Gemma didn’t respond to that; she just got up and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot by the sink.
“Do you want milk with that?” I asked. She shook her head and dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup.
“So, I’m really already seventeen,” she said, a statement, not a question.
“Yes. Since March twenty-sixth.”
“I’ve always celebrated my birthday on August sixteenth. I’m supposed to be a Leo.”
“Do you believe in astrology?” I asked.
“Not really. I had a Leo necklace once. It broke.”
I’ll buy her another one, I thought. A good one that won’t easily break. And then I thought, No. I’ll buy her a necklace with the sign of Aries, her real birth sign. The ram. And then I thought, Slow down, Verity.
“That scar on your chin,” I said. “How did it happen?”
“Fell off my bike.”
“A long time ago?”
“Yeah.”
I wondered if the cut had been stitched. It probably hadn’t been, to leave such a scar. I fought down a surge of anger, directed, of course, at Alan. “You’ll probably be wanting a bike now, I imagine,” I said.
“I don’t really care.”
“It’s not terribly easy to get around without wheels of some sort,” I explained, “unless you don’t mind walking a few miles each way. There’s a trolley service in summer, but it caters to the tourists, not the locals who don’t live in the heart of town, going to and from the motels and resorts.”
Gemma didn’t answer. She reached again for the sugar bowl, and I bit back a comment on sugar intake.
After breakfast Gemma went back to her room for close to an hour. I don’t know what she was doing in there. I wanted to knock on the door, ask if she would be ready to head out soon, but I didn’t. What do I do, I wondered, if she doesn’t come out all day? Can I demand that she appear? Should I? Or should I just leave her alone? Let her set the pace? I was in the midst of trying to answer these troubling questions when she emerged and said in a flat voice, “I’m ready.”
First I took her through downtown Yorktide, where the town council had erected a massive banner across Main Street. It read: WELCOME HOME, GEMMA! in bright-pink letters. Gemma couldn’t have missed it, but she said nothing. Neither did I.
From Yorktide I took her past beautiful farms and famous historic buildings; I showed her the grammar school and the high school; I pointed out a few of the more popular lobster pounds and the YMCA. Here and there we passed more handmade signs welcoming Gemma home, some on front lawns, others posted on storefronts. She said nothing at all about those, either, or to my running commentary, but she did seem to be looking at what passed before her eyes. But what, I thought, is she really seeing? We were sitting mere feet away from each other in the front seat of my car, but it felt to me as if we were miles and miles apart.
We were.
At noon I took her to Barnacle Billy’s in Perkins Cove, though it’s not a place where I can afford to eat frequently. But it is one of the most picturesque spots in Ogunquit, a lovely town, and if I was hoping to win her over with the sight of a beautifully created garden and well-maintained boats bobbing peacefully at their moorings, I think I can be excused.
“It’s not really the season yet,” I explained as we were led to a table for two on the patio. “We’re lucky. After July fourth, it’s near impossible to get a table in any of the restaurants without a reservation or a long wait.”
Gemma didn’t reply to this, just opened her menu and frowned at it. I suddenly realized I had little appetite, but in an effort to make this first day together as normal and drama free as possible, I decided I would have to eat. Families eat meals together. And we are a family, Gemma and I.
“Gemma, what would you like?” I said when our waitress arrived.
“Marni,” she said. It wasn’t the first time she’d corrected me since we’d met, but I thought that this time she didn’t sound particularly upset.
Gemma ordered a cheeseburger, which came with French fries and a soda. I didn’t press her to choose water instead. I ordered a spinach salad. Children learn by example. But Gemma is no longer a child, not entirely. At this point I have no idea if anything I say or do will have a positive impact on her continued growth into maturity. I have no idea if she’ll simply choose to ignore me.
No one approached us while we ate our lunch, though I did have to shake my head in warning at one woman I vaguely recognized from around Yorktide who seemed on the brink of rushing over to us. If Gemma noticed the woman or my signal to her, she didn’t say.
“Did you enjoy your meal?” I asked her when the waitress had taken our plates.
Gemma shrugged. “It was okay.”
You know, you take what you can get in this life.
Chapter 13
I unpacked this morning after breakfast, before Verity took me on a tour of what she keeps calling “my new home.” I’d never realized how little I own all to myself. I mean, Dad bought me everything, but it’s mine because he gave it to me. And it all fit in those two old bags. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve got plenty. T-shirts, hoodies, two pairs of jeans. My sneakers, though they are kind of falling apart. I guess it’s Verity’s responsibility now to buy me a new pair. That makes me feel weird. I don’t want to have to rely on her at all, let alone for something so personal like my clothes. Dad and I never had many books around the house, and when I had to leave the place we’d been living, I found only seven and took only two, a paperback copy of To Kill a Mockingbird that I got at a yard sale and a copy of The Hobbit a neighbor we had once threw away. I saw it sitting on top of his garbage can; it was a bit damp, but it dried out soon enough. I’m not one of those girly girls, so I’ve never accumulated makeup or jewelry or fuzzy toys. In fact, the only piece of jewelry I have is a mood ring that doesn’t work anymore. I don’t know why I don’t just throw it out.
Anyway, it took about ten minutes to put all my stuff away, but I stayed in the room for about an hour. Just breathing. Just being on my own. When I finally came out, Verity looked relieved, like she had expected me to hide from her all day. I’m not pathetic. And I’m not afraid of her.
We drove around for a while, with Verity pointing out things I guess were supposed to interest me—a farm stand she likes; a really old cemetery; some local stores she says I’ll get to know—and I kind of cringed every time we passed a sign welcoming me home, like this was ever really my home. At least nobody waved at the car, which was something. I might have been tempted to flip them the bird, because why not? I’ll be in and out of this place as fast as I possibly can.
Finally we had lunch at this restaurant in a place called Perkins Cove—hey, I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t pretty much the nicest place I’ve ever eaten in—and after that, she suggested we drive to the beach, which is, like, three minutes from the Cove. I didn’t argue. What was the alternative? Go back to the house where I don’t want to be living?
There were a bunch of bikes in the parking lot at the beach, chained up to bike racks. I remembered Verity suggesting I get a bike so I can get around on my own. But I don’t want a bike because I don’t want to be part of this place. What’s the point of getting around if I’m only going to be here for a little while?
We walked down a slight decline to the sand, and for the first time since getting out of the car, I really looked at what was all around me.
“Have you ever been to a beach before?” Verity asked. “I mean, the ocean, not a lakeside beach.”
“No.”
“I’ve never been to the desert. I’d like to visit the Southwest one day.”
I didn’t respond, because I didn’t have a voice, other than to utter another one-word answer. Really. I was so totally stunned by all that water! It’s not like we don’t have horizons and vistas in the Southwest, but this was so completely different, I felt like I’d landed on an alien planet. I felt totally terrified but also totally impressed.
You know how a lot of people overuse the word awesome? Well, looking out at all that shimmering, rolling water that looked like it went on forever, I thought: This is what should be meant by awesome. I felt awestruck. At least, I think that’s what I felt. I do know that I’d never been affected by any place so strongly before.
Verity suggested we walk along the shoreline. “You might want to take off your sneakers,” she said, kicking off her sandals. “The tide’s coming in, and it can come in fast.” So I took them off—not because I was obeying her, but because wet sneakers can get smelly—and kind of followed her down the beach. What I mean is, I didn’t walk right next to her, like friends would do, but a few feet behind and to the left. I wondered if people would think we had just had a fight or something.
Anyway, every few feet Verity would bend down and pick up a shell and either toss it into the water or put it in her bag. I didn’t ask her why she was collecting shells or why she rejected some and kept others. I was kind of curious, though. And I wondered if after so many years living here, she was blown away by how beautiful this all was—if she ever had been—or if by now it was all just background.
As we walked along, the thought did cross my mind that if I had a bike, I could probably come here to the beach and not have to talk to anyone. It stretches for miles and miles—or for what looks like miles and miles—and I bet it’s easy to be alone even when other people are sunning themselves or playing Frisbee or whatever else people do here. (I saw a lot of people reading, but I mean, if you have this truly awesome view to look at, why would you want to stick your nose in a book?)
When we had walked for what seemed like an hour maybe, Verity suggested we turn back. I could have stayed on that beach all day and into the night, except I was getting hungry again so I said, “Whatever.” Of course it took close to another hour to get back to the parking lot, and during that time neither of us spoke much, and I only said things like yeah or no in response to Verity’s few questions. “It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” And, “Do you have a pair of sturdy sandals?”
I fell asleep on the ride back to Verity’s house.
The minute I walked into the bungalow, I noticed that on every windowsill (well, at least on the first floor) there was a line of pure white seashells in descending size, large to small. (Or ascending, I suppose, depending on your point of view.) I wondered how long it had taken her to collect all the shells (there have to be way over a hundred), and then I thought maybe she bought most of them, or maybe they’re fake. But somehow—and I really don’t know how, because I don’t know Verity at all—I don’t see her as the type of person to buy a ready-made collection of anything. And then I thought about her picking up the shells earlier when we were at the beach. So that’s what she does for fun, I thought.
What happens when she runs out of windowsills?
“Come upstairs,” she said. “I’ll show you my bedroom and studio space.”
I followed her up the steep narrow stairs and into a smallish room. The bed fills almost the entire space. I’ve never slept in a bed that big. It must be a queen size or something. There’s a dresser and a small table. On both of those there are framed pictures of a baby. An infant. Of me, I guess. The earliest photo that Dad had of me was my kindergarten class picture. I’m in the back row. I wonder if he has the picture, any pictures, with him in jail.
“This little lamb,” Verity said, picking up a small plushy toy from the dresser. “It was yours. Alan left it behind for some reason.”
Suddenly I felt really uncomfortable. I mean, she seems nice enough on the surface, but am I really supposed to feel all sympathetic for her, hanging on to this stupid little toy for seventeen years? I said nothing.
Verity pointed to a row of three smallish paintings on the wall over her bed. They were pictures of seashells, about three or four different kinds, not the kind on the windowsills. I think one of the shells is called a conch, but I’m not sure. “The paintings are mine,” she said. “I’m not a painter primarily, but I do like to try my hand with oils on occasion, and more often with water-color.”
So she collects and paints shells. One more bit of information that’s probably useless to me in “my new home,” but there it is.
“The studio,” she said, “is across the hall.”
The studio is tiny. It’s crammed with stuff, but everything looks neat and orderly.
Dad is super neat. He likes everything in its place. That’s something he says all the time: “Everything is best when it’s in its place.”
“Those sketches are preliminary studies for a new piece I’m contemplating,” Verity was saying, pointing to some sheets of paper pinned to a board on an easel.
Still, I said nothing. What was I supposed to be saying? “Oh” and “That’s nice” and “I see”?
“And that’s it,” she said. “Now you’ve seen the entire house. Well, except for the basement. It’s unfinished. There’s nothing down there but the boiler and a few old bits of furniture I keep saying I’m going to restore someday.”
“Okay,” I said then. “When do we eat?”
Chapter 14
I made something easy, pasta with pesto sauce, a salad, and bread. Gemma looked at the pesto with deep suspicion and then bent down and sniffed hard. Only then did she take a bite—after slicing the linguini into tiny pieces. She ate the entire plateful and had two pieces of bread, though no salad.
Vegetables are going to be an issue.
“Do you have any questions?” I asked when I had cleared the plates.
“About what?”
“Anything. About the town, for example? About the places we saw earlier?”
What I didn’t say was, About what really happened between your father and me all those years ago? There will be time enough for that discussion. At least, I hope there will be.
Gemma shrugged. “No.”
Neither of us spoke after that, and once again, directly after dinner, Gemma went off to her room and closed the door firmly behind her.
By that time I was exhausted. Bone-tired. I assumed Gemma was too.
I took my time cleaning up, though there wasn’t that much to wash and put away. I suppose I hoped that Gemma—Marni— might come back out of her room and want to talk. Or just to be with me.
The name thing is a problem. Try as I might to remember to call her Marni, I keep calling her Gemma. A habit of a lifetime is hard to break. And I really should be calling her by the only name she’s ever known. Our names are so deeply a part of our identity and I suspect that my daughter’s sense of her self—of the familiar face in the mirror—must be in a pretty precarious state right now. She doesn’t need me always reinforcing the fact that she’s been dumped smack in the middle of an identity crisis.
Later I went up to my room, closed the door, and called Annie. I was careful to keep my voice low.
“How’s she doing?” Annie asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “She’s not giving much away. Well, other than the obvious—she’d rather not be here.”
“Of course she wouldn’t. Can you blame her?”
“No.”
“How are you holding up?”
“All right. Fine, I guess.”
“Verity.”
“Okay, not fine. Very glad she’s here. Very aware she doesn’t want to be. Very . . .” But I couldn’t find any more words.
Annie said good night, and I crawled into my bed. As I’d suspected, sleep didn’t come easily in spite of my great weariness. A barrage of memories filled my head, each clamoring for notice.
The one-year anniversary of Gemma’s kidnapping. We’d made the front page of most of the local papers again. Baby Gemma Still Missing. Brave Mom Hasn’t Given Up Hope.
The time I did give up hope, those months a few years later when I just couldn’t muster the faith in a decent universe, in justice, in a happy ending for my daughter and me. The moment I felt that Gemma was dead. The moment I felt I couldn’t go on. The terror t
hat overtook me, and my subsequent fight to recover from despair.
The occasions when people would come up to me on the street, sure they had caught a glimpse of Alan in a neighboring town or that they had seen his face on television, at a ball game, one of a crowd, but certain it was him. More than once I lost my temper with these generally well-meaning people. “You should be telling this to the police, not harassing me with your silly ideas!”
On and on the memories came until some time after midnight I must have worn myself out. The next thing I remember, it was morning.
Day three of my new life.
Chapter 15
There are so many new things to freakin’ process. New sites, new faces, even new tastes. Dinner was the first time I ever had pesto sauce. Usually I’m not a fan of green food—I mean, broccoli? Really?—but this smelled like garlic, which I love, and so I tried it and it was delicious. Not that I said anything about it to Verity.
Okay, so she’s my mother, my biological parent. So what? What does that mean? What does that matter? She wasn’t there for the first part of my life, so what gives her any rights over me?
She keeps calling me Gemma. And I keep correcting her. Honestly, right now, at this very moment, lying here on this couch in what is now supposed to be my room, I wonder if I even care. Gemma Elizabeth. That’s what was put on my birth certificate. The real one. Not the false document Dad somehow managed to get. When you think about it, he’s a pretty smart guy. Keeping our real identities a secret for all those years. Getting his hands on phony identification papers and whatever else he had to do to create Jim Armstrong and his daughter, Marni.
Too bad he didn’t put all that talent into something less criminal.
What would it have been like if he hadn’t run away with me?
That’s way too big a question to ask, let alone to answer. And suddenly I felt really sick. Maybe I was having a panic attack, I don’t know, but all of a sudden I felt like I might throw up and then sweat began to pop out on my forehead and then I think I might have made a sound, like a whimper.
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