The One True Ocean

by Sarah Beth Martin

  It was time to tell Adeline.

  ***

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Adeline was like a dragon, a hissing sound coming from her mouth as she stomped back and forth from the night stand to the doorway, her spindly fingers running through her hair. Renee sat on the edge of the bed while Adeline yelled about how this incident would shame the entire family, about how Renee was a slut.

  “No worse than you,” Renee said.

  Adeline stared down at her, an abrupt, sharp glance that lasted only a second. Then she continued on her lecture, her face flushed, eyes wide and fierce, and her words sharp with ­consonants, words like stupid and slut, then long and exaggerated, groaning whoooorrrre. Renee watched Adeline’s tall shadow move back and forth on the pale wall in back of her, like some angry tree.

  “Are you listening to me?” Adeline yelled.

  Renee burst into tears, nodded her head. Of course she was listening. How could she not listen to this ranting and raving? But what was she supposed to do, plead for forgiveness? Bow and kneel at every word, every slam? Adeline wanted reaction, obviously—perhaps an apology for each crime she named. Renee would not give in to this rage. She would only give answers, she decided, if there were questions.

  “How could you do this to me?” Adeline said, slapping her hand to her forehead. Renee was confused.

  “Do what?”

  “He was going to be mine.”

  Renee at first wanted to laugh at such a smooth delivery of nonsense. “What are you talking about? You think that about everybody in town.” She waited for Adeline’s reaction, but there wasn’t one. “And how can you—you don’t even know him.”

  “Oh yes I do.” Adeline raised her brows, squinted her eyes in analysis, a look that had worked on Renee in the past—convinced her she was nothing but an immature, undesirable twit. It wasn’t working this time.

  “You’re crazy,” Renee said.

  Adeline stepped closer, so to stand high and directly above Renee. She lifted her arm in the air in back of her, as if to slap, her face boiling. “What did you say?”

  Renee ducked, threw her hand up in front of her face, then slid off the edge of the bed and slumped to the floor, rupturing into tears. She felt the lightest touch of Adeline’s hand against her hair, knew she was close. She very carefully lifted her head and turned it, still imagining the flying hand and Adeline’s puffed, mean face. She had never seen her so ugly. But Adeline was ­sitting on the bed now, just staring into the fiery bulb of the lamp.

  “He’s coming back tonight,” Renee said. “I’ll talk to him then.”

  “Maybe he’ll finally tell you about us.”

  “What are you saying?” Renee asked. This had to be a joke, a game.

  “They’ll arrest him,” Adeline said. “Just because you’re so young, they’ll arrest him. Did you know that?”

  “What did you mean—us?” Renee asked. Adeline said nothing.

  It couldn’t be true; it had to be one of Adeline’s little power games. And she couldn’t let it get her down, not now. “Adeline,” she said, “I’m asking for your help. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do,” Adeline said. “You can get an abortion; that’s what you can do.” The words were delivered with such ease, such nonchalance. They had slipped out of her mouth like any other response would, as if she was telling her how to wash and clean a small wound. Put a Band-Aid on it.

  “I can’t kill my baby.”

  “Look,” Adeline said, “there are many things you don’t know about Angus, or about me.” She paused for a moment, and her eyes seemed to moisten. “And there are many things he never knew about me. Maybe it’s time he knew.”

  Renee was afraid to ask what Adeline was talking about, but the words suddenly came out. “What do you mean?”

  “He never knew about my baby.”

  “Adeline?”

  “Do you have any idea what is going to happen to you?” Adeline said, her eyes fixed on the bright white wall.

  “What did you mean?” Renee asked. “Baby?”

  “I mean...a baby will change your life.”

  “I know that. But Angus and I—”

  “Angus and you nothing,” she said. She appeared to be in a daze as she spoke into the blank white wall, as if each word she said hypnotized her directly into the next one, as if she was making it up as she went along.

  “But what did you mean?” Renee asked.

  Adeline didn’t answer.

  “Adeline—”

  “You can’t be with Angus,” Adeline interrupted. “Do you know why? Because he’s nineteen years old, that’s why. Because you’re just a baby.” She laughs. “You’re not even allowed to be together.”

  “I’ll be sixteen when the baby is born.”

  Adeline covered her ears, shut her eyes tight. A strange groaning sound came out of her, as if she were trying to scream with her mouth shut. Renee couldn’t stand the sound, so she thought of other sounds—pretty sounds like the ocean, and birds in the morning. It worked; the sound of Adeline screaming and all her silly words quickly went away.

  ***

  Renee could not eat. The beef stew felt lumpy, fatty in her stomach. She felt full already; there was no more room in her growing belly. While her mother talked about the upcoming craft fair at the church, Renee watched a vision in her own head, in which she was telling Mother about the baby. In this scene Mother’s face turned from its usual smiley, round peach to one with creases and ripples, dimples of anger. Dark, angry, pit-like eyes. But as her mother went on and on she wondered if there would be that kind of reaction. Any reaction.

  It was more likely that her mother would get up from the table without stumbling or sighing, and place her soiled silverware into the empty bowl, the folded napkin on top, then quietly glide over to the sink, where she would look out the window and say in a calm, steady voice, Now what are you going to do about this? There would be no yelling like Adeline, no comforting either. There wouldn’t be an opinion about the whole thing, only the request for a prompt solution.

  Mother had always been practical, so self-sufficient, so free from emotional and physical want. Except when Father died, when Mother did open up for a while; suddenly she needed. Renee and Adeline cared for her while she lay in the master bedroom, staring out the window, whispering to herself that he was not coming back. And one day a few months later, on the first day of spring, she suddenly got up out of bed and planted her flowers, and everything went back to the way it was before, except that Father was gone. Adeline never was the same again. After Father’s death she became hungry for men, then went off to college as planned.

  ***

  It was seven-fifteen when Adeline returned. She rushed into the kitchen, her wild curls frantic around her flushed face. She grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and headed upstairs.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” Mother asked.

  “No time,” Adeline said. “I’m going out again.” She nodded to Renee. Upstairs, she was ordering her. I want to tell you something.

  jenna}

  forty-one

  Getting here was a blur.

  First there was the fall to the floor, the splits in the pine like fault lines. It didn’t hurt when I landed, although I did hear the knock of something, perhaps my head hitting the wood. But the floor that sounded hard seemed like a soft, giant pillow, and as I flopped onto my back the warmth of sun hit my forehead, and then I saw black. It seemed like it only was seconds before there were voices, a siren, and the colors white and red.

  I am in recovery, a woman in pale blue tells me, and a jowly, gray-bearded man stands above. He wears white over his blue shirt and navy-striped tie, and photo badges, beepers, a stethoscope. The doctor smiles. “Hello there,” he says, as if I am five years old. Beyond him, in a c
orner of this sterile white room, is Mom, from over hundred miles away.

  I must be dreaming.

  “Jenna,” Mom says, the vinyl-seated chair squeaking as she stands. I think of her voice on the other end of the telephone before I chickened out and hung up.

  “What happened?” I ask the doctor.

  “You passed out.”

  There’s a pasty feeling in my mouth, a floury taste. My head is throbbing. “Where? When did you get—”

  “Paula found you,” Mom says. Her eyes look swollen, as if she’s been crying. “Upstairs in the bedroom. She said she rang the doorbell but you didn’t answer. You’re lucky she found you.”

  It seems surreal, the thought of Paula coming back for me, me not remembering any of it. “Have I been here long?” I ask.

  “A couple of hours,” the doctor says.

  “What?”

  “You’ve been in and out for a while.”

  “Am I okay?”

  “You’re going to be fine,” the doctor says. “The CAT scan showed you have a very mild concussion. You’ll need to take it easy for a few days. But you should be able to go home after we take care of a few things.”

  “I had a CAT scan?” I suddenly remember a room filled with colorful machines, the strange humming sounds. “Is Dad here?”

  “He took Elisabeth to the ladies’ room,” Mom says. “And Paula is here.”

  “Jenna,” the doctor says, “have you been under any stress lately? Your mother explained a little bit about your history, that you lost your husband.”

  “Yes.” I look at Mom, who gives a quick smile, and suddenly I remember. Angus Jones.

  The doctor leans over and holds a light to my eyes, one at a time. “I don’t suspect any neurological goings-on,” he says. “I do suspect your body couldn’t handle something, though. When your friend found you she said you had been wallpapering in the next room. There were heavy fumes.”

  “I remember I was going to open another window.”

  “I think those fumes may have gotten to you. But then that floor got to you—a bit of a bump on the head.” He pats me on the arm. “Now, is there anything else I need to know—what you ate, what else is going on...could you be pregnant?”

  “No.” I chuckle. “But did my mother tell you I lost a baby once?”

  “She did not. Recently?”

  “No. Seven years ago.”

  “Ah,” the doctor says, as if I’m crazy. Mom’s eyes are wide and vulnerable-looking, and her forehead is full of lines and folds—not the usual, tense, pressed-down kind; these are a different shape, more afraid. “She did say you were seeing a psychologist for a while,” he adds. “What happened with that?”

  “I moved.”

  He tilts his head, raises his eyebrows. Disapproval, perhaps. “You need to take it easy,” he says. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  I close my eyes for a second, try to remember the last things before I fell: wallpaper, glue, a hot room. A wave of nausea hits me; I am dizzy with my eyes closed. I open them again and Mom is standing closer to the bed. “The doctor didn’t ask about your full medical history,” she says. “That’s why I didn’t tell him about your miscarriage. It was so long ago.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” I say, “if you realize that I almost had a baby.”

  “Of course I realize.”

  “But you’ve always punished me for not having kids.” As the words come from my mouth I relax, as if these words have been trapped within my body, like a gas.

  “What—” She chuckles, not seeming to take my words seriously. Her mouth curls into a cynical smile. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because it’s true. You’ve always told me how difficult I made your life.”

  “Jenna,” she says, “you’re not feeling well.”

  “You’ve always criticized me.”

  “I said you had choices,” she corrects.

  “Choices? Mom, I miscarried. I couldn’t help what happened—”

  “No, I mean Seth,” she says, and stares at me with steady eyes, without a blink. I’ve seen this look before—the one that says I already know what she means, the one that is threatening to tell me in case I don’t. “You didn’t have to marry Seth,” she adds. “You had a choice. You know that.” She smiles, a strange, warped smile, as if her real mouth is in there somewhere, behind a cancerous one that controls it. I wonder why I ever wanted to talk to her, and remember why I hesitated to for all those years.

  “What did I do, Mom?” I say, my voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Did I really make your life so difficult?”

  Dad and Elisabeth come into the room, followed by Paula. Elisabeth and Paula are talking, but Dad gives Mom a steady eye, as if he has heard every word we have said. “Hello, hon,” he says, moving in front of her.

  I see the facial features that aren’t mine—the gentle, downward curve of his mouth, the convex nose, the deep brown eyes. But this is my father, my true father, not the sperm or blood or DNA of that Montigue person. “The doctor says you’re gonna be okay,” he says. “You had us scared there for a minute.”

  Elisabeth and Paula move around to the other side of the bed and hug me, one at a time. “Thanks for finding me,” I say to Paula.

  “I left my pocketbook at your house.”

  “Good thing.”

  “You were half-awake,” Paula says. “You don’t remember?”

  “Not really.”

  Paula smiles, that forced-looking smile of hers, and I think how if I were to analyze her face and its many layers I could peel her apart, find the passion beneath, and find a truly dissatisfied woman. A woman who has yet to awake, who chooses to sleep through and settle with life as is. This is the woman I see once in a while, the one who makes me think, who emerges unexpectedly but just as soon goes away again.

  Elisabeth approaches the bed, puts her hands on the rail. “What happened to you?” she asks. Her fingernails are polished in a fluorescent, glittery pink.

  I pat her on the arm. “Oh, let’s just say your big sister’s been a little stressed out. There’s some weird stuff going on.”

  Elisabeth’s eyes illuminate. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Stuff about Aunt Adeline.” I look at Mom, who is staring out the window.

  “About her suicide?” Elisabeth asks.

  “You know about that?”

  “Yeah, Mom told me.”

  Mom does not turn. “When did she tell you?” I ask, loud and clear.

  “I don’t know...after you left, I guess.”

  “Pretty awful, isn’t it?” I see Mom’s neck tighten, her chest move out and in as she takes a deep breath.

  “Well—” Elisabeth shrugs her delicate shoulders. “I didn’t know her. I feel bad and everything, but...”

  “It’s okay,” I say, and pat her on the arm. I think of Hunter, how much he feels for the blood he never met. “Hey,” I add, “can you stay with me?”

  “She’s got school tomorrow,” Dad says.

  “And I don’t want to miss school,” Elisabeth says, then leans over the bed, close to me. “There’s this boy named Joe,” she whispers. “I think he likes me.”

  “What happened to Tommy?”

  Elisabeth grins, as if proud of herself, and shrugs her shoulders. Dad moves next to her. “Your mother’s going to stay with you for a few days.”

  His words feel a little like he’s joking, as if he, too, is thinking this could never happen. But it is happening, he’s telling me with a sober gaze, and he doesn’t look away until he’s sure I understand. Mom is looking away, pushing aside the polyester-crepe curtain and looking out the window—to a big cement parking lot, I figure.

  “Yes,” she says, her voice soft, timid-sounding. There is reluctance, but it’s not the usual kind that wants me to
know how cool and unaffected she is, how disconnected we are. Mom is actually afraid.

  She will be coming to the house. We will be stuck together, and while there are so many things I want to ask, I don’t want to ask. Maybe all of my thoughts should not come out, and I should only give half-answers, half-questions. Maybe I should be careful not to cry, because it could make Mom cry too, and then all kinds of emotion could just spill out of me, and I don’t want that.

  Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Mom.

  Another rush of dizziness comes over me, and suddenly I want to go back to sleep, to that strange, cushiony wood floor where I remember only the sun on my forehead, and where—for a few seconds—I thought of nothing.

  ***

  It takes two hours to get out of the hospital. I am poked and prodded; nurses scuff in and out the room, then wheel me down the hall to fill out paperwork outside of the emergency department. One by one I watch the injuries come in: the stomach aches and cut fingers, a branch in the eye, a heart attack.

  An automobile accident.

  The man who has been hit head-on has blood all over his face and arms. It is difficult to tell if he is conscious or even alive as they pump his chest, pumping, pumping, as they wheel past me. Twenty-five to thirty he seems, his family most likely not knowing yet, not suspecting anything. A mom, a dad, a wife just waiting for him at home. Hot food on the table, waiting for him.

  At three-thirty they finally let me go. Dad wheels me out to the car while Mom and Elisabeth walk beside us, then I stand myself up and get in. A dizzy spell hits me, and I take Mom’s arm for support. Mom, who will be staying at her old house. What can she be thinking right now?

  As we drive back to Cape Wood I feel a pressure in my head and ears, the kind of pressure I sometimes feel before a storm. Elisabeth sits next to me in the car, pointing to cows in a pasture, a barn where llamas peer out from behind a gate. Mom and Dad are quiet in the front seat, perhaps considering the change in the landscape over twenty years. Considering something.