To Sing Frogs Chapter 23d

Sarah and Papa on the beach blowing kisses to the sun

Sarah jabbered, kissed her hand, and blew her feelings to the sun. “My-eck!” she squealed afterward.

“Yes!” Amy responded while rapidly running towards us. “Dá! Dá!” Moments earlier Bill had handed Sarah off to me. We were both looking at Amy and trying to figure out what was going on.

It had taken about fifteen minutes to walk from the hotel to the beach and neither girl had taken a step. Amy carried Celeste all the way. Sarah was bigger and harder to hold for long periods. Bill took far more than his share of pack-mule time, but it was because I would have forced her to walk. Whenever I wouldn’t carry her, Bill would. Grandpa couldn’t stand to see her pout.

Following Sarah’s example, Amy raised her hand to her lips, blew a kiss at the sun, and yelled; “for Mike!” Then she and Sarah repeated the action and Amy raised her voice again; “for Cory!”

“Cody!”

Two more kisses blown. “For Stephen!”

“See-ben!”

And then the last ones. “For Jack!”

“Djeck!”

The soft books had worked on so many levels. Sarah knew she missed her brothers already and she hadn’t even met them. Amy took her oldest daughter from me and spun in a circle with her, laughing and tickling until Sarah was laughing too. Celeste watched jealously from my side.

I looked out over the bay. Only two months prior it was covered in winter. The ice was now gone. The sky, with the exception of a few thin clouds, was blue. The water was still frigid. The wind still brought chills through light jackets but it wasn’t bitter like it had been in February. Spring’s promise of summer is always comforting, even amidst the storms.

Soon we three adults were trying to help the princesses construct a sand castle. Without tools or buckets it was difficult enough. The sand was coarse making the project all but impossible. Without the proper resources there was little we could do.

That left us with gathering memories. Russia is always incredible for making lasting impressions. A contest ensued of trying to find the largest piece of a seashell. We still have the crumbled bits we gathered from the beach that day. Sea glass was everywhere. The constant tumbling in waves and sand had worn off sharp edges so the litter appeared much less offensive now. That was quite contrary to the time when some careless soul had smashed bottles on the beach. Obviously there was no thought of consequences that might occur after their season of careless destruction and mayhem. Now the glass was smooth but foggy. Though little could be seen through the satin finish, its mere existence and location were proof enough of its history of abuse and abandonment. The green, brown, blue, and clear washed fragments found their way to our pockets. Later they would remind us of only the softer, smoother experiences of our waiting and our journey. The artist of time would eventually sculpt our memories to remove the sharp and dangerous edges.

After an hour on the beach it was time to go back to the hotel for lunch.

“Have you guys had enough fun yet?” I asked.

“I’m with you guys.” Bill was always with us guys; constantly there to help and never trying to impose.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Amy concurred. “Do you think we can get back by going down the beach? The abandoned amusement park was creepy.”

“The beach past here is fenced off and private. I think we had better go back the way we came. Don’t worry, Bill and I will protect you from the goblins.”

Amy rolled her eyes. Apparently the train stop for the gated community where the Vlad Motor Inn was located had been quite popular in the past. On one side of the tracks were the most expensive houses of the area. The other side—where we now found ourselves—was home to what had at one time been a small bustling amusement park, complete with its own private beach. It wasn’t bustling now. It was crumbling.

After crossing the tracks and passing the train platform earlier, we walked along hopeful of finding access to the beach. The way we discovered was not inviting even if it was a way in. There were no signs. Not even in Russian. The old rusted lock had been placed to appear as if it was securing the creaky, corroded iron gate. It was an illusion. The lock did not actually go through the parts that would make the barrier secure. Of course we knew whoever had put the lock in such a fashion probably didn’t want us there. Oh well. With the absence of a person, or even a sign to forbid us, we went to the beach.

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