I suppose my proclivity for routine is a carryover from my childhood at the light station. For so many years my life was measured in hours and minutes, broken into fragments of being on duty and off, marked by the time to light the mantle, to wind the clockworks, to check the fuel.
It is beginning to feel like home here. After so many years. How many has it been? Perhaps three now. The days merge; the seasons fold into each other, and I have lost count. It was luck to find this place where I have been able to retain some of the independence I crave yet still access the care that’s needed. Besides, it was time to come back, to leave behind the small villa on the coast of Tuscany that was our refuge for more than half a century. We chose it to be near enough to the water to hear the gulls and crashing waves. Even so, I felt that the Ligurian Sea never shared the fickle temperament of the Lake, that it was only a substitute home. We were as happy as can be expected, the odd couple that we were, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world. And we’ve each left our mark, a legacy, of sorts. Of course mine is not nearly so celebrated; only a handful of books, some still for sale in gift shops and art galleries around the world.
I am sitting in Pa’s chair, the afghan Emily and I knitted draped over my knees. I have the window open, inviting the autumn breeze to roam about my room.
I must be careful with the tea so that I don’t scald myself. My fingers explore the tray, running across the small pot, tracing the spout, the handle. My other hand finds the cup. I count when I pour. I know the cup can hold a count of five. They have given me packages of sugar, always two, even though I use only part of one. The spoon is not in its usual place, and I search to find it next to the milk. When I am finished, I lift the cup to my lips, blowing gently, more out of habit than necessity, and take a sip. Sighing, I allow Pa’s chair to embrace me.
I have taken to dreaming that I am young again, my hair the color of ravens, my eyes strong. In my dreams, I dance. I am back on the island of my youth, on the black volcanic beach of Porphyry, where the Lake licks the shore and the wind sets the sedge waving. I stoop to gather handfuls of devil’s paintbrush and sunny buttercups, adding them to the bouquet of nodding daisies already clutched in my hand. Emily is there, too, beautiful silent Emily, who always had one foot in the world of dreams. We clasp hands, two parts of a whole, and laugh and dance and spin until we fall to the warm ground, breathless, to stare up at the clouds chasing across the summer sky.
But lately, there has been a wolf wandering my dreams. I can see him gazing at us through the gaps between the trees. He slips in and out between the trunks of birch and fir, skirting the shore and watching us dance with his cold yellow eyes. Emily is not frightened by the wolf. She stares at him until he lies down at the edge of the beach, waiting. But he frightens me. I know why he is here. It is not yet time. But each day, I can tell that he is creeping closer, and it takes him longer and longer to settle.
It is one of the reasons I decided it was time to move back to the shores of Lake Superior. Here, in spite of the pain, in spite of the memories it holds, is as close to home, to Porphyry Island and the lighthouse, as I could get. Emily would have wanted that.
I take another sip of tea. Tepid already. The afternoon sun streams in the window, warming me more than the drink. I hold the cup carefully in my lap and turn my face toward the beam so that I can receive its full embrace.
I can hear Marty’s voice outside. I know he is the heartbeat of this place. And, oh my, he knows art, nearly as well as I do. Before my eyesight left me, he brought me books with paintings, and as we sipped our tea, he’d turn the pages and we would comment or criticize, depending on the artist. He was an eager listener as I shared tales of my travels and interesting bits of knowledge gleaned during a life spent roaming through art galleries and studying the masters. The woman in that painting—she was the artist’s lover, as we gazed at the work of Renoir. This painting, I told him, was stolen from the Jews during the Holocaust and found decades later in an attic in Italy. An American bought it, claiming it belonged to his great-grandfather in Holland before the war. Marty and I love the Impressionists most. This artist hired three people to tend his gardens, great expansive gardens, Marty, full of ponds and pathways and every kind of flower imaginable. Look at all the color. It was one of my favorite places we visited. We stood on the bridge, touched the wisteria. But the crush of people was too much, there, everywhere, and so we disappeared.
I should have known he would recognize her work, the simple lines, the movement and use of color. His eyes questioned, and mine answered. He is the only one here I have shared stories of my past with. He says little, but he listens. That is enough.
Marty knew, too, when my eyesight began to fade. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t let on that he saw my fumbled movements, my hesitant steps. He just stopped bringing books and started bringing tapes. Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven. And we sipped our tea and listened, letting the music create the paintings I could no longer see.
I think he understands. I think he knows how much I grieve for Emily, if it can be called grieving. I was Elizabeth and Emily, the twins, the lightkeeper’s daughters. It is hard to be anything else. It is hard to be just Elizabeth.
I can feel a cloud pass across my sunbeam, sense the brightness fade with what little is left of my shadowy vision. The breeze is causing the blinds to hum, and I am beginning to get a chill as it reaches cold fingers through the holes in the afghan. For me, autumn is a time of enchantment, when the world is painted with the colors of the masters. So many people dread the season, in all its splendor and romance, seeing it as the door to an end, to a winter of death. But autumn makes me feel alive. Autumn is the beginning and the end at the same time.
I reluctantly turn my face from the fading sunbeam and carefully settle my half-empty teacup back on the tray. I fold the afghan, draping it over the arm of the chair. It is time. With practiced care, I stand and cross my room to the door, pausing briefly in the entrance, one hand on the frame, hesitating. It is a daily ritual, one that makes me feel whole, however briefly. I step into the hallway and head away from my room and toward the other wing.
The wolf will have to wait.
4
Morgan
“So you did it all yourself?”
When Marty asks me, he doesn’t really seem to be asking. It’s a question, but only just.
We’re filling up a bucket with warm water at the utility sink in his office. Marty has already loaded up another bucket with a collection of tools and brushes.
“Ya, sure,” I reply. I have to do what he asks, but I don’t have to tell him anything more than what I told the cops. I know he doesn’t believe that I was the only one here that night.
“Used spray paint?”