“This is the path to the castle,” Krista said.
“Road,” Justine corrected her.
“Yes, of course. Road.”
“Stone.”
Krista guided Justine in and out of fantasy. The make-believe castle had its own guard made up of butterflies. A stick king and queen. An army of pirates. Justine followed Krista’s lead. Then piece by piece they took the castle apart, tossing a butterfly here or there, calling it a seashell. They scattered the stones in every direction.
“No road,” said Justine finally, as eager to dismantle the castle as she had been to build it. Taking a long stick, she pressed the surface of the dune smooth again. Something made her stop. Looking at Krista, she said nothing but cocked an ear. Down the beach, a low-flying plane made its appearance. The child panicked, attempting to climb between Krista’s knees. Without thinking, Krista embraced her as she had seen Deirdre do.
Surprised by the child’s fear, Krista watched the plane approach, trying to perceive it as Justine might. While she tried the child’s fear on for size, Krista reflected on her own fear. Fear of living. That, she thought, was what she most needed to forgive herself for – fear of living.
“Justine,” she said, “it’s just an airplane.”
“Airplane.”
“Airplane. Look, there’s a man inside. Wave!”
Justine stood very still. Krista waved for both of them.
“Look,” she said again.
The pilot waved back at them. Justine surfaced from between Krista’s knees. Stepping out, she placed her hands on her hips and watched in amazement until the airplane disappeared. Then she got back to demolishing the castle.
“Castle gone,” she said finally as she put down the stick and brushed the sand from her hands.
“Castle gone,” Krista confirmed.
“Walk?” the child asked, pointing in the direction in which the plane had gone.
They held hands and began a stroll down the empty beach. Another helicopter clattered in the distance. Justine grabbed Krista’s legs, demanding to be picked up. Krista ignored this.
“Flying man,” she told her, “there’s a man flying. Wave!”
Krista waved in a broad arc but Justine paid no attention. Instead, she pressed her face tight against Krista’s leg until the helicopter was directly overhead.
“Look,” Krista told her. “He’s waving to you.”
“To me?”
“To you.”
Justine pulled away from Krista’s legs and waved at the helicopter until it was well out of sight. They resumed their walk, with the child once again cowering at the sight of a seagull shadow crossing her path.
“Look at this,” Krista said to her. “Justine, look at me.”
The little girl paid quiet attention. With outstretched arms, Krista cast a bird-like shadow over the sand.
“Fly,” she demanded of the little one. “Hold out your arms like this.”
The child indignantly refused. Instead she ran holding her fat little arms folded tightly over her chest. For a moment Krista remembered herself flying helplessly in her dream, arms crossed over her heart. She caught Justine from behind, directing her attention to a seabird flying overhead.
“Look at that,” she said. “Look at the bird. Flying. Like the man in the plane.”
She set the child down.
“Fly!” Krista invited the child again.
Instead, Justine merely ran behind Krista, hiding in her shadow whenever a bird passed overhead. Krista watched the child watching the shadow in flight. She tossed up her arms once in a small experiment before quickly restoring them to her sides. Then she placed Justine on her shoulders and held her arms straight out with her own.
“Look,” she said. “Our shadow has wings!”
Krista flapped her arms. Justine left hers extended, perfectly balanced, not afraid of falling. Another gull passed overhead. It landed and broke out in raucous cries. Further up the beach and at a greater altitude than the previous aircraft, a biplane flew past silently.
“Look, Justine. A wing on top of a wing. Like you and me!”
The toddler arched her back, holding tightly to Krista’s hands, and screeched with delight. They flapped their wings in unison, casting shadows upon the sand. To anyone else they might be any mother and child playing together on a late beach day. Krista brought Justine back to the ground and the child noticed her own shadow. She tossed up her arms.
“Flying!” she cried.
Justine brought her chubby knees to her chest and jumped. She outdistanced Krista until, from behind, Krista finally swooped down and caught the child under her arms before spinning her around in great circles.
“Follow me,” Justine ordered, “fly, fly, fly.”
Suddenly, Krista realized they had traveled quite a distance from the spot where they had built the sandcastle. She instantly turned the little girl around and marched back up the beach. Priscilla would have to be back soon. In the about-face, the shadows disappeared. They no longer fell in front, but behind. Justine halted to stare at them, as if feeling astonished or cheated.
“Where did the shadows go?” asked Krista, guessing her thoughts.
The child did not answer and Krista mimed a search. She looked behind herself, in the pockets of her jeans. Justine did the same and then hid behind her mother’s friend. The game turned to one of peek-a-boo.
“Where did Justine go?”
“Here,” the child called out, as she ran from behind, “me not gone.”
Justine wrapped her arms around Krista’s legs. They laughed together joyously. Krista watched as Justine threw up her arms, flying ahead – no longer needing a shadow. Krista ran past her, turned and picked her up. They spun, both squealing with delight. They copied one another. First, they took little steps, then big ones, and finally they discovered their own footprints leading down the beach. Justine stepped into the footprints that were her own. They scoured the ground, looking for discarded treasures. Justine planted her feet into Krista’s old footprints.
“Whose feet now?”
“You tell me,” Krista urged.
“Giant feet,” Justine answered.
She was so intent on the oversized footprints that she walked into the breaking surf. Water splashed across her chest. Retrieving her quickly, Krista spun her around and quickly set her back in her own small prints, though now these were mostly washed away by the incoming tide. Finally Krista swept up the child and held her against her chest. The toddler wrapped her chubby legs around Krista’s back. Her heart beat against Krista’s.
“Where did the baby go?” Krista asked.
Justine rested for a moment with her head tucked under Krista’s chin. She looked down at the small footprints filling with water, almost erased. She looked at Krista, then arched herself up and back. She pointed directly overhead.
“Into the sun,” she squealed.
“Into the sun.” Krista smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
Deirdre and Krista hugged. Each promised to visit the other soon. In Boston or New York. They made this same pledge year after year at the end of the season, but seldom saw each other except in the summer. Deirdre packed her beach bag and her wicker hamper. Justine ran around the two women, holding her beach towel over her head, trying to see its shadow, which disappeared whenever she stopped to look for it. Under her breath, she hummed to herself.
“Running, Mommy, running. Flying, Mommy, flying.”
Deirdre picked her daughter up and placed her on her hip.
“Say goodbye.”
The child looked up at Krista. For an instant she snuggled deeper into her mother’s chest, then loudly demanded her seashells. Deirdre set her down, and pulled out a plastic bag full of white scallop and dark-blue mussel shells. The child reached into the clear bag, extracting p
recisely two of her treasures. She handed one to Krista and curled the other up in a tight little fist held against her chest.
“Well, I am impressed with you, young lady,” Deirdre said, putting the bag of treasures back into the tote, “you must be nearly three.” She looked at Krista, half whispering, “That’s when they learn to give.”
“Thank you, Justine. I will treasure it forever,” Krista told her.
She mounted Priscilla and started off down the beach, Deirdre waving goodbye until it was time to catch and subdue Justine who, with her small towel flying behind her, could not seem to get enough of flying.
With the horse delivered back to Scrubby Neck, Krista drove to the house. As she parked, she realized she was not ready to leave. She calculated that she could take the last boat, the ten o’clock ferry. In the house, she found her half-nibbled bar of chocolate. She tasted a piece. Despite the warm day, the house was still cold, and just as she had gone down to the shore for the last beach day, now she went into the backyard to enjoy the last minutes of sunshine. After rinsing the shell Justine had given her and setting it to dry on the flat stone under the drainpipe, Krista reminded herself not to forget it. She wanted to take it home. To give to Michael, she thought idly.
Picking up the rake, she began to comb through the grass for fallen apples. When she had a pile, Krista began tossing one after the next into the wheelbarrow. By the sound of the plunk they made, she knew whether she hit the bottom, the side or entirely missed the wheelbarrow. The dead grass she raked into armfuls and tossed into the wheelbarrow as well. She sat down briefly on the grass and studied Ilsa’s neglected garden. The coral-bells were still in bloom, the Shasta daisies seemed to shout out for attention, and the dark elephant ears were only now beginning to turn yellow. She looked at the Rose of Sharon, which Ilsa had always struggled to prevent its spreading. The apple tree, the young maple and the ivy covering the wall that enclosed the yard, all seemed to embrace her.
Krista lay back on the soft grass and closed her eyes. She felt content to be here. At just this time of year, at this point in my life. She took a deep breath.
She heard a car turn into the driveway. Michael had come to her. She stood up and reached for the rake while she watched him approach. He stood under the brick arch awaiting her reaction.
“Hi, stranger,” he said warily.
“Hi, yourself,” she answered.
“What are you doing?” he asked awkwardly.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Leaning on a rake?”
“Picking up apples.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
Krista picked up the fallen fruit and continued bundling up the long grass.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Come and help me.”
Michael entered the garden, knelt and began to pick up apples.
“Into the wheelbarrow,” she said over her shoulder.
For a few minutes they worked in silence.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Hungry.”
“Good. I was worried about you. So is Helen, by the way.”
Krista tossed another bundle of grass into the wheelbarrow.
“Call her. She’s your mother.”
“I’ll see her tonight.”
“All right,” he said, throwing apples into the center of the lawn.
“In the wheelbarrow,” Krista directed him. “Or if you can toss that far, behind the maple and into the compost.”
“They’re biodegradable. Leave them where they are.”
They fell silent again, each keeping to their task until the lawn was finally clear of apples.
“How’s D.B.?” she asked.
“Okay. Not worried at all. Said you probably came here and that you’d be back.”
“You should have listened to him.” She paused, leaning on the rake. “So what really brought you here, Michael? I thought you were through with me.”
“I got halfway to Newark before I realized you were lying. I figured, if money didn’t matter before, why should it matter now?”
Krista laughed. “You are so—”
“Stupid?” he answered.
“No.”
“On the ferry, I heard someone say ‘Hey, stupid’ and I turned around. I thought they were talking to me.”
Michael looked at the apple in his hand and turned it over. Krista walked up close to him and brushed the hair away from his forehead.
“Anyone ever tell you, you ride a good race?”
“Yes,” he said, aiming the apple to the far side of the maple and hitting the compost. “A blond I met a long time ago.”
A telephone rang. They turned simultaneously to the house and the open screen door. Krista chose to ignore the phone and returned to raking. Michael pulled the rake from her hands.
“Answer it,” he said.
“No.” She took the rake back.
“If you won’t, I will.”
Krista shrugged her shoulders and Michael made for the house.
“You are a child,” he called back to her. “I am going to tell her you are here, out of your mind.”
Krista stood for a moment before throwing the rake down. She met Michael in the study by the telephone.
“Here,” he said, “it’s your mother calling.”
“Fine.” Krista listened for a moment, frowning and pulling a face. “No, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think about it,” she said into the receiver.
She chose her words carefully. She wanted them to sting. Forgive. I must forgive. I must forgive others and myself, she remembered then.
“Hurt?” she repeated incredulously. “You’re asking me did it hurt?”
She looked at Michael while she spoke to her mother.
“Yes, Helen, it hurt. I wish you, or someone else, anyone, would have told me the truth – how much it hurt. Why didn’t they put that in the book?”
Then she cried into the phone.
“Yes,” she said finally, collecting herself, “tonight.”
Krista hung up, walked back outside and picked up the rake. Michael followed her out, turning her gently around and lifting her hair back over her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, cradling her against his chest.
“Me, too. I am so sorry.” And she cried as she had never cried before.
When the sobbing subsided, Krista listened to Michael’s heart. She looked up and she kissed him. As if it were the first time. He cried.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” she said.
“I know.”
They stepped away from each other and tended to the last two piles of apples.
“Michael,” Krista finally called out, as she lifted a single apple, rocking it precariously forward and backward, “would you like a bite?”
“A bite?” he said, stopping momentarily, then playfully knocking her to the ground. “I want the whole thing.”
“No,” she said, pushing him away, “not for six weeks. Isn’t that what Blackwell said?”
“No kissing for six weeks?”
They wrestled. Krista pretended to escape. He insisted on capturing her. They rolled on the ground and laughed at the work undone.
“You are beautiful,” he said to her as he lifted himself up on one arm, “even more so than I remember.” He lay back, looking at the sky through the uppermost branches of the apple tree.
“Thanks,” she said as she got to her feet and pushed the wheelbarrow back to the compost pile before turning it over.
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I am, too. Thank you.”
Krista returned the rake to the shed behind the kitchen. The screen door slammed.
“Come on,” she called out to Micha
el, still lying on the ground with his elbows cocked and hands behind his head. “Let’s close up.”
“You’re ready to leave?”
“Yes,” she answered, closing the shutters. “Time to go off-Island.”
“I was just beginning to like it here,” he said, coming through the kitchen, closing the basement door.
“Close the upstairs windows, will you? And do something with the spread in the back room.”
“Like what?”
“Throw it out.”
They busied themselves, locking up, closing the house. Together they draped the piano in the dining room. They closed the cupboards in the kitchen and turned off the stove, which did nothing anyway to warm the house against drafts.
“Kris,” Michael asked, carrying an old stack of newspapers from the study to the kitchen, “what are you going to do now?”
“About what?”
“Back in the City.”
Krista poked the dust rag she had used earlier back into the shopping bag on the cellar door.
“I’m going to dance,” she answered. “I am going to find myself another teacher and dance.”
They double-checked doors and windows and left through the kitchen. In the driveway they decided who would lead and who would follow, regretting that they each had their own car. Michael stepped into his and started the engine.
“No, wait,” Krista called out, quickly getting out of her car and knocking on his window, “come with me.”
“Okay.”
“I forgot something.”
She hurried behind the house, through the cellar door, up the basement steps, through the dining room, the study, the foyer, up the front stairs and into Ilsa’s studio. She threw things out of the top of the small blue cabinet, finally finding the straw basket that contained Ilsa’s sewing kit. She took the spool of gold thread and broke off a piece. Again, she ran through the house, stopping in the room behind the kitchen to pick up the hammer hanging beside the builder’s angle. She opened the toolbox and picked out an awl.
“Just a minute.” She smiled at Michael as she knelt in the garden.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
She retrieved the dry white shell Justine had given her earlier that day from the flat stone under the drainpipe. As she stooped to pick it up, she hesitated for a moment, flooded with memories of another shell placed there many years ago the morning her father had disappeared forever. A breeze rustled the ivy, the tree and the border of elephant ears. It seemed to pass down the brick path between the house and the garage and vanish through the vine-covered arbor.
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