Sea Change Read Free Page A

the water.
    More questions bubbled on the tip of my tongue; the solid land of questions and answers was where I felt most comfortable. I wanted to ask Mom for more details about my grandmother’s funeral, which had been a lavish affair; apparently, a mountain of magnolias had been fashioned into Isadora’s likeness, and a gospel choir had sung “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore.” I also wanted Mom to elaborate on the Aunt Coral drama. But when we emerged onto a paved road called Triton’s Pass, I was struck silent by the strange beauty of our surroundings.
    Massive live oaks lined the road, their green leaves forming a canopy overhead, and lacy, pale-gray Spanish moss dripped from the trees’ branches, creating a ghostly effect. Slimmer, white-trunked trees—“crepe myrtles,” Mom told me as we passed—bloomed with brilliant purple flowers that filled the air with a ripe sweetness. A shiny, lumpy armadillo lumbered right past us.
    Though the island’s flora and fauna looked wild and untouched, it felt as if Mom and I were walking along an elegant, old-fashioned promenade. There were columned houses behind the trees, and men tipped their hats to us as they passed. Two girls in white dresses, sailing by on bicycles, offered cheerful “good afternoons.” If I was one to believe in time travel, I might imagine that the ferry had carried me into the past.
    “This is us,” Mom said as we rounded a corner and stopped in front of a wide lawn. The house—the biggest I’d seen yet—was painted a pale blue, with four columns and a wrought-iron wraparound porch. The lawn was weed-choked and overgrown, and the screens on the bay windows were torn, but it was clear that the house, like a delicate-featured elderly woman, had once been a stunner.
    “No, it’s not,” I replied automatically. The facts did not compute. I peered around, half expecting to find the barrel of a shotgun pointing at us for trespassing.
    Logically speaking, how could Mom and I possibly be connected to this… mansion ? A mansion in which to shoot a Civil War movie, not a place for regular people like Mom and me.
    “Take a look,” Mom said, guiding me over to the rusted mailbox. On its side, in chipped white paint, were the words:
    T HE M ARINER
M R. AND M RS. J EREMIAH H AWKINS
10 G LAUCUS W AY
S ELKIE I SLAND, G EORGIA 31558
    I felt a flush of recognition. Jeremiah Hawkins was my grandfather, who had passed away when my mother was still in high school. But…
    “Who’s ‘The Mariner’?” I asked, angling my head to better study the writing.
    Mom let out a small laugh. “Oh, that was your grandmother being pretentious. She named the house after her favorite poem, ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’ ” When I looked at Mom blankly, she added, “You know, ‘Water, water, every where / Nor any drop to drink’? Samuel Taylor Coleridge? The albatross?” I shook my head, and she nudged me in the side. “Oh, Miranda. You should read something other than your biology textbooks once in a while.”
    I sighed as I followed Mom up the curving path to the house. Somehow, in between her surgeries and medical conferences, Mom always found time to read novels or poetry collections. I simply found works of fiction too…fictitious.
    We climbed the crumbling porch steps, and as Mom dug in her purse for the keys, I studied the blue-and-white life ring that hung on the door like a wreath, now yellowed with age.
    “When was the last time anyone stayed here?” I asked. Mom herself had only arrived the day before.
    “About two years ago,” Mom said, unlocking the door. “When I was around your age, after my father passed”—she cleared her throat—“Isadora decided that the family shouldn’t summer here anymore. She’d come out by herself now and then, but when her health started failing, she locked up The Mariner and stayed in Savannah for good.”
    The mingled scents of mildew, dust, and Lemon-Fresh Pine-Sol floated toward us as we stepped