What the Waves Know (15 page)

Fffrreeee, fffrrreeee,
the gull screeched
.
Or maybe it was
fffllleeee
,
flee.

That is the problem with words.

When I came in, my mother was standing in front of the French doors in the living room with both hands laid flat against the glass pane as she stared out at the sea. The sight of her there, searching a horizon filled to the brim with emptiness, tugged at something familiar and deep inside me. I knew what she was doing. I had done it a million times. I had just never seen her do it. She was wishing him back, bartering with the universe.

I'm embarrassed to say that in all the years since he left, I'd never really considered she might be aching, too. Maybe it was because she just seemed pissed off with the world and my father. And maybe she was, maybe she was pissed that he left her behind, too. I wanted to tell her that I knew that feeling. I wanted to grab her and tell her not to follow him, the way she'd told me, but I didn't. If I said I wasn't afraid of what I would find inside her eyes, wasn't scared to death of the truth hiding there, I would be lying
plain as day. Letting that fear disappear into a foamy sea of distance was easier.

So I turned away to look for Grandma Jo to ask if she wanted to come bake pies. I went to the kitchen and, finding it empty of everything except a plate of untouched toast tossed in the sink, headed for her room, letting my eyes fall to the sharp points of my mother's shoulders beneath her blouse as I passed. Drawn tight with a belt, the fabric of her jeans bunched at the waist like a brown paper bag.

“Grandma Jo went down to the beach again to do yoga. She said she'd be back in an hour.” My mother's voice was still. She didn't push Luke down from her knee when he trundled over to snuffle her pant leg.

Grabbing a banana, I headed toward the stairs behind her to put my hair up before going to Remy's.

“I know how much you loved him, Iz. I loved him, too.” The statement seemed to tumble down to her feet and break into tiny bits.

I stopped and turned around, tracing her shoulder blades, following the thin rails of her arms out to her fingertips.

“Do you remember anything about the night he left?”

Roses. Fireflies. Praying. Stairs. The candles—
I hate you, hate you, hate you.

I shook my head, but she never turned around; she wasn't really asking.

My stomach twisted into a knot as I wrestled the
memory back into its shackles. Luke must have sensed something come over me because he left my mother's side and was nudging at my ankle to be picked up. Holding him close, I let him lick my face until it was so wet I couldn't feel the tears running down my cheeks.

“I do. I remember everything. It was the grayest day I have ever seen. But it's funny, every time I think of that morning, I remember it as bright and sunny. It was the first chance we had to get away for a little while since I'd started school. With my schoolwork and his . . . traveling and writing, it was like we lost each other in the chaos, and man, did I miss him. I missed us, all of us. So that day felt like the brightest day ever when we got on the boat to come here even though the weather sucked. The rain wasn't falling, just hanging in the air like a veil. Like the universe knew something bad was about to happen.

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, “I thought you should know that. He was impossible, and impetuous, and moody, and he drove me crazy. But, I loved him despite all that or maybe because of all that. I was alive when I was with him. He taught me how to live. He gave me you. You probably don't get that, but . . .”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and I didn't quite know what to do, so I just stood there watching her tap the windowpane with her bandaged thumb, lost, in her own memories. The nails on her hands had been chewed low, leaving angry raw crescents of pink in their wake.
She was wearing my father's wedding band on her middle finger.

The memory of her leaning against my father's study door returned to me, his back turned to her. I saw the sadness and betrayal in her eyes, her finger brushing his cheek in their wedding picture as she climbed away from him to an empty bedroom.

Yes, I thought. I get that.

“When you were little, he used to drag you along on these adventures to get you out of Sunday school: to the cape, or the Thimble Islands, or Potter's Creek. Said Reverend Mitchell might be able to fill you with God,” I heard her voice catch, “but it was a father's job to fill you with magic.” My mother laughed, tilting her head. Still staring out the window, she tapped my father's wedding ring rhythmically to the pane of glass.
Tick, tick, tick
. . . like the hands of a clock struggling to move forward but finding itself stuck between moments.

I looked down at my hand, which had tightened instinctively around the banana, splitting the peel so that white goo oozed through my fingers.

“Do you remember?”

I did remember somewhere deep inside. My heart ached from all the remembering, actually ached, as though it, too, would split right down its seams like the banana, until I pushed the thoughts down to my toes to keep them away.

Just then, I remembered something else. I put Luke
down, shoving my one dry hand into my pocket, rooting around for my stone. It was gone; so were Grandma Jo's map and the flyer. The vague memory of setting them on the ground under the apple tree rushed back at me. My heart sank at the possibility of Riley snatching them. Clearly, he didn't like me, and there wasn't much chance of him dropping by to return them if he found them. He'd probably show them to his stupid friends, too. My mind was churning to put together a plan to zip back to the bluffs to get them when Remy Mandolin's voice barreled into the room, ending any chance of racing back to Witch's Peak.

“Ready to make pies?” she called.

My mother turned around, a confused look on her face. “Excuse me?”

“Pies,” Remy repeated, grabbing a pear from the bowl on the dining room table. “You know, flaky round pastries you stuff with fruit and serve with vanilla ice cream.”

“I know what a pie is.” My mother sighed. “Why would I be making them?”

“You wouldn't,” Remy quipped. “Not unless you were the award-winning pie baker of the Yemaya Festival four years running who didn't want to disappoint her public.”

“Which I am not.”

“Because I am.” Remy bit into the pear and wiped its juice from her chin with her sleeve.

“Don't you ever eat at your own house?”

“I do. Pie. Which your daughter has kindly agreed to
help me bake. Right?” She looked at me for confirmation. I nodded, wishing I could make some excuse to rush back to Witch's Peak, but even if I had, the truth of the matter was that I was afraid Riley might still be lurking around. “Your grandma coming?”

“She's still out doing stretches, or meditating, or whatever it is yoga fanatics do to find peace in the universe,” my mother gibed.

“Maybe you ought to try that,” Remy suggested. “You know, rid yourself of all that stress.”

“Ha!”

I walked behind Remy with the remains of the banana I'd mutilated, tossing it into the garbage and wiping my hand off before grabbing my jacket.

“By the way, I told Izabella I'd let her use that bike in your drive. It got me to thinking. You've got to pay Mr. Herman for damages, right?”

“Right,” my mother answered coolly.

“With the taxi and ferry and trying to get ready for the Yemaya Festival, well, things are just a little crazy. I could use a spare set of hands. I thought maybe they could belong to Izabella. You know, when she's not working down at Herman's to clean up. And how long could that take? I could pay her three dollars an hour, and she could hand it over to you to help pay for the window. I know I don't have kids, but it's the sort of thing my mother used to do.”

It was the third time I had heard Remy speak about
her mother and the mention rendered my mother surprisingly silent for a very long time. In fact, Remy seemed to throw her off kilter just by being in the same room. Even though my mother was snippy with her, her bitchiness lacked steam and I had noticed something else: underneath the sparring, there seemed to be some sort of connection between the two. Their eyes often held for just a second too long and a private unspoken conversation seemed to pass between them.

“Well, think about it and let me know. It would give her something to do, keep her out of trouble. With the bike, she would have a way to get to work. And, I've got to admit, I'm not half bad at history and math. She could bring along her books while we cart passengers and I'd quiz her. There's a solid two hours to kill on each ferry run.”

“Okay.” I don't know if it was the memory of my father, or if Remy had just worn her down, but my mother's tone had softened and she was looking right at Remy without any fire in her eyes.

“Okay?” Even Remy seemed surprised.

“Yes, okay. She's not a little girl anymore.” My mother glanced at me as if seeing someone different than she had before. “It might be good for her. But today she's got to go to Herman's. And, for Christ's sake, keep her away from those girls.”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow she has to go to Herman's. They couldn't
get the glass cut in time. I'll bring her down there bright and early, and when she's done there she can make the two o'clock run with me.”

“Fine. But she takes her homework with her.”

“Fine. Alrighty, then. Let's get to those pies. Tell Josephine she's welcome to join us.” Remy made her way to the door, paused, and looked back at my mother. “You know how to bake a pie?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”

“Not an offer, just a question,” Remy bit into the pear she was still holding. “But you can cut up the butter, if you want, as long as you don't let it soften.”

“As fun as that sounds, I really—”

“Have to work. Uh huh, I know.”

I was still
considering how to get my Yemaya Stone back as Remy pulled a stack of pie pans from the pantry with a clatter.

“Pull up those three stools.” She waved at a row of bar stools lined up against the wall and laid out three rolling pins in front of them. “Here's an apron.” She tossed a neatly starched cloth at me, laying another stained apron in front of the third stool.

I tied the apron around my waist and climbed onto the far stool. Remy froze, holding a bag of apples an inch above the counter.

“Not there.” Her voice wavered sharply. “There.” She
pointed to the stool beside it. Setting a bowl of ice water and a mug of tea beside the vacant stool, Remy offered no further explanation.

“Ready? Okay, take your slab of butter and cut it into three cups of flour. Once you work it through, give it a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of that ice water.”

Picking up a fork, I started chopping through the flour. The hard butter fought back, and by the time I'd worked it into some semblance of dough I had white clumps dappling my face and hair.

Glancing up from her stool where she was peeling the bag of apples, Remy let out a hearty laugh, plucking at my curls. “You've never done this before, have you?”

I shook my head.

We'd been at it for half an hour when Grandma Jo arrived carrying a casserole dish with her.

“Tofu macaroni and cheese.” She lifted the dish proudly before setting it on the butcher's block in front of the empty seat.

“You shouldn't have,” Remy said, snatching the casserole away from the empty stool and moving it over to the stovetop.

“It was my pleasure.” Grandma Jo dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “I was making a batch for Izabella anyway.”

“No,” Remy crinkled up her nose at the casserole. “I mean you really shouldn't have.”

There was something musical about Grandma Jo's laugh, like silver bells dropping to the floor. “Just try it.”

“Bean curd.” Remy shook her head in wonderment. “Who in the hell ever stopped what they were doing, looked at a bean, and said, ‘I think I'll make curd out of that'? Do you like to bake, Josephine? I mean things other than curd from a bean?”

“I make a mean carrot cake and cheese biscuits that melt right over your tongue.”

“Cheese or cheese curd?”

Grandma Jo laughed again, peeling off her cardigan and reaching for the third apron. Remy put a hand on top of it to stop her.

“That's my mother's. I've got another one right here.” I looked around the empty cottage wondering if Mrs. O'Malley was running behind schedule while Remy dug free another apron. “Sit here.” Remy pulled over the stool she'd been using for Grandma Jo, who was studying her thoughtfully. Remy glanced at her quickly and then turned her attention to me, laughing.

“You look a little like that picture of Yemaya you drew all covered in pearls.” Plucking a floury glob from my hair, she popped it into her mouth then ran a chopping knife through the pile of apples until they were nothing more than small chunks. “Did you show your grandmother the cover of the flyer for the festival?”

I shook my head.

“Festival?” Grandma Jo spun an apple in her hand, peeling it with expertise.

“The Yemaya Festival is coming up.” Remy snatched a copy of the flyer from the counter, setting it down beside my grandmother. “And your granddaughter is the artist gracing the cover with her illustration this year.”

“Izabella Rae! You drew this? It's gorgeous.” She picked the flyer up, examining it closer. “Izabella says you're somewhat of an expert when it comes to the Yemaya tradition.”

I leaned into a slab of hard butter, splitting it into quarters and sending a puff of flour over the counter.

“I guess that just comes from growing up with her. I remember walking around these cliffs as a kid and seeing her around every corner.” Remy tossed the apples in cinnamon and set them aside. “That reminds me . . .” She made her way around the butcher's block, knocking into the empty stool beside me. “Excuse me,” she said, as though there were a person sitting there.