The Sound of Glass (23 page)

“Do you know where the plane was flying from or where it was
going?” I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to me. Maybe it was human nature to separate the strangers in a tragedy from yourself, to illuminate all that was different between their lives and yours, to convince yourself that such a thing couldn’t happen to you.

“It was going to Miami. From New York, I think.” Deborah frowned, her glasses dipping low on her nose as she bent closer to examine the jagged pieces on the plane’s right side. “This must have been the big secret project she was working on, then. It just doesn’t make sense why she wouldn’t have shared it with anybody. Her husband died that night; I do remember that—hit a tree with his car. Police think he might have been distracted by the explosion. Anyway, there was really no reason to be so hush-hush about her work, since she didn’t have to worry about his disapproval.” She tapped her chin, her eyes narrowed as she walked the length of the table to view the plane from as many angles as she could. Looking directly at me, she said, “Knowing Edith, I’d have to say she probably knew something that nobody else did.”

The silence in the room grew stifling as the hot air and the quieted voices of the forty-nine lost souls became almost a palpable presence, a growing shadow that threatened to overtake any light in the room. I headed toward the stairs, needing a deep breath of air, and walked down into the foyer and out onto the front porch, Deborah and Gibbes close behind me.

“Are you all right?” Gibbes asked.

I nodded. “I just needed some fresh air.”

Deborah smiled. “Thank you for letting me see the attic. I’m sure Gibbes will let you know what our plans are for the nutshell studies. I’d ask for the plane, too, but since there’s nothing conclusive drawn from it, I doubt the police department will want it. But maybe the museum will. We’ll see.”

“May I drive you home, Miss Fuller?”

“No, thank you. And please call me Deborah.”

The sides of Gibbes’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I’ve known
you since I was a baby, and it’s a hard habit to break. But I promise to try.”

Deborah squinted up at the sky. “It’s cooled off some and the exercise will do me good. Thanks again,” she said with a wave, then jogged nimbly down the front steps. She walked away with her head down, looking up only to cross the street so she could stroll alongside the water. It was low tide, the sea grass appearing bereft. She paused for a moment and looked up at the attic window, as if expecting to see Edith Heyward in the early evening shadows. Then she continued on her way with her head bent, deep in thought.

“We might be able to find something about the crash on the Internet,” Gibbes said.

I started, having almost forgotten he was there. “That’s probably a good idea, but we can’t do it here. You probably won’t be surprised to hear this, but your grandmother wasn’t set up for Wi-Fi, or cable, or really anything else that’s been invented in the last forty to fifty years. I think there might still be an antenna on the roof, or at least the remains of one. And I have to change my phone plan, because I can’t get service inside the house with my current carrier. The e-mails I’ve managed to send and receive from my smart phone have happened only when I’ve stood on the garden bench outside—which isn’t really practical. I’ve got people scheduled to be here by the end of the week, but I’m not going to bank on that.”

“All right. I’ll Google it when I get home tonight and let you know. Assuming you’re interested.”

I thought of the nameless passengers and how their existence was recorded only in the fading memories of a few people. I’d never had the desire to be famous, but there was a particular tragedy to being forgotten. “Of course I am. Please let me know if you find anything.”

Loralee stepped out onto the porch, and in the last rays of sun she appeared pale under her makeup. Or maybe it was just the directness of the sun that bleached out her features and made her eyes a startling blue.

She grinned widely and she was the old Loralee again. “Owen and I are making chocolate sundaes, and we’ve got two with your names on them.”

“No, thank you,” I said automatically. “I need to go through the hutch in the library. There are all sorts of papers and miscellaneous items in there that Gibbes might want.”

“Are you sure? I can put it in the freezer just in case you change your mind.” Loralee sounded genuinely disappointed.

“I’m sure. I’m not a big ice-cream eater, anyway.” I thought my explanation would make things better, but when I saw the look on Gibbes’s face, I knew I was wrong.

“All right,” she said, still smiling but with a lot less wattage. “I’ll tell Owen he can have yours, too. That boy is way too skinny.”

“I’d love one,” Gibbes said, after giving me a pointed look. “I’ll be right there.”

Loralee nodded, then went back inside, closing the door. I stared at it, wondering whether it was too late to tell her I’d changed my mind and that I actually liked ice cream, too.

“Why do you do that?” Gibbes’s voice lacked any warmth.

“Do what?”

“Push people away. I’ve known a lot of New Englanders, and while most of them had a definite reserve, they were never like you. Is it something we’ve said or done? Because I thought that everybody you’ve come in contact with since you arrived here has treated you with nothing but kindness.”

I wanted to shake my head and tell him I couldn’t explain, because it was something I’d never been able to say out loud before.
It’s because sooner or later everybody leaves you.
I blinked back the sting in my eyes, feeling the power of his words and my involuntary response to them. “I think I’ve told you before that you know nothing about me, and I don’t think that’s changed. So don’t pretend you do.”

“You’re right. The only things I know about you are from the stray crumbs you’ve dropped along the way.” He stepped closer. “I
also think that you haven’t been completely honest with me. I don’t believe your story about how you and Cal met. That whole scenario is so . . .” He searched for the word, his hands raking through his hair in frustration. “So
foreign
from the brother I knew that it can’t possibly be true.”

We faced each other for a long time while he waited for me to respond, but I said nothing. How could I explain something I didn’t understand, either? That the man I first met wasn’t the man I’d married?

I bit my lip, embarrassed to feel it trembling. “I loved him. I did. And that’s all you need to know.”

He blew out a long breath, then turned to go into the house. “I’m going to load up my truck with the boxes in the hall, and then I’m going to have a chocolate sundae. Don’t bother to see me out.”

I watched him head up the stairs, wondering not for the first time how I’d ever mistaken him for Cal. I closed the door and headed past the stairs and into the study, where the jumbled drawers of the hutch awaited me, my pocket feeling heavy with the weight of Cal’s ring. I opened the top drawer and stared into it for a long time, not seeing anything as I willed the tears I’d been holding back since my mother’s death to come. But they never did.

LORALEE

L
oralee awoke with her hand over her mouth, as if even in her dreams she battled the constant nausea and stomach upset that she dealt with during her waking hours. She lay still for a moment, waiting to see if it would subside and trying to remember on which side of the bed she’d placed the garbage can, just in case.

The bedside clock ticked its slow progression through the early morning hours, a sound she was becoming more and more accustomed to as she began to find it difficult to sleep through an entire night. Very carefully she eased her way up the headboard, pausing so she wouldn’t jolt anything loose. Once there she paused again, taking stock before slowly leaning over to the bedside table, where she kept a roll of Tums. She chewed slowly, the sound of the crunching tablets loud in her head, then forced herself to swallow.

She’d already started planning for her descent back onto her
pillow when she heard Owen’s voice. Her mother’s instinct pushed aside any lingering stomach upset as she slid from the bed, hitting her toe on the garbage can she’d forgotten was there as she made her way out of her room and into the hallway.

Owen’s Darth Vader night-light glowed dimly in the hall, guiding her to his open bedroom door, where she thought she heard very quiet singing. She stopped on the threshold when she realized it was Merritt, and she was sitting on the side of Owen’s bed. Loralee propped herself against the door frame, unwilling to interrupt, and listened. And then she almost laughed out loud as she recognized the words from the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song.

The song came to an abrupt halt. “I can’t remember the next part,” Merritt said quietly.

Owen’s loud whisper came back with, “‘The weather started getting rough.’”

“Oh, right. Although I think I should stop singing, because I don’t want to wake your mother. Unless you need to hear more to make you feel better.”

“I’m good,” he whispered.

“Good,” Merritt said. “Are you ready to tell me why you were crying?”

There was a long pause, and Loralee strained to hear.

“I miss my daddy.”

His voice was so full of hurt that Loralee thought she could now explain to people what a broken heart felt like, because hers must truly be splitting in half. She wanted to rush in and go to him, just as much as she knew that Merritt was right where they both needed her to be.

“I miss him, too.” Merritt’s voice cracked, and it took a moment before she continued. “He was a good daddy. Did he teach you how to swim and how to ride a bike?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Me, too. His jokes were pretty lame, though. Did he tell you the one about Ewie Gooey the worm?”

“Lots of times,” Owen said. “But I laughed each time so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings.”

“Yeah. I did, too. I guess that’s something else he taught you—to be mindful of others’ feelings.”

“Did he teach you that, too?”

There was a small pause. “Yes. It’s something I’m finding I still need to work on, but I’m trying.” She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was thick. “I’m sad that I didn’t get to see him before he died—and that was all my fault, not his. But I’m really glad that he had you, and that makes me feel a lot better. I think we can be happy that we both had him in our lives so that he could teach us important things we’re always going to need. Maybe we should think of that when we start missing him, so we won’t be so sad.”

It was quiet for a long moment, and Loralee wondered whether it was time to slip back into her room.

“Merritt?”

“Yes?”

“If everybody was only on the SS
Minnow
for a three-hour tour, how come they all had so much luggage?”

Nobody spoke while Merritt made strangling noises. “That’s a very good question. I’ve always wondered how the Professor could make a working radio out of bamboo but not fix a boat. Boggles the mind, really.” Another pause. “You know,
Gilligan’s Island
aired way before my time, so I think it’s pretty cool that you and I both somehow discovered it and liked it enough to memorize the theme song.”

“Yeah, sort of like we were a regular brother and sister, growing up watching the same show but in different houses.”

“Something like that.” The mattress creaked as Merritt shifted position. “Did I tell you that I used to be afraid of the dark, too?”

“You were?”

“You bet. That’s why, when I heard you crying, I thought the night-light bulb had burned out. I remember that happened once when I was a little girl. I was staying with my grandmother and she told me that it was time I got over it. It’s not that easy, though, is it?”

Loralee heard the rustle of Owen’s head against his pillow as he shook his head.

“So I just slept with a flashlight under my sheets after that, and did so for a very long time.”

“Do you still?” Owen asked.

“No. Because somewhere along the way I learned that even the darkest nights are full of light.”

“Really?” Owen’s voice was slurred with sleepiness.

“Really. Have you ever been outside after dark, when the stars and the moon are out? It’s like a filter has slid across the sun. Everything’s the same, except all the colors are different. And inside, after you turn off the lights, if you push your fear aside just long enough for your eyes to adjust to the dark, you’ll find that you can still see.”

“But everything is in different colors,” Owen repeated slowly, barely finishing the last word.

Merritt must have recognized it, too, because she stood.

“Merritt?”

“Yes, Owen?”

“You can unplug my Darth Vader night-light if you want.”

“All right. But only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Merritt stood and leaned down to kiss Owen’s forehead. “Good night, Rocky.”

“Good night, Mary Ann,” he said with a sleepy giggle.

“Why not Ginger? She had better hair.”

“Okay. Good night, Ginger.”

Loralee smiled to herself at the mention of the hair, thinking that Merritt might not be so hopeless after all, then quietly backed
away from the room, pausing at the top of the staircase so she wouldn’t be seen.

“Merritt?” Owen’s voice slurred again as he called out to his sister.

She paused in the doorway where Loralee had been. “Yes?”

“Or you could leave it on. I’m only ten.”

“True. Okay, then, I’ll leave it on. Good night,” she said again.

There was no response, only the assurance that Owen had worked through his fears with Merritt and had finally found sleep.

Loralee rushed down the stairs as quickly as she could in the dark in her long nightgown, not wanting to be seen by Merritt as they crossed paths to their rooms. She stood in the darkened foyer, opening her eyes wider. What Merritt had said was true—there
was
light. It came from the tall windows where the glow from the streetlights fell inside in ribbons of white. Loralee could see the shapes of the furniture that had become dear and familiar to her already, recognized the wallpaper on the wall transferred from red and cream to shades of gray.

Her fingers itched to write down the words rushing to her head before she forgot them.
Even in the blackest darkness, there is always light shining somewhere.

A sob rose in her throat, but she held it back. Someone was coming down the stairs, and she didn’t want anybody to see her crying. Not because she was embarrassed to cry—a good cry was healthy for everybody. It was just that she didn’t think Owen or Merritt was ready to see it.

She tiptoed to the kitchen, grateful for once that she wasn’t wearing her heels, then sat down at the table in the dark with her back to the door and began to cry softly into her hands.

The overhead light flickered on and Loralee glanced up in surprise, thinking just for a moment that the ancient wiring had finally gone haywire. Or that the ghosts she suspected lurked in the corners of the old house had decided to show themselves.

Instead she smelled the soft lemon scent of the hand lotion she’d given to Merritt when she’d noticed her cracked cuticles, and quickly rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Are you all right?” Merritt asked.

“I’m fine. With all the time spent working in the garden, I think I’ve become sensitive to something out there. I can barely breathe, and my eyes and skin are so itchy that I couldn’t sleep. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Merritt moved into the kitchen and took a seat at the table opposite Loralee, giving her a full view of Loralee’s face. Merritt quickly hid her surprise as she took in Loralee’s puffy eyes and runny nose. “Those are some pretty bad allergies. Maybe you should take something before you head outside again.”

Loralee nodded as she reached for a tissue from a box on the table and carefully dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “I will, thank you.”

Merritt leaned back in her chair. “I suppose that was you I heard in the hallway upstairs while I was talking with Owen.”

“Probably. Unless you think it might have been a ghost.”

Merritt’s face stilled. “There’s no such thing.” She sounded like a child trying to prove something wrong just by saying it.

“There’s so much in this great big universe that we don’t understand. But just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Kind of like love, don’t you think? Many people never really experience it, but they still have faith that it’s out there.”

Merritt hugged her arms around her middle, something Loralee had seen people do on planes during bad turbulence.

Loralee leaned forward, feeling a bit like Dr. Phil during one of his TV shows. Except he always wore a suit and not a leopard-print peignoir. “You must miss your husband a lot.”

The look in Merritt’s eyes made Loralee sit back in a hurry. It took her a moment to recognize what she’d seen there. It was
fear
.
But fear of what? Acknowledging how much she missed Cal? Or fear that the question would lead to another?

“Why did you say that?”

Loralee shrugged. “I’m usually pretty good at reading people and situations, but I get a lot of mixed signals from you about your husband, and to be honest, I just can’t figure it out. Was he a lot like Gibbes?”

“No,” Merritt answered without even pausing to think about it. Which meant she’d already been thinking about it a lot. “Except for their eyes and the color of their hair, they are nothing alike.”

“I’m taking that as a good thing,” Loralee said, bending forward to ease the pain in her abdomen.

“Not that it matters. Cal is gone, and Gibbes isn’t a permanent fixture in my life.”

Loralee considered her stepdaughter. “You know, if you married Gibbes, you wouldn’t have to change the monograms on any of your towels or linens.”

Merritt, whose legs had been crossed, jerked up so quickly her knee hit the underside of the table. “What are you talking about? I’m not marrying anybody—especially not Gibbes. I don’t ever want to get married again. Marriage . . . it didn’t suit me.”

“Maybe it’s because you just didn’t marry the right man. It’s pretty rare that a person gets it right on the first try. I was married once, before your daddy.”

Merritt rubbed her knee as she looked at Loralee with surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

“I was still wet behind the ears—barely eighteen. We were married for about five seconds. Mama said I was making a mistake, which of course meant I had to go ahead and do it. And after the divorce I moved back in with Mama and she never once said, ‘I told you so.’ That’s when she said that life is a lot like the interstate, where every exit is an entrance someplace else.” Loralee smiled. “And she was
right. My divorce made me see that I needed to make some changes, and that’s when I decided I wanted to be a flight attendant. And if that hadn’t happened, then I never would have met your daddy.

“So, see? Maybe it wasn’t that marriage didn’t suit you. Maybe you just weren’t married to the right person.”

“Are you not wearing any makeup?”

Loralee blinked at the abrupt change of subject. Robert had been that way, too—changing the subject when the current one no longer interested him. It must be a New England thing, because Southerners would talk a subject to death until it lay gasping and panting in the dust. And if it were an unpleasant one, they’d just end it with, “Bless your heart.”

“No, I’m not—well, except for my tattooed eyebrows and eyeliner. My mama taught me that the first rule to having good skin was to always take your makeup off before you went to bed at night.”

Merritt considered her for a moment. “You look pretty without it, you know. Although I think I need to change the bulbs in here—you look a little yellow. Why do you wear it?”

Loralee smiled her flight-attendant smile. “Because I like how it makes me feel—strong, powerful. Confident. It’s like a man putting on a suit and tie, I guess, but more fun. You know us Southern girls are born with a makeup brush in one hand and a lipstick in the other.”

Despite her best efforts, Merritt laughed, the sound bubbling out of her mouth.

“You should try it sometime,” Loralee said.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin. My mother didn’t wear makeup either.”

Their eyes met in mutual surprise that Merritt’s last sentence hadn’t come out as an accusation.

Being careful not to push too much, Loralee said, “When you’re ready, I’d be happy to give you a starter course.” Her gaze dipped down to Merritt’s shirt. “What are you wearing?”

Merritt looked down as if she’d forgotten what she’d slipped over her head only a few hours ago. “It’s one of Cal’s sweatshirts.”

“Do you wear it to feel him close to you again?”

Merritt opened her mouth to speak, her lips moving as she thought about her answer.

“If you don’t know for sure, then my guess is you wear it because you always have. Does it make you feel good? Or sexy? Or even like a girl?”

Merritt frowned. “It’s something to sleep in. I don’t need to feel anything but tired when I put it on.”

It was Loralee’s turn to look surprised. “Do you mean to say that after being married for seven years, it never occurred to you that what you wear to bed should make you feel something?”