The Language of Sand (11 page)

She went to put the first load of towels into the closest washer, and the man clucked his tongue in disapproval. She tried the next. He did the same. Once Abigail took a step toward the third, he nodded his consent. As she started to put the second load into another washer, the man clucked at her until she picked the correct machine.

“You got quarters?”

Abigail dug through her wallet. She didn’t have enough for both loads. “Isn’t there a change machine?”

“I’ll make change for you.”

He took her singles and fished through his pocket, producing a fistful of quarters.

This was too weird. Abigail couldn’t resist asking, “Are you the owner?”

“Who me?” he replied, flattered. “Nah.”

“You just like laundry?”

“You could say that. If you want, you can go. I’ll mind your wash.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Twenty-five minutes for the cycle. You’ll need to be here to switch the loads into the dryers.”

This was more an order than a suggestion. Giving a final glance to the peculiar man with the under-bite, her defenseless laundry already churning in the machines, she grabbed her purse and left.

Twenty-five minutes wasn’t much time to properly explore, but Abigail could at least take in a bit of the town. Anything would be preferable to staying at the laudromat. The calls of seagulls beckoned her toward the pier. Many of the boats she’d seen the previous day were gone, though some remained. There were no yachts or pleasure cruisers, merely a handful of skiffs and sloops that showed their age, each bobbing serenely. How enviable to be so blithe, Abigail thought, so imperturbable.

She strolled along the pier. The tide was coming in, and the barnacles that clung to the pilings below would soon disappear. The mottled white masses stood out starkly against the dark timbers. Abigail rolled the word
barnacle
around in her mouth, like a wine connoisseur would to sample the flavor. A bumpy noun, it crowded inside the cheeks, rattling against the teeth. That was the beauty of language. Sound made words, which made meaning. Love wasn’t love without those precise consonants and vowels. The same was true of fear. Abigail was well versed in both. She knew how each made her breath quicken, her skin tingle, and her head swim. Love and fear required just four letters; however, there was a world of difference between them.

Years before Abigail ever set foot on Chapel Isle, she knew how it felt to go rafting in the ocean there, to pick shells from the waterline, to have the pristine sand sifting between her toes. She even knew the color of the sunset as it stained the sky. Paul had told her everything about the island where he’d spent summers during his
childhood—this island. His boyhood reminiscences had filled Abigail’s mind as though they were her own. She could almost hear the ocean lapping at the shore. Imagination could take her only so far. They’d planned to spend their honeymoon on Chapel Isle, but Abigail’s parents treated them to a trip to Maui as a wedding present instead. Afterward, Paul promised to take her there on vacation when they had enough money. Once they could afford to go, though, plans were continually diverted by circumstance. The timing wasn’t right.

In the months leading up to the fire, Abigail began to pester Paul about taking a trip to Chapel Isle, citing Justin as incentive. She wanted their son to have the same special childhood experiences he’d had. Despite his busy schedule, Paul put in for two weeks off in August so they could go to the island as a family. Then he could show them the sights he’d loved in his youth. One in particular was the island’s lighthouse, a memory Paul held on to as a treasured souvenir. Every time he spoke of it, a smile would inevitably form on his lips.

“That was the most amazing sight I’d ever seen,” he would say with boyish reverence. “It seemed like there was nothing bigger in the whole world. I would dream that the lighthouse still worked and that I lived there, guiding the boats in through rough seas. Getting the sailors home safely. Those were some of the best dreams I ever had.”

Paul’s dreams became Abigail’s. She would wake up having spent the night with fictional stranded sailors at a lighthouse she’d never seen. It was the same dream she had the night before his funeral. Scant remains of her husband and son could be recovered from the fire, little more than charred bones. Abigail had ordered two caskets for burial anyway, one for an adult, one for a child. In Justin’s coffin, she placed a toy truck he’d accidentally left at preschool. In Paul’s coffin was her wedding band.

The seagulls that had drawn her to the bay were what brought her around from the grip of the past, their cries snapping her into the
moment. Abigail found herself standing at the very end of the pier, dangerously close to the edge. She didn’t remember how she’d gotten there. Thirty minutes had disappeared, unnoticed.

Since the fire, she occasionally had incidents similar to sleepwalking. Minutes, let alone hours, could completely blur. The knowledge that she could abandon her body and it would act on its own, perhaps against her will, unnerved her.

When she returned to the laundromat, the man with the under-bite was gone. Her towels and bedding lay in wet mounds on the sorting table. He had taken them out for her.

“At least
he’s
not a ghost.”

“I do that too.”

Flushed, Abigail spun on her heel as the man appeared from inside a storage closet.

“Do what?”

“Talk to myself. Shouldn’t be ashamed. There’s no better listener than your own set of ears.”

“That’s…” She had to think of a sentiment that wouldn’t be insulting. “Not untrue.”

“I got you some dryer sheets.”

“These’ll be fine without—”

The man wagged his finger. “Wouldn’t recommend it. You’ll get static. As much as twelve thousand volts. The sheets have a lubricating effect.”

“Wow. Who knew?”

He proffered the dryer sheets as if to say:
I did, and so should you.

“On the house?” Abigail asked.

“On the house.”

As she prepared to shove the sopping bedding into a random dryer, she deferred to him first. “Can you suggest the dryer du jour?”

Beaming, he began, “In my opinion, number eight is by far the best for sheets and blankets; not ideal for delicates. I’ve had trouble with the calibration. Runs real hot. For your towels, I’d go with number eleven. Heat stays even.”

“Number eight it is.” Abigail loaded in the soggy laundry under the man’s watchful eye.

“Be ready in forty minutes,” he informed her.

“Got it. Can you tell me where I might find a supermarket?” She didn’t want to talk voltage and heat settings with him the whole time and needed groceries badly.

“There’s a general store up the street on the right-hand side. You can’t miss it.”

“Can’t miss it, huh? I’ve heard that before.”

A billboard-size sign for Weller’s Market was propped on the roof of a barn-style building a block away. Abigail’s new pal from the laundromat was right. She couldn’t have overlooked it unless she was blindfolded.

The market had the feel of a makeshift country store. Rows of plywood shelves and display stands stacked on overturned crates gave it the vibe of a traveling show, ready to be dismantled and moved to a new location at a moment’s notice. Even though the registers in front were vacant, Abigail could hear shuffling somewhere in the store. She picked a cart and cruised from aisle to aisle, lamenting that she hadn’t written a list.

“Doesn’t matter. You need
everything
.”

One of the wheels on her cart was wobbly, making it troublesome to maneuver. The broken wheel bleated monotonously, and the front end kept veering into the shelves. The more she filled the cart, the more strenuous it was to steer. Since Lottie was AWOL and Abigail couldn’t get her to have the place cleaned yet, her top priority was cleaning supplies. She couldn’t stand all the dust for another night, so whichever products claimed to be the most powerful and abrasive got thrown into her cart.

“The stronger, the better.”

She also chucked in any provision that caught her fancy. Hunger had that effect. Her cart on the verge of tipping, Abigail was ready to check out.

Slouched at the register, engrossed in a paperback romance, was Janine, the woman from the Kozy Kettle. Abigail unloaded her groceries, thinking Janine might not remember her. Unfortunately, she did.

“You got coupons?” Janine snapped.

Abigail hadn’t been food shopping since before the fire. Her purse lay in the cart’s children’s seat, suddenly reminding her of Justin. The jolt of sadness made her entire head buzz for a second.

“I said, you have any coupons?”

“Me? Coupons? No, no, I don’t. Not that I don’t use them,” Abigail stammered, worried Janine had mistaken her confusion for condescension. “I just don’t have any with me. I’m new here. I got into town yesterday and I haven’t even unpacked and I didn’t get a good night’s sleep and I…I…I’m going to stop talking now.”

Janine narrowed her eyes, then rang Abigail’s items in silence. When Abigail started to bag the groceries, Janine stopped her.

“I can do that.”

“I thought I’d help.”

“Well, don’t.”

Abigail’s face burned with embarrassment. Unable to devise a sharp retort, she bided the minutes until Janine finished bagging and announced the total. It was higher than Abigail expected. She’d gotten extra cash for such expenses before leaving Boston and handed over three large bills, providing Janine with another reason to dislike her.

She thrust the change at Abigail. “Have a nice day.”

“I will.”

It was a lame comeback. Plus, it was hard to look triumphant pushing the wobbly shopping cart from the store to her station wagon.

“Where does that woman get off?” Abigail railed as she shoved the grocery bags into her car. “I’ve barely met her and she hates me. How can you hate somebody you haven’t even been introduced to?”

Then Abigail caught sight of the John Deere twins from the
Kozy Kettle standing on the corner, staring as she talked to herself. She blushed.

“Morning,” she said with a wave.

The men toddled away as fast as their arthritic legs could carry them.

“Terrific. Everyone you’ve met so far either hates you or thinks you’re crazy. Speaking of crazy, it’s time to get your laundry.”