Beaconfield

by Bri R. Leclerc

  The screen door would swing open and out would walk my grandparents. I’d continue to run, bounding up the steps to jump into Grandad’s arms. He’d lift me up and laugh in my ear.

  One time in particular stood out in my mind.

  “Hello, little beetle,” Grandad said. When I was younger, I’d been drawn to the shiny backs of Japanese beetles. I’d spend hours out in the grass of the backyard looking at them, and the nickname stuck.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in the familiar lavender smell of his flannel shirt.

  Grandad put me down, and my grandmother pulled me into a hug from behind.

  “How was your trip, Miss Marigold?” she asked.

  I spun around and jumped to hug her around the neck. Her soft gray hair tickled my cheeks.

  I heard the footsteps of my parents behind us. Grandad walked down the steps and hugged Mom, then kissed her on the head before shaking hands with Dad.

  “Parker, how are you?” he asked.

  “We’re good, Cecil. Marigold is excited to be here, as you can tell,” my dad responded as he handed my bag to Grandad.

  I’d spend the whole summer there—three months. I’d do everything with my grandparents. They’d take me to the local diner to get the haddock chowder almost daily. My grandparents lived on the water, so from the backyard I could look down the rocks and out across the ocean. The seagulls would caw all morning as the sun warmed them up.

  I used to garden with my grandmother. I loved to harvest the kale, shucking the leaves off the stalks. We’d spend the early-morning hours in the garden, pulling weeds and watering.

  But my favorite place to be was in the lighthouse with my grandad. There was a path in the side yard that led through the trees and to Lavender Point Light. Lanterns illuminated the path and opened up to a field of lavender. On the point, all by itself, stood the lighthouse. Its exterior was white brick and the cupola and gallery deck were matte black.

  My grandad’s family had been the lighthouse keepers, sometimes called wickies. They cared for the light, trimming the wick and replenishing the fuel. Even though the lighthouse was automated in 1986, my grandad still liked to spend time in the light every day, out of habit.

  Their families had lived in Beaconfield for generations. They’d wanted my mom to live there too, but she said that she’d never really felt a connection to the place. She’d felt there was something off about the town, and that she could never really find her place. I didn’t agree with the sentiment—Beaconfield was my favorite place on earth.

  I stood up from the floor in the hallway and made my way shakily down the stairs and out onto our screened porch. I sat in the rocking chair and looked at our small fenced-in yard. The moon washed the grass in a pale blue haze. The sounds of the cars on the road behind me slowly lulled me back to sleep.

  I was floating. At least, it felt like I was floating. Air was blowing past me, pushing itself across my skin. My arms windmilled behind me slowly, my body weightless and my mind empty.

  I was at peace here.

  Then a scream pierced through me. It was so loud, it shocked my brain. I tried to look around for the source, but I couldn’t move. I could only float.

  The scream continued. I tried to bring my hands to my ears but I didn’t have control of my body. It was then that I noticed the scream was coming from me.

  My lungs burned with the escape of the terror, and I realized I wasn’t floating, I was falling. My stomach dropped out from under me. I felt my body flip around and suddenly the ground was racing up to meet me.

  I screamed louder just before my body crashed into the earth.

  “What are you doing out here?” I jumped at Dad’s voice.

  I wiped the sleep from my eyes and looked behind me. I realized I was still on the porch, curled up on the patio couch. I looked out to the backyard and saw that the sun was beginning to rise.

  Dad came down the hallway from the living room. He must’ve been with my mom. Sitting up slowly, I faced Dad. But I couldn’t look at him. I looked at my hands in my lap as tears dripped down my face.

  Dad leaned down in front of me and tilted my chin up. He brushed my hair behind my ears and smiled. I could see the sadness behind his eyes, too. I broke down again, my heart aching, beating hard with each of my sobs. Dad pulled me into his chest. I threw my arms around his neck and let my tears continue to fall.

  After a few minutes of letting me cry, my dad stood up, pulling me with him. He assisted me in walking to my room. He pulled my covers back and then laid me down. He took off my socks—he knew I couldn’t sleep with them on—just like I was a kid again.

  I turned onto my side as he draped the covers over me. In the darkness of the room I could see my dad’s silhouette sitting on the edge of the bed, hanging his head.

  “Dad?” I asked through my tears.

  He turned to me and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, kiddo?” He sounded tired.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” I sobbed. I pulled the covers over my head, and Scout jumped onto the bed, curling up next to me.

  Dad sighed and rested his hand on the top of my head. “I know, kid.”

  My grandad and I were sitting on the porch just after dinnertime at the height of summer. I was maybe ten years old. We lounged in chairs on the porch, sipping iced tea and swatting at mosquitos that came our way.

  I looked out into the front yard, watching the large oak trees swing in the breeze and listening to the crickets starting their song for the evening. Slowly, the sky grew darker and darker and the stars began to wink in the sky. But it got too dark. I shivered and could see my breath in front of me. I heard a scream coming from across the yard.

  I stood from the chair and leaned over the railing to look into the yard, searching for the source of the noise. There was nothing. But it was growing colder and colder. I rubbed my hands on my bare arms and looked down.

  The plants in the flower beds were withering before my eyes. The lavender was crumpling and falling from its stalks.

  “Grandad, what’s going on?” I asked him, looking over my shoulder.

  He sat in his chair, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes completely white.

  I screamed.

  When I woke up the next morning, my body was covered in a cold sweat and my eyes felt swollen and sore. I rubbed at them and tried to wake them up. My mind was heavy and my body was cold even under the weight of my blankets. I’d been in and out of sleep, not sure what was real and what was a dream. I swore I could hear my grandfather’s voice calling to me, but when I woke, I was alone in my room.

  I grabbed my phone from my table and dialed the number I knew by heart. I waited for my grandmother to answer but got the machine. The message was the same as it had been for nearly six years.

  “You’ve reached Ellis and Cecil Gentry. Leave us a message, and we’ll call you back.”

  I swallowed hard at my grandad’s voice and hung up. Grandma was probably organizing funeral arrangements. I wiped the tears from my eyes. I needed to try to keep it together today, for my mom. She’d been so upset last night.

  I got out of bed and shuffled downstairs. I found my parents sitting at the table, each with a cup of untouched coffee in front of them. Scout sat on the kitchen rug looking between all of us.

  “Morning,” I said. They both turned to me, and I saw the sleepless night living on both of their faces. My dad gave me a tight smile, and Mom simply looked at me, her eyes red and puffy, clutching a used tissue in her hand.

  I wandered to the counter and poured myself a large cup of coffee. My parents didn’t say a word to me the whole time. I joined them at the table, taking the seat next to Dad, and took a sip of my drink. The warm liquid coated my throat and made the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach go away for a moment. Only a moment, then it returned, making me shiver slightly.

  I leaned my head onto my dad’s shoulder, then he patted me on the leg and took a sip of his own drink. I sat up and looked to Mom
. “How are you feeling?” I asked softly.

  “Numb,” she said, barely a whisper. She wrapped her hands around the mug and stared down at the liquid, unblinking.

  We didn’t say anything for a long moment until Dad asked, “Do you want something to eat?”

  My mom shook her head, and we all sat in silence again, sipping our drinks.

  The tension was heavy in the air. I knew this was grief, but a part of me didn’t know if I could function with the silence. It made every other sound too loud—the leaf blower next door, the dog breathing behind us, the dishwasher.

  “When’s the funeral?” I asked to break to silence. Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to say in the moment, but the quiet was deafening.

  “Next Thursday,” Dad said when Mom didn’t open her mouth.

  “We’re not going,” my mom mumbled into her coffee.

  My head snapped up to look at her.

  “What?” Dad and I asked at the same time.

  “We’re not going and that’s the last I’ll say about it,” she said in a voice bordering on anger. She stood from the table and went to pour herself some cereal. I thought she hadn’t wanted food.

  “Why?” I stood and walked toward the counter. “Is there a reason?”

  “I don’t need to give you a reason,” she said while slamming the bowl on the counter.

  Dad jumped a bit behind us. “Violet,” Dad said, warning her of her temper.

  “Yes, you do. He was my grandfather,” I said just as forcefully as she had.

  “And he was my father, Marigold. You don’t understand,” Mom said while rubbing the bridge of her nose.

  I felt my anger boil up and spill over the edge. I tried to hold it in but it wasn’t possible, I exploded. “Understand what, Mother? I deserve to know what’s going on. I haven’t been allowed to see them since I was a kid and now I’m not allowed to go to my grandfather’s funeral? I’m not a child anymore!” I screamed at her.

  She winced and stepped back like my yelling had physically harmed her.

  I blinked, surprised at my tone.

  Dad stood from the table quickly, pointing at me. “You watch it, Marigold. Do not speak to your mother that way,” he said through clenched teeth.

  I crossed my arms, feeling my heart banging against my ribs a we all stared at each other. Scout whimpered from the ground—she didn’t like when we yelled. When neither of them said anything, I opened my mouth to speak again.

  “You’re being selfish and extremely disrespectful,” I said quietly to Mom.

  She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it to think, and I waited. “I know. I just can’t go back there. We can’t go back there,” she whispered.

  “Where? Beaconfield?” I asked, and she nodded slowly. “It’s where you’re from. You grew up there. Do you have no connection to it at all?” I didn’t believe what she was saying. I didn’t know how someone could spend half of their life somewhere and then feel no emotions toward it at all.

  “Of course I do, but . . . it’s not safe, Mari.” Her voice was quiet, barely audible.

  “Not safe? Is this about six years ago?” I thought back to the last time that I’d seen my grandparents, being rushed out of Beaconfield with no explanation and never returning.

  “Just drop it. This conversation is over. We’re not going.” She turned to walk away.

  “Well, you don’t have to go to the funeral, but I’m going,” I said.

  She stopped and turned toward me. “Absolutely not,” she said. She placed her hands on her hips and stood her ground. “Your father and I have kept you from that place, and you’re not going back now, not after all this time. I just told you, it’s not safe.”

  I took a step closer to her and looked at her quizzically. Her eyes were glazed over as if she was about to start crying again.

  “Kept me from it? You,” I turned to Dad, “neither of you, ever told me why I couldn’t go back. You just cut me off from my grandparents for a year. No phone calls, no visits. And now, six years later, I can’t even go say goodbye to my dead grandfather?” My voice had grown angrier.

  My dad slammed his chair on the floor. “Marigold, I’m not going to warn you about your tone again.”

  “I’m going to keep my tone if you keep treating me like this,” I said, directing myself toward him. I could feel the anger dripping off me now, but maybe it was pain more than anger.

  “I can’t do this right now,” Mom said. She was sniffling as she walked out of the room.

  I stormed after her with my fists clenched. “I’m going to the funeral next week. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions,” I spat at the back of her head.

  She stopped and turned halfway to look at me out of the corner of her eye, but then she shook her head and continued to walk away.

  I took a step to follow after her but, paused when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

  “Don’t,” Dad said.

  I turned to him and crossed my arms tight across my chest. “How can she act like that? He was her father!” I yelled in his face.

  “Marigold, stop,” he said, squeezing my shoulder a bit. “I know you’re upset, but you’re not going to change her mind. Look, you can go to the funeral if you want to. I’ll convince her of that, but end of conversation.”

  I shrugged out of his grip and said, “Fine.”

  Dad sighed behind me as I made my way upstairs and slammed my door. I threw myself on my bed and let out a groan of frustration. Scout jumped up on the bed and then made a slight sigh as she cuddled up in her spot. I reached over and scratched between the ears and kissed her nose. She closed her eyes and relished the petting.

  I groaned again. How could my mom be so selfish? My grandad was one of the most important people in my life. He and my grandmother were the most influential people to me. They were the reason why I’d made so many decisions in my life. How could she just take it all away from me?

  She’d said that it wasn’t safe to go back to Beaconfield. I thought about the last day I’d been there with my grandparents. I remembered that my parents had showed up and dragged me away from my friends and family and had never let me return. They’d never given me a reason.

  When we’d arrived home, I’d called my grandparents in secret to ask them why I had to leave. They didn’t tell me anything that my parents hadn’t already said. One night, my mom caught me on the phone with my grandmother. She screamed at the both of us, first my grandmother, telling her that I was her daughter and she was free to parent as she saw fit to keep me safe. Then she yelled at me and told me that I needed to ask her permission to use the phone. After that, I was only allowed to talk to my grandparents on the phone, supervised, on holidays or my birthday.

  And when I’d asked my parents to let me go to Beaconfield the next summer, my mom had told me that my grandparents didn’t want me there. After that, I stopped asking. Eventually, it stopped bothering me, but I still felt like something was missing in my life.

  I rolled over to face my bedside table, then closed my eyes, willing my tears to stay in. I knew that today would be a day filled with sleeping and trying not to cry. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed the stack of books on the table. I reached out and slid my finger down their spines. New England Ghost Stories and Maine Ghosts and Urban Legend. I picked up the Maine Ghosts and brushed off its cover.

  It was well-loved—I’d read it front to back more than a dozen times. I opened the book to the front page and saw the writing that was there. It was faded a bit from time but still legible.

  For my little beetle.

  Love, Grandad

  I sighed, my throat tightening, and flipped through the book’s yellowed pages. They held everything from the “Legend of Strand Theater” to the “Ghost Ship off the Coast” and the “White Lady of Brownsville Road.” But my favorite one was about my grandparents’ town, Beaconfield. It was titled, “The Waiting Woman.”

  It was your typical ghost story about a young woman wh
ose husband went missing on a ship. She died in the town, waiting years for him. It was a story that was told to me over and over again by my grandparents. My grandmother had thought the story was kind of romantic. I always thought that was ridiculous—the woman had killed herself because she was lonely. I never knew if I’d believed the story, but old towns were bound to hold old stories, paranormal or natural.

  I clutched the book to my chest and took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed. I’d never traveled to Beaconfield on my own before, my parents had always driven me, but I’d do what I needed to do to say goodbye to my grandfather.

  I needed to say goodbye to him. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t. I never had the chance to say anything to him that last time I was there—my parents took that away from me, too.

  I’d been dragged from the house and pushed into the car. I’d yelled and screamed, throwing a fit. I remembered seeing him standing in the driveway. I’d looked out the back window of my parents’ car, waving slightly, tears streaming down my face.

  He’d waved back, a frown on his face.

  My parents and I barely talked in the week that followed. The thought of not going gave me a bad feeling. I needed to be there for my grandfather.

  The fact that my mom didn’t want to be there was absolutely ridiculous. Not wanting to say goodbye to her father, no matter what issues they’d had in the past, made me look at Mom differently.

  I’d asked my dad to come with me, but he wouldn’t. It was going to be an interesting trip travelling up to Beaconfield by myself.

  Between the time when we got the phone call and when it was time for me to get ready to go to Maine, I spent a lot of time in my room, researching jobs that were far away from home. I was trying to waste time before I could leave. I found a few, and applied, but I wasn’t particularly interested in them and knew my parents would never let me leave anyway. The only reason they were even remotely letting me go to the funeral was because Grandma would be there.