Mrs. Whitbeck's Daughter - a prompt exercise

A writing prompt. Something new. I think I like it.

Mrs. Whitbeck’s Daughter

They had been her sister’s shoes - the little white sandals with the sunflower buckles, and fresh, un-pulled velcro fastenings - but they are Germaine’s now. She can recall how jealous she had been when her mother had brought them home, in a gift-wrapped box with a pink ribbon. The ribbon was the colour of the lining of the shoes, and immediately Germaine had wished that she could have them, even if just to touch. Sally had worn them everywhere, even to bed on that first night, and for weeks would only take them off for the special things. A walk on the beach, for example, was a special thing. But Sally was a sister too nice to be jealous of for long, and she had let Germaine wear the shoes too - just to try them on. They were too big, the straps dwarfing her four-year-old feet, and she had felt silly. Germaine remembers this now, the feeling of her feet sliding against the soft interior of the shoes, her toes barely even poking from the end.

Now the shoes sit beside her, dirty and worn on the soft, yellow sand. Sunlight plays across them, highlighting the little sunflowers - now no bigger than Germaine’s right thumb nail. She watches as a breeze stirs in the air above, and the sand jumps as if in protest. She watches in the distance as waves roll onto the shore, repeating the same motion of calmness, time after time. She does feel calm now that she is out here. Her mother is at home, cooking, or cleaning, or making herself busy and flustered. Germaine does not like the atmosphere of the house any more, not without Sally. It seems too warm in there, sometimes, stuffy and like she can’t breathe. The beach is the only place where she can come to breathe.

The air is cool and nice on her face, which she turns skyward, letting the sunlight wash over her like a warm hand, a touch of gold and angel-light. Sally used to love the beach, used to take the shoes off - as Germaine has done now - and paddle in the ocean, holding her dress with one hand and waving frantically with the other. Germaine had always watched, always followed the motions, said the words and looked after the shoes. That was how things worked.

Now there is nobody to watch, and Germaine is lonely. There are only the shoes, and the empty beach, and the rolling surf. There is the breeze, but that is not a person, not somebody she can talk to, and the sunlight. There is sand she can touch, feels cool beneath her fingers, but even this reminds her of her sister.

Everything reminds her of Sally. Especially the shoes. She thought that by bringing them here, putting them back on the beach and waiting, she might be able to think without the sadness. There is always sadness. When her mother laughs at home, at something trivial that Germaine has done, there is a beautiful explosion of glitter, and light and noise, and then she covers her mouth suddenly, as if remembering that Sally is dead, and that she should be sad. Germaine thinks that this is contagious, because now nothing is funny.

The shoes aren’t as pretty as she remembers. They’re not as clean, or as cute, and they are too small for her now. Even too small for her. She pulls her knees to her chest and stares out into the distance, the blue and gold view blurring into a hazy line of white dots of light through her eyelashes. She can hear a bird, somewhere, and some children playing on the other side of the bank, but here the beach is empty.

No, not empty. There is Germaine, and there are the shoes.

And there is Sally.

Germaine does not need the beach to see Sally; she does not even need the shoes. Sally is there, she has been told, in spirit, and now she can feel her. With each gentle brush of the wind against her face there is Sally’s hand, and Sally’s laughter, and with the soft sand beneath her feet there is the comfort that her sister had to offer. Even in the sea, way out in the blue, Sally is swimming, smiling. Germaine does not need the shoes, and perhaps this is the realisation that she was looking for when she came to the beach.

She will leave them here, for somebody else to find and to love, and then she will go home to Mother. Because six-year-old girls do not run off to the beach by themselves without good reason. She had a reason, and now she will leave. Mother will be angry, no doubt, but Germaine doesn’t care. This is what Sally would have wanted: she is sure. There is still the sadness, but Germaine thinks that this is okay. It won’t last forever.

Climbing to her feet, brushing the sand from her white summer frock, she looks out to the ocean again, smiling, and waving to an imaginary sister swimming in the water. And, bare feet padding on the cool earth underfoot, she begins to make her way home. Breathing.