But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
William Shakespeare, “The Tempest”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes
Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in
your head?
T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Even on the cusp of summer the sea breeze was edged with a biting chill. Mira shivered in her thin t-shirt, her hair plastered to her face. She licked her lips and tasted salt, gazing over the edge of the cliff to where the ocean stretched to the horizon. “I hate you,” she whispered to it, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug deep into her palms.
“Mira!” her mother called, her voice carrying over the slap and rush of the waves. She turned to where her mother stood on the steps of the creaky old house, holding a box that seemed too large for her thin frame. “Come get your things inside. You can explore later.”
Trudging through the sea grass, her boots crunched on rocks and seashells alike. Coastal Maine was nothing like Los Angeles' friendly, sunny beaches. This was colder, wilder. Mira shaded her eyes from the sun that bounced from the windows of their battered red Ford and glanced at the house again. It was big, a Victorian relic in desperate need of new paint.
She loathed it on sight. It loomed overhead like the shadow of all she had lost and she wanted to throw a rock through a window.
She jerked the car door open and yanked two suitcases and a backpack from the back seat. The movers had delivered most of it last week, only some personal items and a few changes of clothes traveling cross-country with Mira and Claire. Her boot left a dusty imprint on the door as she kicked it shut behind her. Cautiously, not quite trusting the creaky porch stairs, she stepped through the open front door.
Boxes and furniture filled most of the foyer, forming an obstacle course for Mira to navigate her suitcases. “Bedrooms are upstairs,” Claire said from where she was fussing with a lamp. “Pick whichever one you want.”
Dropping the handles of her suitcases, Mira hitched the straps of her backpack and climbed the stairs. Unlike the porch, they were solid, with hardly a squeak despite their age. She ran a hand along the ornate wallpaper as she climbed. It was dusty but obviously richly patterned. Grandpa Fred had always visited them, never the other way around, and any other time she'd be keen to explore the big house's hidden nooks and crannies. Now she just wanted to find a room and disappear.
The east side would have a view of the sea, and she found herself drawn to the doors at her right. She paused near the end of the hall and cracked open a door. It was a bedroom decorated in tones of blue, clearly unused for a long time if the layer of dust was anything to go by. Her attention was almost immediately drawn to the large bay window. There was a cushioned window seat with throw pillows, a perfect spot to curl up with a book. A wingback chair sat nearby in case the occupant felt like something a little more comfortable. Mira pulled her luggage inside a bit and then left it behind as she approached.
The view was even better than she'd anticipated, a sweeping panorama of the clifftop and the ocean stretching below. The rising sun would shimmer over the water and gild everything in light. She felt a strange sense of belonging, as though the room had been waiting for her.
“Did you find one you like?” Claire stood behind her at the door, having come up the stairs without Mira hearing.
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“I think I want this one,” Mira said slowly. This room was the closest to home she'd felt since they left Los Angeles. It was somehow both cozy and airy at once and she could see herself here napping, reading, doing homework.
“Okay, I'm just down the hall from you then. There's a green bedroom on the left.” Claire wandered back out into the hallway and Mira could hear her opening doors. “Oh, look at this!” Mira dropped her backpack on the bed, sending up a puff of dust, and went to investigate. Claire had found a bathroom with an enormous clawfoot tub, which she was currently admiring. “Can you imagine taking a bubble bath in this thing?”
Mira stared at it uneasily. In contrast to her bedroom this room felt claustrophobic. “Yeah, it's great,” she said unenthusiastically.
Claire sighed and turned. She stroked an errant lock of hair back from Mira's face. “I know it's been hard. But we're gonna get through it together, okay Meerkat?”
Mira rolled her eyes. “Ugh, mom, I'm not six anymore.”
Claire smiled with a false brightness that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Well, let's at least get our things unpacked and get settled in before we do any of the heavy lifting.” She held up her phone. “Pizza or Chinese?”
“I don't care. You pick. I'm going to clean up my room.” Mira went back to the blue bedroom, turning on the bedside lamps. Methodically she stripped the bedding from the wrought iron bed, leaving it in a pile on the floor. She pulled clean sheets from one of her suitcases and made the bed, then shook out the existing blanket and the cerulean-colored quilt and smoothed them over the top. Then she sat down on the bed and stared blankly into space. The weeks since her father and grandfather had died together had been a relentless flood of activity and now that she had finally stopped moving, she didn't know how she'd ever start again. She closed her eyes against the wave of grief that washed over her.
Deliberately, needing to do something, anything, she stood up. Moving as though she were fragile and any sudden movement might shatter her, she unzipped her backpack. Her laptop and a notebook went on the dark wooden desk, after she swiped the dust away with her hand. The book she was currently reading she placed on the nightstand. There was a vanity with a dark, spotted mirror, and she placed her makeup bag on it. Her reflection gazing back at her was dim and wavery as though she were underwater, and she shuddered and turned away.
Listening carefully in case her mother decided to come back, Mira dug to the bottom of the pack and pulled out a pack of razor blades. She glanced around the room for a hiding place, but nothing seemed safe enough. Under the mattress was probably best. She pushed the mattress up with one hand and slid the blades in between it and the box springs with the other. As she did, her fingers grazed something. She hadn't been the first person to hide something here.
Mira left the razors and pulled out a small leatherbound book. The cover was monogrammed in gold: “CEW.” She sat on the bed and cracked the cover. It was a diary, “Property of Charlotte Elizabeth Winslow” inked on the front page in neat handwriting like copperplate. The pages were yellowed and brittle with age. Mira flipped the page and her eyes widened at the date of the first entry: March 1820. Her eyes scanned down the lines of beautiful script. It felt alive under her fingers, and she could almost hear Charlotte whispering the words in her ear.
“March 5, 1820.
I am seventeen years of age today. I received this diary from Mother as a birthday
present. She says it will be good for me to have a place to order my thoughts. We have
finished moving into our new home by the sea. Father says the fresh air will be good
for Mother, but I find the house rather dismal. The waves are loud, and the wind never
seems to stop. Still, I hope to find some comfort in this place. Honestly, Mother's health
would be a better present than anything anyone could buy for me, so if it helps her I
must not complain. I've started taking long walks along the cliffs, watching the waves
crash against the rocks below. It's dangerous, I know, but something compels me to
keep returning. Perhaps Father is right and the sea will offer solace in ways I
cannot yet understand.”
Mira smiled. Whoever Charlotte Winslow was, she and Mira shared the same birthday. She flipped the next page, but Claire's voice called from the top of the stairs. “Mira! Dinner's here!” Mira started. Quickly she shoved the diary into the nightstand drawer. For some reason she couldn't explain, she didn't want to be caught with it. Maybe it was just that this felt like a secret just for her and she wasn't quite ready to share it. “Coming!” she yelled back.
Mira thumped down the stairs, deliberately making noise to drive away the silence of the house. She followed the scent of fried rice to the kitchen, where Claire was unpacking to-go boxes and chopsticks. Dropping heavily into the nearest dining chair, Mira reached for a box at random. “Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose, pushing the container of fried shrimp across the table. “All yours.”
“I didn’t get it for you,” Claire retorted. She handed another open container over. “Kung pao chicken.”
“Better,” Mira mumbled, digging her chopsticks in and stuffing her mouth full. They ate in uneasy silence. The quiet engulfed Mira like a living thing. “I’m tired,” she announced loudly. “I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t you want your fortune cookie?”
She didn’t bother glancing at it. “I’m full, thanks.”
“Okay, sweetie.” Claire cast her a worried glance. “Sleep well. Don’t forget your pills.”
Mira grunted in response, pushing away from the table.
There was no shower, so she filled the massive clawfoot tub. Sinking into the warm water helped thaw the chill that had settled into her bones ever since standing at the clifftop. After scrubbing herself, she lay back and closed her eyes. It was quiet here too, the steady slow drip of the bathtub faucet the only sound. Unwanted thoughts began to swirl in again; Mira sucked in a breath and fully submerged under the water. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Her chest began to burn but she held herself under until it became nearly unbearable. Was this what her father had felt? Did it hurt, until, starved for air, he had no choice but to breathe in the ocean?
Mira exploded upward out of the water, droplets flying, heaving for breath. Stumbling out of the tub, she barely made it to the toilet before vomiting up everything she’d eaten. She lay sobbing on the cold bathroom floor, naked and wet, wishing she had the courage to let herself drown.