by Tim McGregor
“I didn’t bring much,” Billie said, fetching a single bag from the backseat.
Her aunt’s smile drooped a little. “You’re not staying long?”
“Can’t.” Billie flung her bag over her shoulder and lifted out a grocery bag. “Here, I stopped at the fruit stand on the way.”
“You didn’t have to do that, honey. I have more than enough.”
“The cherries are in.”
“Ooh,” Maggie said, peering into the plastic bag. “They came in early this year. Come on.”
The house was small, a clapboard bungalow originally built as a summer home. The big windows at the front faced south onto the lake without letting direct sunlight into the house. Everything seemed the same, Billie noted, from the dried flowers strung over the kitchen window to the small crosses above the lintel of all three bedroom doors. Some small comfort to a place that resisted change. She dropped her bag by the door while Maggie rinsed the cherries and brought them out to the patio.
“I’d hoped you were bringing the girls with you,” Maggie said, settling into a chair under the big umbrella. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen them.”
“They couldn’t make it.” Billie crossed to the railing and looked out over the beach. An expanse of near white sand stretching out in both directions. The sound of the waves immediately slowed her pulse with its deep rhythm. “They’re all so busy these days. I hardly see them anymore.”
“Even Jen?”
“Yeah. She practically lives at the shop now.”
Maggie chewed up a cherry and worked the pit out. “I’m sure she’ll have more time for you when she settles in. Starting up a business is tough. Good for her.”
“I know.” Billie felt a sting. Was her aunt rubbing her nose in Jen’s ambition or was she just feeling overly sensitive about the whole thing? “It’s just weird. I feel like the loser in the group now. The charity case.”
“Oh, I’m sure they don’t think that. Why would they?”
Billie turned her gaze back to the lake where a small boy was letting the string out on a blue kite. It held fast in the steady wind coming off the lake. “How’s the knee?”
“It flared up two days ago. So bad I could barely get down the front step.” Maggie dropped another pit onto the folded paper towel. A tumble of them piling up fast, staining the paper red. “What about you? Any episodes recently?”
“I was on a streak,” Billie replied. “Six months without an incident.” The episodes her aunt referred to were the headaches and foggy spells that had plagued Billie for as long as she could remember. Misdiagnosed over the years as Maggie dragged her to one specialist after another looking for a cause or a treatment for a condition that, at times, left Billie as unresponsive as a shell-shock victim. Staring at the wall with a gaped jaw and a thread of drool running down her chin. The cause of the attacks were never determined. Bipolar, a chemical unbalance, attention deficit disorder; the list went on but none of the diagnoses ever stuck. In school, she had been written off as having a learning disability.
“Eat some of these before I polish the whole thing off,” Maggie said, holding up the bowl of cherries. “What broke the streak?”
Billie plucked the stem from a cherry. “Came on last night. Bad one too.”
“Do you know what brought it on?”
“Do I ever know?” Billie tasted a burst of tart sweetness as her teeth bit into the fruit. The triggers for her episodes remained elusive and arbitrary. When she was younger, Maggie used to document each one, trying to get a fix on what brought them on but no pattern ever emerged. Eventually she gave up, they both did. Billie thought back to the Englishman in the bar last night. If anything, he seemed to trigger it with his weirdo questions but that made no sense. The foggy spells were never instigated by a person, that much she knew.
Maggie smoothed the hair from Billie’s eyes and tucked it behind her ear. A gesture so familiar and routine that neither of them noticed anymore. “You look a little pale. Are you sleeping enough?”
“I am. Honest.” She couldn’t help the sharpness to her tone. A tiny signal, shorthand for her aunt to let it go.
“Okay.” Maggie brushed her hands with a flourish and pushed the bowl away. “Are you going for a swim?”
“I think I’ll just get my feet wet.”
“All right. You splash around, I will prep dinner.”
“Let me do that.” Billie watched her aunt push herself up out of her chair with what seemed like more effort than last time.
“Please,” Maggie huffed. “I never cook anymore. Go. You can work the grill. Deal?”
“Deal.” She noted the uneven dip to her aunt’s step as she went back inside the house. The bad knee was getting worse and Billie speculated on how much pain Maggie was in. Her aunt had an inordinate tolerance for it and she disliked doctors. Especially since Uncle Larry died. Maggie was notorious for claiming that she was perfectly capable of remedying her own aches and pains and that suffering wasn’t always a bad thing. The Catholic in her coloured these notions. Suffering was part of life. Don’t complain, just carry on.
Leaving her shoes on the deck, she walked down to the water. The sand was already blistering hot and the cool water was a relief. She watched it lap over her ankles, feeling the sand push away under her heels. Out on the lake, a kite-boarder skimmed over the waves. Beyond that, the horizon line of water and sky.
A ripple buzzed overhead. Billie looked up to see a kite kamikaze dive into the beach. A sharp snap as it hit the sand. The boy she had seen earlier ran up and lifted his kite from the sand. It dangled from his hand like a broken puppet and his face soured like he was about to cry.
“Can you fix it?” Billie called to him.
The boy squinted up at her then went back to contemplating the flapping thing in his hand.
Billie waded up out of the water toward him. She could already see that the cross tree had snapped loose from it plastic mooring. “The wind can change her mind on you pretty quick out here. One minute you’re sailing, the next you’re crashed.”
The boy said nothing and Billie wondered for a moment if he didn’t speak English. Foreign vacationers were not rare to Long Point beaches. Planting her knees in the sand, she smiled at the boy to disarm any worries he might have. “Maybe we can put it back together.”
The boy looked at her, then to the limp kite, and then back to Billie again, as if trying to gauge whether she was up to the task. After a moment, he held it out to her.
“I used to love kites.” Billie took the bundle of plastic material and sticks from him. Fanning it out, she inspected the illustration on the sail. A green dragon. “These pieces usually just snap back into place.”
The spine and cross tree slotted together easily enough but the plastic cap that stretched the sail over the frame had slipped off one end. Pulling it tight to slip back on, the plastic sheeting ripped and the cap tore off completely. Billie’s face fell this time. There was no way to fix it now.
“Ah shoot. I’m sorry. I guess I pulled too hard.” She looked at the little boy and saw his face contorting, trying hard not to cry. Billie panicked, needing to waylay the boy’s tears. “I’m such a klutz. I’ll buy you a new one, okay? They have great kites at the corner store.”
The boy took the kite from her hand and walked away.
“I’m sorry! Which cottage are you in. We’ll ask your parents first.”
The lad didn’t even look back, trudging quickly across the hot sand with the broken kite trailing behind him. Billie didn’t know what to do. Chasing after him might make it worse. She’d done it again. Trying to help, she had made everything worse and now this little guy had to go home and explain to his parents how some weirdo broke his toy. She kept her eyes on him, hoping to see what cottage he’d turn to. The pale blue one with the white gingerbread trim. The McNiven’s place, often rented to vacationers during the high season. Maybe she could knock on their door later and explain the whole thing to the poor kid’s pare
nts.
Helpful to a fault. Something Maggie used to tease her about.
4
“RITA AND TOM moved on,” Aunt Maggie said.
A late dinner on the patio. A seafood stew Maggie had wanted to try. Billie admonished her not to go to so much trouble but Maggie dismissed her objections, making a large pot of the stuff so the girl could take some home. They made dinner together, her aunt catching Billie up on the local news.
“I’m sure they got a pretty penny for it too,” Maggie said as they carried plates out to the deck. “Despite all the repairs that place needed.”
“I thought Tom was dead set against selling,” Billie replied.
“Rita wanted to be closer to her grandchildren. And she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Billie laid the plates on the wobbly table and ducked back to get their drinks. “Have you met the new owners?”
“No. The realtor assured me it was a family but that doesn’t mean anything. It could be a family of neanderthals for all I know.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Billie watched the steam rise from her bowl and tucked in. She nodded in approval. “Not bad. It’s got some kick to it.”
“Did I overdo it with the chili peppers?”
“Nah, its perfect,” Billie said. “I like a good kick.”
Maggie flourished her spoon in the air. “Do you remember the Morrisons? Doug and Emma?”
Billie nodded. “Yeah. Emily’s parents, right?”
“Yes. Emily’s getting married in the fall. And we got an invite to the wedding. October first. So mark it in your calendar.”
“Wow. I never thought Emily would ever get hitched. She was so gung-ho on academia.”
“I guess her priorities changed. Life has a habit of doing that.” Maggie tilted her head to one side, like a a thought had just occurred to her. “Say, how’s that boy you were seeing. Ryan? The one I met at Christmas?”
Ryan was a self-absorbed poser who sucked the oxygen out of any room with his pathological need for attention. One who enjoyed twisted head-games to boot. Billie had walked away with a few scars after that encounter. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she lied. “He aways looked out for himself. We broke up in April.”
“Oh? I’m sorry. He seemed like such a nice young man. Even with all those tattoos.”
Billie plucked another mussel from the bowl and forked out the meat. “Do you know the people renting McNiven’s cottage?”
“No. In fact, I haven’t seen anyone there since the May long weekend. Why?”
“No reason.” She wasn’t in the mood to relate the story about the kite fiasco.
Maggie pushed her plate away and leaned back with a sigh. “So? Are you seeing anyone new?”
“Nope,” Billie said. Ryan, or the emotional leech as she preferred to think of him, had left her drained and a little horse-shy. “Not really.”
“No one on the horizon, even?”
Aunt Maggie, bless her heart, was only looking out for her. Having raised her since she was eight, Billie knew that Mags worried about her like any mother would. She would sleep easier if she knew Billie was with someone. She’d sleep like a babe if her only niece and ward was safely married off. “Nah. Just not in that head space right now.”
“Just remember,” Maggie said, “one bad one doesn’t spoil the bunch.”
Grasping for some cue to switch topics on, Billie looked up at the sunset. The sun had already dipped below the western treeline and dusk had painted the sky with mottles of dull pink and purple as night came on. Rising above the trees was a cloud of dots, darting and arcing through the air. “The bats are out,” she said. “Dinner time for them too.”
Maggie glanced up without interest. “Did I tell you I had one of the little devils in the house? God knows how he got inside. I was falling asleep in front of the TV when I heard something knocking around the window. Scared the hell out of me.”
“What did you do?”
“Went after it with the broom,” Maggie said proudly. Her aunt was no wilting flower when it came to wildlife invading her home. “It got tangled in the drapes. I tore the whole curtain down and tossed it outside. In the morning it was gone.”
Billie raised her glass in mock salute. “You got grit. I would’ve ran screaming.”
“So what happened with Ryan?” Maggie asked. “Did you break it off or did he?”
“Me.” She kept her eyes from rolling at her aunt’s persistence. “He was a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde. Nice in public, not so much behind closed doors.”
“I’m prying. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Another shrug rolled off her shoulders. She drew back a few strands of hair at her temple. “He left me with a few grey hairs. I couldn’t believe it.”
“We all go grey eventually, honey.”
“I’m not even thirty.”
“Your mother went grey at that age too.”
Like a needle scraping across vinyl, everything stopped. Billie’s glass froze halfway to her lips. “She did?”
Maggie stood up and began collecting dishes. “Do you want desert? I think I have a little ice cream in the freezer.”
“What? Oh, no thanks.”
Her aunt bustled back inside the house and Billie heard the tap run. She picked her jaw up from the table. Her mother was a topic rarely broached anymore. When her aunt had taken her in after that awful day all those years ago, Maggie had done so wholeheartedly, sparing neither hardship nor expense to comfort Billie and surround her with love. Sometimes too much love, if that was possible, smothering the girl at times and in those times Billie would push back or withdraw into her own world. It was something she would come to regret, realizing now just how much her aunt had sacrificed to somehow patch over the unfillable void left by an absent mother.
Maggie would have moved heaven and earth to protect her niece but the one thing they did not do was talk about her mother. The first two years under her aunt’s roof, Billie had been unable to mention her mother at all, let alone actively discuss her. Billie had barely spoken at all that first year, communicating through an improvised shorthand of nods and shrugs.
The few real memories she had of her mother began to crumble, leaving Billie to wonder what was truth and what her mind had improvised to fill the gaps. Had her mom always been crazy, she’d ask aunt Maggie, or did having a kid make her screwy? She remembered people being wary around her mother, almost afraid of her. Even the people who came to the house. Was that part real, she’d ask, or had she just imagined it?
Maggie kept her answers short, neither elaborating nor expanding on the subject. Billie would stomp off in a huff, never stopping to consider that the subject of her mother’s death was painful to anyone but herself. Later, Billie felt ashamed when she realized that within the scope of her own tragedy, her aunt had lost her only sister.
The facts she possessed were few. Mary Agnes Culpepper disappeared from her home in the small town of Poole, the victim of a violent assault and abduction. Her body was never found. Her ex-husband, Franklin Riddel, was suspected for the crime but he too had disappear. Mary Culpepper worked as a medium and tarot reader. She was 29 years old, survived by a daughter and a sister. There was no more information beyond that. No one was ever charged in the case of her disappearance.
She let it go after that and the memory of mom slipped further and further away. And now, out of the blue, this scrap of information. A detail, nothing more, but it rang louder than bombs. Her mother had gone gray before the age of thirty. She didn’t live to see thirty either.
Maggie stayed busy in the kitchen and didn’t venture out again except to say goodnight and gently suggest that Billie not stay up too late. Billie kissed her aunt goodnight and refilled her wine glass. The night air was warm and the strong breeze kept the mosquitoes at a tolerable level. After a while she fetched the heavy gauge flashlight from under the sink and settled back into her chair on the patio. Aiming the powerful beam of light up toward the s
waying boughs of the overhanging willow tree, she watched the bats flash and dip through the artificial light like dark pixies from some unread storybook.
~
Awoken the next morning by a tap on her bedroom door, Billie propped up one elbow and tried to focus her blurry eyes.
Maggie stuck her head in the room. “I’m off. It’s Sunday.”
“I’m up.” Billie swung her legs out of bed and waited out the dizzy spell.
“Breakfast is on the table.” Maggie glanced at her watch then looked at her niece with a slight sparkle of hope. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come to church this morning? It’s been a while since you last took in a mass.”
“Uhm, I’m okay. I’ll just make you late anyway.”
“I can wait.”
“You go ahead.” Billie shuffled up to the door. “Let me say goodbye. I gotta head back.”
“So soon? I thought we had the day together?”
“Can’t. I gotta work tonight.” She gave her aunt a tight squeeze and peck on the cheek. “See ya later.”
“You too. Bring the girls next time, huh? Tell them my door’s always open.”
“I will.”
Her aunt left the house and Billie staggered to the kitchen table where a full breakfast was laid out. Bacon and eggs kept warm under a plate. Fanned out over the edge of the plate were three pieces of strawberry, sliced sideways to resemble little hearts. A small touch that her aunt had added to her plate since the day she had taken her in.
An hour later, Billie had dressed, cleaned the kitchen and climbed back into the borrowed Range Rover. She stopped at the corner store to look over the selection of kites they had. Wavering between one that had a red eagle and another with a stylized lightning bolt, she chose the eagle one and drove two blocks down the strip before turning into the driveway of McNiven’s pale blue cottage with the white trim.
Clutching the kite in her hand, she knocked on the door but was surprised when Mrs. McNiven answered her knock.
“Oh hi Billie,” Mrs. McNiven said. She held a broom, cleaning the cottage before the next set of renters arrived. “How have you been?”