rather than the memory of Miah’s lips on mine as we stood on the beach two nights ago. This is what I learn:
The largest turtles can weigh as much as 375 pounds.
Every two to three years, they return to nest on the same beaches where they were born.
Just one in four thousand baby turtles will live to adulthood.
Turtles are air breathers, although they can stay underwater for hours. But too often they become entangled in fishing nets, and when they struggle to break free, they can quickly use up their oxygen and lose the fight.
There is something called a false crawl, when a turtle comes ashore to nest but for whatever reason doesn’t lay her eggs before returning to the sea.
A turtle produces numerous offspring, which she leaves alone to fend for themselves—unlike, say, a horse, which has only a single foal and stays around to protect it until it’s grown and ready to be on its own or until she is pregnant again. But it’s turtles—not horses—that have been around since the days of dinosaurs.
So clearly there’s something in having to fend for yourself. Like me, I think. And in some strange way this gives me hope.
* * *
—
After the meal, Mom and I sit on the porch. I lean back in my chair and stare at the moon, my eyes heavy.
“You’ve gone quiet since we’ve been here.” And at first I think she means since we’ve been here on this porch, but no, she means here on this island.
“So have you.”
She leans forward, crossing her legs, one foot swinging. “So I’ll tell you something and you tell me something.”
“You go first.”
“Okay.” She takes a breath. Lets it out. “You know, I didn’t expect there to be much firsthand material from Aunt Claudine, but she actually left a journal and boxes of letters. As far as I can see, she documented everything. It’s her mother who seems to be the enigma.”
“What do you mean?”
“So far I haven’t found a single thing from Tillie Blackwood. No diary, no letters, not even a grocery list. But there’s a lot of other material from other Blackwoods. I mean a lot. And I’m thinking there’s a book here. Claudine. Her mother. All the women who’ve lived and loved and died on this island.”
“Is it a historical novel or nonfiction? Do you know what the story is?”
“Not yet. But I’ll find it. After all, the writing can save you. And I could use some saving right now.” Her voice is bright and strong, the voice of Wonder Mom, but something wavers in her eyes. She’s said this for years—how, when life is upside down, the writing can save you.
“You’ll find it,” I echo, and that’s so much of what I do with her these days—echo things she says because it’s easier than saying how I really feel.
She asks, “How’s your own writing? Are you working on anything?”
“Not really.” I’ve written a few things down about Tillie and Claudine, but they’re just interesting stories, things I want to remember.
“Okay.” She shifts a little. “What else can I tell you?” She thinks this over. “The photographer asked me to join him for a drink.”
“The one you were talking to?”
“That one.”
Asshole. “What did you say?”
“Thank you, but no thank you. It’s way too soon. I’m not ready. I may never be ready. But it was lovely to be asked.”
There are moments, and this is one of them, when I can actually see her heartache. She carries it not just in her heart but in her arms and on her shoulders and in her face. I think about Tillie’s husband burying her in the front yard and cutting off a lock of her hair and wonder if my parents ever loved each other like that or thought they did. Why do some love stories have a shelf life and others last forever? And suddenly I feel bad for being just an echo and talking to my mom from behind the wall in my chest.
She says, “Now you. Tell me something I don’t know.”
I try to push away the image of my mom with the photographer, this strange younger man who is not my dad. I want to ask if she and my dad are talking. If they’re trying to work on their marriage or if this is it, the way it will be from now on.
But instead I say, “I’m not sure Saz and I will be friends