A Letter for Annie - Laura Abbot Going Back

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for this ordeal. People would be sleeping in, at church or maybe golfing. She could dart in and out of the store, unrecognized. Anonymous.

      She drew the baggy University of Arizona sweatshirt she’d bought at a flea market over her overalls, covered her hair with a ball cap and put on her sunglasses. Maybe she’d look like a tourist. Certainly not like Annie Greer, Homecoming Queen.

      To her relief, the supermarket was nearly deserted. A bored clerk stood at Register Two, and a pimply faced teen was replacing the baggies in produce. A couple of perplexed-looking men in sweats stood in front of the coffee display, and one elderly lady was picking each and every egg out of a carton, checking for cracks.

      Annie grabbed a cart and made her way tentatively up and down the unfamiliar aisles. This store had not been here when she’d lived here, but it was the closest to the cottage. As a few more customers entered and the market grew more crowded, Annie felt the keen edge of panic. She had to get out of the place. She grabbed the last few items off the shelves, and it was only when she got to the checkout stand that she realized she’d selected the wrong brands of several things.

      “Paper or plastic?”

      She couldn’t think. Finally, she blurted, “Paper.”

      By the time she paid and started for the car, her knees had turned to rubber. She had escaped. She imagined a comic-book bubble of dialogue floating above her head: “The invisible woman triumphs again!”

      In the car, she turned on the radio and headed down the street toward the ocean and home. A radio evangelist’s voice filled the air. Annie twisted the dial again. This time it was gospel music. Granted, it was Sunday morning, but surely some station was playing pop or jazz. So intent was she on tuning the radio that she nearly rear-ended the last car in a long line of vehicles stopped at the Coast Highway light. Two highway patrol cars blocked the intersection. There must’ve been an accident. Traffic was being diverted. Northbound to the right onto a side street; southbound to the left. Annie inched along until she made it to the side street, which wound through a brand-new subdivision. Still fiddling with the tuner and paying scant attention to her whereabouts, she followed the line of detouring cars as it entered a more established neighborhood.

      Maybe it wasn’t about the tuner at all. Maybe she’d been subconsciously trying to block out her surroundings. But when the line of vehicles—including her Honda—made the next turn, she saw the large hacienda-style house in the middle of the block—33 Kittiwake Road. With trembling hands she managed to pull over to the curb and open the car door before vomiting into the street, her vision blurred by tears.

      HANDS FOLDED in her lap, Geneva sat quietly, waiting, worrying. She’d always tried to be a positive person. If only she could be positive about Annie and her future. Isolating herself here indefinitely was unhealthy. If Annie didn’t open up soon about what was worrying her, Geneva would have no choice but to force the conversation.

      She remembered that morning after high school graduation when Annie had called her at the hotel in Bangkok and told her she had to get away. She’d begged her great-aunt to help her. When Geneva had pressed Annie for details, the girl had refused to say anything more. Yet there’d been no mistaking the panic in her voice. Reluctantly, Geneva had given Annie instructions, called her friend Nina and wired money to Bisbee.

      From that time to this, despite Geneva’s frequent probing, Annie had never spoken about any of her friends, about her mother and George Palmer, her stepfather, or about why she had needed to flee Eden Bay. Geneva shuddered to think what hideousness lay beneath her niece’s refusal to talk.

      She brooded, unaware of the passage of time. When the front door opened, she started. “I’m back,” Annie called.

      After putting away the groceries, Annie came into the living room. Her pallor highlighted the faint freckles running across the bridge of her nose and under her reddened eyes. “I think I’ll lie down,” she said. “Something must’ve disagreed with me. I’m a bit queasy. Can I get you anything before I go?”

      What Geneva said aloud was “No.” What she was thinking was Child, you can get me the truth.

      ANNIE BURROWED into the folds of the downy comforter, overwhelmed by a storm of long-buried emotions. She had thought never to see 33 Kittiwake again, her happy home for six years. The summer before her seventh-grade year her mother had married George Palmer, president of the local bank. Before that, she and her mother had lived in a cramped bungalow near downtown where Liz Greer owned a gift shop. They had struggled on occasion, but even when times were good, her mother had never seemed satisfied. When she started dating George, all she could talk about was his country club membership, the fancy dining establishments where they ate and his elegant home in one of the best neighborhoods.

      When George had proposed, Annie remembered feeling happy about having a new dad and the prospect of a beautiful room with a canopy bed, a horse of her own and all the clothes any girl could desire. Instinctively she had warmed to George’s smile, his fatherly hugs and the way he called her “sweetie.” On their wedding day, Annie stood proudly by her ecstatic mother. She had never seen Liz Greer so happy. Holding a bouquet redolent with the scent of lilies and listening to her mother promise to love, honor and obey, Annie finally believed in fairy-tale endings.

      Whatever George wanted, her mother gladly supplied. Both Liz and George expected Annie to behave in a way that reflected favorably their standing in the community. However, no matter how hard she tried to live up to their expectations, there was always the lingering suspicion that she never quite satisfied them. Even so, she’d reveled in the affection George showered upon her.

      Gradually, though, she began to see that her mother’s attention was almost totally fixed on George. He, on the other hand, doted on Annie and seemed more a parent than her own mother. Over time Annie began to question her mother’s love, and a hole opened in her heart, ever widening, until Pete came along.

      She muffled her sob. It was too painful to remember him and his gentleness, his devotion. And to remember what she’d had to do to him. To herself.

      Auntie G. had sent her Pete’s obituary. For two weeks she never left Nina’s house, paralyzed by grief and memory. Pete represented the only time in her life when she had known the meaning of love and the sacrifices it required. Auntie G. and Nina could talk all they wanted about “moving on,” but the truth was that when she abandoned Pete, she lost any chance of knowing enduring love.

      Now Pete had been dead six years. Two years ago George had died of a heart attack. She had thought she’d escaped Eden Bay forever. Rolling over on her back, she stared at the ceiling, the water stain resembling a cracked heart.

      Suddenly the room seemed suffocating. If she stayed here, images from the past would loom and her stomach might again revolt. Leaping up, she pulled on her old Nikes, grabbed a sweater and bolted down the stairs. Geneva assured her she would be fine if Annie left for a while.

      She jogged down the drive toward the ocean. Breakers were rolling in, crashing against rocks, spilling on the sandy beach. The sun sparkled on the whitecaps, turning the foam to spun sugar. It was a beautiful day, she kept telling herself. She had to live in the moment. Anything else was too painful.

      She stood for several minutes at the edge of the sea, letting its roar and rhythm soothe her. As she caught her breath and her heart rate slowed, she made up her mind. She was here. In Eden Bay. It was unreasonable to suppose she could hide indefinitely. She was an adult. It was time to begin acting like one.

      Feeling better, she started off at a brisk walk, following the curve of the shore. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the figure walking toward her, until the person said, in a shocked tone, “Annie? Annie Greer?”

      The woman’s face was obscured by a broad-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses. But Annie knew the voice, and her heart plummeted. “Margaret?”

      Slowly Pete’s older sister removed her sunglasses and then stood blocking Annie’s way. “My father told me you were back in town. I’m sorry about your aunt, but I hope to God you’re not staying long. You are not welcome

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