Barrier Islands Read online

15

  Brooke sat on the edge of the narrow twin bed with Leah beside her. Leah was in a full-length flannel nightgown, well-prepared against the chill. Brooke was in sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt—as usual, somehow less appropriately attired than her sister, though this time it seemed to matter more. But why? Who would know or care, other than Brooke herself?

  They were in the second guestroom of Grandma and Grandpa’s house, the small one at the end of the upstairs hall, tucked up under the sloping gable roof. Momma and Father were in the other guestroom, the larger one equipped with a double bed, Momma’s old room. This was Greta’s room growing up, and this Greta’s bed, though the old sagging mattress had been replaced some years ago. As schoolgirls visiting for the annual Rankin reunion the day after Christmas, Brooke and Leah would retreat with Greta to this room, sprawl on this bed to hear stories of how Greta would sneak out over the porch roof outside the one small window to meet some high-school jock waiting at the end of the drive in his souped up pick-up, or be told more recent tales of Greta’s new home, the exotic island caught between the mainland and the endless great ocean, a world unto itself. Shaw-ni-tuck, Greta would say, always putting the accent on the last syllable to give the word and the place it represented more force and imperative (as if it needed it). Greta would tell Brooke these stories, and Brooke would “translate” for Leah, signing rapidly and adding numerous dramatic flourishes with her expressions and gestures.

  Sitting silent and motionless on the edge of Greta’s childhood bed, Brooke realized that it was during these story sharings that she unconsciously adopted Shawnituck as her destination and her destiny, and that that decision grew not only out of Greta’s rapt tales but also somehow out of her signing to Leah, that she took an investment and ownership in the place through passing it on to Leah. And how much of that force of ownership had she carried out to the island with her on that first and only fateful visit to Greta? How much had the place and its inhabitants, one in particular, become her destiny because she had chosen that it would be so all those years earlier, relaying Greta’s stories to Leah on this very bed?

  Following the bountiful reception, as they were picking up some trays of chicken and dumplings for their dinner tonight, Momma had caught Brooke alone for just a minute and made her only verbal reference to her deceased sister. “Don’t end up like her!” she said in an adamant whisper. Brooke had wanted to ask what exactly she meant, but had been stopped by the approach of one of the church ladies with a coconut cake in a carrier for the family’s dessert. And she’d not found Momma alone in the busy hours since.

  Nor at this point did she really want to. She knew what Momma thought she meant—to not end up dying alone on a remote island of a curable disease. Or is that all she meant? Maybe she also meant to not forsake family, friends, and the society that had raised you in favor of people who in the end would not be there when you needed them. But where did that place Brooke, Greta’s one proximate family member, absent when she needed her most? How much of this tragedy was her doing, her failure to be who she was supposed to be?

  And what about Jodie? She’d avoided thinking about her all day, to protect herself from how much she missed her daughter but also from how much she owed her, the full extent of her responsibility to make the right choices for her daughter. Greta had made that obligation crystal clear in their last conversation. She’d suppressed the force of Greta’s warning in the weeks since but couldn’t quiet the words now. For Jodie! But what for Jodie? Don’t end up like me! And where would Jodie be if she did?

  She turned to her sister. Leah was staring straight ahead into the dimly lit chill of the room. She had a serene look on her face, as if seeing or sensing something in the still room that gave her calm assurance. But what in this day or this setting could do that, give her that repose? She desperately needed Leah to tell her but wouldn’t startle Leah with a sudden request. Instead, she approached her sister as she often did through their childhood—by gently touching the notch at her elbow, covered with pink flannel this night, then following her forearm down to the exposed wrist and lightly brushing the soft flesh of that inner wrist with her fingertips—their old game of tickle-flesh.

  Leah was not surprised by the contact and for several minutes kept staring ahead—immersed in Brooke’s gentle touch and the memories it summoned. Leah’s eyes drifted shut. This was not Brooke’s intent; but she’d not force the issue, briefly glad to be able to give someone ease on this sad day.

  Leah withdrew her arm from under Brooke’s hand, then turned and faced her sister from less than a foot away. She signed, You will know what to do.

  Brooke looked puzzled. She’d not asked any question.

  Leah smiled. About Jodie. About your life.

  Brooke raised her eyebrows in a simple but adamant question—How? How to decide? How to implement her decision?

  Leah weighed Brooke’s question. She knew the weeks since Christmas had been traumatic for Brooke; and even at Christmas she’d seemed ill-at-ease, far from the confident person who had chosen Shawnituck then chosen, wooed, and married Onion. Though Leah had been on the periphery of Brooke’s life since her move to Shawnituck, eighteen years of prior near-constant companionship had left her in touch with Brooke in ways that transcended distance and separation. Brooke was still Brooke, beneath this new life she’d donned. She needed only to find her way back to that center. Find your heart again and follow it.

  That is what got me here.

  Leah laughed. That is O.K.

  Greta is dead. Onion will not move. I am trapped.

  Leah turned from Brooke. She stood and began canvassing the room, looking in the empty drawers of the old dresser, checking out the closet smelling of mothballs, finally looking under the bed. She ended in front of Brooke, kneeling on the pallet of blankets and a sleeping bag that would be her bed for the night while Brooke slept on the twin. From there she laid her arms on Brooke’s knees then slowly trailed her hand over Brooke’s torso to end at a spot at the center of Brooke’s chest. She pressed her fingers against her sister’s breastbone. She didn’t have to sign her meaning. Her eyes and hand carried all the message that needed to be conveyed, that needed sharing the end of this sad day.