The Language of Sand

“Most of it.”

“If I were you, I’d get to the market by tomorrow morning. Stock up. Better safe than sorry.”

It was a sliver of friendly advice, yet Abigail felt awkward getting it from Nat. She swiveled the conversation in a different direction, away from herself. “So are you going to have room for this bountiful cornucopia at your place?”

“Didn’t have much to start with. When Hank rented the apartment to me, it was empty. Loaned me an air mattress, a hot plate, a folding card table. That was it.”

“I didn’t realize you lived with him.”

“Not with him. Over his garage. This is his truck.”

At last, Abigail understood why Nat took such care of Hank, why he guarded him and protected him. Hank had not only given Nat a job, he’d opened his home to him. It may have been more than anyone else ever did.

“Well…” he said, signaling his departure.

“Thanks.”

“Deal’s a deal. Bet you thought it wasn’t going to be a fair trade.”

That was exactly what Abigail thought. Given the amount of labor, Nat had done more for her than she had for him.

“I had my reservations.”

Nat smirked at her and got into Hank’s truck. “Don’t forget about those supplies.”

“I won’t. Thanks again.”

During the two days they’d spent together, she and Nat had exchanged a few dozen words at most. Though they had worked tirelessly, side by side, they’d hardly spoken. It wasn’t the absence of discourse that troubled Abigail—she could do without pointless chatter. Rather, it was the implication. On Chapel Isle, language—her primary currency—held a lesser value. The exchange rate was not in her favor. That left Abigail feeling like her proverbial pockets had been picked.

The early-evening hours ebbed away. Abigail didn’t notice. She was busy admiring the new appointments to the house. She sat in each chair, cozied up in both wingbacks, snuggled on the settee, and rested her feet atop the coffee table. This was how the caretaker’s cottage should have been from the beginning. Curtains would add the finishing touch. She didn’t think any of the stores on the island carried drapes, so the windows would have to wait until she made a trip to the mainland or could order some from a catalog. What could no longer wait was her hunger.

Abigail tore open a frozen dinner, turned on the oven, and summarily threw the decaying dinner into the garbage.

“Turkey tetrazzini will not beat me.”

Heat ticking, the stove slowly came to life. Abigail stood watch as it preheated, then put the entre in to cook. She tried turning her back on the oven but kept stealing glances over her shoulder. She finally made herself leave but got only as far as the door between the kitchen and living room.

Adjectives clicked through her head: timid, pusillanimous, spineless, lily-livered. She settled on the most juvenile.

“Chicken.”

The house was miserably icy. Abigail needed to start a fire. Using the stove and the fireplace simultaneously would be a tall order.

“I’m going to get some firewood, and you’re going to stay here and not do anything out of the ordinary, right?” she asked, addressing the oven.

You’ve gone from trying to reason with a ghost to negotiating with an inanimate object. Talk about a downward spiral.

Outside, the ocean was crashing against the seawall. The sky was striated with orange clouds. Abigail felt lucky that she could open her front door and see a sight this sublime. She also felt categorically unlucky. She wouldn’t have been looking at this sunset if it weren’t for the fire. With the oven on, Abigail didn’t have a moment to waste, either on the view of the landscape or the view of what her life had become. There would be plenty of time for both later.

She lugged in some wood from the shed and prepared the fireplace, ripping apart the container from her frozen dinner and sticking the cardboard pieces between the logs. Once the fire took, she had to decide whether to stay or go guard the stove. An ember popped in the fireplace, sending her back a pace.

“What we need is a screen.”

We was a term she hadn’t uttered in a while. For Abigail, there was no more we. To her, we meant her family, her husband and son. Her main frame of reference was as we: We bought a new house. We’re having a baby. We’re going out to eat. Now all that remained was I. It was the second of only two one-letter words in the entire dictionary, the first being A. Each was defiantly singular. The language would be nothing without them. Abigail felt she was nothing without we. She missed we.

“At least now you can make a list,” she said, careful to say you instead. She got a pen from her purse and wrote fireplace screen on what was left of the box the frozen dinner came in.

“What about kerosene for the lamps in the shed? Maybe a second flashlight. Some more batteries. Jugs of