What We Are Capable Of

“Not on your life,” says Em. “Get yourself on a plane. Your room is ready.”

After she hangs up, Em stands at the window and looks down over the narrow field that rolls to the edge of the sea. The blue of the sky is so startling it shocks her to be part of its brilliance, its glare. She thinks about the way she and Michael turned away from each other the last time they were together and she wills her mind: Don’t think about him. Don’t.

How did it begin?

A way of speaking. They fell into it slowly. At first, neither she nor Michael allowed that it was happening. She remembers the word risk. They were excited by the riskiness of the language they began to use with each other. Perhaps she was supposed to know enough about herself that she could see what was coming and muster some counter-force to ward off the next thing. But she has never been good at predicting what will happen after the first mark is made. Not until every one of the signs has been followed to the end.

In the early morning, Em leaves the house in the dark and drives the length of the island to the tiny airport, where she waits outside the fence. Night is turning to day. From here, she cannot see the ocean, but she is surrounded by a circle of sea-sky. She is always aware, always renewed by it. Each of the island roads is drawn towards an expanse of milky-blue as if, inevitably, the height of the next curve will lead off into the sky. She would not know how to live anywhere else, so much is she a part of this place. Even after Owen drowned she did not for a moment consider leaving. And though Sarah has left, in the way young people can and do, Em knows that her daughter is part of this place, and deeply connected, too.

Throughout Sarah’s childhood, Em and Owen took turns telling stories – always stories, it seemed, that rose up from the sea. A gale, electricity out, the house rocking as if it might lift from its foundations and soar out over the Gulf – that was when Sarah begged to hear the tales: the phantom train that wailed through the night fog; ships that went down; women who raised their skirts and dragged themselves out of the sea; men and women who survived the winters and the winds, who became builders of ships and settlers of land, who created what has become Sarah’s ancestral past.

The plane taxis in and Em watches her only child shift her backpack and descend the steps to tarmac below. Sarah spots her mother and raises a hand in a wave. She has to go through the terminal first, and Em heads for the door to meet her.

Sarah is wearing her brave face and moves to her mother’s arms. As Em draws her in and they lock together, she feels her daughter’s body let go. Now she knows what Sarah is holding: real loss, real sadness. In a fleeting moment, she wonders if Sarah detects her mother’s own comfortless shell.

During the drive home, they face forward in silence as they re-cross the island and witness the opening of the day. The dark red of the earth spreads before them. Wisps of mares’ tails curve in a row of feathers across the sky. The car crests the last hill and eases down the long sweep to the house. Em sees what Sarah must, returning: whitecaps sliding in from the northeast, gulls sailing low over the bottom field, tall hillocky dunes that block the view of the beach. At this time of year, spears of marram grass will be thrusting through the sand. Everything is fresh, starting anew. The sea beyond the surf is dark, almost black. Huge to a human eye. Waters give, waters take away, Em says to herself, thinking of Owen. Both she and Sarah draw a breath. Aloud, Em says, “The healing sea.”

Sarah leaps out of the car with a whoop and runs down the slope towards shore.