Chapter 18: Harbor Hill

He went on a Tuesday in January. He did not tell Nora. He told Colleen, and Colleen came to the house and sat with Nora and said she was there to visit, which was true, and Eamon said he was going to Rockland for supplies, which was also true — he needed caulk and marine enamel and a replacement fuse for the fog signal and a package of cotton wicks for the brass lamp — and the trip to the hardware store and the marine supply was the structure of the trip, the scaffold, the legitimate purpose that the other purpose hid behind, the way a fog bank hides behind a headland, present but not visible until you round the point and there it is.

He drove Route 1. The road in January was different from the road in June — the trees bare, the houses closed, the summer restaurants shuttered, the motels with their vacancy signs dark because there was no vacancy and there was no occupancy and the signs were irrelevant until May. The road was empty. The road in January was a road for locals, for the people who lived here year-round, who stayed when the summer people left, who endured the cold and the dark and the short days and the long nights because this was where they lived, this was their coast, and the enduring was not hardship but identity, the staying a statement about who they were and where they belonged.

Rockland was gray. The harbor was gray. The breakwater — the famous breakwater, a mile of granite blocks extending into the harbor, the walk that tourists took in summer with their cameras and their dogs — the breakwater was gray, and the lighthouse at the end of it, the Rockland Breakwater Light, was visible in the gray air, white against gray, a tower on a foundation of stone in the water, and Eamon looked at it as he drove along the harbor road and thought about the keeper of that lighthouse, the keepers who had lived in the house attached to the tower, who had walked the mile of granite to reach the shore, who had been surrounded by water on all sides, more isolated than Eamon on his point, more committed, more alone, and the aloneness was the job, and the job was the keeping, and the keeping was the life.

He found Harbor Hill. It was on a street that climbed from the harbor to the residential district above it, a street lined with old houses, Victorians and Colonials and Capes, the houses of the ship captains and the lime merchants who had built Rockland in the nineteenth century, the houses large and well-made and maintained or not maintained, some of them restored and some of them sagging and some of them converted to apartments or offices or, in the case of Harbor Hill, a memory care facility.

The house was a Victorian. Three stories. Yellow clapboard with white trim. A porch that wrapped around the front and the south side. A garden — the garden Patrick had described, visible through a wooden gate, the garden dormant in January but evidently tended, the beds defined, the paths clear, the structure of the garden maintained through the winter the way a lighthouse was maintained through the winter, the work invisible but the readiness preserved.

He parked the truck. He sat in the truck. He sat in the truck for five minutes, the engine off, the heater off, the cold coming in through the windows, and the sitting was not hesitation but preparation, the way a diver prepares before descending, the way a keeper prepares before climbing, the moment of stillness before the action, the breath before the plunge.

He went inside. The front door was unlocked. The hallway was wide, the floor hardwood, the walls painted a warm yellow, and the light was natural, was coming from the windows, was not fluorescent but daylight, the January daylight, gray but real, and the hallway smelled not of antiseptic but of coffee and something baking, the smell of bread or muffins, the smell of a kitchen doing what a kitchen did.

A woman met him at the end of the hall. She was in her fifties, dressed not in scrubs but in ordinary clothes, a sweater and slacks, and her name was Helen, and she was the director, and Patrick had told her Eamon was coming, and Eamon felt the brief flare of annoyance that Patrick had prepared the way, had paved the path, had made the visit smoother than Eamon wanted it to be, because the smoothness made it easier and the easier made it more likely and the more likely made it more real, and he did not want it to be real.

"Mr. Bryce," Helen said. "Patrick's told us about you."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you're a lighthouse keeper."

"I'm a volunteer. The lighthouse is decommissioned."

"He said you'd say that."

She showed him the house. She showed him the way a keeper would show a tower — systematically, room by room, the function of each room explained, the features described, the maintenance evident, the care visible. The common room, where the residents sat in chairs that were not institutional but domestic, the chairs chosen for comfort rather than efficiency, the upholstery worn in the way that upholstery wore in a house where people actually sat, the wear the evidence of use, of living, of the doing that the place encouraged. A bookshelf filled with books. A piano that someone was playing — a resident, a woman in her seventies, playing from memory, the music halting but recognizable, a Chopin nocturne, the melody emerging from the uncertain fingers the way a landscape emerged from fog, the shape there, the details approximate.

The kitchen. The kitchen was large, was open, was the center of the house the way the kitchen was the center of the keeper's house, and there was a woman at the counter rolling dough, and the woman was a resident, and the woman was supervised by an aide who stood beside her, not touching, not correcting, just present, just available, the way Eamon stood in the doorway of his own kitchen while Nora cooked, not helping but witnessing, not assisting but being there.

"The residents cook?" Eamon said.

"The ones who can. It's important. The kitchen skills are often the last to go. The hands remember."

The hands remember. He had said this himself, had thought this himself, had watched Nora's hands make bread while her mind forgot the word for colander, the hands working below the level of the disease, the hands holding the knowledge that the mind was releasing.

She showed him the rooms. The rooms were small but not cramped, each one with a bed and a dresser and a chair and a window, and the windows were important, were the thing that Eamon noticed first, the windows that looked out at the harbor or the garden, the windows that let the light in, the natural light, the real light, not the fluorescent light of an institution but the light of the world, the gray January light that was still light, that was still the sun's light filtered through the clouds and the atmosphere, the same light that came through the windows of the keeper's house, and the sameness was a comfort, was a recognition, was the realization that the light did not change just because the building changed.

"Can they bring their own things?" Eamon said.

"Their own furniture. Their own pictures. Their own — whatever makes it theirs. The room is a room. The things make it a home."

He stood in an empty room. The room was on the second floor, south side, and the window looked out at the garden and beyond the garden at the rooftops of Rockland and beyond the rooftops at the harbor and beyond the harbor at the bay, the bay that was Penobscot Bay, his bay, the same water that he could see from the gallery of the lighthouse, the same water that Nora could see from the kitchen window, and the water was the connection, the water was the thing that linked the keeper's house and Harbor Hill, the water that flowed from there to here without interruption, without boundary, the water continuous, the water the same.

"Can she see the bay?" he said.

"From this room, yes. Not the bay directly. But the harbor. The water."

"She needs to see the water."

"She can see the water."

He stood at the window. He looked at the harbor, at the boats on the moorings, at the breakwater extending into the water, at the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater, the white tower in the gray air, and the lighthouse was there, a lighthouse visible from the window of the room where his wife might live, and the coincidence was not meaningful but it was there, the way the coincidence of the decommissioning and the death of Nora's mother was not meaningful but was there, the connections that the mind made, the patterns that the mind imposed, the meaning that the mind found in the meaningless because meaning was what the mind needed, the way light was what the lens needed, the raw material, the input, the thing without which the system could not function.

He went to the garden. Helen opened the gate and they walked the paths, the paths of crushed stone, gray, the beds covered with mulch for the winter, the perennials dormant, the annuals gone, the garden sleeping, waiting for spring, and the waiting was the garden's version of the keeper's waiting, the patient endurance of the dark season, the trust that the light would return and the growing would resume and the garden would be the garden again.

"The residents garden?" he said.

"In spring and summer. The ones who can. We have raised beds for the ones who can't kneel. And we have a garden aide who works with them. It's — it's therapy, but it doesn't feel like therapy. It feels like gardening."

He sat on a bench. The bench was wooden, painted green, the paint worn at the edges, the wear the evidence of sitting, of people sitting, of the weight of bodies on the bench through seasons of sitting, and the bench was in the garden and the garden was in the facility and the facility was in Rockland and Rockland was on the bay and the bay was the bay and the water connected everything.

He sat on the bench and thought about Nora. He thought about Nora in this garden, in the spring, kneeling at a raised bed, her hands in the soil, the hands that remembered, the hands that knew the tomato plant and the bean pole and the difference between the white covers and the black covers, and the hands would know the garden and the garden would know the hands, and the knowing would be enough, would be a form of life, would be the daily doing that kept the self alive.

He thought about Nora in the kitchen, at the counter, rolling dough, the aide beside her, the aide who was not Eamon, the aide who was a professional, a trained person, a person whose skill set was not maritime but medical, not mechanical but human, and the aide would stand where Eamon stood, would watch where Eamon watched, would witness where Eamon witnessed, and the witnessing would be competent but it would not be love, would not be forty-four years of love, would not be the love that came from sharing a bed and a table and a life and a bay and a lighthouse and a son and a sourdough starter and a clock that needed winding and a tower that needed painting and a lens that needed cleaning and a log that needed writing.

He thought about Nora in the room, in the room on the second floor, south side, the room with the window that looked at the harbor and the water, and the room would be her room and her things would be in it and the window would be her window and the light would come through the window the way the light came through every window, and the light would be the same light and the light would not know the difference between the window of the keeper's house and the window of Harbor Hill, the light indifferent to the building, the light indifferent to the person, the light just light, just photons, just the electromagnetic radiation that the sun produced and the atmosphere transmitted and the window admitted and the room received, and the receiving was the living, and the living was what mattered, and the mattering was the question.

Did it matter where? Did it matter where the living happened, where the light came through the window, where the hands worked the dough, where the garden was tended? Did the address matter? Did the building matter? Did the point and the tower and the granite and the brass matter, or did only the light and the hands and the garden and the bread and the person and the name and the love matter, and could these things — the immaterial things, the things that were not buildings or addresses or locations but were feelings and memories and habits and the deep knowledge of the hands — could these things survive the move, could these things be transported, could these things be carried in a cooler across state lines the way the sourdough starter had been carried, the living thing preserved in transit, the culture surviving the journey, the life continuing in the new place?

He did not know. He sat on the bench in the garden of Harbor Hill and did not know, and the not-knowing was the fog, the fog inside, the fog that obscured the answer the way the fog obscured the bay, and the answer was there, was somewhere in the fog, was waiting to be found, and the finding required the lifting of the fog, and the fog would lift when the conditions changed, when the pressure shifted, when the wind came, and the wind would come, the wind always came, and the conditions would change, and the fog would lift, and the answer would be there, visible, clear, the answer that he already knew but could not yet see.

He stood up. He went inside. He thanked Helen. He shook her hand and the handshake was the handshake of a man who was not yet committed but was no longer opposed, the grip between resistance and acceptance, the grip of a man in transit, a man in the passage between one state and another, and the passage was not over, the passage was ongoing, and the destination was not yet reached.

He drove to the hardware store. He bought the caulk and the marine enamel and the fuse and the wicks. He loaded them in the truck, the supplies, the materials, the things he needed to maintain the lighthouse, the things that were tangible and specific and purchasable and applicable, the things that could fix what was broken and seal what was leaking and light what was dark, and the things were in the truck and the truck was on Route 1 and the road was taking him home, to the point, to the lighthouse, to Nora.

He pulled into the yard at three. The light was going, the January light, the sun already behind the trees, the sky pink at the horizon, the bay dark. Colleen's truck was in the yard. The kitchen light was on. The brass lamp was burning on the table — he could see it through the window, the warm yellow light, the moving light, the alive light.

He went inside. Nora and Colleen were at the table, drinking tea. Nora was knitting. The scarf was longer now, was nearly finished, the blue wool accumulating row by row, the stitches regular, the pattern correct, the hands working, the hands remembering.

"Get everything you needed?" Colleen said.

"Everything."

"Good trip?"

"Good trip."

Colleen looked at him. The look was the look that Colleen gave when she knew something and knew that you knew she knew and was not going to say it because saying it was unnecessary and Colleen did not say unnecessary things. She knew where he had been. She knew what he had seen. She knew the question he was carrying and the answer he could not yet give, and she knew these things because Colleen knew everything, because Colleen was the neighbor and the friend and the woman who brought chowder and did not pry and saw everything and said nothing until the nothing became untenable and then she said the thing, the one thing, the necessary thing.

She did not say it today. Today she finished her tea and stood and put on her coat and said goodbye to Nora and went to the door and stopped.

"It's a nice place," she said. "The garden is well kept."

She left. Eamon stood in the kitchen with his wife, in the lamplight, in the warmth, in the house on the point, and the house was the house and the wife was the wife and the lamp was the lamp and the light was the light and everything was the same as it had been that morning and everything was different.

"Where did you really go?" Nora said.

He looked at her. She was looking at him from the table, the knitting in her lap, the needles still, and her eyes were clear, were the blue of the bay in summer, were sharp and focused and present, and the clearness was the clearness of a woman who had not been fooled, who could not be fooled, who knew her husband the way he knew the lighthouse, not abstractly but physically, through the body, through the decades of contact, and the knowing was the knowing and the knowing said: I know where you went, I know what you saw, I know what you are thinking, and I need you to say it.

"I went to Harbor Hill," he said.

She nodded. The nod was small, was controlled, was the nod of a woman who had been expecting this, who had known it was coming the way the keeper knew the fog was coming, the signs visible if you knew how to read them, and Nora knew how to read them, had always known how to read them, had been reading the signs of her husband and her son and her neighbor for decades.

"And?" she said.

"It's a house. It has a garden. The rooms have windows. There's a kitchen. The residents cook."

"Can I see the water?"

"You can see the harbor. You can see the bay."

"Can I see the lighthouse? Our lighthouse?"

He paused. He thought about the view from the second-floor room, the harbor, the rooftops, the breakwater, the breakwater light. He thought about the twenty-three miles between Harbor Hill and the point. He thought about the curvature of the earth, the line of sight, the geometry of visibility.

"No," he said. "You can't see our lighthouse."

She nodded again. She picked up the knitting. The needles began to move, the stitches resuming, the scarf growing, row by row, the blue wool the color of the bay in summer, the color of her eyes, the color of the sky on a day when the visibility was unlimited, and she knitted and she did not speak and the not-speaking was the response, was the answer, was the silence that said everything the words could not say, the silence that said: I know, I have always known, I have known since Patrick said the word on the rocks in June, I have known since Dr. Mehta said the word in his office in September, I have known since I stood on the path in the fog and could not find the garden, I have known since I looked at your face and did not know your name, I have known, and the knowing is the fog, and the fog is inside, and the fog is the thing I am living in, and the living is the keeping, and I am keeping, I am still keeping, and the knitting is the keeping and the bread is the keeping and the list in my pocket is the keeping and the name I say in the dark is the keeping, and I will keep, I will keep until I cannot keep, and when I cannot keep, I will need someone else to keep for me, and the someone is you, and you are here, and the here is enough.

"I'll make dinner," she said.

"I'll help."

"You don't know how to help."

"Teach me."

She looked at him. The look was the look from October, from the morning of the starter, from the moment when he had asked her to teach him and the teaching had been a preparation and the preparation had been a love. She saw the asking. She saw the preparing. She saw the love.

"Wash your hands," she said. "And peel the potatoes. The peeler is in the drawer. The second drawer. The one on the left."

He washed his hands. He found the peeler. He peeled the potatoes. The peeling was simple, was a motion, was a thing the hands could learn, and the hands learned it, and the potatoes were peeled, and the dinner was made, together, the two of them in the kitchen, in the lamplight, in the house, and the making was the keeping, and the keeping was the love, and the love was the light, and the light was on.