Ellen Block - The Language of Sand

“Let me get a look at that ankle, Merle.” He winced as Ruth removed his boot. “It’s swelling already. Think you can put weight on it?”

Merle set his foot on the floor, testing. “Not for long.”

“It’s not broken.”

“How do you know?” Denny was squatting to have a look for himself.

“Because if it was, he’d want to toss his cookies when he stood on it. In the early days, people’d strike a tuning fork to tell if a bone was broke. The vibration would make the bone shake. The toss-your-cookies test will have to do.”

“Got plenty of forks here. I can get you some.”

“No, hon,” Ruth told him, patting Denny’s shoulder. “I think it’s only a bad sprain.”

“Shouldn’t we get him to a doctor?” Abigail asked. “To be safe?”

Ruth shook her head. “I’m not going to trouble the gals at the UC.”

“We got an urgent-care unit on the island,” Bert explained. “Two nurses and a doctor on call. People try not to bother ’em unless it’s an emergency.”

“Ruth’s right,” Merle said. “It’s a sprain, not a stroke, for Pete’s sake.”

Abigail was still processing the fact that there was virtually no medical care available on the island. “You’re saying there’s no hospital here and only one doctor on Chapel Isle?”

“During the off season, yeah,” Ruth informed her flatly.

“But we’ve got Ruth,” Denny chimed. “She’s practically a doctor herself.”

“Really?” Abigail said.

Bypassing the topic, Ruth instructed Denny and his father to take Merle home. “Bert, you go with them. They’ll need the extra set of hands. See that he gets into bed and puts an ice pack on that ankle. I’ll stop by in the morning to check on him.”

“Ruth, there’s no need to bother—”

“Don’t fuss at me, Merle Braithwaite, or that sprain will be the least of your injuries.”

He gave in, then the men steadied him on their shoulders, helping him limp out of the café. All Abigail could do was hold the door for them.

“I’m sorry, Merle.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Abby.”

In actuality, she had a profusion of things to be sorry for, herself included. What Abigail wanted to hear was that Merle didn’t blame her. She blamed herself for too much already.

From the window of the café, she and Ruth watched as the men got Merle into his truck.

This is your fault , Abigail thought.

“It’s not your fault,” Ruth told her.

“Gee, the voice in my head must be getting loud if other people can hear it.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. Money says Nat was pining for a fight before you shot him that zinger.”

“You heard that?”

“Did I!” Ruth nudged Abigail’s arm, congratulating her. “Dr. Walter couldn’t have said it better himself.”

“Do you think anybody else knew I was plagiarizing a radio personality?”

“Naw. They probably figure you’re a badass.”

“A badass? That might be a stretch.”

“Who’s to say? Boston’s a tough town.” Ruth had known Abigail was a widow instinctively but had likely heard she was from Boston through Lottie. News certainly did travel fast on the island.

“Not as tough as Chapel Isle.”

“You got that right, hon. Come on and fix these chairs with me, will ya? Give a tired broad a hand.”

Abigail cleared the mess from the fight while Ruth collected the leftover dishes. Though the café was closed, the smell of hot coffee and the warmth of people’s bodies lingered. Abigail had been rattling around the lighthouse on her own like a marble in a jar. She’d forgotten how it felt to be in a space that wasn’t always vacant. She gathered the plates Ruth couldn’t carry and trailed her into the kitchen.

“This here’s Zeke.”

Ruth introduced her to a sinewy man in an apron with an anchor tattooed on his forearm, the blue ink so dark it seemed like a bruise. He was vigorously scraping the grill with a metal spatula. A day’s worth of grease oozed from the burner, making Abigail glad she hadn’t had the chance to eat.

“We got the dishes for you,” Ruth told him, and he nodded.

“He cooks and does the dishes?”

“Says it clears his mind.”

“Clears the mind,” Zeke repeated, tapping his temple.

“If you ever want to clear your mind at my house, you’re welcome anytime.”

Zeke didn’t respond. Then the comment sunk in and he chuckled. “Funny,” he said.

“Yeah, this gal’s a riot. Lemme tell you,” Ruth said sarcastically. “Don’t get her riled or heads will roll. The Boston Bruiser, we’ll call ya.”

“Please don’t.”

“Bye, Bruiser,” Zeke said, as Ruth guided her out of the kitchen.

“Great. Another nickname.”

“I’ve got to cash out the till. You don’t have to stay,” Ruth said. “You’ve done enough.”

“No argument there. I don’t have much else to do, though.”

“Can you count change?”

While Ruth tallied the day’s take, Abigail sat at the counter sorting coins.

“I feel awful about Merle getting hurt.”

“Don’t. He would’ve tried to break up the fight even if you weren’t involved.”

“Me? Why would that matter?”

“He knows you’re alone here on the island. Plus, I told him you were a widow, so I think he was looking after you.”

“A widow? How did you—”

“Darlin’, it takes one to know one.”

“Was it because I’m not wearing a wedding ring?”

“Pssh. Nope.” Ruth set a stack of cash on the counter. “Put it like this. You can tell I’m from North Carolina by how I talk. I can tell you lost your husband by what you don’t say.”

Abigail had no idea she could be giving herself away when she wasn’t even speaking.

“I met my husband, Jerome, on the mainland, but he was born on Chapel Isle,” Ruth told her. “Army’d put him through medical school after the Korean War, and he wanted to give back to his hometown. For years he was the only permanent doctor on the island. We’d get phone calls in the middle of the night. Sore throats, broken wrists, toddlers with earaches, women going into labor.” Ruth marveled at what she’d endured. “I’d go with him. Got my honorary medical degree along the way.”

Abigail now understood what Denny had been talking about earlier.

“So you’re not a native?”

“Been here long enough that I kinda am.”

“You must love it here if you’ve stayed.”

“Didn’t at first, believe you me. When the ferry would break down in the winters, we’d wonder if the market was going to have food. Had to ration what milk and eggs you had. With our three kids to take care of, that was no joyride. There was only one proper plumber on the island for half a decade, so if your toilet broke, you got real close with nature. Can’t say they were all bad times. But they weren’t all rosy. Island’s like a resort compared to how it was. Take a gander,” she said, pointing at the outmoded coffeemaker and wear-beaten furnishings. “That’s saying something. My grandkids, they visit from Florida and think it’s old-fashioned here. I tell ’em, ‘This isn’t old-fashioned. This is new-fashioned.’ I may not have loved Chapel Isle in the beginning. Thing was, I loved Jerome. He’s been gone eleven years. Not a day goes by that—well, you understand.”

Ruth closed the register, shutting the drawer hard enough to make the metal clang.

“Is it that obvious?” Abigail asked. “About me being…”

“I doubt anybody is wise to it ’cept me. And Merle,” Ruth added apologetically.

Abigail had become part of an unspoken league, one nobody wanted to join, because there was no resigning. She’d already met Chapel Isle’s charter members, Ruth and Hank. She was the newest inductee.