I thanked them for the casseroles again before we said our good-byes, and I watched as they piled back into the Cadillac. I stood on the porch for a long moment, acutely aware of the unlocked door of the attic, like an open mouth breathing hot air on my neck.
I looked up at the wind chimes, remembering what Deborah had told me about hiding the sea glass from Edith’s husband. The chimes were still now, the air stagnant and heavy. I squinted into the sun to see them better, remembering Mr. Williams explaining that the glass was cloudy because the pieces had been tumbled about the ocean for years. Edith said that any glass that could withstand such a beating without crumbling was something to be celebrated.
I rubbed my arms, feeling goose bumps beneath my fingertips, as if it were November instead of May, then went inside to check on Loralee to make sure she was all right, finding the idea preferable to going upstairs to stare up into the attic and wonder what waited for me there.
chapter 9
LORALEE
Loralee stood at the bottom of the stairs contemplating—just for a moment—taking off her heels before heading up. Gripping the two Coke bottles, she slowly climbed the steps, pausing at the top to catch her breath. Her gaze scanned the upstairs hallway, resting on the attic door, closed until the HVAC man came. Merritt hadn’t been up there, although at night, when it was cooler, Loralee had seen her standing outside the door with her hand on the knob. The first time she’d seen Merritt there, Loralee had quietly gone back into her room and had written in her Journal of Truths. The weight of fear goes away as soon as we face our monsters and realize they weren’t as scary as we thought. Thinking of Owen, she underlined that one, hoping he’d read it first.
Merritt’s door was half-open, with no sound coming from inside. Thinking she might have gone somewhere, Loralee stuck her head around the corner and saw the closet door wide-open, stacks of clothes and shoes and labeled boxes lined up against the walls. Merritt sat on the high bed thumbing through what looked like an old photo album, the kind where the pictures were stuck onto the pages and then covered with clear plastic. Four more albums were stacked on the bench at the end of the bed, all different sizes and colors, as if they’d never been intended to be part of a set.
Loralee lifted her hand to tap on the door, but paused when she heard Merritt sniff, then raise a tissue to her eyes. Loralee took a step back and was rewarded with the answering groan of an old floorboard protesting her weight. Merritt’s surprised eyes met hers, and Loralee could think only to smile.
Pretending she hadn’t heard or seen anything, she said, “I brought you a snack. You’ve been up here most of the day and I figured you could use a perk-me-up.” Without waiting to be asked inside, she walked toward Merritt and handed her one of the Coke bottles.
Merritt blinked, trying to hide her reddened and wet eyes, and Loralee knew enough not to say anything. Her first instinct was to plop down on the bed beside Merritt and throw her arms around her in a big hug before forcing her stepdaughter to tell her what was wrong. Most people would probably start talking during the hug, but Merritt was different. And it wasn’t just because she was from Maine; it had more to do with a childhood that had ended too early and a life full of more hurts than most people could survive. But Merritt had. With scars, and bruises, and prickly parts as reminders of where she’d been, but she’d survived. Not that Merritt would ever want to hear it, but Loralee admired her for her strength, and prayed every night that Owen was made of the same stuff.
Merritt took the bottle and stared at it suspiciously. “I usually don’t drink soda.” She tilted the bottle slightly and looked at the label. “And when I do, I drink Moxie.”
Loralee repressed an involuntary grimace. In her travels as a flight attendant, she’d tried the state drink of Maine, a bitter concoction that tasted like root beer poured over cotton and laced with battery acid. Loralee leaned forward as if she were whispering to her best friend at the desk next to hers in fourth grade. “If I were you, I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. First of all—it’s all Coke. Whether you want a Coke, a Fanta, or a Mountain Dew, you ask for a Coke—and then you tell them what kind. But don’t ever ask for a Pepsi. That’s just wrong.”
“That’s just odd,” Merritt said, her eyes narrowed as she tried to determine whether Loralee was teasing.
“It’s just Southern, which is sometimes the same thing as odd, but that’s how we like it. Keeps our Northern brothers and sisters guessing.”
Closing one eye, Merritt peered into the neck of the pale green bottle, her forehead creased. “What’s floating in there?”
Loralee brightened. “Peanuts! Haven’t you ever put peanuts in your Coke?”
“Never.” She looked at Loralee as if her stepmother were trying to poison her.