The night of Charlie’s accident, Ginger was struck by how part of what she remembered was hyperclear, as if everything had occurred a fraction more slowly than normal. The sky was crayon blue and the voices were sharp and people lurched around in jolts and starts. Other parts, though, were a blur, as if she was experiencing and forgetting in the same moment.
By the end of the day, this is what she could reconstruct: A man, long ponytail coming undone, ran from the far end with a metal spade. A woman, tie-dyed skirt, bandanna around her hair, loped behind him shouting to the crowd that there were more, plenty more shovels and buckets by the clambake pit. An older man, no shirt, deep tan, scar down the middle of his chest, called for volunteers to help get the gear, and then Mr. Diggans, face going from chalk white to beet red, yelling over all of them, his voice piercing through the chatter, Stop. Stop. Right. Now. His tone turned threatening. Hands only. She could picture the exact moment he said that, how everyone froze, confused, until he said the next thing, Hands only until we know where the body is, at which point several people began to weep.
Glory stood next to Ginger, leaning, listing, bare arm pressing into bare arm, and when Mr. Diggans said the word, body, her mother wobbled and then grabbed Ginger’s hand, holding on tight, as if otherwise she might collapse.
Behind them, Ginger could hear the thrum of people talking and when she turned, she saw them, a ragtag crowd who’d run over from the far end with whatever clothes they could grab—some with nothing more than blankets loosely wrapped around their bodies—all of them watching her mother.
Glory started shaking, tiny shivers which seemed to pass right into Ginger’s skin so that within moments both of them were standing and trembling together.
Ginger struggled and then finally got the words out. “I’m sorry.” Though she still wasn’t sure what had happened, she was sure it was all her fault.
Glory’s reply was so quiet, Ginger had to ask, “What? What did you say?”
Mimi, standing on her mother’s other side, translated. “Someone needs to find Callie.”
It was Thomas, standing next to Mimi, who volunteered to get her. “Where is she?”
“At the far end,” Ginger told him. “She went to get clayed. By herself.”
As soon as Thomas sprinted toward the cliffs, Glory’s trembling stopped and her hand loosened its grip and fell, useless, to her side. From where they stood, Ginger could hear fragments,
words lashing over her, voices rising and falling with the wind. Can’t tell yet. Too risky. Careful now. A lifeguard had arrived, but he was just a boy who stuttered as he radioed in the nightmare news, sand-hole collapse, to the person on the other end of his walkie-talkie. “Hurry,” the boy said, and then, “please.”
Ginger saw his eyes fill and imagined her mother chiding him to save his crying for when he was alone in his room with the door closed and the shades drawn.
Her attention snapped back to the crowd, now arguing about where it would be best to dig and where exactly the hole had been. Again, Mimi spoke up. “It was next to my tower.” She pointed.
“Where that rock is over there.”
A dozen people spread out around the one remaining rock of Mimi’s toppled tower to the moon. They dropped to their knees, digging like dogs, some of them sobbing.
In the distance Ginger made out two figures running toward them, Thomas and beside him a young girl. Ginger called to her mother. “Thomas has her.” But her voice was drowned out by people shouting, Stand back. Over here. Something moved. “Thomas has Callie,” Ginger called louder and she watched, stunned, as tears of relief streamed down her mother’s face.
And then a hand grabbed hers. “Come with me.” Ginger turned and saw Minty. Her other hand was wrapped tight around Mimi’s wrist.
Ginger pulled her hand out of Minty’s grasp. “I want to stay.” She watched as her mother pushed her way into the crowd.
“Your mother wants you to come with me now.”
“I want to wait for Callie.” Ginger didn’t mean to be yelling but she couldn’t seem to get her voice to be normal. “Thomas is bringing her. I want to wait.” Her words were carried by the wind.
Her mother heard and called back, “Go with Minty. Callie will stay with me.”
“Why can’t we stay with you?” Mimi asked and then everyone, diggers and watchers, went silent.
“Minty, take them,” Glory yelled, and Minty let out a soft cry and yanked them hard toward the path through bushes.
This time when Ginger wriggled free of Minty’s grip, she got as far as the edge of the crowd.
She struggled to see through the scrum. There was a smattering of applause, and the crowd shifted just enough so she could make out a glimpse, disjointed images of Mr. Diggans’ back and his arms. He was holding Charlie, crumpled and limp and impossibly small. “Move,” she told the people blocking her, and someone did, and then she saw it, her brother waved.
“We have to go now,” Minty said, and Ginger let herself be led away.
“It’s going to be fine,” Minty told them as they walked through the tunnel of bushes. “It’s going to be fine,” she repeated as they got into her car.
In the back of Minty’s beat-up station wagon, Ginger and Mimi let themselves be lulled into a daze by the rhythm of the promise. It’s going to be fine. They gazed out opposite windows. It’s going to be fine. Their fingertips reached across the seat and touched. It’s going to be fine. And Ginger repeated the words in her head, hoping that would help make them come true.
Up in their room, Mimi asked Ginger if she thought Charlie was okay and Ginger said yes. “Are you positive,” Mimi pressed her, “or are you just saying that?”
“Positive,” Ginger said, though she suspected Mimi could tell it was a lie.
They tried to think of ways to make time go faster so that Charlie would be home soon. That he might not come home at all had not occurred to either of them. It was after dark when they heard the
front door open and voices whispering and the door clacking closed. Mr. Diggans, his voice friendlier than normal, told someone, “That’s not the sun. That’s the moon,” and the person laughed.
Callie.
Ginger and Mimi raced down, and Mr. Diggans rose to his feet. “Whoa. Ho. Hey. Sounds like the running of the bulls here. Why aren’t you two asleep?”
“What happened?” Ginger asked, and Callie shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know.
“Upstairs,” Mr. Diggans said. “It’s way past bedtime.”
“How come she gets to stay down?” Mimi wanted to know.
“Callie’s going to sleep here.” He tapped the couch. “She’s frightened.”
“Of what?” Mimi could not imagine.
Ginger felt herself shivering even though it wasn’t cold. “Where’s Mom? Where’s Charlie?”
“Did Charlie break his other arm?” Mimi wanted to know. “Did he break his leg? That’s good, right, to break a leg?”
“This is nonsense,” Mr. Diggans barked, and Callie copied him, mimicking his gruff tone,
“Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.”
“Back upstairs,” Mr. Diggans shooed them. “Back to bed right now.”
Mimi didn’t want to sleep alone, so Ginger turned on her side and let her sister scoot into her bed. When Mimi started shooting questions, Ginger felt them like little darts on her back. “Do you think Charlie was scared when the hole caved in? Do you think his hair fell out? Do you think it went all white, like Cropsy?”
“Cropsy’s not real.”
“Mom says he is. Mom says Cropsy has white hair and chops up children who are bad. Is Cropsy real?” Mimi called to Mr. Diggans, who yelled back, “Be quiet.”
Ginger thought it made no sense for someone to yell, Be quiet, but she got quiet anyway, so she wouldn’t have to answer any more of Mimi’s questions.
Soon the sweet scent of cherry tobacco drifted into the room, Mr. Diggans puff-puff-puffing on his pipe. Ginger turned to Mimi and saw the whites of her eyes wink on and off like lightning bugs. A tear leaked out, and then another, until there was a line of tears traveling like a tiny river along her sister’s neat hairline.
“Why are you crying?” Ginger asked.
Mimi admitted, “I don’t know. But I’m allowed to cry here.” And they both turned as one to see if their window had shades.
After a few moments, when the scent of cherry tobacco faded—Mr. Diggans’ puffing had stopped—Mimi asked Ginger, “Wouldn’t Callie be less scared if she was sleeping with us?”
Ginger nodded and got out of bed. Together, they crept down the stairs.
They found Mr. Diggans asleep, head tipped back on the chair, pipe resting on a small dish he’d placed atop Glory’s puzzle, making a wreck of the Taj Mahal. Callie lay on the couch, a blanket wrapped around her like a body bag. Ginger kneeled beside her and whispered in her ear. “Callie?
Are you up?”
Callie sat up and waved. “Up, up, up.”
Mr. Diggans’ eyes snapped open. “What’s going on here?”
“If she’s scared, she should sleep with us,” Mimi told him. “We’re awake.”
He checked his watch, a large complicated thing with dials and cutouts of the moon, and let out a long sigh. “I suppose that would be all right. I’m leaving early anyway. Meeting the first ferry.
But don’t worry. You’ll only be alone for a little while. I’m picking someone up to stay with you.”
“Who?” Mimi asked.
“Poo-hoo,” Callie echoed.
Mr. Diggans winced and rubbed his eyes.
Ginger took Callie’s hand. “We’re going to bed.” And Mr. Diggans didn’t stop them.
It took some time to arrange themselves so that they all fit in one bed, but eventually they found a way that worked, Callie in the middle on her back, Mimi and Ginger facing her like a pair of parentheses.
Callie fell asleep right away, but Mimi remained awake, pelting Ginger with more questions.
“Where’s Mom? Where’s Charlie? Who’s coming? Where’s Dad?”
“Dad will be here soon,” Ginger said, which was wishful thinking, and about everything else,
“I have no idea,” which was the truth.