The Language of Sand by Ellen Block Page A

an acquaintance on the street—Abigail couldn’t simply pass them by.
    She was a fraction of the way through the project when the growling in her stomach told her it was time to eat again. Despite the ample selection of groceries she’d bought to prepare herself a proper meal, such as chicken cutlets and rice and fresh green beans, Abigail had no inclination to cook. Because it would mean she would have to turn on the stove.
    “I’m hungry. But I’m not that hungry.”
    Instead, she made herself another sandwich, laid it on a paper towel, and took it to the study with her. She ate while thumbing through a Hemingway novel she’d found in her parents’ attic, a first edition of The Sun Also Rises that her father ran across at a garage sale and gave her as a present.
    Time drained away as Abigail lost herself in the first chapter. The weight of the novel in her hand anchored her, the pages supple as suede. She had a clear vision of the day her father brought the book home. It was summer. She’d recently turned fourteen. She remembered lying on her stomach on their porch, reading that first chapter while the crickets hissed in the heat. Abigail could have sworn she felt the porch boards under her elbows and smelled thechlorine from their neighbor’s pool, though in reality she was wedged into the little desk in the study.
    All of a sudden a thump came from above, reverberating through the house’s brick walls. Abigail jumped.
    It was nothing. It was nothing. It was nothing.
    The phrase repeated in her mind, syncopated with her breathing. She tried to stand. Her legs wouldn’t budge.
    “Sitting is fine. Sitting is good. I’ll stay right—”
    Another thump resounded through the house, this one more distinct. It was loud and hollow. Whatever was making the noise wasn’t solid.
    The oil pail.
    Abigail’s thoughts corkscrewed back to that morning, to climbing the spiral staircase, entering the lamp room, and accidentally kicking the tin pail. What had Merle said as she’d left his shop? He’d told her not to move it.
    Except that was ridiculous. There was no ghost.
    Rational thought couldn’t thaw Abigail from her position, frozen at the desk. She deliberated whether to go up to the lamp room and investigate or to leave it for tomorrow, when she had daylight on her side.
    “It’s dark. You don’t have a flashlight. One false step on those stairs and…”
    She preferred not to ruminate on what could come after and .
    If the bedroom door had a lock, Abigail would have used it. She changed into her pajamas and considered climbing into bed and hiding under the covers, but she hadn’t brushed her teeth or removed her contacts.
    “Forget brushing your teeth. Being scared beats oral hygiene hands down.”
    She sprinted into the bathroom and plucked out her contacts in record time. When she slammed the bedroom door behind her, it sent a gust of air coursing through the room, setting the newspaper article on the nightstand aloft. The paper came to rest under the bed. Too tired, Abigail left it there. She pulled the quilt over hershoulders, thinking back to the nights when Justin awoke with bad dreams. She and Paul would comfort him, rub his head, kiss each cheek, and tell him that the kisses would keep the nightmares away.
    He believed you.
    Abigail had cherished that unconditional trust, the wholehearted faith only a child, her child, could bestow. It was an incomparable honor. And it was gone. This time, she didn’t bother stopping the tears when they came.
    Amo, amare, amavi, amatus.
    Oro, orare, oravi, oratus.
    Wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm, Abigail hummed Latin verbs until they lulled her to sleep.

 
      ha mar ti a (hä′ mäe tē′ə), n. See tragic flaw. [1890–95; < Gk: a fault, equiv. to hamart – (base of hamartánein to err) + – ia – IA ]

    Sunrise was different by the ocean. It came on fast and was impossible to ignore. Abigail groped the nightstand for her glasses so she could