Updrift (2 page)

Her mom told her she wasn’t sure what compelled her to call but she maintained the call saved them. “All we have here is connected to your dad, Kate. I can’t escape the grief in this place, and I can’t live with this grief anymore.

“I have to try. We need something new.” Kate had nodded solemnly and laid her head against her mom’s leg, not really understanding but wanting to comfort her.

She went along to Griffins Bay for the interview, sitting quietly with her books and doll on a bench outside an office while her mother learned the specifics of her new job on the other side of the door. It was March there and warmer than back home. The air was different too, not the hard, dry force of nature that swept across the fields surrounding their little town in Kansas, but fresher and definitely wet. This place smelled new to Kate, exciting. She felt hopeful for the first time she could remember.

Her grandparents cried when Cara told them they were moving, but they supported her decision to leave. Grandma Mary held her mom’s face in her hands when she told her, “There’s nothing for you here, Cara. We know that. You take this chance to be happy. Just bring Kate back from time to time so she can remember her old grandma and grandpa in Kansas.”

Her mother cried the first three hours of the two-day drive, but as they left the flat, plowed plains of home, her sadness faded. By the end of the first day of travel she smiled at Kate and made light conversation. They stayed at a hotel that let them make their own waffles for breakfast, which Kate thought was the best. “My little trooper.” Her mom brushed her cheek with her palm. “We’re starting a wonderful new adventure together, aren’t we?” Kate returned her mother’s smile. “I think so, Mama.”

The first few weeks after their move passed at an easy enough pace which persuaded Cara she could make it as a single parent with no one she knew close by. They’d come in May and she didn’t have to start work until June meaning they spent unhurried, constant hours together at the beach or café or movie theater, all unprecedented freedoms she wouldn’t have enjoyed even a month earlier. She was revitalized and interested in what she was doing for the first time in years, but distrusted her reprieve from despair, that it would last. She had been too profoundly lost since her husband’s accident, her emotions too buried for them to feel anything but strange and unstable outside the context of sadness. Here though she woke each day with tentative optimism, willing to contemplate new engagements with anticipation. She nursed a small hope she might finally be recovered.

Her daughter’s resilience bolstered this hope because she so quickly demonstrated signs of thriving in their new place. After their first week—during which Kate enjoyed too many treats, too little structure, and more time with her mother than Cara had ever been able to give her—she remarked, “North Carolina is a
way
better place to live than Kansas.”

With the cash she had from the sale of George’s business, she purchased a house in Childress, a town with more affordable real estate ten miles inland from Griffins Bay. Both she and Kate would have to commute to work and school but the house was worth it—small and picturesque, butter yellow with black shutters, dormers over the upper windows, and a spacious yard with a garden outside the back door. Someone, a long time ago, had put a tire swing on what was now an immense hickory tree in the front. To Cara, the place was a storybook idyll.

The burden of grief she had carried the previous two years continued to lighten as the days passed. Dana helped her scrub every surface in the house and paint the walls with warm, vibrant colors. She found discounted vegetable plants at the local nursery, which she promised Kate she would coax into a bounty harvest in the garden area out back. She indulged her daughter in a garishly bright yellow and pink color scheme for her bedroom, adding cheerful pillows and fabric accents of every pattern imaginable. The result was an exquisitely pretty, charmingly jumbled little girl’s room. Cara knew what she was doing and was proud of herself. Kate, too, was impressed.

*

And Kate was impressed with their new home, her new room, and all her mother’s fresh demonstrations of competence since leaving Kansas. She felt as if her mother had freed her from something awful, like she’d been bound in baling wire from her grandfather’s old shed, and Cara had snipped her out of it using bolt cutters. Her mother was finally someone she remembered, someone she’d badly missed. She drank in their contentment until she was full from it, and then reached for another glass.

Their final, and to her mind, most profound transformation occurred in the kitchen. In her depression which comprised the whole of Kate’s conscious memory, Cara had relied on a small cadre of prepackaged dinner options to sustain them. She had no appetite and no will to cook during the time following her father’s death, so she didn’t. Kate became an unenthusiastic eater when presented with the mushy, overly salted or tasteless options she was consistently served, so both of them came to regard mealtime as an unpleasant chore. Following a few days of scrubbing out cupboards and organizing pans and utensils, however, her mother made a dinner that changed Kate’s outlook on mealtime forever.

It was roast chicken. Kate came downstairs, drowsy from an afternoon nap, to investigate the irresistible smells coming from the kitchen. Cara seemed again like she had
not
been crying, which was becoming the new norm since they’d come to Childress. The bread maker was out on the counter, perfuming the air with its toasty aroma. The sharper smells of onion, garlic and lemon provided their own compelling undertone, and the whole package of scents put Kate in a happy trance.

“Hi, honey,” her mom said. “Wanna help me make supper?”

“Sure!” She slid a chair over to the sink.

Kate watched dubiously while her mom put a chicken in a roaster, seasoned it, and added lemon and onion to the cavity. She held out a sprig of something green for Kate to sniff.

She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like a Christmas tree.”

“It’s rosemary,” Cara laughed placing the sprig inside the bird.

While the chicken roasted she helped her mother set the table, something they never did. Cara put on some music, and they played cards, her mom smiling diabolically when she told her, “Go fish,” before laying down her hand. Kate had never seen her mother so lighthearted.

The chicken, which made such a dubious impression raw, eventually smelled too good to be true. After filling their plates they ate silently, savoring every bite, contentment settling over them like one of her grandfather’s evening prayers. Cara had glazed the carrots with brown sugar, and Kate demanded seconds. She used the buttermilk bread from the bread machine to sop up every last morsel and finally, after she could eat no more, rested against the back of her chair and sighed. She couldn’t remember a better dinner at home, nor could she recall a happier time with her mother.

* * * *

Kate knew she was responsible for making them late to Gabe’s party, but she needed to review
all
the options at the store to be sure she brought the perfect gift. Her mother had tried to hurry her by picking out part of their present—a pail and shovel for the beach. Kate selected plastic sea creatures to bury in a nest of shredded paper, refusing to rush. She was determined to delight her new and only friend.

They were the last to arrive, which was no big deal in her opinion, certainly not worth the irritation her mother and aunt had expressed since leaving the store.

“Thank God for all these adults,” Dana murmured and then sped toward a group of grown-ups standing by the table.

Gabe tore around the corner wielding an inflatable shark as big as he was. “Hi, Kate! I was waiting for you. We can play in the sand but Mom says we can’t swim today.” Carmen was right behind him.

“That’s right,” Carmen said sternly. “There’s too much going on today to watch you kids in the water.” Gabe regarded his mother as if she was nuts while Cara cast her grateful smile.

“You let me go out on my own all the time!” Gabe protested. Then to Kate, “She’s not making any sense.”

Carmen’s glare at her son should have blistered him. “Gabriel Jonathon Blake, I do no such thing.” She leaned down to whisper something in his ear. Gabe was subdued but still irritated when she’d finished. “Fine. But can Kate and I go play now?”

“Let’s introduce them to people first honey; did you have trouble finding us, Cara?”

“Not a bit,” her mother replied. “Here. I know you didn’t need us to bring anything but I’ve been baking.” She handed Carmen a plate of cookies.

Carmen peeked under the wrapper and grinned. “Thank you. I love my treats and I’m sure these are yummy. Let’s drop them off where they’ll be safe, and then I’ll show you around.”

They went into the kitchen and Cara’s mouth fell open as she saw three children between the ages of two and four sitting at the table. “Um, are they eating
sushi
?”

Carmen avoided Cara’s eyes. “Why, yes! Kids will eat anything if they’re encouraged.”

The children really were eating raw fish and seaweed, as if these were their favorite things in the world to munch on. Carmen hurried to usher the two of them away but her mother continued to stare over her shoulder. “I couldn’t get my daughter to eat fish sticks,” she murmured.

“So, you mentioned Kate’s birthday is coming up. When’s the big day?” She winked at Kate.

“June thirteenth,” Kate answered. “Mom says I can make the cake.”

“Hey!” Gabe exclaimed. “That’s my real birthday too!” And they jumped up and down singing, “We have the same birthday! We have the same birthday!” Carmen regarded them with bright intensity for several seconds before leading the group to the living room. They approached a threesome of adults and two teenagers.

“This is my husband, Michael, and my brother-in-law, Samuel, and his wife, Anna, who you met on the beach. And these are their sons, Simon and Aiden.” Carmen linked her arms lightly around her husband’s waist. “This is Cara and little Kate. Cara’s sister, Dana, is over talking to the Mattegins.” Everyone shook hands and a couple of the adults rumpled Kate’s hair. “Cara and Kate just moved here,” Carmen offered. The adults talked about where Cara and Kate had lived in Kansas and what brought them to Griffins Bay.

Kate stared at the group with open curiosity—which, had Cara noticed, would have earned her a scolding her for being rude. With his fine features and dark hair, Gabe most resembled his father but he had his mother’s eyes. Simon and Aiden could have been twins; both were blond and tanned and wore wild expressions. All of them, including Carmen, had a vague glow about them—hair, skin, and eyes—Kate noticed. Nothing overt but they shared a physical vitality she found distinctive and beautiful.

She surveyed the room and noticed other guests with these features, which caused her to conclude they were all related. Not that anyone would have noticed this similarity; the most apparent quality was every adult male wore as far as she could tell, the same glasses. Dark, rectangular frames with heavy lenses distorting their eyes. Lenses that reminded her of her grandfather and his friends except none of these people were as old as her grandfather.

She heard her aunt’s voice, tinged with exasperation on the other side of the room. “Is
everyone
here a marine biologist, then?” As if on cue her mother inquired what the adults in their little group did when not attending birthday parties.

“I’m a marine biologist,” Michael replied.

“And I’m a marine biologist too,” Samuel added. “I teach at the university in Sommerset.” He nudged the boys on either side of him. “These two are still in high school. Carmen’s the only career rebel in the group.” He smiled at her.

“So, you’re
not
a marine biologist?” her mother commented wryly.

“Geneticist,” Carmen replied. “I freelance from home, writing and reviewing scientific articles mostly. And I’m not technically even a rebel. I studied marine biology as an undergrad. How did you come to be our town librarian, Cara?”

When they were finally allowed to wander off and play with the other children, they didn’t, choosing instead to hide under a big table covered by a tablecloth and keep to themselves. They were quiet so no one would disturb them as they pretended they swam again, recreating their race through the seaweed forest as if they were the fastest, most agile creatures in the ocean.

Kate and Cara’s home life settled into a pleasing and comfortable rhythm revolving around the garden, cooking, and Cara’s job at the library. They made substantial dinners on the weekends and twisted the leftovers into simple but satisfying meals during the week with very little fuss, a pattern Kate soon adopted and followed without help. The roast chicken she’d enjoyed became chicken sandwiches the day after, and chicken soup the day after that. She loved cooking with her mother, which led to gardening with her as she was sent out for herbs or a leek or carrot. She initially asked what something was or if it was ready to eat, but she soon became a proficient helper.

Their gardening habit attracted conversation and local growing advice—and ultimately friendship—from neighbors out for a stroll. One afternoon when her mother was reading to her on the front steps, a frazzled, buxom woman with three daughters stopped at the sidewalk leading to their house. They were carrying a basket and a tray of plants.

“Hello, there!” the woman called cheerily. “Are you the new owners? We live down the street, and we’ve come to introduce ourselves. I’m Alicia Wilkes.”

Her mother rose from the steps to greet them, wiping her hands on her shirttails. Kate hid behind her legs as the quartet approached. “I’m Cara Sweeting, and this is my daughter, Kate. I’m afraid I’ve been in the garden this morning and my hands aren’t clean enough to shake.”

“Neither are mine!” Alicia laughed and showed her hands, which sported the same green-stained fingertips her mom had.

“Oh well, in that case,” Cara grinned, extending her hand. Kate gawked at their pretty visitors, keenly interested in their freckles, curly hair, and matching sundresses.