“I have no objection to you running a business from home,” Margaret says, “and when Ethan said he wanted to clean his tools in the front garden, did I quibble? Not a word did you hear from me. But when you decide to fill your bin until it explodes all over the street, I really must speak out. I could have twisted my ankle!”
“I don’t know what you’re . . .” Luna steps forward, following the sweep of Margaret’s hand to the wheelie bin left out on the curb. Someone has dumped another two bags of rubbish inside, leaving the lid flipped open. The top bag has ripped, revealing hundreds of shells that spew over the garden path: cockles, whelks, periwinkles, barnacles, and even what she used to call smacked lugs, the purple and black ear-shape of mussel shells. Someone’s shell collection, perhaps, or a homeschool project.
Margaret follows her to the bin, where she stoops down, trying to pick up one of the burst bags to stuff it back into the bin.
“I can’t for the life of me work out why you’d gather so many shells,” Margaret says, aggrieved. “Nor why you’d put them in the general waste.”
“I didn’t.” Luna says it with a sigh. Her head throbs and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe.
“Ethan must have done it,” Margaret decides, folding her arms.
“Ethan’s not here.”
“Not here? Well, where is he?”
Luna turns and places her hands on the old woman’s shoulders. “I’ll clean it up,” she says with a forced smile.
“But . . . but . . .”
Before Margaret can think of another stream of questions Luna has headed back inside, locking the door behind her.
II
Light from the window washes the surfaces of Luna’s flat: a Pilates reformer, her sewing table, the life-sized orthopedic skeleton she bought Ethan as a gift when he started his physiology course, her handmade necklaces of leather and driftwood hanging from an ironing board. The plan was to sell the necklaces on Etsy and buy baby things with the extra cash, but the orders haven’t exactly been flooding in. Ethan has taken on extra Pilates classes to cover their rent, but he failed his last physiology exams. On the coffee table—an old milk crate they plucked out of a Dumpster—there’s a stack of textbooks borrowed from the library for Monday’s re-sit.
She sinks down on the sofa, anger crackling in her ears, fizzing in her wrists. The dream of her mother dances around her head like shards of glass. Every time she thinks or dreams of her mother, it happens. Ethan calls the days after such dreams a rage hangover—the massive comedown from some intense buildup of fury—and as usual she’s drained and weepy. Her memories of Lòn Haven are still so fragmented, little more than shattered slivers of a mirror.
The psychiatrist said trauma can cause memory loss. Whatever happened was so terrible it caused her to dissociate, effectively checking out of the horror. But the memories will be in there somewhere, buried deep in the earth of her mind. It makes her angry, the forgetting. What she does know—or what her social services file states—is that her mother, Liv, abandoned her there when she was nine. No explanation. No apparent motivation. Just dumped her in the woods and vanished into thin air.
She’s never been back to Lòn Haven, never so much as googled it. The very thought of that place triggers a panic attack.
She cradles the small gray triangle of a limpet shell in her hand. A limpet will wear away a patch of rock to fit its shell exactly. A home scar, it’s called, sealing it to the rock. Creating a tight fit to its home. Limpets move around at night to feed, but they always return to the home scar.
Where did she learn that? A few images begin to coalesce in her mind: her mother at a garden gate, bending down to pick up a limpet shell. There’s a raging sea behind her. And a lighthouse.
It’s Lòn Haven.