“You’re sounding like a lawyer again.”
Like their father. Nora turned a plate over in her hands. She glimpsed a shadow of her face, a mere suggestion of a person, half formed. Who was she now, apart from her role as politician’s wife, a role she’d allowed to define her for so long? She had a law degree, she hosted visiting dignitaries for the municipal league, served on the board at the arts center, but who was she, really? What did she want? She was still figuring that out. Cleaning agents stood at attention on the counter, reporting for duty: Purpose, Aim. If only they could rout uncertainty as well as ketchup stains.
She stuck the plate in the rack and scrubbed, more furiously than necessary, at a pan coated with singed spaghetti sauce. She’d been having trouble keeping her mind on things lately. She felt at home at the cottage, but uneasy too. The place hadn’t proven to be quite the refuge she expected. It raised questions, the little girl she once was falling into step alongside her, in double exposure.
“I’m right,” Ella said. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“You’re like a dark cloud that rains on everything.”
“Rain’s good. It’s cleansing. It makes things grow,” Ella replied.
“Not the hard kind. The kind that makes mud and floods. The kind that beats things down and drowns people.”
“What are you quarreling about?” Nora sensed it was time to intervene, before the conflict escalated any further.
“Rain, sort of,” said Ella.
“Leave it to you two to find an argument concerning something as innocuous as rain. Sometimes I think we should rechristen the cottage the Bickerage, with the squabbling that’s been going on around here lately.”
The girls fell silent, thinking perhaps of their father, who when they argued in his presence at home might stage a mock mediation, wearing a funny hat or blowing a horn left over from a New Year’s Eve party, assuming the persona of a comical judge, Hermunculus A. Budge (“That’s Judge Budge to you”), dissolving their conflicts into laughter.
“Your move,” Ella said.
“There’s no move I can make.”
“It’s your turn. You have to—unless you want to forfeit.”
“Cunninghams never give up.”
Their father’s words again. He was everywhere, in everything. Nora couldn’t pretend he wasn’t. She scrubbed and scrubbed until her shoulder ached, her fingertips pruned. He persisted in her thoughts, in her dreams, her feelings for him enduring, in fragments, along with the anger, the hurt, almost against her will.
After much deliberation, Annie removed a wooden piece from the game. The tower teetered one way, then the other. She flapped her hands in the air around the structure in a panic. “No!”
“Don’t touch the other pieces. You can’t touch them, only the one you’re taking out.”
“I know!”
The tower tumbled onto the table with a clatter. “I hate this game.” Annie kicked a rectangular block across the room.
“That’s because you always lose,” Ella said. “You have to have a strategy.”
“Your strategy is going first. You always go first.”
“The privilege of the firstborn.”
“It’s not fair.”
Ella leaned forward, her jaw thrust out. “Life isn’t fair.”
“El, that’s enough. And Annie, don’t kick the game pieces,” Nora said.
The lights flickered.
“Is the power going out?” Annie asked.
“It might,” Nora said.
“Brilliant,” Ella grumbled. “Now I get to freeze to death and stub my toe in the dark.”
“It’s not that cold. You can’t even see your breath.”
“We have enough firewood for tonight,” Nora said, though they’d need to restock. She’d have to bring more driftwood up to dry. “And candles if it does. Aunt Maire has a generator. We could always head over there.”
“I don’t want to go out in that storm, thank you very much,” Ella said. “I’d be soaked in a second.” Raindrops streaked the windowpanes, illustrating her point. It had been blustery all evening. “Why couldn’t we have gone someplace warm, like the Caribbean?”
Where they’d been planning a family vacation that winter, until the trouble started, redirecting their itinerary, on and off the map.
“The storm should blow through soon,” Nora said. “The moon is already putting in an appearance.” Indeed it swept across the roaring surf at intervals, the beacon of a celestial lighthouse.
“It is?” Annie pulled up a chair and gazed out the window, elbows on the sill. “Aunt Maire said there were shipwrecks in the old days.”
“Maybe the ghosts will come up here and haunt you,” Ella said. “That’s what happens when you watch for them out the window. Your eyes meet, and in that split second they make a connection to you. You let them in.”
“They’d go for you first, because you’re mean and you need to be taught a lesson.”
“Oho! Listen to you!”
Nora sighed. She had suds up to her elbows and didn’t want to rinse off and referee another spat. She often wondered what it would have been like to have another child. She and Malcolm had talked about having a third, before his affair came to light. (Though she spoke of it more often than he did, now that she thought about it.) There would have been another child, between the girls—a boy, perhaps—if she hadn’t miscarried that winter nine years ago. Her mother or Maire might have cared for her after the procedure, if they had been a part of her life then. She hadn’t told anyone she was pregnant, since it was so early, and in the end, she said she was down with the flu, because she didn’t want to deal with others’ pity or grief. Malcolm did what he could to support her, but despite his best efforts she’d felt alone in those weeks, hearing the latch click as he went off to work. She remained at home in the silent house, Ella off at preschool, a parade of black-and-white films showing on the television screen, Bringing up Baby, Casablanca, The Third Man, beloved classics that couldn’t penetrate the fog of disbelief and sadness, until finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and forced herself to get out of bed a few days later. She’d been afraid to try again, afraid during the first few weeks of her pregnancy with Annie, and yet the months went by easily in the end, the birth, too, more so than Ella’s, who, being a firstborn, caused some pain and trouble.
Now she watched her growing daughters through the open kitchen door of the cottage at Glass Beach, considering how swiftly the years had passed, from infant to toddler to child to nearly teen. Annie, with her face close to the glass—or so Nora guessed from the halo of breath fogging the pane. Ella, her nose in her book.
Annie began waving. “I’m waving at the waves. They always wave back.”
“One of life’s deep truths.” Ella snorted without looking up.
“I see something,” Annie said.
“You’re always seeing things,” Ella replied.
“No, really. There’s someone down on the rocks. They’re not moving.”
“It’s probably a seal,” Ella said.
“I know the difference between a person and a seal,” Annie said, adding in a hushed voice, “What if they’re dead?”
“Now that would be interesting,” Ella said.
“Mama!” Annie appealed to a higher authority.
“Let me see.” Nora joined Annie at the window.
Yes, something, someone, lay on the ledge. “Stay here.” She tossed on a rain jacket. “I’ll be right back.”
Nora staggered against the gale, coat winging out behind her. The hood refused to stay in place. She let it go and was drenched in seconds, water trickling down her spine, hair plastered to her scalp in flat ringlets. The rain came down so hard, she could barely see. Clouds raced across the moon, casting shadows that swept over the beach, elusive, spectral. It was easy to imagine things that weren’t there. The ocean reared back and threw itself against the rocks, sending up plumes of spray. Pebbles and shells tumbled ove
r the shore with the sound of dragging chains and breaking crockery. Nora stumbled forward, the way slick and treacherous. She hadn’t bothered to change into boots. Her only thoughts had been for the person below. She glanced in the direction of Maire’s house, dark now. No time to wake her.
She slid down the embankment, a border of mud collecting on her shoes. She leaped across the rocks, nearly losing her footing. She could see more clearly now. It was a man. He lay on his side, as if sleeping. She called to him, but he didn’t stir. She reminded herself to stay calm, to remember the CPR training she’d had years ago, after Ella was born. She checked for a pulse, for breath. Yes. He was alive. “Hello,” she said into his ear. “Can you hear me?” Did his eyelids flicker? The rain was still coming down heavily; she wasn’t sure. His skin was tan, scored, as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors. A fisherman, no doubt. A scar on his brow, others on his arms and chest too, his face strong-boned, his clothes—or what was left of them; they looked as if the waves had nearly torn them from his body—draped around his waist like a shroud. His feet were bare. He had a deep cut on his head, abrasions and scratches elsewhere; he’d probably need stitches for that nasty head wound. She tore the cuff from her work shirt, doubled the fabric, and pressed it to his temple. She felt the fluid warmth of his blood beneath her hand. Her biggest concern was hypothermia. She had to get him warm as soon as possible. She took off her coat and draped it around his shoulders. It wasn’t big enough to cover him completely, but it would have to do.
How had he ended up there? It was as if the ocean had spat him out. He lay half broken on the rocks, too heavy for her to carry. She couldn’t leave him. The waves were rising, driven by storm and tide. They might snatch him back.
“It is a man!” Annie exclaimed. “See—”
“I told you two to stay inside.” Nora whirled around. There were her two daughters in their new slickers and boots, their eyes wide with astonishment. “You shouldn’t be here. You could get hurt.”
“We want to help too,” they insisted, in agreement for once.
“He’s not dead, is he?” Ella said, apparently regretting her earlier comment.
“No, he’s just hurt.”
“Badly?”
“I don’t know. If you want to be useful, run and wake Aunt Maire. She’ll know what to do,” Nora said. “Hurry!”
They did as she said.
The man opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked, his voice deep.
“Glass Beach, on Burke’s Island. We need to get help—”
“I’m fine.” He was remarkably calm after what he’d been through. Perhaps he was in shock.
“Clearly, you’re not,” she said. “You have a bad cut on your head, for one thing. You’re in danger of getting hypothermia, and—”
“I’m not cold.” He stared at her, his gaze disconcerting, his eyes large and nearly black. He touched her hand. “See.”
She drew back. There was something odd in that touch, a warmth, and another quality she couldn’t name. “What happened to you? Was there an accident?”
“There must have been.”
“Why were you out in this weather?”
“I can’t remember.”
“But your boat—” She scanned the waves and rocks. Nothing. It must have sunk fast, some distance from shore. She supposed he had insurance, still—
“At least I have my life,” he said. “Speaking of hypothermia, it seems you’re out here without a coat.”
“I gave it to you,” she said. “Please. Stay still. My aunt should be here in a moment. She has medical training.”
“I told you. I don’t need any help.” His tone sharpened. He hoisted himself into a sitting position with a grunt, shrugged the coat from his shoulders, and handed it to her. “I think this fits you better than me. You should put it on. You’re shivering.”
Was she? Her hands were so numb she could barely move them. She didn’t bother fastening the coat. “Who are you?” Nora asked. “What is your name?”
He frowned. “I don’t know.”
The bump on his head must be worse than it looked. She was about to question him further when Maire and the girls appeared.
“We’re coming,” Maire called, first-aid kit in hand. The rain drummed steadily on their hoods as they gathered around the man in a semicircle.
He was clearly bemused by the attention. “Maybe I should get shipwrecked more often.”
“There are easier ways to gain a woman’s notice,” Maire said. “Now then, let’s take a look at you.” She was all business as she checked his eyes, asked questions, and applied pressure to the wound.
So, Nora thought, there was another side to Maire: calm as always, but steely too.
“And what do you see?” he asked Maire.
“A man who’s lucky to be alive, after being in weather like this.”
“I was catching the end of the run.”
“And it caught you.”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“He can’t remember his name,” Nora said. “I think it might be serious—”
“A concussion, that’s all,” he insisted. “I told you not to trouble yourself—”
Maire turned to Nora. “I’ll take it from here. Get the girls home. They shouldn’t be out on a night like this—and neither should you.”
Chapter Six
The next day dawned so clear, Nora wondered if she’d imagined the encounter. Yet there was her torn shirt, ruined now, the cuff missing, seams speckled with blood. Her coat and shoes were crusted with mud, hair stiff with salt, lips tasting of it too, the taste of her childhood. She needed to shower—they had shed their clothes and fallen into bed as soon as they got home last night—but the girls were already headed out the door.
“What are you up to?” she called through the open window as she pulled her hair into a high ponytail. The girls’ movements were a mystery these days. She could barely keep up with them.
“We want to see the shipwrecked man.” They paused among the buttercups.
“He’s probably at the village clinic by now, or headed home,” Nora said. Wherever that was. “And even if he isn’t, we should leave him alone. He’s not an animal in a zoo.” There was no place to stay but Maire’s, and surely her aunt wouldn’t have suggested such an arrangement.
“We know,” Annie replied. “He’s a man. He must have visiting hours. Everyone knows there are visiting hours.”
“That’s for hospitals,” Nora said. “And besides, I doubt he’s there.”
“We want to know what happened after we left,” Ella said. “Don’t you?”
She did, but she thought they could have waited until at least after breakfast.
The girls didn’t wait for a reply. They made for the trees and Maire’s house beyond before she could dissuade them.
Nora yanked on a pair of jeans, nearly tripping in her haste, and a sweater, then jammed her feet into a pair of sneakers. She jogged along the path in their wake, feeling like a child again, the child who’d raced over these very trails, laughing, playing, seeking, crying.
All was quiet at Cliff House. A line of crows perched along the roofline, commentating on the activity below, soot-feathered and gossipy, like some of the women at the last black-tie event she attended with Malcolm, whispering behind her back in the days before the rumors were confirmed. What made him stray. Whether she’d gained weight or aged. If the other woman was younger, smarter, more beautiful. The birds on the roof watched her speculatively, eyes hard and shiny as polished jet beads.
The sound of the girls’ voices brought her focus back to the present. She came upon them talking with—or rather interrogating—Maire, who was planting tomato bushes, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the night before, the trowel chinking against a buried stone as she spaded the earth.
“Where is he?” Annie asked.
“Who?” Maire shaded her eyes with a gloved hand, a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
&nbs
p; “You know—the man on the beach,” Annie said. “The guy Ella thought was a seal.”
“I said he might have been a seal,” Ella protested.
“He was a bit bruised and battered and needed a butterfly bandage or two—that wound wasn’t as deep as we thought—but he’ll be as good as new before you know it, once he gets over that bump on the head and regains his full memory. He’s made of sturdy stuff, that one.” Maire patted the dirt with a nod of satisfaction.
“His memory?” Nora asked. So the effects were lingering. “I hope he’s being seen by a doctor.”
“Didn’t want one,” she replied, turning to Ella. “Funny you thought he was a seal.”
“It was dark.”
“Is he here?” Annie stood on tiptoe.
“Yes, is he?” Ella echoed.
“He didn’t want to impose. I offered him the fishing shack near the point as a compromise. To say it’s rustic is an understatement, but it seems to suit him fine.”
“For how long?” Ella asked. Things were apparently starting to get interesting.
To Nora, they were getting complicated. She shooed the girls off to pick flowers in the meadow. “I thought you were going to call for help and get him settled in the village,” she began once they were out of earshot.
“The phones were down, and I don’t have a cell—darn things can be more trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me, but then I’m not much for technology—so I figured I shouldn’t waste time driving into town until I knew his condition. And in the end, he didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble. He’s a considerate sort. A rare breed these days.” She set down the trowel and she looked up at Nora. “My instincts tell me he’s all right.”
“Next you’ll be reading tea leaves.”
“Sometimes I do. But I don’t take them too seriously. People have a tendency to see what they want to see. It skews the results,” she said, half joking. “Polly says even the type of tea can influence the process. Earl Grey is better for cautious sorts; jasmine for the adventurous; white for the pure. Keep that in mind if she offers you tea. I suspect you didn’t have much exposure to such things when you were young.”
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