DIANE DIDN’T LIKE THE STORIES that Mary told Hannah. “They’re too much for her,” she’d said one morning, piling a plate high with the powdered sugar donuts that they set out for the motel’s guests. “She doesn’t understand that they’re not real.”
Mary looked at her mother, her gaze sharp. Mary bristled when her judgment regarding Hannah was called into question. “She likes them,” she answered, taking a donut from the stack. It was past Labor Day, so only a handful of the rooms at the motel were occupied, but Diane was a believer in customs.
“Yeah, well,” started Diane. She let her head drop back as she rubbed her eyes. “I like a lot of things that aren’t good for me, too.” Diane had grown heavier since Hannah was born, her stomach and thighs thickening until her figure, once so girlish, was now matronly. Everyone assumed it was baby weight, but Diane blamed her schedule and never having time to eat a proper meal or get a full night’s sleep. Since her father had died, she ran the Water’s Edge alone, taking a second job as a cocktail waitress at one of the casinos down in Atlantic City to make ends meet during the off-season. “So listen,” she said, letting her hand drop to the counter. “Mrs. Pool is going to make you girls some dinner tonight. I had to pick up Tina’s shift so I won’t be home.” Diane looked at her daughter. “Can you watch the front desk when you get home from school?”
“Yeah,” said Mary, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder. “Sure.”
Diane’s eyes remained wide as she looked at her daughter, as if to communicate both her distrust and concern. “Because someone needs to be here from three o’clock on. Mrs. Pool can cover until then.” Mrs. Pool lived next door to the Water’s Edge, which was, incidentally, not on the water’s edge but several blocks away. Having sympathy for the woman who was raising two children alone, Mrs. Pool often helped Diane with both the girls and the motel. “And when I say here,” Diane said, slapping her open palm on the laminate wood countertop for emphasis, “I mean right here.”
“I got it, Mom.”
Diane continued to stare for a moment, then looked away, grabbing the now empty donut bag and crumpling it against her chest. “Alright,” she said. “Okay.” Mary looked coolly at her mother until Diane changed the subject. “So school is starting off good this year?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Mary, leaning in and draping her slender arms over the counter. “I talked to Mr. Alvetto about options. For college.” At eighteen years old, Mary should have graduated from high school this past June, but her and her mother’s winter in Florida had put her behind, and she would now be graduating with a younger class. Intelligent without effort but often disrespectful in the classroom, Mary maddened teachers who didn’t know exactly what to do with the bright, beautiful girl who was so free with her disdain. Rumors flew around about Mary and certain administrators, perhaps as a way to explain the girl who was generally considered to be a problem but tolerated nonetheless.
“Good girl,” said Diane.
That afternoon, Mary got a ride home from school with one of the handsome younger boys. Barely acknowledging him as she lifted her bag from the floor, she pushed open the door to his Dodge Omni and shut it with her hip, heading toward the yellow single-story structure that was the Water’s Edge. Walking over the crushed-oyster-shell parking lot, Mary pushed open the glass door to the wood-paneled office, where a soap opera flickered on an old television set and Mrs. Pool sat reading Woman’s World.
At the jingle of the door, Mrs. Pool glanced up from her magazine. “She’s sleeping, honey,” she said, knowing that all Mary wanted was Hannah. That was all she ever wanted.
“What time did she go down?” asked Mary, setting her backpack down.
Mrs. Pool glanced up to the clock. “About one.”
“I’m going to go wake her up,” said Mary. Then softening her face beseechingly, she asked, “Can you stay a little longer, Mrs. Pool? I want to take her to the beach.”
Mrs. Pool’s husband ran fishing charters out of Sandy Bank, often leaving before sunrise and not returning until well after sunset. She was rarely in a rush to get home. “Take your time,” she said, then she turned back to her article on satisfying and inexpensive meal solutions. Everything about Mrs. Pool was yielding.
Mary hurried back outside over the concrete walkway to the room next to the office, the room she shared with Hannah. She pulled a bright orange coiled cord off of her wrist, then sunk the key it held into the lock. As she pushed the door open gently, the dim room flooded with light. “Hey, Bunny,” she said.
Hannah took a sharp breath, sitting up in bed, her eyes still closed, her hair wild.
“It’s time to wake up,” said Mary, who slipped off her shoes and walked over the permanently sandy carpet to Hannah, sliding into bed beside her. Their room had two double beds, but many nights they slept together in Mary’s, sinking down under the comforter that always felt slightly damp.
“Are you home?” asked Hannah, repositioning herself to rest her head on Mary’s chest, her face still puffy with sleep.
“I am,” answered Mary, as she stroked her sister’s hair. “I was thinking that we could go down to the beach.”
With her eyes still closed, Hannah answered. “Mmmkay.”
Mary let Hannah wake up, then helped her go to the bathroom and put on her sandals. She hoisted Hannah onto her back and, with Hannah’s arms wrapped around her neck, began to walk over the sandswept road to the beach.
They left their shoes at the beginning of the narrow path that cut between the dunes and led to the ocean. Mary took Hannah’s hand, and they walked together down to the stretch of shore where the waves made their rapid advances then their defeated withdrawals. Mary dug her hands into the sand and came up with tiny translucent sand crabs tunneling furiously to return themselves to the safety of depth. She’d put them into Hannah’s palm, and Hannah would shriek as she felt their tiny legs against her skin. And all the while Mary kept a watchful eye on the man who was casting his fishing line into the surf, his legs covered with sand to the knees. He was one of the guests at the Water’s Edge, staying in room 108.
When he appeared finished and ready to return to the motel, rod and tackle box in hand, Mary turned to Hannah. “Okay, Bunny,” she said. “We should head back. Mrs. Pool’s waiting for us.”