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With a quick flick of her wrist, Ella strikes a match and lights a candle on a tiny shelf that’s tucked into the corner of the room. She waves a hand over it to disperse the scent around the room.
“Patchouli and plum blossom,” Ella says, sinking into the other chair, which is covered in a brocade fabric that’s been worn down over years of use. “Now,” she says, folding her hands together in her lap. “We have things to discuss.”
Sunday takes a deep breath and nods. “Yes, we do.”
With her eyes closed, Ella breathes in and out, slower and slower until Sunday isn’t sure whether the woman is asleep or just meditating. Finally, as if in a trance, Ella speaks. “There’s water in your past.”
Sunday thinks of her life on Tangier Island, which was totally dependent on water: on the tides, on the fish her father and grandfather could catch, on the way the waves swallowed up her brother and left her family bereft. “Yes, there was water,” she says.
Ella nods. “The water gives and the water takes,” she says, the words coming from her in a tone that’s devoid of any hills and valleys. It’s as if the words are flowing out without her even knowing what she’s saying. “And you didn’t want it to take you, so you left.”
“Yes.” Sunday’s voice is a whisper. “I left.”
“But you need to revisit this past—at least once more. There’s no way to escape it.”
Sunday inhales sharply through her nose, nodding though Ella’s eyes are still closed and she can’t see her.
“You have children.” Again, this is a statement, not a question. “One won’t speak to you.” Ella’s brow pulls into a frown and she looks like she’s watching a movie on the inside of her eyelids as her eyes move around furiously beneath the lids. “There is anger there, and misunderstanding. She doesn’t know you, Sunday. Neither of your children knows the real you.”
Sunday is nodding silently as her eyes fill with tears. Ella is right, of course, and she seems to know that Sunday has two kids—although she realizes that there’s still a chance that Ella simply knows those details because everyone knows them—but Ella is soft by nature and both ethereal and gentle; there’s nothing about her that screams “huckster.”
“That’s true,” Sunday agrees, trying not to give in to the sensation of needing to say more or to expand on Ella’s statements. “They don’t truly know me.”
Ella’s eyes open slowly. “They need to know you, Sunday—they deserve to know you. You need to show them where you come from and explain who you are so that no one else tells your story for you.”
The hair on Sunday’s arms stands up as goosebumps rise all over her body. This ispreciselywhat’s about to happen, and there’s no way that Ella could have ever known that. No way at all.
“So, you think I need to take my children home with me?”
Ella lifts both shoulders and lets her head fall to one side as she ponders the question. “Well, that would be one way, I suppose. Show them exactly where your roots are planted, because we never fully yank our roots from the soil, no matter how far from home we go. We can try, but there’s always a part of us that’s bound to our beginnings. And some of us leave bits behind that we can never recover. It’s time for you to go back and try to recapture those parts of yourself. This trip will be all about acceptance and letting go.”
Now Sunday has gone beyond just watery eyes and chills; she has started to cry—to sob, really—and she puts both hands to her face to hide behind them.
“Sunday, Sunday,” Ella says, reaching out with both of her hands and putting them on Sunday’s knees. She applies a bit of pressure, bringing Sunday back to the moment. “I know it’s emotional to set down the baggage we carry everywhere, but set it down, honey. Set it down for a minute, and let yourself cry if you need to.”
So that’s exactly what Sunday does: she lets herself cry in the tiny back room of Doubloons and Full Moons while Ella waits patiently, watching her and nodding with encouragement.
“I don’t normally revisit any of this,” Sunday explains through her tears, swiping at her cheeks. “I left my childhood and my adolescence behind, and I never went back. It’s so hard to go back.”
“It is,” Ella agrees. “Particularly when conventional wisdom tells us that we must never look back, always forward. But that’s not necessarily true. In order to grow, we need to reconcile the past and who we used to be with our present and who we have become. So go home and do that, but do itwithyour children. It will serve all of you well.”
“I just…you’re so right—about all of this.” Sunday digs in her purse for a packet of Kleenex, but Ella reaches over to where the candle is flickering and pulls a box from a shelf beneath it. “Thank you.” Sunday pulls out two tissues from the box and wipes at her eyes and nose. “My past has been coming back lately, and I don’t think I can ignore it anymore, so I think I’m headed back to Tangier Island. Thank you.”
Ella’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Off the coast of Virginia? Where the older locals still speak with a faintly British accent?”
Sunday nods. “Yep, that’s the place. It’s a tiny fishing village suspended in time. Very insulated against progress, and full of secrets.”
Ella gives her a knowing look and leans forward, putting just her fingertips on Sunday’s left knee this time as she stares into her eyes. “Then you go back there, and you look those secrets in the face and put them to bed once and for all. And no matter what happens, don’t letanyone elsebury you under the weight of your own past.”
* * *
Sunday emerges from Doubloons and Full Moons clutching a tissue and shaking as she dabs at her eyes.
“Oh my god, Sun!” Ruby rushes up to her, holding an iced coffee from The Scuttlebutt in one hand, and her phone in the other. “What happened?” She casts a glance at the front of the shop, looking like she’s ready to go in and confront Ella about whatever she might have said to get Sunday so worked up. “Are you okay?”
Sunday nods and loops her arm through Ruby’s, and as she does, Ruby’s phone buzzes in her hand.
“I’m fine,” Sunday sniffs. “Do you need to get that?”
