Her mother had once told her that a canary in the house sang away the blues. It was true. One couldn’t be depressed when a canary sang in the room. Their music was all heart and joy. Throughout the day, no matter what room she was in, they’d connect with her through their song. Sometimes they sang so brilliantly that she had to stop what she was doing to listen, a smile on her face. At the day’s end when the sun lowered, casting shadows and changing the blue sky to deep indigo, she’d talk to them again as she covered their cages. The birds were her touchstones that marked the beginning and end of each day. And here at the beach house, they were her constant companions on this journey from dependence to independence.
Now that the sun was shining she opened all the windows, allowing the fresh air to fill the room and finished feeding the birds. Then it was time to deal with her own hunger. Sunlight filled the small kitchen, and in the light she saw that she’d left the kitchen a mess as well. The counter was littered with her empty soup can, cups with dried, wrinkled tea bags in them, a wineglass with the last of her wine congealing in the bottom, and bread crumbs and jam. In the sink were dirty dishes. She wrinkled her nose at the fetid smell coming from the garbage.
“There’s no maid for you in this house,” she told herself with a rueful sigh. “Welcome to the real world.” She rummaged through the cabinets to find soap and towels and quickly cleaned the kitchen, popping whole-grain bread into the toaster while she worked. Once the strong scent of coffee filled the room, she felt better. After a quick breakfast and final cleanup, Heather gathered up the garbage. Now, where should she put it?
The obvious place was outside somewhere. She opened the front door and stood a moment blinking in the bright sunlight. The island heat was rising already. The unforgiving sunlight revealed the age of the house, but she could see that it was lovingly maintained. Fresh paint on the trim, new screens on the porches, and big pots of big cherry-red geraniums. Bending, she touched the soil. Needed water, she reminded herself. The dunes beyond the house were covered with wild grasses and flowers; most she couldn’t name. But she would start to sketch them and learn. On the ground she spotted the skittering prints of ghost crabs that led to their circular dens. A big spiderweb in the corner of the porch was covered with dew. There wasn’t a garage or shed, so she looked under the front porch and found the bins along with a rusting bicycle, a few garden tools, beach chairs, deflated beach balls, and a bocce ball set half buried under sand. So much to do . . . so much to learn, she told herself as she tossed the garbage in the bin.
A nagging voice crept into her mind, telling her she didn’t have what it took to live on her own. That she was setting herself up for failure. She wasn’t strong or resourceful enough. She couldn’t even walk outdoors without looking over her shoulder.
Heather closed the lid of the garbage bin with a firm slap and silenced the voice. Her therapist had told her that people with social anxiety often filtered out their own strengths by ignoring them or explaining them away. Instead they liked to tell themselves of their flaws and shortcomings, anything to make them feel inferior.
“Yes, I can,” she said aloud, slapping dust from her hands.
She walked to the tilting, rusting black mailbox affixed to a wood post. It squeaked when she opened it. Peering in, she jumped back as a small black spider scurried out.
“It’s just a spider,” she said aloud, calming herself. “It’s probably more afraid than you are.” The spider was the only occupant of the mailbox. Not even junk mail. Closing the box, she looked down the street at the row of beach houses. It was a quiet back street with a mix of houses—some big and impressive, but many smaller cottages like the beach house she lived in. Some had cars in their driveways; others were hidden behind thick barriers of palm trees and overgrown shrubs. Not a person in sight. The reality that she didn’t know anyone here except Cara and Bo loomed large in her mind.
Bo. . . . Where was he? She didn’t see him around the deck. Was he working on another job? Or had her nervous prattle scared him off?? She hoped not. She liked him. It was a novel feeling for her. Almost a crush. She tried not to think about him, but from time to time she’d see his face in her mind. Or if there was a noise outside, she’d peek out the window, hoping it was him. If she’d felt this way about a man five years ago, she wouldn’t have been able to be in the same room with him. She would have darted behind a closed door and ignored his presence, even though he was kind. So just the fact that she had invited Bo inside and conversed with him, albeit clumsily, was a huge sign that her therapy was working and she was getting better. That was something positive, wasn’t it?
Heather went back indoors with a lighter step and dove into the task of settling into the beach house. She began unpacking her suitcases and boxes, finding the right place for everything. It was soothing work. She folded a shirt or pants, then placed them in the drawer. Bras, underwear, tops in the dresser. Shoes, dresses, jackets in the closet. Makeup, brushes, cleanser and moisturizer, hair dryer in the bathroom. Each space claimed made her feel like a pioneer in the new territories, setting down stakes.
Once her clothing was unpacked, the top priority was setting up an office/studio. Her work with shorebirds was, after all, why she’d selected Isle of Palms to spend the summer. Heather chose the sunroom for its light, but also because it made her feel like she was outdoors. She spent so much of her time indoors in Charlotte that she longed to go out more, to feel the fresh air on her face, to explore new destinations. The sunroom was for her a magical place that was part inside, part out. A step in the right direction. She erected her easel where it would catch the best light, and moved a small bookshelf in from the living room to house those texts she’d brought with her from Charlotte. She took great pleasure in lining up her different pencils, getting them ready for the inspiration she hoped would come. Stacking her sketch paper and notebooks was akin to laying the bricks for the big project ahead.