The Fog of Forgetting (3 page)

Grace's grandfather, Henry Baker, built Summerledge in 1925 as a wedding present for his new wife, Ruth. He returned from fighting in the Great War with a limp, damaged lungs, and a deep longing for a quiet life by the sea where he would never again hear the sound of gunfire. He found it in a parcel of shorefront not far from the village of Fells Harbor, and quickly got to work. When he was finished, the house had three floors, a center chimney, and an iron widow's walk that wrapped around the roof. With the sound of surf in his ears, he walked the length of the long driveway and drove a post into the ground where he installed a shiny metal mailbox and painted the name
Summerledge
on it in green. After Grace's mother was born, he added a shed, a telephone, and indoor plumbing, but not much else.

As a child, Grace spent eight precious summers at Summerledge with her older brother, Edward and their grandparents. Almost as soon as they could walk, her grandfather taught them both to sail in the small wooden sailboat he refinished with his own hands. By age twelve, Edward was a good enough sailor to take the boat out by himself, often staying out all day to explore the outer islands. He told Grace he would take her with him when she was older—but then came the summer that changed everything: the summer Edward took the sailboat out and never came back.

After that, Grace was taken inland for good, far away from the ocean's glare and the fog that boats—and brothers—got lost in. There she stayed, for more than twenty years, until the day she got a letter in the mail deeding Summerledge and all its belongings to her. That was fifteen years ago, and the Thompsons had been making the drive up to Maine every summer since.

Halfway into
this
year's drive, the Thompsons' car hit a small bump in the road. A squealing shudder ripped through the interior. Grace peered nervously out her side mirror.

“You did tie the bikes on tightly, Jim? I mean, with the strap?” she asked her husband.

He gave her an exasperated look.

“I think I can be trusted to pack the bikes, don't you? It's not rocket science.”

“Uh … Mom?” Knox interrupted, leaning forward to get her attention.

A dull drilling sound from outside the car was picking up volume.

“Just a minute, honey, I want to say something important to Dad— Jim?—
Jim!
” she repeated, louder.

“Hmm?” Jim mumbled, his mind miles away, back at the lab, among racks of test tubes and petri dishes holding exotic strains of bacteria.

“
Mom!”
yelled Knox.

She ignored him, still focused on her husband. “Jim, honey, I—I want you to know that I'm really glad you're coming for the whole week. I know you have a lot of work.”

“I'm looking forward to it—” His ear twitched back at the sound of metal groaning. “Grace, this car
really
needs some attention.”

“The
car
needs attention?” she repeated, her temper rising again.

“Mom!” Knox yelled, trying one more time and elbowing Chase in the ribs.

“What'd ya do that for?” Chase snapped, removing his earbuds. Knox pointed. One of the ties holding the bikes on board was loose and flapping against the back of the car, its metal end rapping loudly.

“It'th LOUD in here!” Teddy cried, holding his hands up to his ears.

The sudden sound of metal screaming drowned out everything else; the car lurched and, with a
wump-wump-wump—crash
, the bike rack and all the bikes separated from the tail end and fell onto the highway. Cars veered like bowling pins around the flying projectiles of spinning wheels and handlebars.

“Hey, Mom, check it out—that guy's flipping you off,” said Chase.

A red sedan bolted by them, its passenger shaking an upturned middle finger out the window. Knox snorted with laughter. Grace navigated the car to the shoulder.

“You three listen to me, right now—not another word. Dad and I have to work this out.”

Jim collapsed his face into his hands and muttered a list of what sounded like some very bad swear words.

“Dad?” Knox pointed incredulously at his father's bent head. “What's he gonna do? Call 911?”

“Knox, I mean it: Not. Another. Word.” She opened the car door and got out. Jim groaned and followed her.

“I'm going too,” said Knox. He unbuckled, handed Bob to Chase, and scrambled over Teddy's car seat.

“Not me,” said Chase, making a sour face at the turtle. “If he's stupid enough not to tie the bikes on right—”

“Don't call your father stupid!” Grace barked from outside the car.

The sun was setting when the Thompsons drove down the main street of Fells Harbor, exhausted and three bikes lighter. They passed the post office, library, and a small assortment of shops: a grocery, a hardware store, a marine supply company, and a drugstore called Flo's. As they headed northeast, they went by a cottage belonging to one of their nearest neighbors: Captain Nate. The house faced out to sea but for two windows flanking the front door. A wall of lobster traps divided the driveway from a small, well-kept lawn, and a steady stream of smoke rose from the chimney. Captain Nate was a lobster fisherman and a local legend for his knowledge of all things boat-related, and for his universal dislike of small talk, small children, and trespassers.

Chase rolled down his window, putting his chin against the edge of the glass. The car veered past the house. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He thought he saw the dark shape of Captain Nate standing alone on his dock, watching the water.

“It smells so good here,” he announced, to no one in particular.

“Doesn't it, honey?” his mother replied, her own voice soft.

Chase glanced at her and saw that her window was down too, her light brown hair spinning wildly from its bun. She looked happy. His dad was sound asleep, head tilted back against the seat, small moon-shaped dents on his nose from his glasses.

“I'm so glad you like it here,” said Grace.

They reached their rusty mailbox and turned right, heading down the long driveway. The sun had sunk low and it was hard to make out familiar shapes in the twilight. Knox peered past Chase, out the window, looking for his tree fort in the gloom.

“I think I see it!” he said excitedly, pointing to a barely visible outline of a platform and rail. “It made it through the winter.”

Their dad was awake now, staring out the windshield with unfocused eyes. Quiet billowed through the windows with the scent of the ocean. Each person became lost in their own private memories when, like a dream, the house suddenly appeared around a bend in the driveway. Its silhouette stood erect against the empty horizon—silent and motionless—waiting for them, as it had been all winter.

The car pulled into its space by the shed and Grace turned off the engine. The boys sat up, listening intently to the crash of waves striking the ledge and watching the first bright pinpricks of stars poke through the darkening sky. Beyond the house lay the sea and shining gray mounds of granite that slumped into the depths like whale backs and gave the house its name.

“We're here!” cried Teddy.

“Finally,” said Chase.

C
hase blinked awake the next morning, blinded for a minute by sunlight. He and Knox bunked together in their mother's old, yellow room at Summerledge. Teddy slept in a smaller room across the hall, just off his parents' corner bedroom. The house had one other bedroom: their uncle Edward's room. No one went in there unless they had guests.

Chase sat up and stretched. The air was cool and smelled like aged wood and ocean salt, with a hint of mildew. The smell of summer.
This
was the moment he'd been waiting for all year. No school. No homework. No teachers telling you what to do all day. And, best of all, no one around to make life miserable—just endless empty hours. He leaned across the space between the twin beds and poked at the Knox-shaped lump in the sleeping bag. It collapsed under his finger, empty. Chase pogo-ed over to the window in his sleeping bag. He shaded his eyes against the glare and watched a small silhouette standing on the outermost ledge, fist in the air, as the tide surged against the rocks, catapulting spray.

“
Wa-hoo!
”

Chase opened the window to yell down to Knox, but the surf was too loud, so he hastily pulled on his shorts, T-shirt, and hoodie and went down the stairs. The kitchen was warm and smelled like coffee; a small fire crackled in the woodstove, and boxes of cereal and bowls were already laid out on the square wooden kitchen table.

Chase paused to put his inhaler around his neck. He took a breath, testing. His lungs were clear for now, but asthma was always there, beneath the surface of his skin, ready to choke him. He'd avoided a full-on attack at school, and complete and utter social doom, by being very careful all year long. Maybe now that he was at Summerledge, the beast in his lungs would relax and he could think about other things.

He went outside, slamming the screen door behind him, and slowly rounded the house. Gulls swooped overhead, calling out to one another. The pitted backs of the granite ledge were strung thick with seaweed and mussels; a dark waterline cut across the rock's face. Out to sea, lobster boats steamed along the horizon, the sound of their engines droning loudly in the clear morning air. When Chase caught up with Knox, still at the farthest edge, his brother's face was wet, his dimples deep in his cheeks from smiling so hard.

“Hey!” yelled Chase over the pound of the waves.

“I saw something out here!” Knox yelled back. “I was looking out the window and saw something cross the yard.”

“What?”

Knox shrugged. Another burst of sea spray showered them.

“I dunno, maybe a fox or something. It was gone when I got down here.” He looked sideways at Chase. “Wanna have a screaming contest?” It used to be their favorite game.

“That's lame,” said Chase, but he was smiling now, too. The movement felt strange; his ears felt heavy, like they'd gained weight over the past year from not smiling for such a long time. Knox shrugged again and circled his mouth with his hands.

“I HATE MATH FACTS! AND MRS. COSGROVE'S WEIRD NECK MOLE WITH THE HAIR GROWING OUT OF IT. AND WORD STUDY!” He lowered his hands for a minute, then screamed, “CARLY STUART IS A CRYBABY! JOE MCNALLY CHEATS AT FOUR SQUARE! TREVOR WILSON'S FARTS STINK LIKE HOT DOGS!”

Chase grinned. He was enjoying his brother's company at the moment. “Anything else?”

Knox shook his head, slowly, happily. “No—but it feels good. Try it.” He gave Chase another sideways glance.

“No doubt,” said Chase, avoiding eye contact. Knox's shiner was a sickly green this morning. “Maybe later.”

Knox chewed on the ribbed collar of his T-shirt for a minute, then he leaned in toward Chase. “You know—”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Chase stepped away quickly, moving back toward the house. Knox followed him.

To their right lay a rocky, northeasterly stretch of beach. The geography of Summerledge was too rugged for a dock, so the Thompsons used the old sailboat mooring for their small Whaler, which wasn't in the water yet.

“Lots of traps out there,” said Knox, with a nod toward the cluster of bobbing, striped buoys less than a hundred feet from shore. “Maybe Mom will let me put some in this year.”

Chase snorted. Knox had only learned to drive the Whaler last summer—now he was the big expert. The salty fisherman. He was about to say something to that effect when he caught sight of the shiner again.

“I doubt it. You know what a freak she is about the water.”

Knox's shoulders sagged. It was true. The Thompsons didn't set foot on a boat unless the weather forecast called for sparkling clear days. No way would their mom let Knox go out every day to collect traps. There might be fog, and she was deathly—and nonnegotiably—afraid of fog.

“Yeah,” Knox sighed.

Chase gave him a halfhearted punch, trying to be nice. The truth was that the sight of Knox had been making him mad all week—by all rights, the shiner should have been his, not Knox's—but that wasn't why he couldn't talk about it. The real reason was that all week he'd been trying to figure out if he would have done the same thing if he'd been in Knox's position. He wasn't sure. What kind of person would let some kid beat up his little brother? He didn't want to be that kind of person. But maybe he was, and Knox wasn't, and that made it hard to look at him.

“It's low tide,” Chase said, instead. “We could check out Secret Beach.”

Knox flashed his smile and took off toward the driveway.

Secret Beach wasn't really much of a secret, but it had been called that for as long as anyone could remember. The sandy quarter-mile arch was slotted between two shelves of granite just south of Summerledge. The Thompsons accessed it by a hidden path off the driveway. Because of the currents, Secret Beach was a daily receptacle for every imaginable bit of flotsam and jetsam thrown overboard: sea glass, buoys, coils of colorful, burnt rope, plastic containers, driftwood, banged-up metal traps, old rubber boots. It was like having a treasure chest outside your front door that magically refilled every day.

Chase watched Knox sprint toward the opening in the woods. He swallowed some air deep into his lungs. Testing. It would feel good to be able to run—especially since his skateboard was useless on grass. Now was as good a time as any to find out if the beast would let him. He picked up his pace. At the head of the path, he stopped, huffing and puffing, and took a hit from his inhaler.

“WHEEZER!” Knox yelled, jumping out of the tree fort and landing right behind Chase.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Chase gasped, startled. “I'm not supposed to run, remember?”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Knox.

They jostled each other all the way down the path, leaving the shade of the woods where it narrowed as they cut through a stretch of long dune grass, slanting sharply downhill and onto the speckled reaches of the beach. At the other end, they could see the sharp-pitched roof and boxy outline of the cottage that belonged to their nearest neighbor: old Fanny Dellemere. The boys threaded their way through the grass, past the lip of heaped rocks, and out onto the beach. They heard the slight tinkling of water receding over pebbles as the tide ebbed and looked up into the misty glare of the surf. Two narrow figures were stooped at the water's edge.

Blinking in disbelief, Knox whispered, “Oh no!” He poked Chase hard in the ribs. “Girls!”

“Let's just go back,” Chase groaned, deflated and annoyed. He didn't want to deal with any other kids. He'd had enough of them all year. They made a move to turn back when the taller of the two figures looked up and waved vigorously; she shook the other, shorter girl by the shoulder. A wave came crashing in and rolled over the tops of the girls' feet. They shrieked and ran up the beach, toward the boys.

“Are you the Thompsons?” yelled the taller girl.

She looked a little younger than Chase, but just as tall and angular. By the fit of her cut-off shorts and stretched-out sweater, she hadn't had time to buy clothes to match her new height. Both girls had round faces, long, curly, chestnut-colored hair, and golden-brown skin. The younger girl's forehead was framed by squared-off bangs, and her smile was missing a tooth. She wore a red windbreaker, rolled-up jeans, and pink high-tops. When the girls got close enough to talk instead of yell, Chase could see that the older girl had enormous brown eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes.

“Umm, two of them … We have a little brother. I mean, besides Mom and Dad,” answered Knox.

The older girl was silent, studying them. Chase did the same, noticing through his own bangs that she had a long, straight nose which, combined with her large eyes, gave her a serious, almost sad, expression. The younger girl stood on one foot, scratching a mosquito bite on her calf with her pink sneaker.

Finally, the older girl cocked her head in Knox's direction. “You must be Knox.”

He nodded. If the girl noticed Knox's bruise, she didn't show it.

“So you must be Chase—” she flicked her eyes at Chase. “And Teddy is the other brother, right?” She had an accent that made her words sound clipped, stressing the D's and T's.

“Yup—how did you know?” asked Knox.

“My grandmother told me,” she said matter-of-factly, and extended her hand. Knox took it like it was a used tissue, clearly weirded-out to be shaking hands with another kid.

“Nice to meet you,” she said politely. “My name is Evelyn Boudreaux. This is my little sister, Frankie,” she said, gesturing to her right. “I'm thirteen and she's nine. How old are you?” She held her hand out to Chase. He hadn't spoken yet. While Evelyn was asking her questions, he was examining the granite shelf to his left, wondering if he could just start climbing and get away before he had to say anything.

“I'm twelve,” Knox replied, shoving Chase lightly.

“And you?” Evelyn asked again, this time looking directly at Chase, her hand still extended. When he didn't answer, Evelyn dropped her hand and raised an eyebrow at Knox. “Does he talk?” The way she said it was different than the kids at school. Nicer. As if she didn't care what the answer was.

“I'm almost fourteen,” Chase mumbled.

Evelyn acknowledged the answer by saying, “Look what we found.”

She held out a small, whitish-gray disc no bigger than a quarter. It was etched with a star pattern and had five small slits along the bottom. She turned the sand dollar over in her palm.

“We've been here almost every day and this is the first time I've seen one. Are they common here?”

Chase tensed. Every day? Who were these girls? This was
their
beach. Plus, they had never found sand dollars on Secret Beach before. It seemed totally unfair that the first one would be found by strangers.

“
We
live here,” Knox said, his hackles up. “At Summerledge.”

Evelyn nodded, flipping the sand dollar over and over in her palm with a thoughtful expression. “We live here too.”

“No you don't!” said Chase. “We've never seen you here before.”

“That's because we moved here this winter. Over there.” Evelyn pointed toward the spit of land where the Dellemere cottage was located.

“That's Mrs. Dellemere's place,” said Knox, confused. “She never said anything about having kids.”

“We're not her
kids
,” Evelyn replied, emphasizing the last word to draw attention to the obvious, the “duh” implied.

“She's sort of our grandmother,” Frankie piped up. Her voice was high and soft, the kind you had to lean in close to hear. A gust of wind puffed her bangs and showed the whole of her round face. Her eyes were the same deep brown as her sister's, but smaller and slightly almond-shaped. Her chin was squarer than her sister's, and when she smiled, her missing tooth made her look younger than her nine years.

“She was a friend of our father's,” Evelyn corrected, kicking at the sand. “She knew us when we were little. We only saw her once or twice before—” Her voice broke off. She frowned. “—Before we came here to live with her.”

“Why don't you live with your parents?” asked Chase, his curiosity getting the better of his shyness.

It was Evelyn's turn not to answer. She gave him a blank stare, then threw the sand dollar on the ground; before Chase could react, she turned and ran off toward the cottage. Frankie bent down to pick up the sand dollar. It was cracked in half. She shook the broken halves, pouring sand and shell particles into her palm.

“
Colombes de la paix
.”

“Columns de la
what?
” said Knox.

Frankie touched the particles with her fingertip and massaged the empty spot along her gum with her tongue.

“Doves of peace. See, there are five of them.” Her finger nudged each one. “Always five. They are a sign of friendship.” She reached out and grabbed Knox's hand, placing the shell particles into his upturned palm and closing his fingers around them.

“Our parents are dead—we live here now,” she added, simply, and turned to follow her sister up the beach.

Chase and Knox stood frozen, unsure how to react. Leaving felt wrong, but following the girls was clearly not an option. The whole morning thus far had been strange and disorienting, like coming into your bedroom and finding the furniture rearranged; yet Chase had to admit that having the two girls here was also somewhat . .
. cool
. And to find out they were orphans—it was like a story in a book.

“Should we go back?” Knox asked finally, once the girls had disappeared over the far ledge.

“Okay,” Chase said, shrugging. Secret Beach seemed less interesting now anyway.

The sun was strong overhead as they scaled the path through the grass. It was a relief to get into the shade of the trees by the driveway, the smell of pine sap hitting their nostrils with each step. The surrounding forest was old and uncut; the tops of the trees lush and evergreen, the bottoms gray and brittle.