Secrets Whispered from the Sea - Emma St. Clair Page 0,61
and breathing heavy. My vision was still dark around the edges.
I sank to my knees. The darkness spread, and my palms hit the sand, my body bent like a reed. My hair fell across my cheek, and I stared intently at pine needles, green and brown, tangled in the red strands. If I could just keep my focus on that one thing, maybe I could stave off the encroaching darkness.
The back of my neck tingled. The sensation moved up over my scalp and nausea rolled through my belly.
Even in the midst of this, my mind has one area clear enough to recognize that this is a panic attack. Or something like a panic attack.
Breathe, Clem. Breathe.
The voice in my head belonged to my mother, not me. But I could not remember any specific time where she said those words. Or when she had offered comfort to me. Comfort always came by way of lonely places. My closet. The park down the hill from our house. When I was a teenager, driving in my car with the windows down, music off.
Gradually, the darkness receded. I heard the cry of gulls and the lapping of the small waves on the beach. Here on the sound side of the island, the water rolled gently to the shore like a caress.
When I could move, I unfolded my body and crawled forward until my belly rested on the sand. I dipped my fingers in the water. A boat engine roared by. Moments later, its wake sent in a row of littles waves, lapping up over my wrists.
Breathe, Clem.
I didn’t know how much time had passed since I ran out of the store. Ten minutes? Twenty? I was humiliated by the way I ran, while at the same time, I did not even care.
I could avoid the Harris Teeter and get my groceries Off Island … somewhere. Since Bohn’s closed, this was really the only option. Unless I wanted to peruse gas stations and corner stores for things like milk, canned tuna, and boxed cake mixes, or whatever random food items they sold. Was it possible to live off of Chex Mix and Diet Coke?
Gradually, I sat up, brushing the gritty sand from my palms and knees and pulling the pine needles from my hair. I stared out over the sound at the way the light caught on the little peaks and rolling waves.
Grief is like that, changing shape, always moving. Deceptively calm sometimes when there’s a whole depth underneath that you can’t see. At any time, a big ship or a strong wind or a weather system could bring a rogue wave, sweeping you under.
I’ve been thinking of Nana daily. I couldn't stop myself if I tried. I was sleeping on her couch, cleaning out her things, reading her journal. It wasn’t like I ever forgot that she was gone. So, I had no explanation at all for why hearing Jason—a man I hardly knew and hoped I never saw again—say her name sent me over this edge.
And a sharp edge it was. One that had me tumbling back down the murky path of memory. Nana’s funeral, the closed wooden coffin. Mom’s funeral, the same closed box. Nana’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing.
It’s not your fault, Clem, she’d whispered.
It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t.
I knew it, yet I must not have. Because why did Nana need to say it? Why did she need to keep reassuring me if I didn’t need to hear it?
Closing my eyes, I took deep lungfuls of air until I really felt like I was breathing again.
I had abandoned a whole cart of groceries and run further than I had since P.E. class in high school. That exertion caught up with me the same way my grief did, and when I tried to stand, all my muscles screamed in protest. There was a cut on my foot too, and it took me far longer than it should to limp back to the Harris Teeter parking lot.
When I got to Nana’s jeep, I heard someone calling my name. Turning, I saw Craig jogging towards me, pushing a cart filled with groceries in paper sacks. I wanted to get in the jeep and just go. Or run back to the small beach by the sound. But because it was Craig, not Jason, I stood, and I waited.
“Clementine! I was watching for you. I have your groceries.”
“But I didn’t pay.”
Craig was already loading the groceries into the jeep. I fluttered around him, wanting to