Page 4 of All Our Beautiful Goodbyes

Chapter 3

Wind was a constant on Sable Island, but storms like this reminded Emma that she and her fellow residents were merely guests in this place, at the mercy of Mother Nature. Those cruel, immortal waves would continue to break upon these shores long after they were gone.

After returning from sandwich duty, she sat on the sofa in the great room at home, staring numbly at the window and listening to the house creak in the mighty gusts from the north, like an old ship at sail. She thought of the countless lives that had been lost in the wrecks that surrounded the island. They were all buried in the sandbars, not far beneath the ocean floor. The Belvedere was the most recent, but it would not be the last.

She wondered how the captain was faring and wished Abigail would call.

A sudden loud rapping at the back door caused Emma to jump. She rose from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen, where her father was already pulling the door open.

“Philip,” he said. “Come inside. How are the men holding up?”

Philip entered the house, wiped his boots on the welcome mat, and lowered the hood of his coat. “They’re in good spirits, surprisingly. They have exciting stories to tell, and the staff men are gobbling them up.”

Emma could smell whiskey on his breath from halfway across the kitchen. “How’s the captain?” she asked.

Philip removed his glasses, reached into his shirt pocket for a handkerchief, and wiped the salty film from the lenses. “I haven’t been home yet. I thought I’d stop in here first.”

Her father turned to her. “Put the kettle on, will you, darling?”

Emma moved to the stove, picked up the kettle, and filled it at the sink.

“Frank has been keeping in touch with the mainland,” Philip said, “and they still can’t predict when it’ll be safe to reach us. They’re aware of the situation with the captain and want to be kept informed of any changes in his condition.”

“When can we call Abigail?” Emma asked.

“Be patient,” her father replied testily, and she rubbed at her brow, resenting the reprimand.

“The men are concerned about him,” Philip added. “But some seem more worried about their own welfare if he doesn’t make it—worried they’ll be blamed for leaving him behind when the first rescue boat came.”

Her father invited Philip to sit down at the table. “They said it was his choice and they were just following orders.”

“So they say.”

The telephone rang, and Emma rushed to answer it. “Superintendent’s residence.”

“Hello, Emma. It’s Abigail. Put your father on.”

“One moment.” Her pulse accelerated as she handed the phone to him.

“John Clarkson speaking. Hello, Abigail.” He listened and nodded while Emma fiddled with her locket, impatient for news.

“That sounds promising,” he finally said.

Emma felt a great release of tension in her muscles and bones.

Her father listened for a few more seconds. “Yes, Philip just arrived. He’ll stay for a while. Emma is making tea.” He paused. “Thank you, Abigail. I appreciate the call.” He hung up the telephone and turned to face them. “He’s awake.”

Emma pressed both her open hands to her chest. “Thank God.”

“He’s drowsy and confused,” her father continued, “and having some memory problems, but Abigail says that’s normal after a seizure. She still needs to keep an eye on him, but she feels any life-threatening danger isn’t as imminent as we thought.”

The kettle hissed, and Emma removed it from the burner. “Can I go over there and see if she needs any help?”

But even as she asked the question, she knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Abigail was not a sociable person. She preferred to do most things on her own.

Philip gave her a sidelong glance that suggested he had the same opinion about his wife.

“I don’t see why not,” her father replied, oblivious as usual to the complexities of the female mind. “But don’t make a nuisance of yourself. By the sounds of things, the captain probably doesn’t have the strength for visitors.”

“I’ll just help in the kitchen,” Emma replied, recalling the mess she’d left after preparing the sandwiches.

She filled the teapot with hot water from the kettle, went to the fridge for a can of Carnation milk, and set it on the table, leaving the men to discuss the situation further. She then hurried upstairs to her room to select a few books for the patient—who would no doubt need plenty of rest in bed over the coming days. Some good books might help him pass the time.

Oliver Harris, restless and agitated, confused about where he was, tried to sit up in the strange bed, but his body refused to cooperate, so he collapsed against the pillow.

The nurse in the kitchen hung up the telephone and returned to his bedside. “How are you feeling now?” She laid the back of her hand on his forehead.

“Knackered,” he replied. “But thank you for ...”

What was the word? He couldn’t seem to articulate his thoughts. The nurse—Abigail was her name—had explained that he was in a weary state after a seizure but that he would feel normal again soon.

He’d never had a seizure before. What in God’s name had happened? He remembered the shipwreck, but the details were muddled. A short while ago, Abigail had fed him some warm broth and asked to remove his shirt because he was having some pain on his left side. She’d found some severe bruising and diagnosed him with a fractured rib. He didn’t doubt Abigail, but he had no recollection of how that could have happened. He barely remembered the wreck, much less how he got to shore. Everything over the past twelve hours was broken and splintered in his brain. Only fragments were accessible.

“Just doing my job,” she replied as she sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Although I’m not employed as a nurse here. It’s Philip who works for the government, taking care of the weather station.”

Oliver spoke slowly, grasping clumsily at words. “So, it’s my good luck that you have nursing skills?”

“Good luck indeed,” she cooly replied without smiling, without looking him in the eye. “We don’t get many shipwrecks these days. I suspect this lifesaving establishment is running on borrowed time. It’ll soon be a thing of the past.”

The seizure had drained him. He felt nothing but darkness in the depths of his core. He turned his head on the pillow, away from her. “We all become relics sooner or later.”

He felt Abigail studying his profile. Not wanting to appear weak, he forced himself to meet her gaze.

“Where did you learn to be a nurse?” he asked with fatigue.

She raised her chin. “I served in the Great War,” she told him haughtily. Or perhaps she was just proud. “I spent time in France and saw more head wounds than I care to remember.”

He shifted on the bed and felt a sudden agonizing wrench in his side. “Oh, God ...”

“Is it your rib?” Abigail rose quickly and leaned over him.

He tried to change his position, but the room began to spin. “Whoa.”

She touched his arm. “You might experience some vertigo over the next few days, and nausea. Difficulty concentrating. But it’s all normal with a concussion. You’ll need to get plenty of rest.”

“I’m not accustomed to being at rest,” he told her, feeling sick and wretched.

Three aggressive knocks sounded at the door. Abigail’s gaze swung away from him, irritably. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

She stood and walked out of the room. Oliver lay sleepily, eyes closed, listening to the storm still raging outside. Despair pressed down on him, along with a terrible sense of defeat.

Faintly, he heard Abigail open the door. “What are you doing here?”

A woman’s voice replied, or perhaps it was the voice of a child. It was difficult to make sense of things after the seizure and through the noise of the storm.

“I brought some books for the patient,” the lady said, “and I wanted to help you tidy the kitchen. I’m sorry I left you with such a mess earlier.”

Abigail spoke in a clipped tone. “I took care of the mess already.”

Oliver opened his eyes in time to see a gust of wind blow violently into the kitchen. A few papers flew off the table.

“But I have these books I’d like to lend to the captain,” the young lady persisted, more firmly this time, standing her ground.

“Fine,” Abigail replied. “Come in, then. But you can’t stay long. He tires easily.”

Oliver closed his eyes again.

Emma removed her boots on the McKennas’ rubber mat and hung her coat on the hook. Abigail had already disappeared into the room off the kitchen where the captain was resting, so Emma tentatively followed in that direction, where she paused in the open doorway.

Her gaze fell upon Captain Harris. He was sitting up against the pillows. “Good afternoon,” she said.

“This is Emma.” Abigail punched and fluffed the pillows behind him. “She’s the superintendent’s daughter, and she’s brought you some books.”

Emma met the captain’s gaze. With a furrowed brow, he studied her for a moment, as if he were struggling to recognize a familiar face. “We’ve met,” he finally said, appearing almost relieved as he spoke the words.

“I’m pleased to see you’re feeling better,” Emma replied.

“Not by much.”

An awkward silence ensued. Emma remained in the doorway while Abigail tucked the blanket tightly around the captain’s feet.

Eventually, he glanced down at the sack of books Emma had carried from home. “What did you bring?”

Taking the question as an invitation, she crossed the threshold and approached the chair beside the bed. She set the white canvas sack on the seat and reached in to withdraw one book at a time. “I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I brought a broad selection. This is one of my favorites.” She handed him a dog-eared copy of The Toilers of the Sea , by Victor Hugo.

He took hold of it and frowned at the title. “I read this when I was young. Now, under the circumstances, I wish I hadn’t.” He dropped it onto the mattress beside him. “What else have you got?”

Aware of Abigail observing from the doorway, Emma reached into the bag again. “This is about the biology and behavior of wild horses. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but we have wild herds here. You might see them when you’re up and about, when you feel ready to go for a walk.”

“If the weather ever clears,” Abigail said sourly.

“The sun will come out again. It always does.” Emma reached into the bag for more books and presented each one to the captain, giving him time to peruse a cover or a table of contents.

When the bag was empty, she folded it and placed it on the lower shelf of the bedside table.

No one spoke, and Emma glanced uneasily at Abigail, who was still standing in the doorway, watching with eyes like a malevolent cat’s.

Emma wasn’t normally a judgmental person, but there was no question that Abigail was bitter. That had become clear mere days after she’d arrived three years ago with her husband, Philip, who had replaced Howard Montgomery, the previous chief of the weather station. Howard had lived on Sable with his wife, Ruth, for fourteen years. They’d taken up residence when Emma was four years old, and Ruth had become a cherished mother figure to her. Emma still missed Ruth terribly, but they kept in touch through letters on the supply ship each month.

“Could I bother you, Abigail, for some more broth?” the captain asked.

“Of course.”

As soon as Abigail moved out of the doorway, a cold shadow seemed to depart. With relief, Emma sat primly on the edge of the chair. She clasped her hands together on her lap. It was not until she heard the loud clanking of a pot on the stove that she was able to place her full attention on the captain, who chose that moment to speak directly to her.

“I owe you an apology,” he said quietly but gruffly.

“For what?”

“I was rude to you on the beach, when I first came ashore. I’m only just remembering that now.”

Surprised by his open acknowledgment of their first encounter, Emma felt a little unraveled. “No need to apologize.”

“You’re too forgiving.”

“I can’t help it. No one’s perfect, and you’d been through a terrible ordeal, not to mention a head injury.”

He ran his fingers gently over the bump at the back of his head. “I know I fell out of the boat, but I have no memory of being struck. I only remember coming to under the water and swimming to the surface. Then talking to you on the beach. Then waking up in this bed.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she replied. “But you didn’t fall out of the boat. It capsized.” She frowned. “Are you in much pain?”

“The headache has no mercy.”

Emma glanced at the pile of books on the bed. “You probably won’t feel much like reading, I suppose.”

“I don’t think so. At least not today.” He closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and neither of them spoke.

Discreetly, while the wind howled around the house, Emma scanned the room and took in the small metal cabinet with glass doors. It was full of pill bottles and other supplies—a jar of tongue depressors, a box of latex gloves, and a blood pressure cuff.

“You don’t need to stay,” the captain said, his eyes still closed, his brow rutted from discomfort. Whether it was physical or emotional, Emma had no idea, and she wished there was something she could do for him.

“I could read to you if you’d like,” she suggested.

“No, thank you.”

“Or I could return tomorrow,” she said, undeterred, “after the storm passes. Fresh air might do you good. I could take you to see the wild horses.”

At that, he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and stared at her rigidly. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “If you’re trying to cheer me up, you might be wasting your time.”

Abigail walked into the room just then, carrying a food tray. “I have your broth.” Again, she did not make eye contact with Emma.

Captain Harris sat up straighter against the pillows, and Abigail placed the tray on his lap.

Emma slowly rose from her chair. “I should be going. But perhaps I’ll stop by again tomorrow.”

“Captain Harris needs to rest,” Abigail frostily replied.

The captain’s eyes lifted, and he watched Abigail’s face as she bent over him, arranging the cutlery on his tray.

Feeling defeated, Emma backed away from the bed and headed for the door, but the sound of the captain’s voice arrested her on the spot.

“Thank you for the books, Emma. It was very kind of you.”

She swung around. “You’re welcome.”

Abigail tucked a large napkin into the captain’s shirt collar and handed him a spoon, so Emma turned and left. She crossed the kitchen, donned her coat and boots. But before she walked out into the storm, she turned to look back at the sickroom. The captain was sitting up in bed, contemplating the broth.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Abigail filled the open doorway, glowered at Emma, and promptly slammed the door shut between them.

For the next five hours, the nor’easter continued to blow, unrelenting. After dinner, in the superintendent’s great room, Emma’s father poured himself a second glass of brandy.

“You were helpful today,” he said to Emma, who sat across from him on the sofa, reading. “Abigail couldn’t have managed without you.”

Emma lowered her book. “I was happy to help. I only wish I could have done more, especially for the captain. His wounds aren’t just physical, you know.”

Her father slowly swirled his drink around in the snifter. “I know where you’re going with this, Emma, and I wish you wouldn’t, because it’s been a long and difficult day.”

It had indeed been grueling and exhausting, but also illuminating for Emma. She felt more inspired and motivated than ever and couldn’t resist the compulsion to assert herself. “I only want you to understand what I want to do with my life. Psychology is an important form of medical therapy. The captain experienced severe trauma, and it’s not going to be easy for him to forget about that or forgive himself for what happened. He might recover quickly from the effects of the concussion and the cracked rib, but other internal wounds, like guilt or terror, could cause permanent damage to his psyche and affect his future career and livelihood.”

Her father scoffed. “Please. Don’t use what happened today as ammunition.”

“Ammunition?” Emma replied. “Papa, I don’t want to fight you. I only want you to try and see that psychotherapy is a noble profession, and I want you to understand how passionate I am about it.”

Her father frowned, and she felt like she was talking to the wall.

“What happened when you went over to visit the captain today?” he asked. “I hope you didn’t try and practice any sort of psychoanalysis on him. You’re not a doctor, and you shouldn’t play at that.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she replied, feeling offended by the suggestion that this was a game to her. “I only offered to read to him.”

Her father sipped his brandy. “Good. Because he’s not your guinea pig.”

Emma returned her attention to her book, though she was seething inside. How much longer would she have to endure being treated like a child?

After a moment, however, she began to wonder if there might be some truth to her father’s words.