facilitating a mending of his breach. Brooke was right—that search was hopeless.
But neither could she carry the ring back home with her, take its sadness back into the rest of her life. It had to stay here—the ring, the loss, the sorrow. It belonged to the sea, the one thing big enough to hold it. But she had to go where no one else would find it, no one else could desecrate the secret it bore.
She walked without pausing the quarter mile or so to the end of the beach. She stood on the jetty that separated the beach from the inrushing creek that fed the vast and wild marshes at this end of the island. She turned and looked back along the beach and the dunes. The nearest people were a couple over a hundred yards away, lying on a blanket in the sun, too far away to see what she was doing and too absorbed in each other to care. She again faced the creek, slid the ring out of her pocket. She looked at it one last time—as perfect in its circle as it was flawed in its history. There was no inscription or identifying marks. Once it left her hand, it would be anonymous forever, even if someone did happen to find it.
And so it became, glinting in the morning sun as it turned over once before striking the water and being swallowed by the murky crosscurrents where the incoming tide collided with the outflowing brackish water.
But it didn’t end that way in her imagining, which was in some ways clearer than her reality. There she was walking on this same stretch of empty beach, same sun, same morning. Only this time just as she went to drop the ring into the creek, something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. There was a man sitting alone atop a nearby dune, staring blankly at the blank sea. Something made her stop what she was doing. She placed the ring on her finger and went toward him. He continued to stare at the sea, even as she walked directly up to him. She held out the ring, dangling too big on her finger. He finally looked. Tears welled in his eyes as she placed the ring in his open palm. She stepped back and offered a nod of blessing on him, his marriage, his life. Then she turned and left, free now at the last.
On the way home Brooke mouthed across the backseat, where they sat facing each other playing Go Fish. You should have come to the pier. I saw someone that might have been Sean.
Leah shook her head as she lay down the six of clubs.
Brooke waited for her to look up. It was him, I’m sure.
Leah stared hard at her sister. She shook her head once with unblinking certainty.
How do you know?
Leah set down her remaining cards. She was tired of this game.
Leah, how do you know?
She curled up in the corner by the door, closed her eyes, slept or pretended to sleep the rest of the way home.
Driving Lessons
Brooke got her driver’s license early that fall, but it was of minimal use that first year. Their family had just two cars in those days—Father’s shiny Buick that got the garage slot and was only driven by him, and the family station wagon that Momma used for shopping and errands during the day and on weekends then was available to Matt for preapproved daylight or early evening use. If neither of them had reserved the car, then Brooke could request of Father permission to use the station wagon. But even under those circumstances, permission would be granted only if her request involved family activities. All of these activities included Leah, since Father, Momma and Matt could drive themselves wherever they needed to go and would never voluntarily hand Brooke the keys and take the passenger seat.
Brooke was glad to have Leah along whenever she drove, glad for the companionship but more so for the opportunity to show off. She looked so cool driving, even if it was just a clunky old station wagon. She had several rules, though—Leah could never change the radio station (Leah laughed at that one), roll down the window on her side (the far side window open messed up Brooke’s hair, though it was O.K. for Brooke to leave her window down and mess up Leah’s hair—kid’s hair was supposed to be messy), or wave to boys even if they waved to her. Leah readily accepted all these rules; none of them mattered to her. She was just glad to be with Brooke, watching and watching over her in this new grown-up activity.
From the start Brooke’s one guaranteed chance to drive was taking Leah to and from her weekly dance class on Thursday evening. Mrs. Stafford, who ran a dance studio, had mentioned to Momma after church that Leah might benefit from the exercise and precision of movement that would come with dance lessons. When Momma had asked how such lessons would be conducted given Leah’s condition, Mrs. Stafford had said, “Let her try it for two weeks, free of charge. If she doesn’t like it, no harm done.” Well, Leah loved it; and now it was Brooke’s assignment to get her to and from the studio across town.
The first few weeks, Brooke would drop her off, drive all the way home, wait about ten minutes, then drive all the way back to pick her up. Father quickly identified this as a waste of precious gas and suggested Brooke wait at the studio for Leah to complete the hour-long class.
Brooke promptly protested. “What am I supposed to do for an hour?” She was loath to give up driving time, even if it was just going back and forth to the dance school.
“Do whatever you like. Just don’t be driving around wasting my gas.”
Brooke stamped her foot and stormed out of the room.
But later she saw opportunity in his commandment. With their return to the house less carefully monitored, and all that gas saved, she and Leah could maybe take a little side excursion on the way home, maybe even swing past the Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone and an appearance among the crowd hanging out there. Who would know?
Brooke tried staying in the car but got bored despite trying every radio station on the dial. So she left the car and walked along the strip mall where the dance studio was located. Several of the storefronts were vacant with brown paper taped over the windows from inside. Those that were occupied—a tailor, a dry cleaners, a real-estate agency—were all closed this late and would have been poor entertainment in any case. Beginning to get chilled and with only the dance studio open, she slipped inside its bright doorway.
The small waiting room was empty at mid-class. Brooke sat in one of the wooden chairs along the wall and flipped through a couple of the outdated magazines on the end table. They were all women’s magazines—Redbook and the like—of little interest to her. She checked her watch. Still fifteen minutes left.
She stood and paced around the room. There were two doors on the wall opposite. The first led into the studio. She heard music coming from that door with a person clapping in rhythm and occasional shouted instructions. Through the window in the upper half of the door she could see Mrs. Stafford standing beside a record player leading the class, but she couldn’t see any of the dancers hidden behind the wall to the left. Mrs. Stafford saw her looking in and nodded but kept on teaching.
Brooke went to the second door. It was unlabeled and solid wood. She tried the knob and the door opened. It led to a dim hallway and another door at the far end labeled Office. Along one side of the hall was a large plate-glass window looking into the studio. Brooke walked to the window and peeked around the end. Mrs. Stafford was to one side, her back to the window. On the far side of the room, facing the window, nine junior high girls were dancing in unison in their leotards and legwarmers and dance slippers. They were all watching Mrs. Stafford. And off to one side, Leah—also in her dance outfit which Brooke had helped her pick out though she refused the bold colors Brooke suggested—precisely mirrored the movements of the class, just a fraction of a second behind, her eyes focused on the dancers, not Mrs. Stafford.
Leah’s dancing was effortless and graceful, far more natural and beautiful than the stiff and clumsy movements she was mimicking. Was that really her sister? How had she learned to dance like that? She watched her sister around the edge of the window, not wanting to be spotted but unable to look away.
Mrs. Stafford bent over and lifted the needle off the record. Everyone stopped dancing at once. Brooke wondered if she’d been discovered and slunk away from the window. But then s
he heard Mrs. Stafford say, “Thank you, class. I will see you next week. Remember, ‘Graceful movement makes a grace-filled woman.’”
Brooke opened the door into the waiting room and looked around the edge. Some parents were there, greeting their children as they emerged from the studio. One older girl—Jesse Rogers, a senior and the most popular girl in school—was standing to one side waiting to get into the studio, her dance bag slung over her shoulder. No one noticed Brooke. She stood beside the door and waited for the commotion to settle down.
The waiting room cleared but Leah still had not emerged. Brooke stuck her head into the open door to the studio.
Mrs. Safford spotted her from across the open room. “Brooke, come in. Leah is almost ready.” She waved her on.
Leah sat against the wall in the far corner. She’d put on her sweatshirt and sweatpants over her dance clothes and was tying sneakers. She seemed at that moment as helpless and small as she had a few minutes ago seemed composed and self-possessed. As Brooke walked over she automatically looped out onto the dance floor so as to approach Leah from the front. Her sister looked up when she was still several feet away and smiled broadly.
Brooke nodded. “Almost ready?”
Leah jumped up. All ready!
Brooke nodded. “Then let’s go.”
As they walked across the room, Brooke was at first puzzled to see their figures reflected in a large mirror on the wall where Mrs. Stafford had been teaching. Then she realized the window where she had been watching was a one-way mirror, for parents to watch without being seen.
Mrs. Stafford said as they passed, “Come and watch anytime. Your sister is a lovely dancer.” Then she stepped in front of Leah and made a courteous bow. “Thank you for showing the rest of the class how to dance,” she said slowly and with deliberate annunciation.
Leah blushed but managed to grin shyly and nod before scurrying on ahead of Brooke toward the door.
Once inside the car Brooke said, “We’re going for a little ride.”
Leah had no idea what she meant but nodded happily. She’d let Brooke worry about answering to Father.
Brooke drove through some backstreets Leah didn’t recognize then emerged on the four-lane highway leading out of town. They drove a short distance on this road then turned into the Dairy Queen at the edge of town.
“How about I treat you to some ice cream as reward for your hard workout?” Brooke said.
Leah nodded. She wasn’t hungry and it was kind of cold for ice cream, but she was glad to go anywhere with Brooke.
The parking spaces near the take-out window were empty, but there was a cluster of cars at the far corner of the parking lot. Brooke headed toward those cars and parked alongside the last one. A handful of high school kids, guys and girls, were gathered around a bright red pickup truck with chrome trim in the middle. A couple of boys were seated on the hood of the truck; others were huddled around, leaning against the side of the truck, blowing on their hands between big gestures and loud shouts.
One of the girls broke free from the crowd and ran over to their station wagon. It was Jill Addison, Brooke’s on-again off-again best buddy from school. She ran over to Brooke’s side of the car.
Brooke cranked down the window, letting the warm air out in a rush. “Hey, Jill-pill.”
“Girlfriend,” Jill said excitedly. “Daddy let you out of your cage!”
All Leah could see were Jill’s hands moving spastically outside the window.
“On my way home from Leah’s dance class,” Brooke said. “Can only stay a few minutes.”
Jill squatted down and looked across to Leah.
Leah looked calmly at Brooke’s friend then just as calmly looked away, gazing at the cars passing on the highway beyond the parking lot.
“She’s so pretty,” Jill said. “Will she ever talk?”
“Only to me.” Brooke touched Leah’s hand. “I’m going to go with Jill a minute,” she said.
Leah nodded stiffly.
“You want me to turn on the heater?”
Leah shook her head.
Brooke leaned over and kissed Leah’s cool cheek. “I’ll just be over there,” she whispered, pointing toward the group of kids.
Leah made no response. There was an odd smell to Brooke’s breath.
Brooke rolled up her window then slid out of the car and into the night.
Leah slouched down on the seat to where her head was lower than the seat back. She could still see the group around the pick-up through the windows of the cars separating them, but they couldn’t see her. If Brooke asked why she sat like that, she’d say it was to keep warm.
And from that position she watched her sister weave her way among the throng of big kids. At first she gravitated to the knot of girls around the back of the truck. A couple of the girls were smoking, others were laughing. They all stopped when Brooke came up behind Jill. Brooke said something and they all hooted then resumed their chatter. One of the girls offered Brooke a drag on her cigarette and she took it, then handed the glowing tip back.
After a few minutes Brooke left the cluster of girls and walked to the front of the truck where the guys were hanging out. One of the two that sat on the hood of the truck had a girl leaning back between his legs hanging over the grill, her head on his chest. Brooke went straight up to that pair and said something. The girl jumped forward and pushed Brooke. Brooke threw her hands up in mock surrender. The guys roared in laughter. The girls all watched from the back of the truck. Brooke leaned forward and gave the offended girl a light hug. The girl straightened her hair, turned and said something to the guy on the hood, then walked away to a car at the far end of the line. Brooke said something to the guy on the truck then came back toward their station wagon.
Leah quickly sat up and leaned back against the door, her back to the pick-up, and closed her eyes.
Brooke opened the door and slid into the car. She shook Leah’s knee. “Wake up, Sleepyhead. Time to go home.”
Leah opened her eyes and yawned.
Brooke cranked the car, switched on the radio, turned the volume dial hard to the right. She backed out of the parking space then coasted slowly past the other cars. The girls waved. The guy on the hood of the truck turned his head and looked but made no other gesture. Brooke smiled, rolled down her window, and stuck her free hand out. The girls laughed. The guy just shook his head and looked away.
Brooke rolled up the window and eased the car out onto the highway, pointed back into town, toward home. Halfway there, she touched Leah’s shoulder and said, “I forgot your ice cream.”
Leah nodded but clutched her arms to her chest—too cold for ice cream.
Brooke said, “Yeah, I guess” and returned her focus to driving.
The following spring they reserved the station wagon on a warm Saturday afternoon and took a ride to Compton Lake, the sprawling man-made reservoir for the city’s drinking water. The lake was far out in the county at the end of a two-lane road that wound through rolling hills sprouting fresh green leaves and the occasional white farmhouse. A gravel parking lot and an A-framed boathouse at the end of a dock marked the lake’s recreation area. Inside the boathouse a park ranger rented wooden rowboats and plastic two-seater paddleboats. Beyond the boathouse was a grassy field sloping down to water that was deep-blue and high this early in the season. A college-aged couple snuggled on a blanket spread out at the far edge of the field, where it merged into the woods. Brooke rolled her eyes at the sight then turned away from them and headed down toward the water with the big blanket under her arm and two bright beach towels over her shoulder. Leah followed carrying the picnic basket.
They ate their simple lunch—peanut butter and sliced banana sandwiches on white bread, chocolate-chip cookies that Leah had baked, cola drinks in warm cans—as they gazed out at the sparkling water and the green shoreline undulating on the far side. An older couple glided past in a dark-green rowboat, the man rowing with his back to the direction of movement, the woman
in the stern seat saying something to the man, maybe telling him what was ahead—just more water. The boat and couple disappeared around a bend in the lake’s near shoreline.
For Brooke the scene was dominated by an unsettling stillness. There was no sound out here—no motorboats hum, no cars passing by near or far away, not even the sound of a jet or prop plane in the sky above. She listened for voices or other animate sound and heard none—no humans talking, dogs barking, cattle lowing. She wished she could hear what the couple behind them were whispering, what the couple out on the lake had said as they passed. She missed the creak of the man’s oars in the oarlocks, longed for the gentle splash of the paddleboats’ paddles, the giggles of young kids squirming in the seats. She pulled her small transistor radio out of the basket and turned it on, the volume low. She felt calmed by the bass beat of a familiar rock song that resonated in her bones through the quiet of the day.
For Leah the day was as full of life as any she’d experienced in years, maybe ever. Seasonal springtime merged with her adolescent springtime to place all her senses in a kind of high alert, sensitive to an unprecedented degree. She was somehow intimately connected to the fluffy clouds drifting by, the diamonds of sunlight glittering on the water, the leaves in the trees unfurling before her eyes, the songbirds (singing in their movements) chasing one another through the bushes near the boathouse, the hawks gliding high above on the warm updrafts. The rowboats and paddleboats rocked back and forth in their slips, the pontoon dock drifted ever so slightly (though not slight to her) from side to side. And the smells—the fresh water, the mud of the bank, the grass mowed two days ago, the field plowed on the hillside opposite, the dogwoods and azaleas in bloom, the dust of the parking lot, not to mention the cola and peanut butter in their mouths and on the wrappers, the tarry shingles of the A-frame, the sun hitting the recently stained deck, the pine resin caulking of the rowboats, the oil on the two-lane blacktop from last fall’s resurfacing, dog poop farther up the shore. And the touch—towel, blanket, grass, leaves, dirt, wicker, wax paper, metal cans, skin, hair. Her skin so smooth and soft, pale this early in the season, fine blond hairs growing on the top of her wrist, fine hair pulled tight to her head and over her soft temples, gathered into a ponytail that swept her back so wonderfully when she’d turn her head from side to side—slow turn, gentle sweep; fast turn, whip-like brush. In this moment of life bubbling up it was impossible for Leah to say where her body ended and the world began. It was all one—better than her fantasy world, better than anything she’d ever known or felt.
Brooke brushed her cheek from