by Kelly Risser
Meara? Meara, honey, wake up.”
I opened my eyes to darkness. There were no streetlights, just the brilliant stars overhead. The car window was open, and a warm breeze caressed my face. I stared out, hoping to get a sense of where we were. I couldn’t see far.
Though my vision floundered, my other senses sang. I smelled the salty tang in the air and felt a cool mist of water. The fragrant drops clung to my skin like a welcoming kiss. I breathed deeply, and my body absorbed the energy. It was a rush—better than a sugar high, better than caffeine—and unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Home, I thought as a peace settled over me. I’m home. I shook myself and frowned. Where did that come from? The only “home” I’d ever known, or at least remembered, was thousands of miles away in another country.
My mom watched me. She started to frown. Before she could speak, I gave her a small smile and said, “So, we’re here then?”
She relaxed and smiled back. “We’re here. Welcome to Peggy’s Cove, Meara.”
It seemed surreal that we were in another country, even if the country was connected to our own.
“Sharon? Is that you?” A porch light backlit the silhouette of a woman. Floodlights followed, bathing the yard with brightness. The woman hurried closer, her crop of wavy, silver hair glinting in the light. This had to be my grandmother. She wore a nervous expression. There was no mistaking the resemblance between the three of us, although her face was wet with tears.
Next to me, Mom made a strangled noise. She jumped out of the car and ran over to her. “Mom!”
“Sweetheart,” whispered my grandmother, her voice raspy from crying. “Welcome home.” She squeezed Mom’s hand, and they embraced. I got out of the car, staying by the door. After several teary minutes, both women wiped their eyes and blew their noses, almost simultaneously. Mom turned to introduce me. “Mother, I’d like for you to meet your granddaughter, Meara.”
“Meara.” She smiled warmly. “So nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too…uh, Grandmother.” The last word felt strange on my tongue, formal and unfamiliar.
“Oh, none of that, child.” She pulled me into a hug. “No formalities for me. Call me Grandma Mary. Everyone else does.”
She was soft and smelled faintly of lilacs. I relaxed in her arms, finding it a pleasant place to be. She released me after one last squeeze.
“Sharon, pop the trunk. Let’s get your bags inside.”
When Mom opened the trunk, Grandma Mary pulled both bags out. As she walked away, she called over her shoulder. “Your father is at work. He should be home soon, but I made you dinner.”
“Thanks, Mom.” My mom took my hand. She didn’t seem surprised that her mother carried both of our suitcases.
“I expected you’d be arriving late and, more than likely, hungry.” Grandma Mary placed both bags on the porch and held the door open. “Come inside and make yourselves at home.”
With the extra light, I could see that the house was modest, shingled in faded red cedar. The trim and shutters were white, while a screened-in porch faced the ocean. The flowerbeds along the front burst with color and fragrance.
Hurrying up the small step, I took the screen door from my grandmother. For an old lady, Grandma Mary sure moved fast. We crossed into the entryway, and my mouth watered. Something smelled savory and delicious. I licked my lips. Grandma Mary saw and laughed.
“Kitchen’s right here,” she called as she entered into a room just to the left of the front door. “Come in and have a seat.” To my mom, she said, “I made your favorite.”
Grandma Mary served up the food and placed it in front of us. I had no idea that chicken and dumplings was my mom’s favorite meal. After one bite though, I could see why. It was delicious, with chicken so tender that it melted in my mouth. Mom rolled her eyes and made funny noises as she ate. Grandma Mary watched us with an amused expression, her chin resting in her hands and her elbows propped on the table.
After dinner, we moved to the living room and talked about our trip. I was just about to ask if we could see our rooms when the front door banged open, and the fiercest man I’d ever seen walked in. His hair was steel gray, thick and windblown. It outlined a weathered, tan face. I wasn’t a great judge of height, but he was easily six foot three. He frowned as he scanned the room. When his eyes settled on my mom, they softened. His mouth quivered slightly at the corners as he stood there.
My mom started crying again and biting her lip—a nervous habit of hers. Nobody moved. I looked back and forth between them. When I couldn’t stand the tension any longer, my grandfather opened his arms. “Sharon,” he choked.
“Dad!” Mom ran to him with a sob. He said nothing more, just held her close, bending his large frame to wrap her tightly in his embrace. I heard her muffled sobbing. When she stopped, he straightened up and fixed his piercing blue eyes on me.
“This is her?” he asked, nodding in my direction. “This is your Meara?”
I gulped. I couldn’t help it; he was so intimidating. I felt myself blush under his gaze and struggled to meet his eyes. Mom wiped away her tears and smiled at me.
“This is my Meara,” Mom said proudly. “Meara, meet your grandfather, Jamie.”
I tried to smile, but I think it came out more like a grimace. “Hello,” I managed to mumble. The expression on my face must have amused him, because he let loose a deep, rumbling laugh.
“Girl,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
He patted me firmly on the shoulder. I was sure he meant to be gentle, but the strength behind it made me wince. He turned his attention to my grandmother. “Mary, love, how about a big helping of whatever that is that I’ve smelled since I opened the door?”
Grandma Mary swatted my great beast of a grandfather on the arm. “Is your stomach all you can think about?” she chided. “Look at these girls; they’re scarcely managing to stay awake.”
Turning, she went into the kitchen, and we followed. She ladled a generous helping of chicken and dumplings onto a plate that could’ve been platter and set it before my grandfather. Once finished, she turned to us. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
“Are we sharing?” I asked.
Grandma Mary laughed. “No. You get the porch. Sharon, you’ll be sleeping in your old room.”
“The porch?” I pictured lawn furniture and dying plants.
She patted my arm. “It’s not so bad. We converted it to an all-season room a few years ago.”
“I’ll head off then. I remember where I’m going,” Mom said. She kissed my cheek first, and then Grandma Mary’s. “Goodnight.”
Grandma Mary led me down the hall and pointed to the door on the right. “This is the bathroom. Only one in the house. I hope you don’t dawdle.”
One bathroom? Our house had two. Mom and I never shared. I thought about my morning routine—hair, makeup—and inwardly groaned. “I’ll try not to.”
When we reached the porch, she opened the door, stepping back to let me in. “I hope you like it. It’s not much, but I imagine you’ll enjoy the view.”
The room was small, but airy. Large windows ran along the top half of all three outer walls. I approached the longest window, which faced the ocean. Although it was almost midnight, the moon reflected on the rocks and water below. By day, I would have an amazing view of the harbor. I turned toward my grandmother and smiled. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Grandma Mary nodded. “Get your rest, child,” she said. “I’m sure tomorrow you’ll want to go exploring. It’s a small town, but there’s enough to see.”
She closed the door behind her. Alone, I turned and took in my surroundings. My suitcase was already there, resting near the door. My grandmother must have brought it in while we were eating. The rest of our stuff was arriving by moving van. It would be another day or so before it got here. I had all my favorite things with me, so I didn’t mind. Looking around, I w
asn’t sure all of my stuff would fit in this room anyway.
The lamp on the nightstand cast the room in a warm glow. The furnishings were sparse—a twin bed covered with a pale yellow quilt of faded daisies, a nightstand with the lamp, and a small dresser.
A framed picture on the dresser caught my eye. I walked over and picked it up. Why did my grandparents have a black and white picture of me? I looked closer and realized it was a photograph of my mom, probably taken when she was about my age. She laughed at the camera, looking young, happy, and ready to take on the world. I ran my finger lightly over her face.
I set the picture back down and bent to pick up my suitcase, grunting a bit from its weight. If I was going to travel to Europe someday, I needed to learn how to pack lighter. One week of lugging this bag around, and I was tired of it. I pulled out my pajamas and toiletries and went to use the only bathroom in the house.
I changed quickly, but took a few minutes to wash the travel grime from my face. It’s good to be in a home and not another hotel, I thought as I climbed into bed. I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow. My last thought before drifting off to sleep was how clearly I could hear and smell the ocean from my room. It was almost like falling asleep outside on the beach.
I was walking along the shoreline. It was early dawn, and the sun barely skimmed the horizon. The world held in the silence, and I was alone. The stars twinkled in the fading night sky, and the pebbles caressed my feet, smooth and cold. I tasted brine and was tempted to lick the salt from my lips. A slight breeze teased along my skin, lifting strands of my hair.
It should have been peaceful, but I was restless. I moved as though an invisible force pulled me toward the ocean. The desire to dive in overwhelmed me. I quickened my pace toward the inviting waves.
My heart beat frantically in my chest. I needed to climb into the water, to feel the cool tide surrounding me, lifting me. Though I’d never swum in the ocean, I had no fear. The experience would bring me extraordinary joy.
I lowered myself onto one of the large boulders near the ocean’s edge. The rock’s surface was smooth and cool. Stretching out my leg until my toes touched the surf, I delighted when the water frothed around and over my bare foot. Millions of tiny bubbles ebbed and flowed over my toes. This was where I belonged.
Voices called to me. They were distant and faint. I scooted closer to hear them. Come in. Join us. When I tilted my head down and to the side to hear better, I noticed a person walking toward me. Who else was out at this time of the morning?
It was a man. He moved at a leisurely pace. His shirt was loosely buttoned and untucked, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. One hand held a leather jacket over his shoulder. He wore faded blue jeans, and his feet were bare. He was beautiful, with strong, distinct features and a lean build.
He continued to approach, his pace slow and unhurried. Stopping about three feet away, he smiled. I wasn’t scared. He reached toward me, extending an open hand. I noticed that his fingers were slightly webbed, and—I looked down—his toes were webbed like mine. Curious about him as I was, I looked away toward the ocean, tempted to dive again. The pull was strong.
“Meara, you can’t go in,” he said. “It’s too soon, and your mother needs you.”
I heard his words, but I didn’t understand them. His voice was a beautiful as his face, deep and melodic. I gazed at him in awe. The man appeared to be in his mid-twenties.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped closer. I found myself comforted by his presence. When he reached out to touch my hair, I didn’t move. He ran his hand gently along one side of my head and caressed my cheek in a gesture that was similar to my mom’s. Letting his arm fall to his side, he smiled at me again.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said. “You look so much like your mother.” His voice was full of sadness. He watched me, his blue eyes holding mine.
“David?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Smart girl, you are your mother’s daughter.” He spoke with a bit of an accent, rolling his Rs. I couldn’t place the gentle lilt. Irish, maybe? “Go back to sleep, Meara.” He touched my arm, and my eyes grew heavy. “We will speak again soon.”
I sat up in bed, fully awake, and glanced out the window. The dream was so real that I expected to see my father standing there in the flesh. The beach was empty. It was a dream, I thought, only a dream. And yet, I tasted salt on my lips and felt the dampness of early morning on my hair and clothes.
Shaking my head at my own fancifulness, I rolled onto my side. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told me it was only four, way too early to get up. But as I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep, an image of a beautiful, barefoot man played in my mind and kept me awake.
Was it really David? And if so, was he here?