I need my camera.
No. Some experiences are better experienced in the flesh. Some memories are better formed firsthand, and sitting here arm to arm, hip to hip with my daughter as the sun sets is one.
“So much can change,” I whisper, since speaking louder seems sacrilegious, “but this stays the same.”
Joy’s mind has wandered. “Papa likes the piano. He came in while I was playing, just stood there listening—I mean, right at the end of the keyboard, and he was staring at my hands, like he’d never seen hands before and wanted to see what they could do? So naturally, I got nervous. My fingers started to stutter.”
I smile. “I thought you did that on purpose. It sounded like improv.”
“Nuh-uh. Just mess up. Why does he have a piano? I mean, like, who plays?”
“No one. But hope dies hard. He thought learning to play was a must for girls, so he bought a piano. None of us took the bait.”
“He didn’t make you?”
“Oh, he tried. But after a few weeks of our practicing while hewas home, he caved. Now you’ve come along to play his piano the way it should be played. I’d say his wait was worth it.”
She leans into me and says with a pout, “You say that because you love me.”
“I say it because it’s true.” And because I do know she loves hearing it.
“So who said things like that to you when you were growing up here?”
“Uh… my mother?” When Joy slides me ayou-don’t-sound-surelook, I say with greater conviction, “My mother.”
Seeming satisfied with that, she rests her head on my shoulder. The purpling sky soothes. “This is so nice,” she says, and it is. My daughter keeps me in the present, which is where I want to be.
Then, upstairs in my bedroom, she falls asleep, and my grip on the present wavers. While she breathes deeply, her warmth pressed to my arm, I lie awake thinking of this room, this house, the people my family had been back then. I hear flutters in the attic—bats we kids knew, justknew—and my eyes fix on the ceiling, waiting for something to break through and whip around in the dark. When nothing does, just as nothing did then, I close my eyes again and listen to the ocean in real time, rather than dreams. It is as beautiful, as soothing as I remember.
After a while, I hear my father’s footsteps on the stairs. Slipping from bed, I creep to the door and put my ear to the wood. It occurs to me to go out there and see if he needs help with his cast. But I can’t begin to imagine helping this man undress. He was never a touchy-feely guy. If he held my hand when I was a child, it was to lead me somewhere, not to impart warmth. He never dressed me, never tied a ribbon in my hair. I don’t recall whether he ever actually hugged me.
His door closes. Quietly I return to the bed and am about to climb in, when I pause. Changing my mind, I go to the window. The heather is a dark blur, the Sabathian house even darker. Memories of this knock at the door of my mind, good ones right up until the end.So many nights I stood watch at this spot, eyes glued to the second floor window, wondering if Jack was awake and would signal. Standing here now, I have a clear vision of his Maglite’s burst—three-one-one, repeated twice in quick succession.
It is a minute before I realize that I’m not imagining it.
Chapter 7
I hold my breath. The signal comes again.
Quickly, silently, I pull my Bay Bluff sweatshirt over the loose tee I sleep in and hop into sweatpants, one leg, then the other. Flip-flops in hand, I tiptoe to the door, open it carefully and, after checking to be sure Joy is still asleep, inch it closed.
Avoiding creaks, my bare feet whisper down the stairs and run lightly through the kitchen and mudroom to the side door, the one we always took to the beach. It isn’t until the cool air hits me that I stop dead still.
This has all been pure habit, true muscle memory. From the time I was fifteen and found Jack, until I was nineteen and left home, I responded to that light. Now, at thirty-nine, I wonder what in the hell I’m doing. The signal?Oursignal? After all this time, all this acrimony? If I go down to the beach, what do I hope to find?
I don’t know. That’s the thing.
But I had seen his light. And there is no way I cannotrespond.
Slipping on my flip-flops, I walk along the side path at a more adult pace, giving myself plenty of time to rethink what I’m doing. But I can’t find a reason to turn back. If I’ve misinterpreted the signal, I’ll be alone on the beach. If not, well, I’ll find out why he sent it in the first place.
The moon is a slim cradle that comes and goes through fingers of clouds. Though there’s enough light to see, I hold the railing as I take the stairs, because my eyes aren’t on my feet. They’re searching the beach. It isn’t until I’m at the bottom and starting toward the Sabathian side that a dark figure takes shape at the end. Fortunately, he’s well before the outcropping of rocks that used to hide us from the world. I’m not sure I could have dealt with those particular memories.
He doesn’t meet me halfway. No. He’s making me commit. But then, he always did. Jack understood that I wanted to please. His mission was to make me take a stand—which, of course, I did when Elizabeth couldn’t be found. Unfortunately, my stand wasn’t compatible with his.
His hands are under the tails of a tee, tucked in the pockets of his shorts. Arms, legs, and feet are all bare, all long and well-formed. This is not memory. This is fact.
I pass the firepit, which is a murky saucer in a field of dim sand. When I’m just close enough, I stop.You called?I might have quipped had our recent history not been so taut, but my insides are in a knot. I have no idea what to expect.
