Local Girl Swept Away
Ellen Wittlinger
Copyright © 2016 by Ellen Wittlinger.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Merit Press
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.meritpressbooks.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8900-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8900-3
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8901-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8901-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wittlinger, Ellen, author.
Local girl swept away / Ellen Wittlinger.
Blue Ash, OH: Merit Press, [2016]
LCCN 2016020044 (print) | LCCN 2015043787 (ebook) | ISBN 9781440589003 (hc) | ISBN 1440589003 (hc) | ISBN 9781440589010 (ebook) | ISBN 1440589011 (ebook)
CYAC: Best friends--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Secrets--Fiction. | Provincetown (Mass.)--Fiction. | Cape Cod (Mass.)--Fiction.
LCC PZ7.W7817 (print) | LCC PZ7.W7817 Lo 2016 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016020044
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
Cover design by Sylvia McArdle.
Cover image © Shutterstock.com/locrifa.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
Author’s Note
For Rose and Jane, eventually.
And for anyone who’s ever called Provincetown home—for a season or a lifetime.
Acknowledgments
Many people stand behind every author giving necessary support and encouragement. Over the years my support has often come from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which became home and family to me forty years ago and remains the place I return to when hope falters and the well seems dry. My heartfelt gratitude goes to FAWC. There would have been no books without you.
My association with Kindling Words, the writing retreat for children’s book authors, goes back thirty years. Without the workshops, the white-space discussions, the bonfires in winter, and the friendships forged around the dinner table, I would be a different person and a lesser writer.
My writer-friends in two critique groups have been with me through successful times and periods of struggle. Thank you always: Pat Lowery Collins, Liza Ketchum, Nancy Werlin, Lisa Papademetriou, Jane Yolen, Patricia MacLachlan, Lesléa Newman, Ann Turner, Barbara Diamond Goldin, and Corinne Demas. And though our arrangements are less formal, I also depend heavily on the advice and knowledge of Elise Broach, Chris Tebbetts, Elizabeth Bluemle, Jeannine Atkins, Jo Knowles, and Cindy Faughnan.
Thanks, of course, to Jacquelyn Mitchard, who’s been a champion for this book, and to everyone at Merit Press. And to Ginger Knowlton, agent supreme, who has been my cheerleader for so many years.
A last shout-out goes to my family, ever helpful, always loving: David, Kate, Morgan, and Mark. Thank you all.
1.
I pulled up the hood of my parka and tied it under my chin, but the rain blew sideways, right into my eyes. The four of us—Lorna out front, me bringing up the rear, the boys in between—ran down Commercial Street to the breakwater, where the road and the town and the Cape Cod peninsula were all stopped short by saltwater, Provincetown Harbor on one side, the Atlantic Ocean on the other.
Of course, it was Lorna’s idea for us to go down and watch the storm come in over the ocean, even though it was almost dinnertime and our parents expected us home soon. We weren’t dressed for the cold and rain, but we always did what Lorna wanted us to. We didn’t even think about it anymore—it was just automatic.
She reached the breakwater before the rest of us, and I yelled into the wind, “Lorna, slow down!”
Her answer floated back to me, the same tune she always sang: “Come on, Jackie! Follow me!” I tried to hurry after the others even though the huge granite rocks were slick with rain and mud.
The breakwater, rising probably twenty feet high and half as wide, ran at least a mile out to the spit of land called Long Point and served as protection for the harbor in storms like this one. But now the waves were already crashing over it.
Lorna never walked anywhere—she raced, she galloped, she cartwheeled, she leaped. As the dark afternoon turned darker, I could just barely see her running ahead, barefoot on the slippery rocks, her blue sneakers dangling from her fingers, her white jacket blowing open in the wind. Even Finn couldn’t keep up with her. He and Lucas followed behind more slowly, carefully negotiating the path, zipping their windbreakers and shoving their hands in their pockets. Thunder boomed in the distance and zigzags of lightning lit up the pillowy clouds.
It had been a cold, rainy May, and the waves that smacked into the breakwater felt like tiny razorblades when they splashed up against my legs. The roar of the wind was so loud I couldn’t tell if anyone up ahead of me was talking or not. I was cold and hungry and more than ready to go home, but I didn’t want to be the wimp who suggested we turn around. The sun had totally disappeared behind the clouds by then, and I couldn’t tell where anyone was. Had they gone out farther? Had anybody headed back to shore? I was sure Finn wouldn’t go back without Lorna—it took more than bad weather to separate the two of them.
And then there was the oddest noise behind me, or maybe off to the side—I couldn’t tell exactly where it came from. A sigh or a gasp or maybe just a sharp intake of breath. But how could I hear something like that over the racket of the storm and the slapping waves? It was more like a disturbance of the air than an actual sound. I shivered, not just from the cold, and turned slowly, carefully, to look for my friends in the gloomy dark. There was Finn, just a little bit ahead of me. He was looking around too, peering into the black mist over the bay. And that was Lucas, a few rocks farther on, raising his arm to point at something. But where was Lorna?
I had to squint to see what Lucas was pointing at—something in the water, already far away. A white flash, like a pinpoint of light, was being pulled out by the tide into the blue-black harbor. What? No. Impossible.
For long seconds I refused to understand what was happening, but finally I had no choice. I screamed and clutched Finn’s arm. And then both Finn and Lucas were yelling, “Lorna! Lorna!” over and over, frant
ically, as if they could bring her back by demanding it.
And then Lucas jumped into the water. For a second hope rose in my chest, and I could almost breathe, but then the truth washed over me again. Lorna was, by far, the best swimmer of the four of us; if she couldn’t fight the waves, Lucas, with his klutzy, splashing stroke, didn’t stand a chance.
“Lucas, what are you doing?” I yelled. Could Finn see Lucas? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.
Instead of the tide pulling him out into the bay, an incoming wave knocked him back into the breakwater and he clung to the rocks, gasping. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
I pushed back my hood, trying to see better, hoping to look down and see Lorna hanging onto the rocks beside Lucas, Lorna helping him stay afloat. Maybe that white thing in the distance was only some piece of harbor trash bobbing in the cold ocean. I got down on my knees because I couldn’t stand up anymore.
Finn lay on his stomach and reached his arms down so Lucas could grab hold of them as he climbed slowly back up the rocks. There was no one with him. When Lucas got near the top, he collapsed and I helped Finn haul him up, his teeth chattering, his body quaking. Then we just sat there, leaning into each other, soaked to the skin by ocean and rain and tears. The white jacket had disappeared.
• • •
I didn’t realize I was holding onto Lorna’s sneakers until later when the three of us sat on folding chairs in the police station, draped in blankets. A cop tried to pry them from my hands, but I yelled so loud I scared myself. I didn’t know it was me screaming.
“Okay! Okay!” he said, putting his hands up like stop signs. “You can hold on to them. It’s okay.”
The Rosenbergs, Finn’s parents, showed up first, Rudolph all business, talking to the chief of police, while Elsie gathered us, wet as we were, into her arms. She asked no questions, just cried along with us. Lucas’s dads, Simon and Billy, came next, talking so fast they weren’t making sense. Billy put his arms around Lucas’s soaked shoulders and wouldn’t let go.
Finally, my parents marched in, Dad looking tired, Mom apparently furious. She perched on the chair next to me and shook me as if she was trying desperately to wake me up.
“What’s the matter with you kids?” she howled, the pupils of her eyes vibrating with fear. “How could you do this to me, Jackie? What if it was you who fell in? It would’ve been the end of me!”
Well, no, I thought, it would’ve been the end of me. But I didn’t say that. I knew what memory had been snagged and hauled to the surface of her brain. My mother had never recovered from the death of her younger brother whose fishing boat went down in a storm ten years before, and it was probably true she wouldn’t have survived the death of her only daughter too. But at the moment I didn’t care about her pain. I could barely cope with the emotional stew boiling through my own body.
As our parents, horrified but relieved, bundled us into our own cars, I couldn’t stop thinking about Lorna’s mother. Two policewomen had been dispatched to Carla Trovato’s house, the dilapidated cottage on Franklin Street, to tell her the awful news. I imagined that Carla was watching TV with a glass of wine in her hand or something stronger, already wearing her ratty old bathrobe, her bare feet propped on the grimy coffee table, waiting for Lorna to get home and make her something to eat. She’d probably think the officers at the door were there for her, that she was in some kind of trouble again, some nosy neighbor complaining about her junky yard or her loud TV. But it was so much worse than that. Her face, I thought, would turn first into that frighteningly angry scowl and then collapse into total wreckage.
• • •
Of course I didn’t sleep that night. I’m sure none of us did. I sat at my bedroom window and looked out toward the harbor, even though our house was too far away for me to see the water. My father said that Coast Guard boats would troll the harbor all night, that they would find her. There was hope that she might not have been pulled out past the breakwater, might have been hurled onto the sandy spit of Long Point. But I knew what he meant. He meant there was hope her body would be found, not Lorna. Not my beautiful, intense, self-assured, cheeky best friend.
I stayed awake bargaining with God, even though I didn’t believe that kind of thing ever worked. If she lives, I begged, I won’t let her take chances anymore. If she lives, I’ll watch over her. I’ll make sure she’s more careful. I will make her follow me! But Lorna was not found, not even her body. A special edition of the Provincetown Banner came out the next day, its headline set in 72-point type: LOCAL GIRL SWEPT AWAY.
2.
The whole next week, I stayed in bed. I came down with a bad cold, but that was just a good excuse. I knew I couldn’t manage anything as complicated as walking or eating—all I could do was stare at the cracks in my bedroom ceiling, going over and over the events of that horrible afternoon, trying to figure out a way to change the outcome. I kept thinking there had to be a way to bring her back. There had to. But I couldn’t come up with one, so I pulled the covers over my head and wailed.
Mom showed up at mealtimes with cups of tea and a sleeve of crackers or a bowl of soup. “It takes time,” she kept saying. “You’ll learn to live with it.” But I didn’t want to learn to live without Lorna. I didn’t want to take the smallest step in that direction.
I tried to make some kind of sense of it, but the whole thing was ridiculous. An ordinary person—any of the other three of us—might slip on a wet rock and fall, but not Lorna. She was a professional traveler on this earth, graceful and fearless. Lorna didn’t make mistakes. “Together the four of us can do anything,” she used to say, and I never questioned the truth of it. But now, with Lorna gone, I could hear the dark echoes of her rallying cry: “The three of you need me. The three of you are useless without me.” It was true.
Lorna and I had been best friends since the morning she showed up in our fourth-grade classroom. She’d been homeschooled until then, but when her dad left town, her mom gave up on that and just about everything else. That first day Lorna picked us—Finn and Lucas and me. She gave us a sly grin as if she already knew all our secrets. Her eyes sparkled like jewels and drilled right into our skulls. We fell in love with her immediately.
Finn and Lorna became a couple four years ago when we were all thirteen, so Lucas had to adore her from a distance. The golden boy and the wild girl were obviously the perfect pair, but sometimes I couldn’t help wishing Finn would look at me the way he looked at her. I didn’t dwell on it. I’m not stupid. Lorna was Number 1; I was clearly Number 2, and always would be. Only now Number 1 was gone and I didn’t know who I was without her.
Once or twice a day I got up long enough to pull the old telephone with the long cord from the hallway into my bedroom. I tucked it under the covers, as if even the phone needed to be protected now, and called Finn. He wasn’t going to school either, and we talked for hours. Well, no—we stayed on the phone for hours. We ran out of things to say pretty quickly, but we didn’t hang up because neither of us could stand being alone with the overwhelming, nauseating truth of our new lives. Finn was the only one who understood what I’d lost and vice versa. We’d stay silently connected until the battery on his cell phone died and the limits of technology forced us to grieve alone.
Of course, I called Lucas too, and so did Finn, but, oddly, we were always turned away by Simon or Billy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Simon said to me, “Lucas can’t talk now. He’s so tired. He just needs to rest. You understand.”
I tried to understand, but after the third time one of Lucas’s dads ran interference, I got mad. There was no sense taking it out on them, though—Lucas must be telling them to turn us away. What the hell was wrong with him? He wouldn’t talk to us? Finn was Lorna’s boyfriend and I was her best friend. No matter how you sliced it, Lucas came in third. And now he was acting as if he was more injured, more traumatized than we were? We had the strength to call him, but he was too debilitated to get on the phone? I was so
irritated by it I finally got out of bed, got dressed, and went out.
Finn’s younger sister, Tess, answered the door at the Rosenbergs’ and I realized it must be the weekend already if she was home in the middle of the day. The minute she saw me, Tess started crying. I put my arms around her even though it felt like lifting lead weights.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, tears leaking down her cheeks. “Everything’s all screwed up. Everybody’s so sad. I can’t stand it.”
“I know,” I said. Seeing Tess cry made me feel as if my bones were brittle. As if I’d been barbecued over a hot fire and was all crispy and crunchy. I wanted to turn around and run home to bed again, but I managed to stay put. “Is Finn here?”
She pointed toward the family room. “He hasn’t gotten off the couch all week. He has to though. Mom says he has to go back to school on Monday.”
“Yeah. I guess I do too.” I hated to think what that would be like.
“Finn,” I said, marching over to him, trying to sound tough, “you have to get up.”
He was lying on his back with pillows under his head, staring at the ceiling. He rolled his eyes lazily in my direction and grunted. “Why? Because you did?”
Just looking at his blotchy face made my throat thicken. His ash blond hair, too long and already starting to bleach in the sun, fell across his forehead and over one eye. His lips, heavy with sadness, twitched at the corners. Why couldn’t I just crawl onto the couch next to him and cry and cry and cry? Why couldn’t he hold me and rock me, and, when there were no tears left, why couldn’t he kiss me? Isn’t that what would happen in a movie?
Oh, for God’s sake, stop it. I shook my head to knock out the nonsense and tried to channel Lorna’s energy. “That’s right,” I said. “I got out of bed; you can too. Let’s take a walk on the beach before we forget how to use our legs.”
“I don’t want to,” he said, flatly. End of discussion.
“I know you don’t want to. I don’t want to either, but we have to.”