Chapter One Excerpt
The pistachio stationary stares back at
me, blank and accusing. How can Susan ask me to write a
letter no one will read? As my left hand trembles slightly I
grip the pen more fiercely and a tear splashes onto the
parchment. I try to brush it away, but the paper bubbles,
leaving a raised splotch in its place. What words could
possibly express everything I feel?
"I can't do this, not yet."
"You don't have to; I just thought
it might help," Susan said. We sit quietly in her
living room, each in our own swivel rocker, facing the
ocean. Our day has been long, full of emotion, effort, and
trauma, leaving us both drained and exhausted. "Someday
though," she says, "Leah might actually see it.
Read it. You never know. Someday, she may need to hear how
you're feeling right now."
Obediently, I begin writing, "Dear
Leah," Tears blur the words, until I can no longer see.
I drop the pen into my lap. "I can't."
She nods, stands and comes to me,
kneeling beside my chair. We sit like that for a few
minutes, me rocking and weeping, Susan lightly patting my
shoulder. "What would I do without you?" I
ask.
"I'm here, Patricia, because I want
to be," she speaks softly. Reaching over to the table
beside my chair, she lifts a box of tissue, and offers it to
me. "I wouldn't choose to be anywhere else." She
pulls a tissue and wipes her own nose vigorously.
"I have the latte machine
started," she whispers. "Would you like something
hot?"
I nod, afraid to trust my voice. With a
long sigh, Susan turns toward the kitchen.
Alone, I gaze out over the ocean.
Even in darkness, I can clearly make out
the bizarre, triangular profiles of the trees outside
Susan's home. Here, on the West side of Cummins Island,
relentless westerly winds buffet all the vegetation
unfortunate enough to grow there. The trees who cannot
withstand the assault of the wind, do not survive. The ones
who do, are misshapen for life.
Like the wind prunes trees, island life
prunes people. Either they learn to grow under these
conditions, or they leave. Though it seems an eternity, only
ten months ago, I left.
Floating the inland water of Puget Sound,
our island is shaped like a dinner roll with the first bite
missing. A tiny harbor rests on the lee side. Tucked away
from the wind, Serenity Bay provides protection for boats
traveling through the San Juan Islands. Someone named our
town for the peaceful, quiet waters of the bay. While I
lived here, I never knew serenity.
Ours is a tiny village, complete with
marina, hardware store, a two-pump gas station and a small
grocery store. The ferry dock is here, along with moorage
for the Summer People. The rest of the village consists of
tiny shops carved out of ancient wooden buildings with false
fronts and wooden floors. In these shops the Summer People
buy ice cream, t-shirts, linen dresses, and paintings by
local artists. From each storefront the scent of pot-pourri
and bayberry candles waft into the summer air, mixing with
the smell of saltwater tides and diesel fuel. This is our
town, our community, and the place where I once lived.
Only the stoutest of humanity remain on
Cummins Island over the winter. During those long bleak
months, marina docks float under dark, rainy skies.
Glistening wooden planks empty both of people and boats.
Raindrops bounce off waves in the harbor, and the ferry
rocks in the wind, wrestling with its tie-down. The shops of
the Summer People close. The sidewalks empty of all but
locals who refuse to run through the rain to their cars.
All our shoes are waterproof, and our
clothing is made of Gore-Tex. Winter rain is constant,
though varying from heavy, falling dew to monsoon-like
downpours. Fabric here never really dries, but stays damp
with ambient moisture - the same moisture which turns cedar
siding green, and feeds the moss growing on sidewalks,
fences and roof tile. Winter nights begin shortly after the
ringing of the afternoon school bell. The season lasts most
of eight calendar months, fraying island nerves and testing
tempers. Only the distant promise of warm temperatures and
summer sunshine keep the locals through the long bleak
darkness.
Following the summer solstice, daytime
temperatures soar to the mid-seventies, and the docks in
Serenity Bay fill with boats - hundreds of boats - all
bobbing against their fenders, gently rocking in the swell.
Some, with sleek black windows, and startling whiteness
belong to company executives or chairmen of corporate
boards. Next to these, float the reconditioned wooden hulls
of old tugs converted to cruisers for families - happy
families - who spend their summers wandering from island to
island on the glistening blue waters of Puget Sound.
From Memorial Day to Labor Day, Summer
People crowd village sidewalks and wander from shop to shop
imagining what it would be like to live in this ideal
setting. They imagine themselves buying groceries at the
Stock 'n Save, and think longingly of their children
attending our six-room elementary school.
"We don't have swing sets in the
city anymore," they say. And they believe that our town
is missing all the evils of big city life.
But they are wrong.
When I lived here, our home sat high on a
cliff on the West Side of Cummins Island. Facing brilliant
sunsets, and stunning seascapes, ours was some of the most
valuable land on the island. Russell built a magnificent
modern home there, large and impressive. With weathered
cedar siding, he tucked it inconspicuously among the fir
trees on the hill. He built an enviable house, but I loved
it for a different reason. I loved it for the whales - Orcas
- beautiful black and white creatures who spent their
summers playing in the broad protected harbor just north of
our beach.
Our ten acres bordered a marine reserve.
The inhospitable rocks hiding just under the surface of the
water in the bay's entrance safeguarded the whales from the
intrusion of whale watching vessels. The whales found safety
in the harbor. Every year they returned.
I knew when they arrived because I
watched for them, waited for them, keeping the kitchen door
open all through the early summer. With one ear I listened
for their return. Crashing water told me they breached.
Squeaks and squawks told me they were "taking
roll." Whatever their cue, I knew they were back, and I
dropped everything to run down a narrow, steep pathway to
the water's edge. There, on dark rock ledges I sat, hugging
my knees, listening to the powerful whoosh of air from their
blowholes, watching their glistening black bodies roll and
slap the water. I watched endlessly, every bit of their
play, until at last they tired of me, and swam away. Away
from the cove. Away from the island.
At the same time, someone watched me.
Without looking, I felt Russell's telescope focused squarely
in the center of my back. I watched the whales, and from the
window of our living room, Russell watched me.
I shall always envy the whales. They left
the island so easily. |
