Singing Through Thunder
The windshield wipers beat steadily like a metronome. Mallory McAllister’s tear-streaked face reflected blue dashboard lights as she drove her VW up the Maine coast. At 17, a striking combination of adolescent and woman, she fervently prayed that she would awaken from this dream at any moment.
Headlights glared from an oncoming SUV, reminding her that this was no dream. Blinded momentarily, she skidded to a stop at the roadside.
‘I’m losing it,’ she thought. Her hands rubbed her swollen eyes and face, then traveled up through her tangled curls. “Breathe deeply and relax,” she imagined Grandma Molly coaching her. “You can sing through anything if you stay relaxed.”
Singing was all Mallory ever wanted to do. Saturday night had been closing night for the school musical. She wished Grandpa had been in the audience to observe the standing ovation that rewarded her solo performance. Portland’s summer theater auditions were her goal for next season. After graduation, she planned on going to Boston to train professionally. Neither intention appeared possible now, as the Kittery Women’s Health Center had confirmed her worse fears.
Mallory was pregnant.
Raindrops pelted the car’s roof and Mallory’s thoughts turned to Donna. Last May, the two best friends had crossed state lines under the pretense of a shopping spree. “Once I take care of this,” Donna told Mallory, “It’ll all be okay.” Mallory remembered how she alternately sat and paced the vinyl-upholstered waiting area, stunned when Donna emerged bouncy and energetic through the gray clinic doors.
“You okay?” Mallory had tentatively asked.
“I’m starved!” Donna exclaimed. “Let’s hit Burger King on the way back.”
Mallory watched Donna devour a Whopper, onion rings and a Coke as though she’d not eaten in a week. Far from freaking out, Donna actually seemed carefree, riding along with her window open, the wind in her hair.
Now Mallory was in Donna’s shoes, though not nearly as cavalier about facing such decisions, or her grandfather. She managed to switch gears and pull back onto the highway.
York, Maine was a tourist town, a snippet of Early American white bread. There were taffy shops, a boardwalk, and summer evening concerts on the beach. Just down the road a piece from the famed Nubble Light lighthouse, her grandparents had raised Mallory in a cottage surrounded by tall evergreens, near the beach at Long Sands.
Grandpa was a gruff and prickly retired fisherman whose contrarian temperament was softened by Grandma’s sweetness and wisdom. After Grandma’s unexpected death two years earlier, Mallory and Grandpa drifted apart.
Malory fell for Kevin Anderson because she needed someone. They’d met at Brown’s ice cream shop and had become inseparable. Kevin was exciting, handsome, sophisticated and persuasive. Ultimately they “did it,” as her girlfriends would say, though it wasn’t quite the earth-moving experience Mallory had been led to believe. The condom broke and she nearly panicked. Kevin was calming. “Babe, it’s okay. Nobody gets pregnant the first time. And anyway, we’re in love.”
Their two-month long vacation over, Kevin and his family returned to Manhattan. Mallory waited patiently for him to call or write as promised. He didn’t.
She wondered how much heartbreak a person could stand.
Grandpa was reading when Mallory blew in through the oak door, her rain-soaked, corkscrew curls a dark ash blonde, her hazel eyes red-rimmed. Fishcakes, the long-haired Himalayan cat, stirred at the intrusion but quickly lost interest.
“What’s wrong?” Grandpa asked when he saw Mallory’s face.
“Nothing,” Mallory replied. ‘Please, God, not yet,’ Mallory thought. ‘I haven’t decided anything yet!’
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ You look a fright!” he countered.
Mallory quaked like a volcano ready to erupt. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice shaky.
“Girl, I was born at night, not last night. I can tell when something’s wrong. What’s the matter?” he insisted.
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Freaking out, trembling, Mallory blurted, “I’m pregnant!”
Grandpa stiffened, slamming his recliner closed with a squeak and a thud. Deafening silence followed. Finally, he mumbled, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Mallory.
“Did you take one of those tests?”
“Five,” she said.
“You took five of them?” His eyes seemed to flicker in compassion.
“Uh huh,” Mallory sniffled. “And I was just at the Women’s Center. The blood test is positive.”
She would have preferred anger, shouting, questions. His silence pierced her soul in a way that no argument ever could. Devastated, Mallory took the stairs by twos and slammed her bedroom door.
Grandpa winced. Emotions coursed through him, primarily guilt. His granddaughter would have been surprised to know that he felt as much at fault as anyone. Since Grandma passed, adding another hole in his heart, he hadn’t been there for Mallory.
No one but Fishcakes would sleep well that night.
Lightning flashed a staccato rhythm. Thunder rolled and crescendoed into long crackle-ripping sounds as though rending the fabric of the sky in two. By dawn, birds sang through distant thunder, as if in accompaniment.
Mallory peaked out the window at a clear horizon. She dressed quickly and slipped outside. Branches were strewn about the lawn. A nest had been catapulted from a tree by strong winds. Pale blue robin’s eggs lay scattered nearby, three of them broken, their pinkish-wet contents visible enough to horrify Mallory. The fourth egg was intact. Using a few leaves, she awkwardly scooped up the surviving egg, and gently placed it in the nest. She then situated the nest in the lower branches of a blue spruce. It was unlikely that the mother bird would return if she sensed human interference, but Mallory had to try. She had to try.
She stared at the nest for a long time before heading for the beach.
Grandpa surreptitiously followed. They’d reached the sand when he heard Mallory’s soft but strong soprano carried on the breeze. It was Grandma’s favorite song.
“We can be kind,
We can take care of each other,
We can remember that deep down inside we all need the same thing.
And maybe we’ll find
If we are there for each other,
That together we’ll weather whatever tomorrow may bring.”
“Mallory,” Grandpa’s voice cracked. Startled, she turned, looked at his weathered features, but in his slate-blue eyes Mallory saw something new. They had both made mistakes — some doozies — that they would have to face.
He drew her close, as much for his own comfort as hers. Pressed against his chest, Mallory listened as the ocean’s applause thundered into the soft-pattering of sea foam on sand.
