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day of her school just to waste time watching me clean someone else's house and make someone else his lunch. But with Cary on the fishing boat and me away most of the day, she had to spend more time alone than ever. She was starved for conversation and attention by the time Cary and I returned from work each day.
As usual, May's hands went a mile a minute, signing questions, telling me about things she had done, and expressing her desire to accompany me to Kenneth's studio.
I promised I would ask Uncle Jacob again, but she didn't look hopeful. In fact she looked downright sad. May was smaller than most girls her, age, and it seemed to me that she was even paler and thinner these days. I thought she resembled a flower without enough rain and sunshine, withering under dark, oppressive clouds. In her large, shadowed hazel eyes lingered more dark sufferings than a child her age should know, I thought. She lived in a silent world, hearing only her own thoughts, craving smiles, wondering about the sound of laughter.
It occurred to me that May didn't even know what it was like to hear someone cry. Of course, from the looks on people's faces, she knew happiness from sadness, anger from approval, but for me, someone who loved to make music and listen to it, the idea of being deaf seemed overwhelming. The eternal silence would drive me mad, I thought, and wondered what made May so strong. Sometimes her strength worked against her, and people forgot that she still needed little joys in her life. How could Uncle Jacob refuse her anything? He must have beach sand in his veins instead of blood, and a heart made from an old barnacle.
I told May about the things I had done all day, though I didn't reveal that Cary had visited. I was sure she would be upset that he hadn't offered to take her along. As I described my walks along the beach with Ulysses and even the cleaning I did in Kenneth's house, May stood looking at my hands as though I were drawing the most wonderful pictures of fun. Her eyes were wide and she nodded and smiled to keep me going. She laughed aloud when I described how Ulysses hid under Kenneth's jeep whenever the sky filled with thunder and lightning. When she asked me about Kenneth's paintings and statues, I looked away in shame, thinking about Mommy in Kenneth's secret paintings.
For the first time I realized that Mommy had lived a whole other life here. She had made friends she had never mentioned, especially boyfriends. How could she keep secret growing up at that big, wonderful house, living on the beach with the sailing and the swimming and all the parties? How could she drive those memories down so deeply that she never even slipped and mentioned something nice to me? Didn't she have any happiness here? Wasn't there anything that she had longed to see again, to hear again? The smell of the ocean was so strong, it soaked into your very being. I was sure of that because it already seemed to be part of me. How hateful and traumatic her flight from Provincetown must have been for her to keep so many secrets, I thought.
May tapped me on the shoulder. I had become so absorbed with my musings, I forgot that she was standing there. I smiled at her and then began to describe the vase Kenneth was creating. She nodded, thought about something for a minute, and then asked me to wait right there in the room until she returned. She hurried out and I went to the closet to search for the dress Aunt Sara had described. I found it hanging all the way in the back of the closet. She was right: it was a happy, bright dress, perfect for an afternoon. Moments later, May returned with a drawing pad in her hands. She hesitated, her eyes filled with trepidation, and then handed it to me.
Curious, I sat on the bed and lifted the cover. What I found amazed me. In the pad were excellent India-ink drawings, many of which were of me. There were pictures of me standing on the beach, pictures of me in the kitchen, and pictures of me holding May's