out back, she makes her way down the corridor. Grinning at her parents, she’s the baby who ate Hubbard’s Point.
“Da, da, da, da,” the baby gurgled.
“She knows my name,” the man said proudly.
“Oh, she does,” the woman said, scooping the baby up into her arms. Now the camera was on both of them, Sunday-morning light pouring over the mother’s yellow hair and the baby’s hairless head, over the newspapers scattered across the bare wood floor, over Long Island Sound sparkling out the window.
“Da-da-da,” the baby laughed, reaching for her father’s face, bumping the video camera and making it shake.
“Say ‘Mommy,’ ” her father said, with so much love in his voice. “Come on, sweet baby. Say ‘Mommy’ so your mother won’t feel left out.”
“I don’t feel left out.” Her mother smiled, her eyes filled with love. Quinn paused the video. She stared at the grainy screen, memorizing every feature on each face.
“Mommy,” she whispered now, just in case.
Down the hall, in real, nonmovie time, came the sound of her sister crying. Grandma was trying to comfort her, saying that when she found Kimba, she’d send him by overnight mail to France. “I can’t leave without him,” Allie was screaming. “I can’t, I can’t.”
Quinn tried to breathe. She started up the movie again, but its magic, for the time being, was lost. This could be the last time for many months she would ever see her favorite movie again. Katy Horton, her best friend, had told her that American videos didn’t work in France. She said that it was a matter of money, like most things in the world. The French wanted you to buy their videos, so their VCRs were incompatible.
With Allie wailing, Quinn felt as if her insides might melt. Her sister’s cries went straight to her stomach. It was all she could do to hold herself back, from running down the hall to make everything better, but this was for Allie’s own good. Rolling off her bed, she practically fell onto her suitcase. Unzipping one corner, she reached her hand inside and felt around.
She pulled them both out at the same time.
Her Ariel doll with her bikini shell-top and mermaid’s tail, with her auburn hair twisted—not unlike Quinn’s own—into as many braids as she could make, and Kimba—or what was left of him—Allie’s beloved scrap of feline, of baby lion. Lying on her side, she buried her face in the two toys, letting the smell of her and Allie’s childhood fill her nose.
As Aunt Dana came upstairs to join the search, Quinn smelled herbs and salt, fall leaves and apple cider, watercolors and wooden boats, her mother and her father. Aunt Dana sounded worried: The car wasn’t there yet.
“Have you called to check on it?” Grandma asked.
“I’ll do that now,” Aunt Dana said.
“I can’t leave without him,” Allie cried.
See, Quinn knew that. Allie was nothing if not loyal. They each had their bottom lines, objects of love they couldn’t leave behind. Allie’s was Kimba, but Quinn’s was a good deal more complicated than that. She wouldn’t want to go away without Ariel, but if forced, she could survive. Other things, maybe not.
For the greater good, Quinn held on to Kimba. Aunt Dana couldn’t be so heartless that she’d make Allie leave without him. Quinn was banking on her aunt’s heart, but if that failed, she’d fall back on her sister’s piercing screams. No sane person would attempt to fly to France with those sounds in her ears.
Just then the door flew open, and Allie ran in. As if she were a bloodhound and her nose had the scent, she threw herself onto Quinn’s body. Snatching Kimba from her sister’s grip, Allie held him up in triumph.
“I knew it!” she yelled. “I knew it was you!”
“Quinn, I’m very disappointed in you,” Grandma said from the doorway.
“You jerk,” Quinn whispered to Allie. “It was going to be perfect. Now we have to go!”
“Huh?” Allie asked, cuddling Kimba in pure rapture.
“Well, we have a problem,” Aunt Dana said, frowning as she joined Grandma in the doorway. “The car service messed up. They have my order, it’s right on the books, and they confirmed it when I called last night, but somehow the dispatcher forgot to send the car out today.”
“Yes!” Quinn said, pumping her arm.
“Mom, can you drive us?” Aunt Dana asked.
“Honey, those New York airports make me crazy,” Grandma said. “All that traffic.”
Checking her watch, Aunt Dana frowned. Quinn didn’t want to see her upset, but suddenly she felt a lifting from within, as if the sun were rising and rainbows were pouring down. It was going to be okay, they weren’t going to leave after all, her parents had heard her prayers. Aunt Dana was saying something about local cabs, super-saver nonrefundable tickets, not enough time, and Quinn felt herself starting to smile.
When Allie, looking out the window, said the bad-magic words: “He’s here.”
“Who?” everyone asked at
once.
“The driver, I guess. Someone I don’t recognize, coming up the hill. We must be going after all,” Allie said, as Quinn felt the happiness fizzle out of her.
THE MINUTE DANA came to the door, Sam saw the tension in her body and uncertainty in her eyes. The two children stood behind her, looking worried and angry, with an older woman a few steps behind them. The house was small and plain, its gardens overgrown. But the site had one of the best views Sam had ever seen, anywhere in the world.
“I had to come,” he said, staring through the screen door at Dana.
She stood in a cluttered kitchen. Sam had the impression of books and shells and paintings on the wall and copper pans hanging from an overhead rack—it was busy, real, filled with life. Dana didn’t reply, and suddenly Sam thought: She doesn’t want to leave.
“I wanted to say good-bye.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” the elder of the two kids said.
“It’s been a rough day,” Dana said, her eyes welling up. “No one wants to do what we’re doing.”
“The taxi didn’t come,” the same girl said. “That’s not our fault.”
“No one wants to?” Sam asked, catching Dana’s words.
She shook her head. “But it’s not as easy as all that. I bought the tickets. They were expensive. And aside from the fact we might not want to go, there’s the other fact that we can’t stay here. At least I can’t—”
“Are you driving us?” the younger girl asked, smiling in a pure, lighthearted way that made Sam think exactly of Lily.
“Shut up, idiot,” the angry, braided girl exclaimed.
Sam wished they wouldn’t go. He hadn’t seen Dana in a long time, but he was very glad to be seeing her just then. There were things he’d like to tell her, others that he wanted to learn about her life. Old friends were rare enough, and when Sam reencountered one like Dana, he was in no great hurry to let her go.
“To the airport?” the little sister asked, still with that smile.
“You can’t ask him to drive us,” the older sister said, incredulous at the very suggestion.
Sam certainly hadn’t planned this, but the idea wasn’t bad at all. If they had to go, at least he’d have a little extra time with Dana. “I’d be happy to,” he said. “If that’s what your aunt wants, I will.”
“Sam, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” he said, nodding as the idea took hold and he heard Augusta’s voice in his head, egging him on. “But I’d like to—I really would. I mean, how else will you get to the airport?”
“Good point,” Dana said, starting to smile.
“Let him,” the younger girl said.
“You’re a jerk,” the older one hissed at her sister.
“Okay, Sam. We’ll take you up on it,” Dana said. “Come on, everyone—get your bags.”
Sam pitched in, lifting suitcases and canvas bags. He noticed how the older child grabbed her suitcase and refused to let him near, but he let that pass. He was too busy congratulating himself for driving out here today, too busy feeling thankful to Augusta for pushing him along.
THEY WERE RIGHT ON TIME. Sam knew his way to JFK, and he explained that he had made the trip before to pick up and see off Joe and Caroline. The blue van bounced over the potholes; it was a camper, with Sam’s tent and other equipment stowed in back. Quinn seemed intrigued, but she had too much invested in being angry to ask any questions.
Dana sat in the front seat, wondering whether she was doing the right thing. While Sam asked the girls questions about the beach and tidal pools and whether they’d ever thought of being oceanographers, Dana tried to keep her heart from beating out of her chest.
Gazing out the window, she watched Connecticut slide by. She loved this state. Her sister had lived here for most of her life, and Dana had returned as often as she could. The low hills, the dark green thickets of mountain laurel, the stone bridges over the Merritt Parkway: She could honestly say it was the landscape of her heart.
Yet she had always felt the pull to travel away. California, Canada, Greece, Italy, France: new and different oceans, coastlines, houses. Lily had always teased her, told her she was just afraid.
“Afraid of what?” Dana would ask.
“Afraid of settling down,” Lily had said. “You’re afraid your life will look like mine.”
In a way, her sister had been right. Hearing her niece’s silence in the backseat, Dana’s heart ached. Being their aunt had always seemed so easy. Lavish them with gifts and attention, then send them back to their parents. As much as she loved her family, her place at Hubbard’s Point, she had always enjoyed the freedom to leave.
Painting was her gift. The ability to see beauty and meaning in life, allow it to flow through her and onto the canvas. With it came certain responsibilities; where other women put their husbands and children first, Dana did the same with her art. She had no husband, no kids. When you have a gift, she remembered telling her own protégé, you have to sacrifice a lot of what you once might have wanted very much. Jonathan.
“What’s Honfleur like?” Sam asked now.
“It’s wonderful,” Dana said as much for her nieces’ sake as for his. “It’s an ancient port, with tall, narrow houses on three sides of the harbor. Sidewalk cafés where you can eat crepes and drink apple cider, hillsides filled with orchards. The light there is incredible, the best any artist could hope for.”
“We’re not artists,” Quinn reminded her.
“What are you?” Sam asked, looking into the rearview mirror.
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re not an artist, what are you?”
“How am I supposed to know?” she replied. “I’m only twelve.”
Sam laughed. “With hair like that, you know who you are.”
“What about my hair?” Irate, she leaned forward.
“Nothing. I like it. But you can’t tell me it’s not there for a reason. Like, when I was a kid, I didn’t mind wearing glasses.”
“Glasses? What do they have to do with anything?”
“Well, I wanted to be a scientist. Hate to say it, but I thought glasses made me look the part. Half the time now I want to trade them in for contacts, and I sometimes do, but that’s another story.”
Glancing over, Dana looked at Sam. He drove easily, as if he liked doing it. His hands were very big, the size she’d expect for someone as tall as he—he must be six foot three, she figured. He wore the same style of glasses she remembered from when she first met him—round wire-rims. Behind them, his eyes were hazel. Looking over, he caught her watching him and smiled.
“He did look like a scientist when he was a kid,” Dana said.
“You knew him when he was a kid?” Quinn asked, disbelief in her voice.
“Younger than you,” Sam said.
“My age?” Allie asked.
“Eight,” Sam said. “I knew them both. Dana and your mother.”
Silence filled the van and grew. Dana heard the pounding of both girls’ hearts, and although she might have bet otherwise, it was Quinn who spoke first.
“You knew our mother.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How?”
“She taught me sailing,” Sam said. “She and your aunt.”
“You sail?” Allie asked.
“Yeah,” Sam said, sliding a glance over at Dana.
“You do?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “From that summer on, I’ve never stopped. Last year I bought a Cape Dory, and I live onboard. When you come back from France for a visit, I’ll take you all out.”
“I don’t sail anymore,” Quinn said loudly. “I used to, but now I don’t.”
“Me neither,” Allie said.
“Oh,” Sam said. Dana saw him redden slightly, and she knew he was thinking of Lily. She could see he felt sorry to have brought it up, and it made her realize what a very nice young man he had become.
“I’d like to go out on your boat,” Dana said.
&n
bsp; “You would?” Sam asked, turning to her quickly, a wide grin transforming his face.
“Yes. I’d like to check on your progress. Make sure you remember everything Lily and I taught you.”
“You two were tough,” Sam said. “We all thought you were so nice, but one sloppy jibe and you’d have us doing drills all afternoon.”
“I’m still tough.” Dana smiled. “Just ask my students in France. It’s not all painting over there, you know. I still teach sailing, and when someone jibes when I say tack, forget it. I’m a brute.” But she thought: It’s no painting over there. It had been so long since she had picked up a brush.
How does an artist know why her painting has stopped working? Is it preferable to analyze, pull the whole thing apart bit by bit, lay the elements out to better understand them? Or should she put on blinders, refuse to look at anything at all, curl up and wait for inspiration to return? Glancing back, she wondered whether her painting would come back with the girls there, whether she was wrong to hope they might become her muses.
“Well, you and Lily taught us to sail right,” Sam said. “That’s all I can say.”
“They taught us right too,” Quinn said.
Allie laughed, and Dana relaxed. The ride was getting easier. The girls’ fear and anger weren’t so palpable. Maybe she was doing the right thing after all. And then Quinn kicked the back of Dana’s seat so hard, she felt it in her spine.
Sam jammed on the brakes, but Dana gestured for him to just keep driving. Although Quinn didn’t speak, Dana knew what she was thinking: If Lily was such a good sailing teacher, why hadn’t she been a better sailor herself? How had she drowned that clear July night with her own husband in their own boat?
The rest of the ride to JFK felt uneasy, and Dana wanted it over with. Once they got on the plane, she told herself, she’d be able to handle things better. The kids would be distracted by the flight, by the movie. She had chosen three seats right over the wing, for stability. Dana would sit in the middle, and both girls could rest their heads on her shoulders… .