by Luanne Rice
“The owners inherited it from her parents,” Nina said, checking her clipboard. “They live in Los Angeles, he’s in the film business, and they had hoped to use this as their weekend and summer house. They held on for five years, but it just got to be too much. I think they said they made it back for two summers and six weekends.”
“They kept it up though,” Alan said, stepping around a yew bush, examining a clapboard for termites or rot.
“No shortage of money,” Nina said. “The film business must be nice. Anyway, let me figure out the keys…. The owners are very careful, they didn’t want us posting signs or advertising it…. We always get callers asking about these sea captains’ houses, but this one just came on the market.”
“Are there bedrooms on the first floor?” Alan asked.
“Let me show you,” Nina said, brandishing the key. “Come on inside.”
They entered through the front door. The wide plank floors were waxed and gleaming. Bright light poured in tall windows. There was a brass chandelier in the foyer, original sconces on the white walls. There was a double living room, furnished with antiques, with a fireplace at either end. The artwork was abstract, too modern for Alan’s taste. French doors led onto a stone terrace, its ivy-covered balustrade curving around the back of the house. The view was of the harbor, with boats dancing on the gray waves.
“It’s a real whaling captain’s house,” Nina said. “Built in 1842 by Captain Elihu Hubbard. Notice the windows? They’re original leaded glass, mullioned….”
Alan liked the way the glass held the light before letting it through. It seemed thicker than normal glass, like clear silver, throwing small rainbows on the walls and floor. There were bay windows with window seats, and Nina was leaning over to show him something: letters scratched into the glass.
“It says E-L-H,” Nina said. “The legend goes, Elihu’s wife scratched it into the glass with the diamond he’d brought her from one of his voyages. I don’t know what it means, but—”
“Let’s see the rest of the downstairs,” Alan said. He didn’t want to hear any legends about men going to sea, women pining at home. The fact that this house had been built by a ship’s captain was no selling point to him; it reminded Alan too much of Tim. If he could keep the story from Dianne, he would.
“Here’s the kitchen,” Nina said, “Sub-Zero fridge, Garland stove, tiles brought back from Italy …Look at this great center island, the Jenn-Air grill—”
“Nice,” Alan said, smiling. He couldn’t remember seeing Dianne cook, not even once, not in all the years he’d known her. But when Nina pointed out the basement, leading off the kitchen, and Alan went downstairs and saw the workshop and tool bench, the windows and door leading straight out into the yard, he knew Dianne would love it.
“You asked about bedrooms,” Nina said when Alan ran back up. “We’ll go up to the second floor in a minute. You’ll just adore the master suite up there, but let me show you this first. I’ve been calling it the in-law wing….” She led him around the kitchen chimney, down a short corridor.
Stepping into the first bedroom, Alan knew the house would do.
“It’s quite spacious, as you can see,” Nina said. “Beautiful wood floors, a working fireplace, glass doors leading onto this private terrace …a bathroom over here …” Following her through the bathroom, they entered a study. It was fixed up like a den, with a desk and bookshelves and glass display cases filled with awards and photographs of the owners with people like Lauren Bacall, Gregory Peck, Harrison Ford, and Tom Hanks.
“Everyone loves those photos, a little Hollywood right here in gray old New England,” Nina laughed. “Isn’t this a great setup? Bedroom-bath-study? A great place to come if you have a fight with your wife …or to put your parents when they visit. Are your parents alive?”
“No, they’re not,” Alan said, picturing where Julia’s bed would go, her bureau, the rocking chair. He and Dianne would take the other downstairs room; they could hear Julia crying if she needed them. The bathroom was right there, it was all on the first floor, Dianne wouldn’t have to carry Julia upstairs.
“I’m sorry,” Nina said. “Well, onward and upward. On the second floor—”
“That’s okay,” Alan said. Gazing out the window, he wondered whether Dianne would miss the marsh. Harbor views were different: constant action, boats coming and going, the wind whipping up the waves, flags flying at all the boatyards.
“It’s not right for you?” Nina asked. “Is there something else I could show you? We have a marvelous listing, just came in, for a stunning contemporary out by the quarries—”
“It’s right for me,” Alan said. “I’m making an offer.”
“An offer?” Nina asked. He could see that she was surprised, but she covered it well. She hadn’t told him the price yet, he hadn’t seen the upper floors or backyard, but he didn’t care.
“Right now,” he said. “I want to be in by Christmas.”
“By Christmas,” she said, smiling slowly as she nodded her head. “Deck the halls!”
They shook hands. Alan had a busy afternoon, and he had to get back to his patients. But as Nina got on her cell phone to call her office and get the paperwork rolling, Alan took one last look around-at Dianne’s house.
At their house.
That night Dianne dreamed of Tim. She’d been standing on the deck of a boat tossing in the waves. It was a storm, a terrible gale, and the ocean was dark and thick. It seemed more like quicksand than water, trapping everything and everyone that slipped beneath its surface. Dianne felt terror because someone she loved was in there. Although safe in the boat, she was yelling for help.
“Please,” she screamed. “Help me, help me!”
Where were they, all the people she loved? Keeping her boat afloat took so much effort and concentration, she was afraid to take her eyes off the wheel. She had to trust that they were in the cabin behind her. “They” was a mysterious collection, and she hoped, but wasn’t sure, that it included Julia, Lucinda, Amy, and Alan.
Someone had fallen overboard. A single hand reached out of the sea. Dripping with muck and seaweed, it scared her so much. Would she be able to save the person? Or would the person pull her in? She was crying and sweating, almost ready to sail away. But a calm voice deep inside told her to stay, to have courage and follow her heart. Taking a deep breath, all fears and doubts melted away. She reached overboard, grabbed the nightmare hand, and felt Tim pulling her into the sludge.
Then she woke up.
Julia was crying. Getting out of bed, Dianne felt wide awake and shaken. Julia was wet; her nose was stuffed up. Dianne set about taking care of her, going through the motions she went through every night.
“Maaa!” Julia cried, sobbing as if she had had a nightmare too.
“You’re fine, love,” Dianne whispered. “We’re safe, we’re on dry land, we’re together.”
Julia tossed listlessly, as if she felt uncomfortable but couldn’t decide where. Her skin was pale, and Dianne held Julia’s hands in her own, warming them up. They were as cold as if she’d been swimming in the sea.
“Is she okay?” came Lucinda’s voice from the hall.
“I think so.” Dianne nodded, still rubbing Julia’s hands. “We had bad dreams and woke each other up.”
“Want to tell me yours?”
“It was of Tim,” Dianne said, shuddering, facing her mother. “He tried to pull me overboard.”
“You were in a boat and he was in the sea?” her mother asked.
“Yes. Should I feel sorry for Tim? Is that the message?”
“Sorry for Tim?” her mother asked.
Dianne hugged herself. She was cold too. As cold as Julia’s hands, as chilled as a person who had just come through a storm. Heat was pouring out of the radiators, but Dianne couldn’t get warm. She closed her eyes and thought of Alan. She knew he would save her, would never let her drown. He would do whatever it took.
But she was still ice cold
from her dream.
She knew this was the wreckage from her past, part of what made up the emotion she could not name. To love Alan so much, she had to contend with much regret and sorrow. She started to cry, feeling sorry that she had dreamed about Tim. Feeling grief that her life had been shaped by such a traumatic first love.
Amy was on the school bus. She had finished her story, and she was on her way to Dianne’s to use the computer. Amber rode the same bus, making life extremely awkward. But Lucinda had given Amy some helpful advice: Always have a book with you, and when you feel uncomfortable, get lost in the story.
Amber and David made fun of Amy. They whispered and pointed, and she heard them cursing her out. Amy cared, but she tried not to show it. She was wearing new school clothes and shoes, a present from Dianne and Lucinda. Dr. McIntosh had bought her fresh notebooks, pencils, and pens.
She had a handful of shells and sea glass, from some of the castles she and Julia had built over the summer, in the zipper pocket of her bookbag. Recently she had discovered Madeleine L’Engle and was halfway through A Wrinkle in Time. When Amber and David threw gum wrappers at her, she pretended to read as she thought of the short story contest.
Amy had rewritten the story, ending it with Catherine’s mother recovering from her depression, giving everyone hope. In her last scene Dickie was gone for good. She had sent him to California for a new job, but then she ripped up those pages.
Dickie was going to jail for what he had done. He had beaten his puppy, Catherine’s mother, and Catherine herself. He was a bad man, and in Amy’s story he was going to pay for it. Mona, Catherine’s sister with birth defects, was just about to learn to walk.
On the last page, Catherine, Mona, and their mother, whose name was Beth, were kneeling on a beach, building a sand castle. The sand was fine and white: Hawthorne sand. Dolphins were singing in the sea, and you could hear their music. Castles might wash away, but love lasted. The mother had pink cheeks, and her hair fell in golden waves.
Okay, so in the story, Catherine’s mother had Dianne’s hair.
“Sue me!” Amy laughed. “It’s only fiction!”
“Huh?” Amber asked.
“Um, nothing,” Amy said, embarrassed.
“Talking to yourself and knocking innocent people down,” Amber said, drawing on her own wrist with a ballpoint pen. “Really mature.”
“I said I was sorry …” Amy said, shrinking.
“Hanging out with the retard has made her retarded,” David said, only he pronounced with “wit.” Amy gave him her steadiest gaze, as if his favorite worm had just died, and she pitied him with all her heart.
Amy couldn’t wait to win the contest. From there it would be easy to imagine her poems and stories getting published in magazines. Amber would open Seventeen, and there would be Amy’s story about the best friend who became a whore-fink. David would open his stupid heavy-metal magazines, the kind Buddy used to get, and he’d see a picture of Aero-smith thanking Amy for letting them use one of her poems for their newest song lyrics.
Jumping off the bus at Gull Point, Amy didn’t look back. She tore straight to the studio, holding her breath until she saw Dianne and Julia inside. She felt so relieved, she could have shouted for joy.
“Hi,” Amy called, walking through the door and getting her face licked as Orion went mad with happiness to see her. She went straight to Julia, did a little hand dance with her.
“How was school?” Dianne called from her workbench.
“Good,” Amy said. “Got a B on my science quiz. It was a high B, though-eighty-eight.”
“You’re heading for the honor roll,” Dianne said.
“I hope so,” Amy beamed.
“Noise,” Dianne warned, turning on her saw.
Amy played with Julia for a while, but Julia just seemed tired. She didn’t want to move her hands much, and she kept resting her head on her left shoulder. Once again, as she had the last few times she’d seen Julia, Amy felt worried. She glanced at Dianne as if to ask her what was wrong, but Dianne had her eye protection on, was concentrating on cutting a plank with her band saw.
The noise was loud. The stereo was on, and Dianne was singing. Amy pushed Julia’s chair over to the desk and pulled her notebook from her knapsack. She glanced at Dianne, looking for an okay. Dianne gave her the thumbs-up, and Amy got ready. They had computers in school. She knew how to use them, but she had never done anything like this before. She had never typed up a story she had written herself. Sitting there, she had a lump in her throat.
She started with the title: “Sand Castles.”
“Do you think I’ll win?” Amy asked a week later, after the story had been typed, the corrections made, the manuscript ready to be submitted to Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Macomber at the library.
“It’s a great story,” Lucinda said.
“But will I win?”
“You would,” Dianne said, “if I were the judge. You wrote a wonderful story and an excellent poem. I’d give you first place.”
“Girls, girls,” Lucinda said, pretending to be exasperated. “How often do I have to tell you? It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you see the world!”
“You never say that,” Amy said, frowning.
“She does, all the time,” Dianne said, rocking Julia on her lap. “She just says it in different ways.” “Like what?” Amy asked.
“Like love each other,” Dianne said. “Like forgive the people you don’t like.”
“Buddy?” Amy asked. “Never.”
“Then he’ll hold you prisoner forever,” Lucinda said.
“Ewww,” Amy said, shivering. “Buddy holding me prisoner …I’d rather eat bugs. But even so, don’t hold your breath on me forgiving him.”
“Does your mother like your story?” Dianne asked.
“She hasn’t seen it,” Amy said quietly.
“Dleee,” Julia said.
Dianne reached down to hold her daughter’s hand. Lucinda watched her wrap Julia’s fingers around her own index finger, try to hold them there. Julia’s grip slid away, and Dianne pressed it again. Dianne could be so stubborn, Lucinda thought. Had she realized, talking about forgiveness, that she was still swamped with bad feelings for Tim? That dream …
“I still hope I win,” Amy said. “Even if I’m not supposed to.”
“Gaaa,” Julia said.
“You really liked the story, Dianne?”
“I loved it.”
“Huh,” Amy said. “I’m glad.”
Lucinda swallowed. She wondered whether Dianne had noticed that Amy had given the mother Dianne’s looks.
“Gleee,” Julia squeaked.
“See? Julia thinks I’ll win.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Lucinda said, staring at the two young girls, thinking back to when Dianne had been that age. “Win or lose, I’m getting tickets for The Nutcracker.”
“The Nutcracker ballet?” Amy asked. “The one on TV at Christmas every year? That’s the one you mean?”
“Mom took me,” Dianne said. She looked tired, as if the stress of her life, of just trying to hold her daughter’s fingers, were a little too much today. “It was one of my favorite things we ever did.”
“And now it’s your turn to take Amy,” Lucinda said.
Julia had another seizure. This time it was the middle of a cold November night, and Dianne heard her kicking the walls like a wild horse banging its stall. Flying into the room, she grabbed Julia and tried to hold her hands, to keep her from punching herself in the face. Holding her child, she could hardly stand the choking, garbled sounds coming from Julia’s mouth.
“What is it, Dianne?” Lucinda asked.
“Call 911,” Dianne gasped. “Call Alan.”
Her mother disappeared. Dianne was alone with Julia. The girl’s airway was blocked. She couldn’t breathe. Had she swallowed her tongue? Choked on something left in her bed? Julia was turning blue.
Panicked, Dianne jumped up. Julia was still seizing. Di
anne tried slapping her on the back. Something cracked, as if she had broken a bone. Still, Julia was choking. Dianne tried to turn her upside down. She was frantic, listening for sirens. How long since Lucinda had called? Lifting Julia into her arms, Julia’s fists pounding her face and her heels kicking her legs, Dianne tried to carry her downstairs.
Dianne’s thoughts were flying: Help was downstairs. Her mother was there, the ambulance was coming. Struggling with Julia, Dianne’s back ached. She felt the spasm down low, ignored it. Julia needed air. They could do an emergency tracheotomy. Or they could do nothing…. Dianne paused, choking on a sob, leaning against the stairway wall. They could let Julia go, and it would all be over. All her suffering …
“No,” Dianne said, unable to stand the thought. She kept going, she had to get Julia help, she kept moving down the stairs. “Don’t leave me, Julia.”
The ambulance was there. Help came all at once. Lucinda had told them Julia was having a seizure, so the EMTs were ready. One shot of diazepam, and the seizure stopped. They cleared her airway: She had bitten her tongue, and she’d been choking on her own blood. Dianne held Julia’s hands through it all. She blocked out the furor, concentrated on her daughter’s eyes. They were closed, but Dianne knew them by heart. She could see them, enormous and blue, searching her mother’s face.
“I love you,” Dianne whispered, leaning over Julia as they carried her outside. “I love you, I love you.”
Alan met them at the hospital. He made sure Dianne was okay, settled her in the waiting room, then went into the examining room to see Julia. Tubes ran into her arm, nose, and throat. An oxygen mask was over her face.
“She was breathing on her own when they brought her in,” the attending physician said. “But she’s not now.”
Alan nodded. His throat ached as he stared at his niece. Her color was very bad, her lips cyanotic. That purplish discoloration came from a lack of oxygen in the blood, and he checked the flow of oxygen coming from the tanks on the wall. The on-call neurologist wrote orders for an MRI, an EEG. The cardiologist wrote orders for an EKG. Kissing Julia’s forehead, he walked out to see Dianne.
“Tell me,” Dianne said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed Alan’s hands, stared into his eyes.