The Cottage at Glass Beach (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

T
he following day Nora headed toward Portakinney, on the coast road that wound along the cliffs. They were steeper here than at Cliff House, a guardrail the only protection against a plunge onto rocks below. A dirty-winged gull flew directly in front of the windshield, startling her with its agitated wing beats and cries. She was nervous about what lay ahead as it was, but she'd already made the call and said she was coming. She couldn't turn back now. She could put this one thing right—or try to.

She'd spoken to Alison's father, Liam Scanlon, the night before, asked if she could visit Maggie, and why.

“You don't have to do that,” he'd assured her. “I'm sorry she's been bothering you. She was never like this before.”

“It's the least I can do. Maybe it will help put her mind at rest.”

“It's not your problem. Whatever it was, is in the past.”

“For her, it doesn't seem to be.”

“No, it doesn't,” he agreed, a weariness in his voice. “It's funny the things she fixates on. The other day she got worked up about the rain. The rain—it's not as if there's anything that can be done about that. She thought it was attacking her. I don't know how much longer we can care for her here, but I can't bear to send her away. She's my mother, after all.”

“I can't imagine what it must be like for you.”

“I wish we couldn't, either. But life doesn't always present us with the easiest path, her especially, poor woman.”

No, Nora thought, it didn't.

He gave her directions: “Go a half mile north of the village, take the third right, inland. Look for a cottage at the top of the hill, behind the wooden gate.”

Nora stopped for a cup of coffee at Joe to Go—even the island had an espresso stand—not so much for a caffeine fix but because she was procrastinating. She stole a look at her face in the rearview mirror, wiping a stray flake of mascara from beneath her eye. She glanced at her watch. She didn't want to be too early.

She sat there for a moment in her parking space, watching the world of Portakinney, such as it was, pass by. Cis McClure gave her a nod as he muscled a cask through the front door of the bar. Dec Connelly ambled past, looking right at her. She froze as their eyes met. But he didn't appear to recognize her. He was just a kid, really, early twenties at most. She could see that now, in the light of day.

She took one last sip of coffee before setting out, leaving the town behind. Close-set dwellings gave way to rolling fields and headlands, a flock of sheep or the occasional cow ambling over the grass. Ten minutes later she passed a stocky brown horse, which regarded her with a woeful expression as it nibbled at the oats in its paddock, then a pile of broken glass by the side of the road, where someone must have either thrown a bottle or crashed into the low retaining wall that ran along the length of the property.

She took the appointed turn, the butterflies in her stomach multiplying. Up the incline she went, through a stand of glowering pines, then onward through more open country, bypassing an oak tree, a tire swing suspended on the lowest bough, the sky visible through the ring. The house stood beyond. She pulled up to the entrance and killed the engine. The house was similar to the cottage at Glass Beach, but larger, the door painted kelly green, echoing the color of the moss growing on the roof. Fishing nets were draped along the fence line of an enclosed garden, where green tomatoes and beans hung on the vine, yellow nasturtiums brightening the scene. A truck was parked to the right, the front bumper mangled where Maggie must have gone headfirst into the ditch, Alison's Capri alongside. Nora was glad she was there.

The curtains stirred. Alison waved from the window. She opened the door and came out to greet her. “Welcome to Casa Scanlon.”

“It's lovely.” The views of the rugged north coast were stunning.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Alison asked as they walked up the path.

Nora nodded.

Liam and his wife, Rita, stepped out onto the porch. He was a bear of a man with scarred fisherman's hands and graying hair shaved close; his wife, dark-haired and slender. “Come in, come in.” They motioned her inside.

Rita excused herself to retrieve a tray from the kitchen. Nora sat down on a blue velvet chair that made her think of Maire; Alison and Liam on a gray couch with lace panels draped over the arms, opposite. An oil painting of the dockyards was displayed over the mantel.

“Ma made that,” Liam said. “Maybe that's where our Ali gets her artistic ability.”

“Does your mother still paint?” Nora asked.

He shook his head. “She ends up frustrated—punched her fist through the canvas of a landscape we tried to get her to work on. ‘That's what I see,' she said. ‘That's what I see!' ”

“Or there was that time she painted herself,” Alison said.

“Don't remind me. Red paint. I thought she was bleeding to death.” He shook his head. “Her cackling away like a creature in a horror film. At least she had a sense of humor that day.”

Rita brought out a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and biscuits. “Would you like something to drink?”

Nora nodded, casting a glance around the room as she took a sip from the cup, burning her tongue. Maggie was nowhere in sight.

“I'm glad to have the chance to meet you,” Liam said. “Normally, I'd be off fishing with the boys if I hadn't hurt my back last week.”

“I'm glad too.”

“Ali has talked so much about you,” Rita said.

“Good things, I hope.” Nora smiled.

“The very best. We don't get many visitors here, not like some of the other islands.”

There was an awkward pause, during which Nora heard coughing from behind a door at the end of the hallway off the main room. “Maybe I should see her, before I lose my nerve.”

“Of course,” Liam said.

“I hope I don't upset her.”

She noticed the shadows under his eyes, registering to some small degree the toll the illness was taking on the family.

Alison led the way. “She's been quiet today. That's a good sign.” She pushed open the door.

Maggie sat in a chair by the window, staring at the distant ocean. The sky was bleached the palest shade of blue.

“She can sit like that for hours, sometimes,” Alison whispered. “She doesn't move at all.”

The walls of Maggie's room were a warm white, the faded quilt patched together from swatches of green florals and ginghams. Two throw pillows, embroidered with sprays of roses, lay on the bed, a well-loved, mildewed white rabbit, missing an eye, perhaps from Maggie's childhood, in the center. There were photos on a bulletin board, fastened with tape rather than pins, Nora supposed, to lessen the chance of Maggie hurting herself. The picture frames on the light pine desk—of Maggie and her husband, her children when they were young, her grandchildren—had no glass. It was a simple yet warm room, timeless in its way; the room of a child or an old woman, depending upon the day.

“Gran, someone is here to see you.” Alison touched Maggie's shoulder.

Maggie looked up at her, eyes clouded with suspicion. “Who are you?”

“It's Alison, Gran.”

Maggie stared at her, uncomprehending, before turning back to the window with a dismissive grunt.

“Sometimes it's like this,” Alison told Nora matter-of-factly. “Don't take it personally. I'll give it another try.” She touched Maggie's shoulder again. “Gran, you have a visitor.”

“Hello, Maggie.” Nora took a deep breath and stepped forward. She pulled a box from her purse. Inside was the corsage.

Maggie squinted at her for a moment, then widened her eyes. “You've come to see me,” Maggie said. “You never come to see me.”

“I have a present for you.” Nora handed her the box.

“A present?” She cradled it in her palm.

“Something that should have been given to you a long time ago,” Nora explained.

Maggie opened the package.

“For me,” Maggie said, eyes brimming with tears. “For me.”

T
he Scanlons invited her to stay for dinner, but she'd told Polly she'd be back in time for her to return to town for her bridge night. She promised to visit with the girls another time. Even the sky seemed particularly benevolent that evening as she drove down-island, washed, as it was, with a warm glow. Swallows swooped ahead, as if leading the way. The boats steamed into the harbor after a long day's work, beeping their horns in greeting, the lights of Portakinney flicking on as dusk approached.

She zoomed along the cliffs, the windows down, wind in her hair, the tang of salt, as always, in the air. She passed the turnoff to the church and the berry fields, then, eventually, Cliff House. She felt a pang of sadness at the thought of her aunt, no longer there.

She parked next to Polly's red mail van. Inside, she found her and the girls wrapping up an intense game of gin rummy. “Ella is quite the card shark,” Polly said as Ella lay down her cards in triumph yet again.

“One more round?” Ella asked.

“Not on your life. I hope I have better luck with bridge tonight.” She played in a league in town. Maire did too, or used to. “I'll have to scoot, or I'll be late.” She promised to teach Ella how to play another day.

Nora walked Polly to her car.

“How did it go?” Polly asked.

“Better than I expected.”

“I'm glad to hear that. The past can't be undone, but that doesn't mean we can't try to make things better.”

“Thank you for watching the girls.”

“Any time. Don't hesitate to ask. They're lovely. I hope you'll consider me an honorary auntie,” she said, biting her lip, perhaps thinking of Maire.

“Always.” Nora gave her a hug. “Good luck tonight.”

“I'll need it. It's not the same without Maire.” She'd had to find another partner, but no one could take Maire's place.

Polly had made a pot of chicken soup and biscuits for dinner. Nora was grateful for the extra help. She was exhausted after the long afternoon and didn't feel like cooking. She dished up the food and motioned the girls to the table. “Soup's on.”

“What's the green stuff?” Ella asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Seaweed, probably. It's good for you,” Annie said.

“It's kale,” Nora said, “from Maire's garden. You don't mind kale.”

“I mind a lot of things.”

“Where did you go again?” Annie asked Nora.

“To try to straighten things out with Maggie Scanlon.”

“Did you?”

“I think so.”

“What about straightening things out with Dad?” Ella asked.

Not that again. Nora made an effort to keep her voice even. “We're working on it.”

“It doesn't seem like it.”

Walk away, Nora told herself. She didn't want to argue with Ella. She got up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Ella asked.

“To get a sweater. I'm cold.” A headache pulsed at her temples. Then she spotted the suitcase—Ella's case, fully packed, outside the bedroom door. She hadn't noticed it before. “What's this?” she asked.

“For when we're going,” Ella said. “We are going, aren't we?”

“We're not going anywhere. By the time I come out of this room, I expect to see that bag—and its contents—back where they belong.”

“Where they belong, huh? That would be in Boston.”

“You know what I mean.”

Nora slammed the bedroom door. She hadn't meant to. Well, maybe she had. She sat down in front of the mirror. She'd looked different, transformed, when Owen was there. Because she'd been desired. Because she'd been seen. Now she looked tense and dull. Make your own happiness, she admonished herself. Keep it together.

And she had been happy. There, on the island. With or without Owen, whoever he was, whatever he was. Surely, it wasn't possible . . .

She'd caught her mother sitting there, like this, when she thought no one was looking, a haunted expression on her face.

“Is something wrong, Mama?” she'd asked.

What had been the nature of Maeve's unhappiness? Nora couldn't be sure.

She opened the door. She'd heard movement outside. The case was still there, taunting her. “El, I told you—” When she turned to confront her, she saw pages curling in the fireplace: the separation papers, too late to save them from the flames. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Now you'll have to go back to Boston.”

“No, I won't. I don't need your father's papers. I'll be filing my own.” She paused, letting the news sink in. “You, however, are going to go straight to your room.”

Chapter Twenty-three

T
he book of fairy tales fell to the floor, waking Annie in the middle of the night. She'd been reading it under the bedcovers and had fallen asleep. An imprint from one of the embossed letters was tattooed on her hand, a Gothic
A
, from where she had pressed her weight against it, dreaming. She traced the shape with her fingers. It was as if the book had begun to spell her name. As she reached down to retrieve the collection, she saw Ella climbing out the window. Their eyes met, a telegraphed question in the silence.
Are you coming?
Annie put on her coat and boots. She brought Siggy too. He'd already been left behind once.

As they entered the darkened world outside the cottage, moonlight shone on the water in a long, glimmering streak, lighting the way. Down the path they went, to the beach, always to the beach.

Ella tugged the coracle across the sand. “Are you still the first mate?”

“Yes. Why are you moving the boat?”

“Because we're going home.”

“But you've hardly packed anything.”

“We need to travel light. Mom will bring the rest, once she comes to Boston.”

Annie got in. What else could she do? She wished Ronan were there, so that she could say good-bye. Or had he already moved on, like Owen, the two of them together at last? In any case, she couldn't let Ella go alone. Ella didn't know the ocean like she did. They paddled to the mouth of the cove. The seals were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they were sleeping; perhaps they'd left for better fishing grounds. She and Ella had never been out this far before, not alone. The porch light of the cottage was growing smaller by the second. “Did you leave a note?” she asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“So she won't worry. She's going to worry.”

“She doesn't care about us. She only cares about herself.”

“That's not true.”

The boat seemed to move of its own volition, the waves taking control.

“You have to paddle harder,” Ella said. “Veer left. South.”

“To the horse platitudes?”

Ella laughed. “It's horse latitudes. You should consider getting a degree in malapropisms when you go to college.”

“Maybe I will,” Annie said with a touch of pride. “I brought this.” She handed her the compass.

“You little thief,” Ella said with admiration. “Well done.”

O
nward they went, into the night. Annie didn't know how much time had elapsed. It passed slowly in the channel, the currents holding them back. It was as if the island didn't want to let them go. Ella said they couldn't give up—no matter how much their hands blistered and their arms ached. She'd told Annie what they'd do when they made landfall in Boston: borrow a sailor's or dockworker's phone, call their father's number, and tell him to come get them. He would be surprised and proud of their accomplishment. He would see how much they loved him, the lengths to which they'd go. He would take them out to dinner, Chinese, their favorite, and they would read their fortunes, which would predict only good things, and they would say whatever they wanted and have the worst table manners ever, because their mother wouldn't be there to correct them.

“What about Mama?” Annie asked.

“What about her?”

The water turned black and viscous as oil, muttering to itself as it slapped at the boat, slaps that rocked them sideways, the waves rising.

“A storm is coming,” Annie said. “Remember what Reilly said? That the sea is unpredictable. The weather can change in an instant. You can smell it on the wind.”

“The only thing I smell is you.”

A wave came out of nowhere, swamping the boat. “Bail!” Ella cried. They used two plastic buckets in which Maire had once gathered honey, to no avail. The coracle climbed up the side of a wave, crested, slid down another, each more precipitous than the last. The waves rose higher. A sea serpent, Annie thought, lashing its tail. The roar grew louder; they could barely hear each other.

“We have to meet the waves head-on, otherwise we'll capsize,” Ella shouted.

The ocean altered its tactics, coming at them with sneaker waves, rogues, front- and broadside assaults, and then a spiral. Annie felt it first. “We're going down the drain,” she said.

“No!”

“The sea's not listening. It gets to decide.” Annie almost liked that her sister wasn't going to get her way for once, that there was something bigger than her, than all of them. Than their father and mother and the difficulties they'd been through. The whirlpool pulled the girls into a canyon of water. She wondered where it would end. How long she would be able to watch before it engulfed them. It was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen, a city of water, towers all around. She blew on the shell, as Ronan had told her. It was the only thing she could do. Someday had arrived.

A chute opened up ahead, sending them into the air, the coracle flipping. Ella screamed as they hit the water, blackness all around. Up. Which way was up? If Annie had gills, she could live there, beneath the waves; she could make the ocean her home. Then she felt, rather than heard, the boat come down overhead, and she swam toward it, that dark shape against the darker night. She surfaced, sputtering, one hand on the rope. Ella. Where was Ella? She glimpsed the orange life jacket, her sister floating. She pulled her toward the upside-down boat, slapped her hard across the face. “Wake up! Wake up!” Ella didn't stir. She put her face next to hers. Yes, she was alive. She was breathing.

Ella blinked and stared about her with uncomprehending eyes. “Where's the boat?”

“Here. It's upside down. You have to hold on to the side.” There were two rings on the front, for the rope, once used to tie it up.

“We'll get hypothermia. The water's cold. We won't last.”

“Remember the story we read with Mama, about the man whose boat sank, and he floated in the ocean for days? He stayed warm by the power of his thoughts, like the monks in Tibet, who meditate in the snow.” Her teacher, Ms. Kelly, had told the class about them.

“The time for playing pretend is over. Don't you understand? We could die.” Ella's teeth chattered.

“Do you feel that?”

“I can't feel anything. I'm going numb.”

“It's the current. It's carrying us somewhere. Fast.”

“That somewhere better be land. I'm sleepy. I'm taking a nap.”

“No. Stay awake. You have to stay awake.” Annie shook her.

Ella closed her eyes, the waves rocking, rocking.

How would their story end? It was as if they were within the pages of the book of fairy tales, living the very words they'd been reading. Would their mother pick up the collection and find them there—the scene illustrated in color plates? The old-fashioned words describing their ordeal, telling how Annie was doing her best to be brave and strong, though she was only seven? Especially in the sea that dwarfed anyone and anything that dared sail upon it.

They hadn't asked permission. Was that the problem? Ella should have known better than to trespass upon the waves.

“I'm sorry,” Annie whispered. “We should have asked first. We didn't mean any harm. Please protect us. You have it within your power to keep us safe.”

She was tired, so tired. She fought against sleep, eyelids fluttering, open, closed, the sea a seesaw, sea-saw. She smiled at the pun. She'd have to tell Ella . . .

It was as if she were sliding under the waves.

Stay awake
, she told herself.

Someone had to. Someone had to watch over them, to make sure nothing bad happened. To keep the sea monsters at bay—she knew they were out there, gnashing their teeth, sharpening their claws. How could they not be, when two small girls had entered their territory? Two small girls, seasoned quite nicely by the salt of the sea.

But there were good creatures too, weren't there? The good and the bad and the in-between, in the ocean, as on land. If there was anything Annie had learned in the past few weeks, it was that—in Boston and here on the island too.

Stay
—

Then she too lost consciousness, the ocean claiming her at last.