“Looks like you’ve been working hard,” Dad says, and I turn to see him poking at the half-opened door to the right.
The letters, I think. It was the one room I hadn’t bothered to clean before they arrived. I had intended to hide the evidence. But that was before I got carried away with tidying the rest of the house, doing my last-minute supermarket run. They’d arrived just as I was putting the groceries away.
I think of how I can distract from the letters, not let them see. I’d rather Mom know about them before Dad so she doesn’t have to hear about them secondhand.
As we enter the room, I see the scraps scattered across the wooden floor, the pile of larger pieces in the corner. The photograph is in there somewhere, sheltered beneath a layer or two. As Elisabeth moves toward the window, a corner flutters in her movement, and I see it: the tiny portrait, the young man with striking eyes. I need to conceal the pile quickly, to protect Mom.
But Dad sees it first. “What’s all this stuff?” he asks.
“Oh, the papers—” I begin. I can’t lie. “I found them under the wallpaper.”
“Really,” Dad says, interested. “What are they?”
I take a breath, feel a lump creep up from my stomach—fear about getting it wrong, about telling him before Mom. “I’m not sure.” I squat down to the pile, make sure the photo is safely buried. I pick up a piece with the most illegible writing I can find. “Letters or something. I can barely see the words.”
“Letters.” He takes it from my hand, tilts it into the light of the window. “Hillwilde Farm,” he reads, his voice rising in recognition. “I know that.” He squints his eyes in thought. “What is that?” he asks himself out loud. My heart begins to flutter, as I wonder what else is on the piece of paper—if this is half of a letter, if Renee is on it anywhere, clear and bold. Perhaps I should just go ahead and tell him; he’ll know soon enough. The facts may satisfy him in a way he’s never been, and complete the circle, the mystery. There may be things he’s always wondered, sat up late at night in bed and contemplated. I’ve always wondered just what Dad knows, what he does or does not want to remember.
And how could this mystery affect Dad and me? Would it change our relationship? How would Dad feel if he knew I was pondering over this other father of mine?
“I’m not sure what Hillwilde is,” I say, buying time. I see his eyes widen again, his face begins to settle. He is remembering.
“Oh my...” His words trail off, do not finish. Oh my God, it seems he was going to say. “What it is—” he continues, his voice reverting to a more light one that simply recognized something, as if he’s trying to make it less than it is. “It’s a potato farm.” He clears his throat. “Up north.”
I wait for more. “Yeah?”
“I remember the name.” Dad wants to say more, I think. He seems stunned, off somewhere else. “That’s all.” He looks away to Elisabeth, who is picking at a scrap of paper that dangles from the wall. He hesitates, then motions to the pile in the corner. “What else is there?”
There are so many things I want to show him, so many questions I want to ask. But I’m afraid of bringing out pain in him, afraid of betraying Mom. “Not much,” I lie. “Most of it’s all just paper.” He moves toward the pile, and I wonder what he can see. “Or blobs of ink. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find anything as I keep going.”
He turns to me, his gaze serious. “And your mother.”
“Oh, yes.” I’m relieved when he moves away from the corner, over to the window.
“Look at the sky,” he says, and I look out and see steel gray clouds at one edge of the horizon. “I think there’s a storm coming.”
***
After Dad leaves I take Elisabeth to the town park, a ten-acre plot of bike riding paths amongst gardens in progress, all short dips and turns for bicycles. At its end is Carbur’s Pizza, where we order big fat calzones and take a seat in a booth of red vinyl.
It’s been a while since Elisabeth and I have done anything together outside of the house, months since sharing a public place. I’ve forgotten how quickly she’s grown, that soon she will no longer be a child. It takes the turning heads of boys, even some men, for me to realize this.
She’s dressed plainly, a loose sweatshirt and jeans, and her hair—while not secured in its usual ponytail—is unkempt, sporty and youthful. There’s no makeup, perhaps a smidgen of her fruity lip gloss. Still, there is a freshness, a vitality just on the verge of sexy that shows through. I’ve seen boys notice her before, but today is different, as she seems to notice back. Her eyes seem bright and hungry, sometimes following them down the aisle or out the door. Her tiny mouth is turned up at the corners, dying to smile, perhaps hoping to get noticed.
“Elisabeth,” I say, and give her what feels like a devilish smile, “how’s your boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” She clicks her mouth in disapproval at me, gives a quick sigh. “We were never going out.” I feel her foot give me a swift kick under the table. “You know Mom would never let me.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “Brian…is that his name?”
Elisabeth is distracted as a busboy passes down the aisle next to us. As he walks by, his head whips around quickly, this time looking at me. “He wants you,” she says, proud of her humor.
“Doubtful,” I say. “He only saw the back of my head and had to check out the front.”
Elisabeth giggles. “Don’t you hate when they do that?”
When they do that. Something one of my old female coworkers might say, something Paula would say. Odd to hear it coming from my little sister. Does she experience such a thing often enough to joke about it?
“So anyway—Brian,” I say, and lean into the table to let her know I’ll welcome any tidbit she wants to give me. Although inside I’m dreading it; there’s something very uncomfortable about her talking about boys.
“Oh, he’s old news,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “He was a jerk.” She sips from her soda, her eyes on the table, a saddened look. She stops sipping and goes right back into joking mode. “But there is this guy named Tommy...” She raises her eyebrows as if proud, like she’s telling me she won a prize. I don’t say anything; I’m still taking it in. She takes a large bite of her calzone, then proceeds to talk with her mouth full. “Are you gonna tell me to be careful again?”
“No.”
Of course I want to, but this time it doesn’t feel like caution for Elisabeth that I feel. There’s something else, a tinge of jealousy, perhaps. And not because Seth is gone and I’m alone; this time I’m going back ten, twelve years, wondering why I wasn’t more like her, why I didn’t act on all impulses I may have felt. I had always imagined there were no impulses to act on, that there were never any boys who liked me; now I’m thinking there were many opportunities.
“How are you doing now, Jenna?” Elisabeth suddenly asks, her eyes more relaxed, sincere. “I’ve been wondering. I wonder if you feel different...better...being up here, away from home.”
“It is better.” I want to be honest with her, but wonder what I even feel. “It feels more calm now, and quiet. Unusually quiet, like I can hear more and think more clearly.”
She plays with a chunk of green pepper left on her plate, rolls it around in her fingers. “So do you feel more—I mean, sadder?”
“No.” I think of how strange it is that the solitude doesn’t make me sadder. “I almost feel...less? I don’t know.”
“You mean like it’s not real?” she asks.
“It’s real all right. I’m connected to this place. I remember this place so well. It’s like it was yesterday that I was here.” Elisabeth is listening, her eyes on me, not the boys, her lips parted, not pursed and posed. “But at the same time I’m such a different person now, so—”
“So maybe,” she interrupts, “only the old you is here.”
&
nbsp; I chuckle at her insight, the way she speaks like an adult. “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe I haven’t connected the new me—I should say, the new model, the burnt out, decrepit, terrorized me, with this place. I guess you could say in that way it’s not real.”
“Like you’re hiding.” Elisabeth says this with such nonchalance, as if unaware that she’s just made a psychological assessment about my state of mind.
“Have you been reading Mom’s textbooks?” I joke. “Maybe you should be a shrink.”
She sips from her soda, gulps hard. “I never want to be like Mom. I love Mom, but—”
“I wasn’t saying Mom is a shrink,” I correct.
“Oh, but she is!” Elisabeth blurts. “Isn’t she?” She slurps the bottom of her soda loudly, then tilts the glass and pours an ice cube into her mouth. “Hey, aren’t you going to eat?” I look down and see that I’ve only taken bites of my calzone. I pick it up and begin to nibble at it again, but my stomach isn’t liking it. “So, Jenna,” she continues, “can I ask you something?” Of course something meaning something personal, I realize, and nod yes. “While you’re up here...are you sure you’re not looking for your father?”
I almost choke. “No,” I say. “At least I don’t plan on it. No.” She doesn’t say anything, seems to be waiting for more of an answer. “What gave you that idea? Did Mom say something?”
“No!” she gasps. “I just—” She hesitates, then tells me. “If I were you, I’d definitely want to find him.”
“I can’t say I’ve never thought of it,” I say. “But I think of Mom, too, how she might feel. Or Dad.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Elisabeth says. “By the way, did you see him before he left for Bean’s? He seemed all weirded out for some reason.”
I thought she hadn’t noticed.
***
After lunch we head out to Jetty Beach, over the pass to Mackerel Point. I show Elisabeth where Aunt Adeline’s car went off the road and into the water, wonder how much she knows about Aunt Adeline’s death, the suicide. I can’t imagine that it would possibly intrigue her as much as it does me; Elisabeth never knew her aunt.
We take the road Mom and Dad used to take me down—a winding path of scrub pines and rose hip bushes, en route to the beach. At the end of it is Mack’s Point boat yard, where dinghies and larger boats cluster within the cove amongst several docks that stretch into the water. Just parallel is the long rock jetty, the last place Mom took me to before we left Maine, I tell Elisabeth.
“Mom came here?” she asks.
I agree, it does seem odd now.
We walk along the pebbly beach and collect rocks and mussel shells. Elisabeth is fascinated by all the tiny dead crabs, their crusty, hollowed-out bodies scattered over the glistening sand. She picks them up as we walk along, puts them in her canvas tote bag. She seems taller than the last time I saw her, but of course it’s only been a few weeks. Her arms and legs are long, a hint that she may have a few inches left to grow, may end up taller than me. The rest of her has also developed quite fast; her figure has a trim voluptuousness about it, round edges to a delicate frame. While she seems aware of this new womanly body, she does not possess that inhibited poise that others her age do, that I did. She appears completely conscious of herself, yet confident in her movement and composure. I watch as she takes off her sneakers and steps toward the water, where the tide is moving in.
“It must be freezing,” I warn her.
“It is,” she says, not flinching as the water seeps over her toes, her ankles. Her eyes are closed as a lump of seaweed moves across her foot. Slimy, I think; it would make me jump. She calmly looks down. “Look at this,” she says.
She squats and picks up something, a bone of some sort. As I move closer I see what it is, a complete jaw, teeth intact.
“A shark,” I say, recognizing the shape. “Seth probably would have known what kind.”
Elisabeth is staring at me, as if knowing something before I do, as if seeing something in my face I don’t recognize yet. And then I realize the power of his name, his memory, right here on this beach. Talking about him hasn’t been too bad, especially not in the past few weeks, whether to strangers or loved ones. I have become adept at controlling my reactions, those instantaneous responses to any mention of him—something I had no choice but to get used to, or to at least make numb in my mind. I’ve become good at this self-medication; even while alone I’ve been able to restrain the most moving memories into static, emotionless images.
But not now.
Around me is this clean, breathable air, the living ocean, and the endless view of crystalline sand, with miles on which to walk and jump and delight in. And there is Elisabeth, the once tiny flower girl at my wedding, now a young woman in front of me, so vibrant and real. She still grows and lives while this beach and water and mortal world waits for her, and meanwhile Seth is gone—as dead as the limp, twisted mass of seaweed at her feet.
The sound of the tide rushes into my head, louder and louder until it’s nothing but a blast of white noise. The ground beneath my feet melts away, first softening like quicksand, then just gone, and I cave into it.
Elisabeth grabs my arm as I fall, but she can’t hold me. I hunch to the earth, my palms flat against the sand. The water moves up and over my hands, then my knees and shins, saturating my jeans. I know it is cold, so cold, but I cannot feel it, as if my extremities have become separate from the nucleus of my body. I am somewhere else, in a tiny hole or speck of glistening sand that I hover over.
“Jenna?” I hear Elisabeth say, her voice a quick breath of panic. “Jenna, are you okay?” She puts an arm around my back, tries to help me stand, but still I can’t move. I feel unattached to my own body, although I can feel my lips and mouth, numb. Can I speak? I wonder. “It’s okay,” Elisabeth says. “We can stay right here for a second.” She rubs her hand on my back, a circular motion. Slowly I begin to feel the cold of the water, the wind on my face. A rush of heat moves to my cheeks. My body, the world is coming back to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, out of breath.
“Sorry? Why are you sorry?” Elisabeth’s voice is comforting, like a mother’s. “Don’t be sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s like to go through what you’ve gone through. I would never want to be you, Jenna.”
twenty-eight
As life grew inside of me, I began to change. I became in touch with feelings I’d never had before, as if the seed growing inside had tapped into a new brain function somehow, or perhaps had blocked another function off. This newfound consciousness opened alternate doors, doors that should have been closed and sealed, and suddenly there were other men, other destinies, another life altogether. I felt confined, as if my nineteen-year-old life was over.
This seed inside me was permanent.
Not that Seth couldn’t have been the permanent one. He was love, friendship, the carnal. He was the ideal husband-to-be. But he was not all those other men, those men I hadn’t yet been with. I hated feeling this way, and wondered if I always would have these regrets—regrets I’d never had before. Was there really such a thing as getting something out of one’s system?
Suddenly there was someone who liked me. Not one of those high school boys who dared to like me all those years before, but a professor—a dark, thick-lensed ancient history man called Professor Banes, who had an obsession for art and ancient artifacts. And for me.
Professor Banes caressed the air as he described a vase or bowl displayed on a slide, with long, almost dainty fingers that painted in the darkness. These fingers parted and closed so smoothly, like the time lapse of a waking flower, I thought, so naturally—like exhaling. He walked toward me in his beige khakis and suspenders, his fingers opening before my face, then turned away. It felt like teasing. Each time he looked back again our eyes met, and his gentle fingers closed and released, closed and released. I wondered if I was imagining it,
and looked around the room at the other students who didn’t seem to care.
After class Professor Banes and I spoke in academic language—about assignments, about formalities—but then one day he said something else, his black, Indian eyes digging into me.
“I would love to teach you more.”
I shuddered at what I was thinking, felt a tingle through my collar bones and into my chest and stomach. And for a minute there was no Seth, only the flesh of this man before me. I imagined a strange lump in my belly—not my twelve-week-old fetus but something else growing next to it. This new lump rose and fell, trying to come out, trying to make it back up to my heart and head. But it fell again, down next to the baby, like another heart pumping, another baby growing.
A soul, sinking.
Nothing ever happened between Professor Banes and me, except for the realization that there were other men in the world, men who—like Seth—could want me, maybe even love me. I feared the word permanence, and the life growing in my abdomen now was nothing more than a seed. I was beginning to despise the seed growing next to my sinking soul: baby Jenna, baby Seth.
A baby that would not be.
***
I give a quick call to the house to make sure Dad and Elisabeth have made it home safely. It’s Mom who answers, a soft and self-assuring yes, as if happy their trip is over and done with. She also seems happier than usual to speak with me, perhaps because I’m more than a hundred miles away. Because we’re safe this way.
I think of the letters, so much to tell her, not sure where to start. Instead I tell her about my afternoon out with Elisabeth, our trip to the park and the beach.
“Elisabeth’s worried about you,” Mom says. “You had a little spell?” The compassion in her voice is a little overwhelming for me; I’m not used to it. Of course she’s my mother, so it’s natural that she’ll be concerned. But for a moment I hope it is more than that.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say. “I just—” I try to think of how to describe what happened to me, and can’t. “I guess it all came to me or something. Reality.”
The One True Ocean Page 15