mother's touch came over her—the light way her fingers trailed down the back of Nell's head when she brushed her hair. It was so gentle, almost like the summer breeze. Her father tried, but his hand was so heavy. . . .
“I used to make my mother take me to the bridge where my father's car . . .”
Nell's eyes flew open. “Car accident?”
“Um, sort of,” Peggy said, turning red. “He, well, he was killed. And his car went into a creek.”
“My mother had a car accident too,” Nell said.
“Really?” Peggy asked, her mouth dropping open.
“She lived after it. She did . . . I thought she was going to be okay. I wanted her to be. . . .”
“How did hers happen?”
Nell huddled up, arms around her knees, making herself very small. She didn't like to talk about it. But something in Peggy made her want to tell the story, find words for how her mother had died. Yet the sudden change of feelings confused her so much, she couldn't speak. Peggy just sat there, no expression on her face at all, waiting. Finally, Nell was ready.
“She and my aunt were driving home,” Nell said. “It was my aunt's birthday. She and my mom went away for the weekend.” She swallowed. The words seemed to scratch her throat coming out, as if each one had claws. “It was my mom's first time away from me.”
“Ever?”
Nell nodded. “My aunt flew down, and she rented a special birthday car. A sports car. Pretty and red . . . They drove to St. Simons Island. I used to love St. Simons Island . . . it was our favorite Georgia beach. . . .”
“And they had an accident?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you mad at your aunt when you see her?” Peggy asked.
“I don't see her,” Nell said.
“Because you hate her for what happened?”
“No . . .” Nell grabbed a handful of sand and let it run out through her fingers onto her knee. The grains stuck in the fine blonde hairs, trickled down her skin. She did it again and again. The funny thing was, her throat felt as if the sand was in
there
. As if she had swallowed a whole lot of sand, and it was making it very hard to swallow. “I love my aunt,” she said.
“Then why don't you see her?”
“My father will never forgive her,” Nell said. “For what happened.” The two friends were silent then. Nell held the pieces of sea glass she had collected, feeling them with her thumb.
Her mother had once told her that sea glass took a long time to make. You had to throw back the pieces that weren't ready—that were too sharp or shiny, not yet tumbled smooth by the sea. Closing her eyes once more, she thought of her mother, her aunt, and Stevie. She wondered whether they had ever sat in this spot. She wondered whether her sea glass had been here then, whether maybe one of them had picked it up, thrown it back into the waves because it wasn't ready.
It would be nice to think that she had, Nell thought. Oh, it would be so nice. . . .
Chapter 8
THE NEXT THREE MORNINGS WERE DARK
and clear, and each time Stevie crossed the footbridge on her way to swim, she glanced at the boardwalk and saw Jack waiting. Daylight began to infuse the sky before actual sunrise. While Stevie swam—in a bathing suit now—she saw the stars fade so that only the brightest planets were left. They cast a passionate spell, somewhere between romance and Eros. Stevie felt crazy and confused. As if knowing, and not wanting to leave her alone in that state, Jack would wait until she'd safely emerge from the sea, and then he'd turn to go home.
On the fourth morning, she woke up earlier than usual. The air was muggy again, hazy and thick. She heard the Wickland Shoal foghorn, off in the distance. She imagined Jack hearing it, too. They were connected by strange mysteries—they'd barely had a conversation, but she could hardly wait to see him. The sheets felt sensuous on her body, reminded her of the brush of the sea. Her thighs ached, and her nipples stung. The sensations were wild, made her think of making love with
“I used to make my mother take me to the bridge where my father's car . . .”
Nell's eyes flew open. “Car accident?”
“Um, sort of,” Peggy said, turning red. “He, well, he was killed. And his car went into a creek.”
“My mother had a car accident too,” Nell said.
“Really?” Peggy asked, her mouth dropping open.
“She lived after it. She did . . . I thought she was going to be okay. I wanted her to be. . . .”
“How did hers happen?”
Nell huddled up, arms around her knees, making herself very small. She didn't like to talk about it. But something in Peggy made her want to tell the story, find words for how her mother had died. Yet the sudden change of feelings confused her so much, she couldn't speak. Peggy just sat there, no expression on her face at all, waiting. Finally, Nell was ready.
“She and my aunt were driving home,” Nell said. “It was my aunt's birthday. She and my mom went away for the weekend.” She swallowed. The words seemed to scratch her throat coming out, as if each one had claws. “It was my mom's first time away from me.”
“Ever?”
Nell nodded. “My aunt flew down, and she rented a special birthday car. A sports car. Pretty and red . . . They drove to St. Simons Island. I used to love St. Simons Island . . . it was our favorite Georgia beach. . . .”
“And they had an accident?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you mad at your aunt when you see her?” Peggy asked.
“I don't see her,” Nell said.
“Because you hate her for what happened?”
“No . . .” Nell grabbed a handful of sand and let it run out through her fingers onto her knee. The grains stuck in the fine blonde hairs, trickled down her skin. She did it again and again. The funny thing was, her throat felt as if the sand was in
there
. As if she had swallowed a whole lot of sand, and it was making it very hard to swallow. “I love my aunt,” she said.
“Then why don't you see her?”
“My father will never forgive her,” Nell said. “For what happened.” The two friends were silent then. Nell held the pieces of sea glass she had collected, feeling them with her thumb.
Her mother had once told her that sea glass took a long time to make. You had to throw back the pieces that weren't ready—that were too sharp or shiny, not yet tumbled smooth by the sea. Closing her eyes once more, she thought of her mother, her aunt, and Stevie. She wondered whether they had ever sat in this spot. She wondered whether her sea glass had been here then, whether maybe one of them had picked it up, thrown it back into the waves because it wasn't ready.
It would be nice to think that she had, Nell thought. Oh, it would be so nice. . . .
Chapter 8
THE NEXT THREE MORNINGS WERE DARK
and clear, and each time Stevie crossed the footbridge on her way to swim, she glanced at the boardwalk and saw Jack waiting. Daylight began to infuse the sky before actual sunrise. While Stevie swam—in a bathing suit now—she saw the stars fade so that only the brightest planets were left. They cast a passionate spell, somewhere between romance and Eros. Stevie felt crazy and confused. As if knowing, and not wanting to leave her alone in that state, Jack would wait until she'd safely emerge from the sea, and then he'd turn to go home.
On the fourth morning, she woke up earlier than usual. The air was muggy again, hazy and thick. She heard the Wickland Shoal foghorn, off in the distance. She imagined Jack hearing it, too. They were connected by strange mysteries—they'd barely had a conversation, but she could hardly wait to see him. The sheets felt sensuous on her body, reminded her of the brush of the sea. Her thighs ached, and her nipples stung. The sensations were wild, made her think of making love with
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