An Excerpt from "The Memory of Water"

Marnie

For thousands of years, the Atlantic Ocean has beat against the beach of my childhood, its watery fingers stealing more and more of the soft silted sand, grabbing at the estuaries and creeks of the South Carolina Lowcountry, leaving us with the detritus of old forests, battered dunes, and bleeding loss.

But the shore remains, the sand itself testament to survival—the remnants of large rocks crushed into grains of sand. Just as our family has dared to claim ownership of a parcel of shoreline and ocean for generations, our house defying the elements of nature. Strong winds buffet the sea oats and tall dune grasses, tossing sand and seabirds where it will, winding my sister's golden hair into sunlit spirals of silk until it becomes the only good memory I have of her—the only memory I allowed myself to keep. But the wind pushes on, pushes at the shoreline, at our old house, and at me. Yet somehow, we remain.

I hadn't been back to McClellanville for almost ten years—ten years while I tried to forget the sting of salt water in my eyes, the slippery feel of the tide pulling the sand out from under my feet. Of being underwater and not able to breathe as water rolled over me, cascaded around me in a watery rug, sucking the air from my lungs. And the feel of my mother's hands slowly letting me go.

I parked my rental car on the driveway of crushed rock and shells, and left the radio on, not yet ready to hear the ocean again. The white clapboard house, owned by my mother's family ever since the Revolution, had changed little. Only on closer inspection did I begin to see my sister's artistic hand. The once solid green porch swing now sported a leopard's spots, and the front walk and porch were covered with brightly hued flowers, their garish blooms radiant and mocking as if they knew they had once been outlawed by our grandfather. Blatant beauty and bright colors were once a sin to him, regardless of the fact that the Creator he worshipped had also created them.

A tire swing hung from the ancient oak tree in the front yard, its frantic movements evidence of recent occupation. Reluctantly, I turned off the radio and took my key from the ignition before exiting the car. I glanced around, hoping to catch sight of Gil, the nine year-old nephew I had never seen, but only the empty yard and the distant sound of the ocean greeted me. I glanced up at the windows on the right side above the porch roof as a shadow seemed to pass behind the glass. I stared at them for a long time, wondering if it had been the passing of a cloud reflected in the glass and remembering my sister sneaking out of her window onto the roof, then shimmying down the drainpipe that ran from the roof to the front porch.

I'd never tattled on her. Looking back, I suppose that even then I'd known that her self-destructive behavior would simply find a more dangerous outlet. Watching her run off the first time into the darkened yard with a shadow boy, I had felt the final snap of the invisible cord that had attached us since my birth. It had first started to fray on the day our mother died and we'd been sent to live with her father. We were given separate rooms, and my sister had become a beautiful stranger who regarded me with silent eyes and weeping shoulders. My grief for my mother and my sister found no succor with our grandfather whose only recourse during times of trouble was his Bible. But it never occurred to me to question the reason for my grief; according to my mother, we Maitlands were meant to suffer. It's what happens, she once explained, when a man curses God. His children, his children's children, and their children would be cursed. From what I have seen of this family, I would have to agree that she was right.

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The Memory of Water is a story about two estranged sisters and how life brings them back together. Karen White is the featured new author in the Sisterhood Group. Click here to join the group today.