Chapter 9
Chapter 9
“I don’t understand why you’re packing so many outfits,” Emma’s father said grudgingly from the open doorway of her bedroom.
She sat back on her heels next to her trunk, where she’d been folding sweaters happily. But now she felt the weight of his disapproval roll into the room like a thundercloud.
She wished she was leaving in three hours instead of three days, because lately he’d become disparaging about everything.
“I need clothes for two seasons,” she explained, “because I won’t be back until Christmas.”
Her father moved into the room and sat on the chair by the window. He watched her fold a tweed jacket and place it in the trunk. “It’s so far away, Emma.”
She let out a breath of fatigue. “It’s not that far. And we’ve been through this a hundred times. You know how much this means to me. Please don’t make me feel guilty. I don’t want to worry that you’re angry with me—or worse, that you’re lonely or depressed.”
Her father was a proud man, and under normal circumstances, he’d be offended by the mere insinuation of emotional weakness. But today he stared at the floor and spoke woefully. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Emma. It won’t be the same.”
In that instant, something caught in her chest, and she regretted their recent hostilities, the fact that they’d been at war. She loved her father with all her heart, and she didn’t want to leave him like this.
“You’ll get along fine, Papa,” she said gently, with compassion. “And I’m going to miss you too. I’ll miss you terribly .”
His eyes lifted. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say it.”
She realized it was true, and she wished things could have been different between them these last months. “I guess I’ve been on the defensive,” she explained.
Wanting to fix things, Emma stood up and held out her hand. “Let’s go for a walk. Like old times.”
He rose from the chair.
An hour later, they were laughing as they skidded down the steep side of the high dune toward North Beach, where the sun beat hotly onto the bright sand. The wind in Emma’s face thrilled her—along with the fear that she was sliding too fast and might tumble and roll down the slope. It carried her back to her happy childhood, when her father had taken her on grand adventures to every corner of the island to run and play, and to frolic in the waves. He’d taught her about the horses and vegetation, and the unique geography of their special island home, surrounded by swirling ocean currents. He told jokes and let her drive the horse-drawn carts when she was barely big enough to grip the reins. He picked her up and swung her high in the air before depositing her into her bed each night to read her a story.
“What a perfect day,” he said, sounding jovial for the first time in ages as he walked briskly ahead of Emma on the wide beach, jogging toward the crashing waves.
At the water’s edge, the sand, dampened from the outgoing tide, was packed tight. Dozens of gray seals basked in the sun, lolling about lazily, but her father’s approach sent the herd into a frenzy. They bounced laboriously on their bellies, galumphing into the noisy surf.
Emma watched her father crouch down to touch the water and test the temperature. Another wave rolled in, so he flicked his hand dry and backed away to avoid getting his shoes soaked.
“How is it?” Emma called out.
He rubbed his hands together and strolled back to where she stood. “As cold as midwinter.”
“Gosh darn Labrador current,” she lightly replied.
Two seagulls screeched in the air above them, and Emma looked up. Then she and her father turned to stroll eastward, with the wind at their backs. She moved close to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for letting me go away to school. And I promise, I will miss you, and I’ll write as often as I can.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I wish the Argyle could come more often than once a month. It’s a long time to wait for a letter.”
“Yes, but on the bright side,” she replied, “you’ll have a whole sack of them arrive all at once, which will keep you busy reading for weeks.”
He laughed at that. “I’ll read them all in a single day.”
“I’ll do the same. I just hope they don’t get delivered when I have a test or exam, or I’ll fail miserably.”
“You’ll fail at nothing,” he said, “because you’re brilliant.”
She smiled up at him. “I’ll try not to let that go to my head.”
They came upon a large piece of driftwood and separated to walk around it, then walked for a while in silence, ten feet apart, each of them enjoying the sensation of vigorous exercise in the fresh air and blood flowing robustly through their veins.
After a time, her father moved closer and walked beside Emma. “Maybe it was the wreck of the Belvedere ,” he suggested, looking up at the cottony clouds in the sky, “that’s made this more difficult. It reminded me about loss, and ever since then, I’ve been thinking about your mother, about what she would have wanted for you.”
“What would that have been?” Emma asked, eager to know.
“She would have wanted you to follow your dreams. She was always keen for an adventure and believed we should all make the most of life while we’re fortunate enough to be alive and healthy. She would have hated for me to hold you back. She wouldn’t have stood for it.”
“I wish I could have known her,” Emma said.
“I wish that too. But here we are, and these were the cards we were dealt.”
Just then, an enormous gray seal, shrieking and barking, launched itself out of the waves and onto the beach.
“Watch yourself!” her father shouted.
Emma scurried away, and her father followed, keeping himself between Emma and the seal, which nipped at his heels. They ran and didn’t stop until they reached a safe distance and the seal retreated.
“Are you all right?” her father asked, out of breath.
“Yes. What about you?”
He bent to rub his ankle. “She snapped at me, but I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Let me see.” Emma lifted the cuff of her father’s trousers and discovered a small gash above his Achilles tendon. “It’s not bad,” she said. “But we should put a bandage on it.” She lowered the trouser cuff and straightened.
“We should be getting back anyway,” he said, unfazed. “You still have some packing to do.”
They decided to walk through the interior on the return journey and avoid any further confrontations with overly aggressive seals on the beach.
The following morning, Emma stretched her arms over her head and said aloud, “Forty-eight hours until Boat Day.”
She rose from bed, dressed and washed, and ventured downstairs to the kitchen to cook a pot of oatmeal. Expecting to see her father at his desk with a cup of coffee as usual, she passed by his den, but his chair was empty. She walked into the room and opened the curtains to see if he was out in the station yard. There were no signs of anyone, but it was still early, barely past the first glimmer of dawn.
Emma returned to the kitchen, filled a pot of water at the sink, and carried it to the stove. While she stood over the pot, waiting for it to boil, a memory surfaced, and she was carried back to the day she and Captain Harris had found Willow’s mother, dead in the sand. He had listened to everything she’d needed to say about the loss of her own mother. It was a moment that continued to echo in her mind—the sound of his voice in her ear, the touch of his hands, and the awakening in her body and soul.
She had hoped that by now, after an entire summer, the memories would come less often, but it still wasn’t the case, and she was losing patience with herself.
The water began to boil. With intention, she wrenched herself out of the past, measured a cup of dry oats, and dumped them into the pot. Giving it a stir, she listened for sounds of her father moving about upstairs. He was usually awake by this time, so she went hesitantly to the bottom of the stairs, listened more carefully, and still heard nothing.
Something felt not quite right.
Emma called up to him. “Papa? Are you awake?”
No answer.
She waited a few seconds, then climbed the stairs and knocked on his door. “Papa?”
Again, no answer, so she opened the door a crack, peered in, and saw him lying in bed, sleeping. The window was open. The curtains were billowing on gentle gusts of fresh air coming in off the water. A fly buzzed and bounced against the glass, looking for a way to escape.
Hesitantly, she approached, and abruptly began to perspire as she imagined her father not sleeping but dead, just like Willow’s mother lying in the sand. Emma’s pulse quickened. Her stomach lurched with sudden nausea, but she fought to ignore it and told herself that she was being foolish.
Using the back of her hand, she touched his forehead.
To her great relief, he was warm and still breathing. “Papa, wake up.”
She shook him, but he remained unresponsive.
“Papa!”
Still nothing.
Feeling as if she’d been physically struck, Emma turned and ran. She barreled down the stairs to the telephone in the kitchen and called Abigail.
“I don’t know what’s wrong!” Abigail snapped after trying everything to rouse Emma’s father, including pinching and shaking him. “Has he been sick lately? Complaining of a headache or anything else?”
“Nothing,” Emma said. “He was fine when he went to bed last night.” She imagined the worst. “Do you think he’s had a stroke or a heart attack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wait ...,” Emma said, thinking. “He was bitten by a seal yesterday. Could that have something to do with it?”
“Where?”
“North Beach.”
“No! I mean where on his body !” she barked. “Show me.”
Emma pulled the covers back and raised the hem of her father’s pajama bottoms. “Right here. Oh, God! ”
The flesh around the small wound was dark red and swollen, and an ugly rash was traveling up the length of his calf.
“It’s infected,” Emma said.
Abigail examined the area. “It’s worse than that. I’m not even sure what this is.”
Emma stared at the red blotches, and her breath came short. This wasn’t happening. She shook her father again, more violently this time. “Papa, wake up!”
In a fit of anxiety, Abigail squeezed her hair in her fists. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”
Panic was getting them nowhere, so Emma held up a hand and fought for calm. “Let’s think this through. If it’s an infection, does he need penicillin?”
A medical professional Emma was not. She had no idea if that was an appropriate treatment, but she needed Abigail to focus on a solution, not the problem, because the problem was terrifying.
Abigail stared at the unsightly rash. “It could be a putrid ulcer. Or galloping gangrene. He might have sepsis.”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” Emma said with frustration.
Abigail locked eyes with her. “It means he needs to get to a hospital.”
This, at least, was something Emma could attack. She hurried toward the stairs. “I’ll call Frank.”
As chief wireless operator, Frank would contact the mainland, and if the weather cooperated and the beach was stable enough to use as a runway, an airplane might come.