The Sound of Glass (15 page)

“So what would be the point? It’s a waste of time. Don’t you have any zinc oxide?”

Loralee sighed inwardly, wondering whether David had ever
complained that much to Michelangelo while he was being sculpted. “I have a wonderful foundation that’s moisturizer and sunscreen. You’ll need sunscreen to go out on the boat.” She glanced down at Merritt’s pale legs and arms. “Actually, we’ll need to stop by a drugstore to get you some pretty strong SPF for your body. And probably a hat. Have you ever been in the sun before?”

Merritt crossed her arms and looked so much like her little brother that Loralee almost laughed. “I’m from Maine. My sun exposure was . . . limited.”

“That’s why your skin looks like porcelain, and I’m trying to keep it that way by using the right products.”

Merritt stood and crossed the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room so I can change.”

“Don’t be silly,” Loralee said. “It’ll be quicker if you do it here. I promise I won’t look.”

Merritt seemed to consider it for a moment before heading toward the closet and pulling open the door so she could stand behind it. First a skirt was thrown out from behind the door, and then the hateful beige blouse. “I don’t know what game you and Gibbes are playing by dragging me out on a boat. You both know I’m afraid of water, and I suspect you know why.”

Loralee straightened, dumping several tubes and bottles on the dressing table. “I would never make anybody do something I thought wasn’t the right thing to do. Besides, you could have said no.”

It was silent behind the closet door, and Loralee could picture Robert’s stubborn jaw in his daughter’s face jutting out to show how riled up she was. They were so much alike that it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anybody who knew them how they could have remained estranged for so many years. If Loralee had known it then, she would have dared Robert to never see Merritt again and they would most likely have been on the next flight to Maine.

Merritt came out from behind the door, pulling and tugging at her clothes like they were covered in fleas. “I don’t think this fits.”

The sleeveless top was in a soft sky blue that looked lovely against Merritt’s dark hair. The smooth knit skimmed over her slim body, hugging where it was supposed to. The shorts were the most conservative ones Loralee owned, purchased for Boy Scout events, where the other mothers didn’t seem to appreciate any other clothing choices Loralee had previously worn. They were navy blue and cuffed at the hem, hitting midthigh and showing off Merritt’s long, slender—and appallingly white—legs.

“It fits you just fine. Now come over here so I can put something on your face so you don’t get sunburned.”

Merritt crossed her arms. “No. I’ll stop by a drugstore and get a hat and a high-SPF lotion I can put on my face and body. That’s all I need.”

Loralee didn’t smile with relief at the discovery that the girl with opinions Robert had told her about was still inside Merritt somewhere. Instead she just nodded, then led the way to the door.

“Won’t I need a sweater out on the water? This shirt doesn’t have any sleeves.”

Loralee didn’t even pause. “I promise you that you won’t need a sweater. Not until October, most likely.”

Loralee kept walking, knowing that Merritt would follow her, just as she knew Owen would figure out how a LEGO model was put together no matter how many times he threw it against the floor because it was wrong.

The children were in the front yard when they came down, and Gibbes was in the foyer with his head bent over his cell phone, typing a message. He glanced up and his eyes got that look Loralee remembered from her flying days, when she brought a scotch and soda to a first-class passenger without being asked. “Oh,” he said.

Merritt plucked at her blouse. “Loralee says I won’t need a sweater.”

“No.”

Merritt didn’t seem to notice that Gibbes was acting like he’d fallen out of the stupid tree, hitting every branch on the way down, and Loralee figured it was probably a good thing. Merritt had enough on her mind right then.

“I’ll get the picnic basket,” Merritt said, her voice hopeful, like she was looking forward to carrying the basket in front of her as some kind of barrier.

Gibbes cleared his throat. “It’s already in my truck.” He moved to the door and held it open while Merritt grabbed her pocketbook from the hall table.

Loralee paused as she stared out into the new day, the river golden in the morning light, glassy and bright like a promise. She hoped Merritt felt that, too: that each morning should always feel like a promise regardless of where you’d been the day before. She remembered the safety training she’d received as a flight attendant, how if they found themselves in water to roll on their backs and lead with their feet so they could see where they were going instead of where they’d been. She’d always thought that was a good way to approach life, too.

“We need to talk about the attic,” Gibbes said to Merritt.

She frowned up at him. “Not today. I can only handle one scary thing per day.”

She said it seriously, but the corner of his mouth turned up. “Me, too.”

Loralee grabbed her own purse from the hall table and followed Merritt out the door, wishing she could tell her what she’d written in her journal that morning as she was thinking about her coming out on the river that day.
You are stronger than you think.
She couldn’t, of course. Most people just needed to figure that out on their own.

She joined everybody out on the porch, pausing a moment to catch her breath, and waiting for the sound of the door closing behind her.

MERRITT

I
could have said no. I had once been a young girl who’d grown into a young woman with opinions and a strong will, both of which the years had leached from my bones, an embalming of the spirit. But I still could have said no.

Maybe it was Owen’s obvious pleas that had made me agree to go along. I knew he’d been prompted by Loralee, or Gibbes, or maybe both, making me curious as to their motive. Or it could have been the memory of my father gently suggesting a family beach vacation, and my mother’s stubborn refusal to revisit a part of her unhappy childhood she wanted left in the shoe box of photos she kept under her bed. A perverse part of me wanted to find out whether our fear was genetic, something I’d inherited along with her dark hair and slender feet. Mostly, I thought, I wanted to prove Cal wrong in
his belief that all fears are permanent, that, like bone fractures, they will heal but leave a hairline shadow.

But I could have said no.

Gibbes drove his Explorer with Loralee in the front seat and Owen, me, and Maris in the back. I’d insisted on the seating arrangement as soon as I realized that we would have to drive over the river to get to Lady’s Island, where Gibbes lived. I knew only that his house was on the marsh, and he had a dock, and that Lady’s Island had once been the home of large agricultural plantations before the Civil War—although Loralee had called the war something else. She might have said more, but I’d stopped listening, too intent on watching her toddle on incredibly high heels as we walked toward Gibbes’s SUV.

Where I’d lived inland in Maine, bridges hadn’t really been an issue. I didn’t travel far, and when I did, I would go to great lengths to avoid them. But there in the Lowcountry, the land seemed borrowed from the ocean. With strips of islands separated by creeks and salt marshes, avoiding bridges would be like avoiding snow in Maine in January.

Before my decision to move to Beaufort, I’d gone to the box of books I’d inherited from my maternal grandmother, who’d moved inland when my mother died to take care of me when my father was flying, and had died when I was in college. She was quiet, not unlike my mother, but always wore an aura of wariness, always overly cautious around strangers, events, and emotions. Which was why I’d been surprised to find that she owned a AAA South Carolina travel guide and road map. In all the years I’d known her, she’d never expressed any interest in knowing what might exist outside the small corner of her New England world. I’d felt ashamed, as if I’d never really bothered to know her. But then, she’d never offered, deflecting my questions with a dismissive flick of her wrist. It wasn’t until after I’d married Cal that I began to realize that we rarely really know everything about those whose lives we share.

I’d spread open the map of South Carolina across my kitchen
table as if seeing the land itself would make my undertaking somehow real. As if by following red and blue highways with my fingers, crossing bridges, and driving alongside vast bodies of water, I was as good as gone. I was my mother’s daughter, after all. By her own admission she wasn’t a great cook, but an adequate one who surprised herself every once in a while with a flash of genius. Her recipe box was filled with minute, step-by-step instructions on how to make even the most basic item. It was her road map in the unfamiliar territory of the kitchen, just as my map would guide me through an even more foreign place.

I sat in the middle between Maris and Owen, listening to Loralee and Gibbes talking about fishing, something they were apparently both familiar with, having grown up by the coast, and Maris’s constant question bombardment aimed at a desultory Owen. He responded by narrating a litany of random facts that he’d either found interesting and wanted to share, or that were his way of dealing with being so close to Maris. I focused on the bright bows on Maris’s flip-flops, aware of Gibbes’s SUV heading toward the bridge and not wanting to know exactly when we’d get there.

If I were to live there, I knew I couldn’t avoid driving over bridges forever, but I was glad it was Gibbes behind the wheel instead of me. A therapist had shown me how to use breathing techniques and helpful thoughts to manage the few times I’d had to navigate a small bridge back home. I’d have to remember them, go look for my notes and practice in the quiet of my bedroom. I didn’t imagine I’d ever get used to it no matter how many times I had to cross the rivers and byways of my new home, but I’d manage. I’d simply recall Cal’s voice telling me I couldn’t do it and I would prove him wrong. One thing I knew for sure, however, was that I could never do it during a storm. And never, ever at night.

“This is the Woods bridge,” Gibbes said, turning slightly toward the back seat. “Also known locally as the Beaufort River Bridge, and the Sea Island Parkway. It’s a swing bridge.”

“What’s that?” Owen asked, sitting forward so that his seat belt strained across his chest.

“They have a man in the operations station in the middle of the span to swing the bridge open to allow boats through that are too tall to go beneath it.”

“Cool,” said Owen, looking intently out the window as we approached. A shiver ran through me as I imagined the bridge swinging open just as we reached it.

“Please keep your eyes on the road.” I realized I’d said it out loud when Gibbes’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I closed my eyes and tried to disappear into the back of my seat.

“Did you know that this year August will have five Fridays, five Saturdays, and five Sundays? This happens only once every eight hundred and twenty-three years. The Chinese call it ‘silver pockets full.’ It’s supposed to be good luck or something.” Owen’s voice sounded loud in my ear, but not loud enough to block out the change in sound under our tires as we began a small ascent onto the bridge.

The bridge rumbled under the tires of the SUV and my hands took hold of the edges of the seats in front of me, as if they would hold me aloft while the brakes squealed and the side rails of the bridge gave way with the force of a vehicle crashing through them. As if they could save me from falling into freezing water that lapped below like the tongue of a hungry animal.
Breathe. Breathe. Fill your lungs with air. Everything’s fine.

“Did you know that when you’re playing rock, paper, and scissors that you have a higher probability of winning if you always go with paper? That’s because most people don’t like making a scissors with their fingers, so they use rock because it’s easier, and paper always covers rock.” Owen was staring out the front window as if talking to no one but himself.

Maris bounced up and down in her seat, her beach bag rubbing against my arm. I didn’t pull away, happy to have a reminder that I
was in South Carolina, crossing the Beaufort River, that the sun was shining and the water beneath was warm.

Fingers pressed against mine and I looked up to find Loralee watching me, her hand on mine. I was embarrassed and let my hand slip from hers as I sat back in my seat, prepared for free fall.

I stifled a sigh of relief as we reached the end of the bridge and headed away from the river, although I sensed its nearness. I was quickly learning that there was no escaping the water there, its presence as perennial as the sky. Gibbes’s gaze met mine again in the mirror and he gave me a quick nod and a smile, as if saying,
Good job
. I looked away, wondering how much Loralee had told him about my mother, and realized he probably knew everything. I wasn’t mad at her, merely relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain to one more person why there were things I could not do.

Gibbes’s house was down a dusty road with few neighbors, towering oaks on both sides, with swinging moss that hung lazily from knobby branches blocking the sun as we drove through. We passed a house with large, colored Christmas lights dangling from the porch right before he turned onto an unmarked driveway that led us far from the main road.

Gibbes’s house itself surprised me, although maybe it shouldn’t have. It was a midcentury modern with sparse landscaping and Christmas lights—these smaller and clear—still hanging from the gutter above the one-car garage. He gave us a brief tour inside, including a state-of-the-art kitchen and a family room with a television screen almost as wide as the wall. It was as different from the home he’d grown up in as it could have possibly been. Which, I supposed, was the point.

We stored the basket in the kitchen after deciding we’d have our picnic on the dock later, and followed Gibbes down toward the water, where a very decrepit-looking flat-bottomed boat waited.

“Is it safe?” I asked, eyeing it dubiously.

Gibbes looked offended. “I certainly hope so, since I’m planning on putting all of us in it. It’s an heirloom—used to belong to my grandfather, and then my father, and then Cal and I used it when we were boys.”

The mention of Cal’s name stole the fight from me, and I didn’t mention any other reservations I had about getting into such an old boat, instead surreptitiously checking for holes in the bottom and sides.

As Gibbes maneuvered the ancient boat closer to the dock, I slathered on even more sunscreen. I eyed Loralee’s perfect sun-kissed skin and how she didn’t seem to be sweating. Even her hair was unfazed by the humidity, falling around her shoulders in soft waves. My only consolation was the thought that if she were up in Maine, her teeth would be chattering once the sun set and the temperature dropped below sixty.

As promised, Gibbes had life jackets for all of us. He took over putting the ones on the children while Loralee assisted me with mine. She tightened the straps so that it wouldn’t slip off over my head if I managed to find my way into the water—which, Gibbes assured me, wasn’t going to happen while he was captain of the boat—then turned around so I could adjust hers.

I tugged on one of the side straps and she began to giggle.

“What’s wrong?”

“The front buckle doesn’t seem to want to stay buckled.”

I moved in front of her and figured out the problem immediately. Her bust was simply too large. We both looked down at the two straps that circled her waist and she giggled again. “I don’t think I need to worry about that top one—the other two won’t be able to slide past my chest anyway.”

I blushed, unable to think of a response that wouldn’t make me blush harder. Gibbes gently moved me aside and began adjusting Loralee’s straps so that all the buckles would work. His fingers were sure and steady and never paused even when they passed over her
chest. He was a doctor, and though he just treated children now, I knew that during med school and his residency he’d probably seen lots of patients of both sexes and all ages in various stages of undress. Still, I couldn’t look, wondering at my irrational anger, and blaming it on Loralee, whose biggest success in life was apparently attracting men. I thought blaming her would make me feel better, but it didn’t.

I was relieved to see she’d at least changed into flat-soled sandals, so I didn’t have to worry about her top-heavy self tumbling into the water. Owen stepped into the boat first as Gibbes held it steady from the dock. Owen began scooting toward the rear seat when Maris, still standing on the dock, cleared her voice loudly while crossing her arms and looking at him expectantly through blue plastic sunglasses.

“Owen,” Loralee said, lowering her chin and sending him a meaningful glance.

With a heavy sigh, he braced himself before reaching his hand out to the little girl. Maris was strong and agile despite being so petite, and it was obvious to anyone other than the blind that she could get into the boat without any help. I turned my head so he wouldn’t see me smile, only to find that Loralee and Gibbes were doing the same thing.

Loralee got in next, with help from both Owen and Gibbes. She seemed unsteady, which surprised me, since I knew she was used to boats. Gibbes held on to her forearm with a tight grip, not letting go until she’d sat down.

“Thank you,” she said to Gibbes, flashing him a brilliant smile.

He turned to me and paused, as if unsure how to handle me.

“I’m sure I can do it myself,” I said, not agreeing at all but wanting to somehow separate myself from Loralee. As if he couldn’t tell we were completely different just by looking at us.

I moved forward but, as if he hadn’t heard me, he held out his hand. “Humor me, okay? We’ve already gone to all this trouble to get this far, and it would be a sad thing to end our outing before we’ve even left the dock.”

“Why would we end our . . . ?” I stopped, understanding dawning on me. Holding back a choice word or two in deference to the two children, I put my hand in his and was surprised to find Owen taking my other in a firm grip.

The boat rocked gently, my equilibrium thrown completely off balance, my feet seeming suspended in air for a long, nauseating moment. Gibbes held on tightly until I sat down.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, trying to look confident, and not speaking so he wouldn’t hear how out of my league I really was.

He sat at the rear of the boat, near the tiller, and paused a moment until we were all settled. After my heart had stopped its irregular thudding, I could hear the sounds of the marsh, the odd snapping and clicking noises from dozens of unseen creatures. I thought of Owen’s terrarium, and how fun it would be to capture a few specimens for us to look at, but knew it would be a while before I would gladly release my hands from the side of the boat to trawl the waters for unusual plants and insects.

“Maybe we’ll see a dolphin!” Owen shouted.

I prayed that we wouldn’t, but I kept my thoughts to myself, grasping the sides of the boat just in case one decided to jump up out of the water and tip over the boat.

“Or an alligator!” Maris shouted, just as loud.

I jerked my hands into the boat. “An alligator?”

“Don’t worry, Merritt,” Gibbes said. “If we don’t bother them, then they won’t bother us.” His voice was low and calm, like the one I imagined he used before giving a shot to a small patient.

“But if you see babies, stay away,” said Maris, her face serious. “Because where there are babies, there are mommies.”