Girl Sent Away

by Lynne Griffin

  “The village was beautiful. Our room was right on the beach. We could see the ocean from every window. The sea was so clear my mom said we could get a sunburn even if we stayed under water. That was for Poppy’s benefit. She didn’t like sunscreen. I did what I was told. I wasn’t much for swimming.”

  “Your mom thought that was the trip you’d get over what happened to you in the boat. If your dad said it once, he said it a hundred times, you were going to learn to swim by the end of the year. Personalized lessons, he called um.”

  “He did teach me. I got pretty good too, but Poppy, little as she was—she was the fish.”

  “Nothing you could do but love that girl,” Biddie said, shaking her head, then gathering stray hair and shoving it behind her ears.

  “That day, Poppy begged me to go swimming. I remember taking my towel from our beach bag.”

  Biddie got up and came over to sit on the arm of Ava’s chair.

  “I don’t remember what happened next. There’s a huge chunk of my memory that’s just gone. The next thing I know I’m alone in a hospital. Barely anyone spoke English. I was so scared I couldn’t talk.”

  “Oh, sweetie. You poor thing.”

  “I don’t know if it was hours or days before my dad came to get me. Last week, when we were at Bar Harbor Airport, getting ready to leave here, I remembered flying out of Thailand. We were in a small plane flying over the island. My dad told me not to look down. But I did. I remember, I did. This is how it happens. Things come back to me. I get a piece out of the blue, and then it’s up to me to figure out how it fits into the bigger picture.”

  “Why don’t you ask your dad to fill in the parts you don’t remember?”

  “When we first got back, I couldn’t. It’s weird how I blocked it all out. Whenever I missed Mom and Poppy, it hurt too much to talk about them.”

  Biddie took the slim volume of poetry from Ava and reached over to hold her hands, squeezing them once, then quickly letting go. Her brief touch left the memory of warmth on Ava, like when the sun goes behind a cloud and you begin to wonder if it had ever been sunny to begin with.

  “A few months ago, something came back to me. A silly promise I made to Poppy. The summer before we left, we were lying on the hill at Herrick House and she asked me to give her a huge party for her sweet sixteen. Right before Christmas, she would’ve been —”

  “And once you remembered that, you started to remember other things? Did you tell that to Sarah?”

  “Yeah. She said that’s how it happens sometimes. Things are all tucked away nice and neat until one memory cracks everything open.”

  “It’s happening to me now. With you all back here, I’m recalling things big and small.”

  “Sorry I’m having that effect on you.”

  “No, no, not you.”

  Biddie moved back to her seat.

  “You don’t like my father, do you?”

  “Forgiving isn’t always easy to do.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “They could’ve stayed here to patch things up. He was always going on some trip somewhere. He kept pushing Lorraine to travel. She was like a sister to me and he took her away. Why couldn’t he let her be happy? Here. All she wanted was to stay here.”

  Ava wasn’t sure she wanted the rest of Biddie’s memories. She had plenty of her own to sort through. Right then, sitting in front of a poetry collection her mother would never see, Ava felt ready.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The artistic vibe the studio gave off made it easier for Ava to spend time in the boathouse. After she learned to ignore the whoosh and beat of James stirring up grout to finish the concrete piece and got past him wearing a helmet to hammer ceramic plates, she sort of got into it. Two artists sharing space.

  Ava wasn’t playing guitar or singing. Or writing her lyrics. In the back corner of the studio, leaning up against her family’s boat, with James there, she felt comfortable enough to open her journal and position her pen to start going back over it.

  “I’m almost done with the breaking,” James said. “Might need to crack a piece here or there, but I promise to tell you if I need to make noise.”

  Ava like the way James respected her jumpiness. “Who’s this one for? Or would you rather not talk about it till it’s done?” She looked up at the banged-up bike hanging on the wall, the one that belonged to Bobby. James’s source of encouragement inspired Ava too, now that she knew what it stood for.

  “This old guy who lives out on Flye Point, Andy, commissioned it. His wife died suddenly. He asked me to come out there and help him figure out a way to keep her memory alive. We walked around the place, but nothing came to me. Then he asked me in for a cup of coffee.”

  “Is that the lady’s china you’re breaking?” Ava asked.

  “It is. Andy didn’t need any convincing when I told him my idea. He’s got one son; the kid lives in California and doesn’t want his mother’s stuff. Edie loved her pretty plates and platters. Andy said this’ll be perfect.”

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  “A garden sculpture. We’ll put it down by the water. Everyone sailing by will be able to see her.”

  “Where do you get your ideas?”

  “I don’t try too hard. I mostly learn to make friends with patience.”

  When James talked about the way he worked, how he thought about art, he sounded much older than Ava. Still, he never came off like he was telling her what to do or how to be. So Ava didn’t ask more questions, she just settled back against the boat and tried to take his advice.

  Ava hadn’t written in the pretty journal for days. The doctor reminded her yesterday that free writing was a good way to call memories from their hiding places. She’d started off using her Mount Hope workbook that way, until she was slapped into realizing it was only meant for lies. In Honor’s group, she’d hated sharing those made-up entries—consoling the other kids after they told their tall tales. But after visiting her mother’s poetry corner at the library, Ava could see how using the journal the right way—to put what she knew in order—might help.

  Dad, Mom, Poppy, and I eat breakfast at a round table outside, across the street from Patong Beach. A pink, orange, and blue umbrella shields us from the sun; it almost matches Mom’s sarong. Poppy is eating her eggs too fast. I take small sips of my yummy-tasting juice, trying to make it last longer. I’m stalling. I don’t want to go any closer to the shore. Dad wears shorts—not a swimsuit—which means he’s going to work, not staying with us. If he isn’t going in the water, neither will I.

  Watching Mom stare out to sea, I wonder if she’s seen what Dad is wearing. Or is she focused on the pretty things she’ll write about today. Her leather-bound journal sits next to her plate, a pen lounges on a blank page. I look across the beach, through the parade of coconut palms, trying to see what she sees.

  “I’ve got an idea for a poem,” I say, hoping to distract her from Dad. “The beginning goes, ‘Crystal, air, foamy, blue.’ ”

  “Here,” Mom says, sliding her journal toward me. “Write it down before you forget. Isn’t it wonderful, Toby? Another poet in the family.”

  “Oh, no. Not another poet,” Dad teases, walking his fingers across the table, pretending he’s going to take the journal from me. I giggle, pulling it away from him, holding the treasure to my chest, proud to keep the pretty book for myself.

  Three rhymes later, Poppy is out of her chair, begging to go to the beach. The table shakes. My guava-papaya mix sloshes on the place where my mother has written “Ava’s Poem.”

  I don’t think it’s right for him to leave Monopoly money on the table to pay for breakfast. He smiles when I say so and tells us to collect our stuff. He’ll get us settled on the beach, then go to his meeting.

  “You said you were finished with work,” Mom says. “Why do you keep making promises you don’t intend to keep?”

  Mom and Dad argue about his meeting, while Poppy keeps moving away.

  “Ava,
hurry up.”

  “Shhh,” I say, trying to keep track of what Mom and Dad are saying. Trying to figure out what I might do to make them stop.

  “It’s an interview,” he says. “I’m hiring someone. Isn’t that what you want?”

  Poppy and I try to lug a heavy bag together; she has one handle, I have the other. My sister is shorter and I’m trying to hold Mom’s journal, so it isn’t easy. Poppy’s always too fast. She practically drags me until Dad tells her to slow down.

  “You’ve always got an excuse,” Mom says.

  My sister starts skipping on to the sand, begging us to go closer to the water.

  “Come on, Ava. You can swim good now,” Poppy says.

  “Well,” Mom corrects her. Then looking over to me, she says, “It’s true.”

  I shake my head, happy to hide behind my need to write poems. The way my mother does.

  We stop at a long row of beach chairs. Out of the beach bag comes my blue towel, the polka dot one that matches my bathing suit. I use Mom’s journal to anchor it to the sand while I dig through the bag for sunscreen.My memory wants to stall here. But I feel safe and strong in James’s studio. Leaning against the hull of this boat, I tell myself there’s no water here. I can let myself see what comes next. I let the images flow from my head, down my arm, and out the end of my pen.

  Like an optical illusion, I watch as the sea inches back from the shore. There’s an Asian man taking pictures. Click. Click. Click.

  “Toby make your choice,” Mom says. “Right here, right now.”

  Except for people pointing, everyone on the beach is standing still, even Poppy.

  “Come on, girls,” Mom says grabbing our hands. “We’re going in.”

  As she marches Poppy and me toward the sea, my breakfast rumbles in my stomach, singing out some kind of warning.

  I look back over my shoulder. “Daddy, please,” I say.

  He does not move. His feet are firmly planted in the sand.

  Whiz, zip, crash.

  Ava didn’t mean to scream when she heard something clang to the floor of the studio. James shut off the torch he used to heat metal and cut steel. He dodged and weaved through the tight space over to the boat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I asked if it was okay to make noise. I thought you heard me.”

  “My father just stood there. She begged him to choose us and he didn’t. My mother walked us right into the water and he did nothing.” Ava stood up and began pacing the cluttered boathouse.

  Between concrete totems and brass signs, she didn’t know where to go or what to do.

  “My mother and sister drowned.” She placed a hand to her chest, willing her lungs to fill with air.

  “I know,” James said.

  How stupid could she be? Of course, James knew. Everyone in Maine had to know the Sedgwicks’ story. The only one who didn’t seem to was Ava.

  Her father must’ve been more than happy to keep her in the dark. No wonder he always avoided talking about what happened. And as soon as she started to remember, he’d gotten rid of her by sending her to Mount Hope. Her father didn’t want Ava to know he stood by and did nothing.

  Ava choked back sobs. Covering her ears, she started to hum, trying to block out the memory of horrible sounds.

  James put his arms around her.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t do anything,” Ava said.

  “Maybe he panicked. People don’t always think straight when awful things happen.”

  Ava couldn’t believe what James was saying. She couldn’t stay another minute in that stupid boathouse. Not if he was going to take her father’s side. Ava was almost to the door when she remembered her journal, lying on that chair. Marching back to get it, she hit her head on a collection of copper wind chimes that hung from the ceiling. Dissonant notes were the soundtrack to her moving toward the boat, reclaiming the journal her father had insisted contain nothing but the truth.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Toby left the airport and drove as fast as he could to Biddie’s. Ava wasn’t answering her phone and he was desperate to see her. He parked next to Charlie’s old Buick, a car that magically kept on running. He couldn’t believe Biddie still drove it, rust and all, around town. Feeling nostalgic, Toby tapped its hood as he walked by it.

  It was his second visit to Biddie’s place since he and Ava had returned to Maine. No one met him at the screen door this time, so Toby knocked once and then let himself in.

  “Hey, where’s Ava?”

  Biddie stood right where he’d left her, staring out the kitchen window. With her shoulders tense and her chin jutting out, Toby could tell she was furious. She shook her head back and forth like a disapproving mother. No offer of coffee or a buttery slice of cranberry loaf was forthcoming.

  “It took longer than I thought to settle things. I didn’t factor in an investigation. The place was a house of cards,” he said. “I owe you. Pick the night. The Arborvine’s still the place to eat, right? My treat.”

  “It won’t work this time,” Biddie said. “When are you gonna learn you can’t buy people off?”

  “What are you talking about?” Toby took a seat in the chair Charlie used to sit in.

  “Ava told me. I know.” Biddie slammed a half-filled mug on the table. Coffee slopped up over the rim.

  Toby’s mouth went dry. He was unable to swallow. Or breathe. To speak or move.

  “Wellesley wasn’t far enough? You had to drag her away on one of your fancy trips. I thought Lorraine was nuts when she agreed to go with you. And then, when she needed you most, where were you?” Biddie was shouting now, banging her fist on the table with each word. “Ava’s lucky to be alive, no thanks to you.”

  Toby didn’t need Biddie to remind him it was his fault they’d all been there.

  He put a hand over his mouth. Oh, God, how much did Ava remember? “Where is she? I need to explain.”

  “You want to know what I told Lorraine that summer? I told her straight out to leave you.” Biddie shook her head again. “If Lorraine had only listened to me, she’d be here now.” Using the sleeve of her flannel shirt, Biddie wiped her face. “You know what she said? That no matter what, she never would.”

  “Well, in the end, Rain did leave me, now, didn’t she?” Toby didn’t care that Biddie was crying—something he couldn’t remember ever seeing her do. He stood so abruptly that his chair tipped back, crashing into the hutch, sending china cups bouncing off the shelf into the fish tank.

  “It’s your fault,” Biddie yelled.

  “You don’t know. You weren’t there.”

  “Ava said you just stood there.”

  “Tell me where she is.” When Biddie said nothing, he kicked the chair out of his way. Toby wasn’t halfway to the screen door when in on a sea breeze came the soft notes of a familiar song.

  He didn’t bother to keep the screen door from banging. All he wanted to do was get to his girl.

  On the far end of Biddie’s property, a little over a mile from Herrick House, stood a cluster of pine with a wooden swing perched above the Punch Bowl. Toby followed the sound of the chords.

  Walking toward Ava, seeing how small she looked rocking on that swing, strumming her guitar, Toby realized this was why he hadn’t come clean a long time ago. He was a man who found what had happened to them impossible to comprehend. How could he ever justify talking about it with a child?

  “I missed you,” he said, sitting next to her.

  Ava stopped playing, and in a clumsy gesture, she rearranged her guitar so she could push off the swing. Pine needles under foot made her skid as she moved away from her father.

  Toby caught her by the arm. “I can explain.”

  She wrenched it free, turning her back on him. “Now you want to talk?”

  Ava’s words were harsh, and in that instant, Toby felt fainthearted and weak.

  “You have every right to feel betrayed,” he said. “What happened to you was unimaginable.”

  “You just stood there.
” Ava spun around to look at him. She banged the neck of her guitar against the chain sending discordant notes out between them.

  Toby looked down the slope in the direction of the dock.

  Waves rippled toward the shoreline, the glassy serenity severed by a passing boat.

  “I remember you guys fighting,” she said. “Were you going to divorce her? Was the trip a last-ditch effort to stay together?”

  “Your mother was a wonderful person. She loved you—.”

  “Answer my question,” Ava said, raising her voice.

  “Okay—yes, we had problems. She hated Wellesley and wanted to move back up here permanently. Rain thought this was a better place to raise you girls. But it wasn’t anything we couldn’t have figured out.”

  Ava held the guitar tight to her chest.

  “I never wanted a divorce. Sometimes I thought your mother did. But I was just talking to Biddie. She said your mother told her, she’d never leave me. I’m telling you the truth. We were working it out.”

  Toby wanted to reach out to comfort Ava. Put a hand on her shoulder, ask her to take a seat next to him. The right gesture could be the bridge between them.

  He didn’t move. Ava stood there staring blankly up at the pine trees, taking in their lilt and sway. Or maybe she was holding her head up to keep the tears from falling.

  “I can’t handle being at Herrick House with you,” she said.

  Ava fiddled with her guitar strap, winding an errant thread around her forefinger. “I asked Biddie if I could stay here for a while and she said I could.”

  “Come on, Ava. I’ll give you your space at home. I plan on working as little as possible, and from here. We’ll stay in Maine. Forever if you want. We still have a lot we need—to —”

  Toby spun his wedding ring round and round, realizing it hadn’t been this free moving in years. He had so much to tell Ava. About Nan and Arthur. Mount Hope. But Toby had to be careful. Anything he said now could make things so much worse.

  In the time it took to gather his strength, to muster the words, Ava had had it with him.