Seashell Season (15 page)

Chapter 44

A
ll those years my daughter was scuttling around from town to town, house to apartment, school to school—I was told what little I knew by Soledad Valdes and the tidbits Gemma let slip here and there—I was hunkered down here in Yorktide, afraid to leave the place where I'd last seen Gemma, held fast by some superstition that if I just sat still and waited long enough, Gemma would find her way back home.

It can't have been easy on Gemma, living the kind of life she'd lived, changing schools so often, leaving friends behind—assuming she'd had time to make any friends, and assuming Alan, with his overprotective, stifling ways, had let her—but she hasn't complained to me about it, either because she really wasn't bothered too much by all the upheavals in her life or she just doesn't want to admit to me, of all people, that she was bothered. I'm still the enemy. I might always be the enemy, as unfair as that is—but does fairness have a place in this family dynamic? In this world? Was it fair that Gemma was a victim of kidnapping? No. Was it fair that I was left for seventeen years to suffer agonies of not knowing the fate of my only child? No.

I hope she likes the high school. I hope she makes friends there and does well in her classes. I hope so many good things for her. But I'm afraid good things won't happen unless she lets them. They often don't.

And what others think is a good thing for you sometimes just isn't.

At one point a therapist I was seeing—briefly, as it turned out—suggested I have another child. Aside from the near impossible to bear financial strain that would have meant, I was repulsed by the idea of trying to replace my child, and I said so. The therapist, a woman with two kids of her own, pointed out that having another baby wouldn't be replacing Gemma; it would be augmenting my life, helping my heart to heal. “When you are actively loving someone,” she said, “when you're caring for them, there's less time for grief and obsession with what's gone. You have a lot of love to give, Verity.”

“Do I?” I replied. “I feel empty inside.” And I did feel empty. And for a long time I also felt I didn't deserve to be happy, that I didn't deserve to do something for myself that might bring joy. Besides, what if I did have a baby and found that I was unable to love her? What then? I'd have destroyed yet another life because there's no way a child who is not really loved can be happy or successful. The whole idea was insupportable, and I stopped seeing that therapist shortly afterward. What did she know about grief, I thought, other than what the textbooks had told her? Had
she
had her child stolen from her?

In retrospect, of course, I realized my attitude had been immature. Every human being knows grief; it comes to us all in time, and most human beings have a healthy degree of empathy, too, so that they can feel another's pain to some degree, even if they haven't suffered the same wrongs. And in my more rational moments, I can readily admit that you really shouldn't try to quantify grief. To some, losing a friend is as devastating as losing a child; to some, losing a beloved pet qualifies as the worst pain they've ever had to endure. You have to have respect for the grief of others. At least, you should try to. Sometimes, that's not an easy thing.

I decided I needed to see David. I needed someone to hug me, to reassure me that things would be all right. To lie to me if necessary, tell me things were going to be all right.

Fighting down the guilty feeling that I was abandoning my daughter, I told Gemma I was going out on an errand.

“I'll be back within the hour,” I said, hoping she wouldn't ask where it was I was going.

And she said: “Whatever.”

Chapter 45

C
athy decided to show up at the house again. Dad hated when people would do that, just ring our bell or knock on the door, though not many people ever did. He would jump like a scalded cat (that's a gross expression—sorry I used it) and shoot me a look of fear or suspicion. It used to make me laugh sometimes. Now I know what he was expecting.

“You're here,” I said, meaning to be ironic or dry or something, but Cathy just smiled and said, “Yup.”

We went out to the deck, and I flopped down on my lounge. I thought that maybe I should ask her if she wanted something to drink—it was pretty hot—but then I thought, if she wants something, she could get it herself. I'm not a servant.

“So, what's going on?” she asked, leaning against the deck's wooden railing.

“Nothing.”

Cathy Strawberry was undeterred. “My mom told me you checked out the high school.”

“Yeah.”

“You'll like it there.”

I frowned. “You can't possibly know that.”

Cathy shrugged. “Well, no, but what I mean is that it's a good school. We've got a no tolerance for bullying policy, and we've gone two entire years without one incident. I think that's pretty impressive.”

I shrugged. I'm not worried about bullying. I'm worried about being stared at or worse, treated specially. The Little Kidnapped Girl.

“You're blocking my view,” I said.

“Oh.” Cathy left the railing and sat in the other lounge. “Sorry.” And then she sighed.

“What?” I asked, against my better judgment.

“It's nothing, really. Except that my father's being totally unreasonable about this trip to Boston I want to go on. It would be me and one of my friends and her cousin. Anyway, Hildy's cousin is eighteen and she'd be driving, and the plan is to go to a concert—you know the band Lash Out?—and stay overnight in a motel and come back the next day.”

“And?” I said. “What's the problem?”

“The problem is that my father won't let me go. He says I'm too young and that Sheila—that's Hildy's cousin—is also too young to be ‘in charge' of two fifteen-year-olds. Can you believe it? I mean, I'm a totally responsible person, and the concert tickets are only eighty dollars. We'd split the cost of the motel bill three ways, so that wouldn't cost too much. Anyway, he's being totally stubborn about it and—”

I kind of lost it then. “God,” I said angrily, “you have no idea how good you have it, do you? I can't believe you're complaining about not going on some stupid road trip. At least you
have
a father at home to give a crap. My father's in jail right now, remember? Prison. And he's probably not going to get out anytime soon.”

“He's in prison,” Cathy replied blandly, unfazed by my outburst, “because he broke the law.”

“He's in prison because he got caught.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew how ridiculous my “argument” was. “Anyway,” I added quickly, “it still stinks.”

But Cathy was having none of it. I have to say she's tougher than she looks. “He had to have known the risk he was taking when he stole that car,” she said, “especially after what he did to you and your mom. I can't feel sorry for him; I just can't. But I do feel sorry for you.”

And then it happened, that all too familiar surge of pure anger. “You're a self-righteous little bitch!” I cried. “I don't need your pity!”

Cathy, still unmoved or pretending to be, just sighed. “Then what
do
you need? What do you want? It's exhausting being around you sometimes, Marni.”

“Nobody's forcing you to stick around,” I snapped.

“You're right. I'm going home.”

I wasn't sorry to see her go. She had probably only come over because Verity asked her to. It's no secret Verity is very concerned with making me feel welcome here in Yorktide, and that means begging her friends to pretend to have an interest in me. And what makes Verity think I have any interest in
them
?

I know I can be combustible. That's a more acceptable way of saying I can be an ass. Where my father would sulk and act in a passive-aggressive way (hey, I love the man, but over time my eyes opened), where he would wheedle and whine, I would fling harsh words, slam doors, storm off. People are never left in any doubt as to my feelings. This is partly a good and partly a bad thing. You could say I'm an honest person, if brutally so. And you could also say I should grow up and learn some self-control. Both opinions would be justified. It's just that since my father's arrest, I've been having a really, really hard time keeping my temper in check and considering anybody's feelings but my own. Justifiable, I think. At least, understandable. But not always fun for the people around me. Problem is, I don't much care.

Still, thinking about it now, I don't feel I was entirely justified in lashing out at Cathy. No one chooses the people they grow up with. No one chooses to be born, for that matter. It's just an accident of luck—good luck or rotten luck—that you get the parents or the guardians you get. If you get any at all. Cathy doesn't deserve to be punished just because she lucked out with two totally normal, average, mildly annoying, kind of boring parents.

When Verity came home from her studio around five o'clock, she asked if I'd spent time with Cathy today. Of course she had probably arranged our little get-together, so she knew we would have seen each other, and now I wondered if Cathy had gone home and told her mother about our fight and if Annie had called Verity to complain about my behavior. The less said, I figured, the better.

“Yeah,” I said. “She came over for a while.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“It was okay. We don't have a lot in common.”

Verity sighed and I thought,
Wow, she looks genuinely sad about that, like it's somehow her fault Cathy's from Venus and I'm from Mars
. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I know it's stupid to assume that just because two people are the same sex and the same age, they're going to enjoy each other's company. I think that's only a guarantee with toddlers.”

I didn't know what to think. Maybe Cathy hadn't complained about me. Maybe she had and Verity didn't think my bad attitude was a big deal. “It's all right,” I said. “It doesn't matter.”

“Still, I wish I knew someone—”

“It doesn't matter,” I repeated. “I can find my own friends.”
If I want to
, I added silently.
And I'm not sure I do
.

Chapter 46

G
emma and I were in downtown Yorktide this afternoon. With more tourists than locals on the sidewalks now, we can enjoy at least a degree of anonymity. We were only greeted once, and that by Matilda Gascoyne, outside the bakery. Somewhere in her sixties, Matilda was dressed as she always is, in a pair of jeans, T-shirt, plaid shirt worn over it with the sleeves rolled up, her long gray hair in a braid down her back.

“Verity,” she said, “hello.”

“Matilda, how are you?”

“Can't complain,” she said with a brisk shake of her head. “Busy as usual now summer's here and the tourists are so kindly bringing their money to spend at the restaurant.”

Then I introduced Matilda to my daughter, though of course Matilda knew who she was.

“It's so good to see you here, Gemma,” she said, with not a trace of sickly sweet sympathy in her voice. The Gascoynes don't do sickly sweet anything. “I do hope you're adjusting to life in Yorktide. Things might seem a little dull at the moment, but just wait until the Fourth of July. Then the place will be hopping!”

Gemma managed a smile that seemed genuine enough.

“Well, must be off. Al's short staffed at the restaurant today, so I'm lending a hand.”

When she was out of earshot, Gemma said: “She was okay. Not like that other one.”

“Matilda Gascoyne is lovely. She's from one of the old families in town. Five, six generations of the Gascoynes have lived here, and I suspect they will until the end of time.”

“What was that about a restaurant?” Gemma asked.

“She and her husband own The Friendly Lobsterman, as well as a fish market. One of their sons also has a lobster boat. And like a lot of families around here with a good deal of land, they grow most of their own vegetables and keep some chickens for the eggs.”

“So they're farmers?”

“Yes.”

“Are they rich?”

“Interesting question,” I said. “I suspect they struggle as we all do. But I'd say they live a very good life.” I wondered if Gemma understood what I meant by that. I didn't want to insult her by asking.

We got into the car, and when we'd driven only a few yards, Gemma asked: “How did it happen? I mean, where were you when Dad took me?”

The question had come out of the blue—well, for me it had. Clearly, something had turned Gemma's mind to the past that is never gone and haunts us both.

“I was at work,” I said, eyes on the road. “You were at home with Barbara. She was the colleague you and I were living with at the time, just until I could find an affordable place on my own. She went out back to hang some laundry on the line. She was only gone a few minutes and when she got back, your crib was empty. She called me immediately.”

“Where's she now?” Gemma asked.

“She moved away not long after that. She was devastated by it all, the police questioning her, the publicity. She felt guilty. She felt scared, too, in retrospect. She kept thinking about what Alan might have done to her if she'd caught him in the act. In the end, she just couldn't take living here any longer.”

“Does she know I'm back?”

“Yes. She sent me an e-mail. Needless to say, she's thrilled. And she apologized for having abandoned me after the kidnapping. That was her word,
abandoned,
but really, all she was doing was saving her own sanity. See, shortly after you went missing, she asked me to move out. My being in her house was driving her mad. I went back for a while to the apartment I'd shared with Alan on Front Street. But not for long.”

“Would she come back, do you think, now that it's all over?”

“No. She's not ever coming back to Yorktide. She's made a life elsewhere.”

“Why didn't you ever leave?” Gemma asked.

I shook my head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I guess I thought it would be easier for you to find me if I stayed put. And over time I made a life for myself here, against all odds. Now I don't want to leave.”

“Did Dad have any friends here?”

That was another unexpected question.

“Not really,” I said. “There was one guy, Rob. They'd known each other in high school, I think.” What I didn't say was that Rob was one of those people who couldn't hold a job for more than a few weeks without getting fired for stealing from petty cash or forgetting to show up at all.

“Did he know Dad was going to leave town with me?”

“He swore not. He thought—”

“What?”

“He thought that what Alan did was wrong. He was angry with Alan. And he did offer to do what he could for me.” But what with being an alcoholic, that wasn't ever going to be much.

“Is he still around? Do you see him?”

“He died in a drunk-driving accident years ago. Sad to say, his death didn't come as a big surprise to anyone who knew him. He was always reckless.”

Gemma grunted. “I wonder why he was friends with Dad then,” she said. “He's the most cautious person I've ever known. He won't cross a street on the green light without looking both ways, like, three times.”

Cautious,
I thought,
or obsessive.
But I said nothing.

“Not that he'll be crossing any streets for a while.”

I glanced at Gemma, and she gave me a half smile. “Well,” she said, “he won't, will he?”