The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox

yourself,” Uncle Crispin said. “It was thoughtless of me to suggest you go to the beach.”
    Uncle Crispin was making her feel uneasy, too. “It’s okay,” she said as she usually did when she didn’t understand what some grown-up person was saying to her.
    â€œNo one ever uses these sweet old rocking chairs,” he said. “It’s a pity.”
    Aunt Bea is already off her rocker, Emma thought to herself.
    â€œI’ll read here,” she said to Uncle Crispin. Her spirit might lift just a little if she could be alone for a while. He was looking at her worriedly. It was hard to reassure grown-ups when you weren’t certain yourself what you were feeling and thinking—when thoughts dissolved before you could name them.
    â€œI’m fine,” she said. “Really.”
    â€œCrispin!” Aunt Bea called from the dining room. He gave Emma a quick smile and went back into the house.
    She sat down for a moment in one of the chairs, imagining all six of them filled with identical Aunt Beas, rocking away the long day, cackling about the horribleness of everybody in the world except themselves and that painter, Monet, until they tipped their chairs right off the edge of the porch.
    She jumped up and ran down the steps. There wasn’t a book in the world that would interest her this morning.
    Her father would be sleeping now—the false sleep of hospital operating rooms which she remembered from the time her tonsils were taken out. It had been like sinking into something soft and furry and thick and damp.
    White clouds tumbled across the blue dome of the sky as though the wind were a great broom sweeping them all west forever. The water of the bay curled, broke into whitecaps. The islands were so distinct, Emma could see a line of yellow beach around each one of them. Down the rickety stairs was another beach, shadowed by the cliff at this hour of the morning. She leaned outward, holding to the stair post which was warm and splintery in her hand. She couldn’t see a living thing below, not even a shorebird scissoring along the water’s edge.
    Yesterday morning her father had given her a small paperback guide to seashore life, and she had looked through it while she was waiting for Uncle Crispin to pick her up. She knew the beach was not empty, that it was teeming with tiny living creatures, some as soft as custard, others hard as stone, hidden in shells and sand and seaweed.
    Yesterday morning! It seemed a week ago.
    How lonely it looked down there! She imagined herself standing motionless on the sand, alone. She imagined a ring of stones around her feet, and each stone an hour that had to be spent before she walked through her own front door. “Oh!” she cried out softly, and turned back to the house.
    She could hear voices from the television set. The roses on the trellis seemed to flow in the wind as though they rode a calm tide. Beneath the overhang of the porch, a small rabbit stood, its nose twitching, its paws held up. She felt terribly sleepy as if it were past midnight—a midnight, with a brilliant sun burning in the dark. She sat on the grass, then lay down, and sleep broke over her like a wave.
    â€œEmma, Emma. Wake up. Your mother is on the phone.” It was Uncle Crispin, shaking her shoulder, calling her name.
    She rose and took the steps two at a time. As she raced to the phone, she saw Aunt Bea, leaning forward, smiling, toward the television set. She heard Uncle Crispin say, “Turn it off, Bea!”
    Emma pressed the receiver against her cheek.
    â€œEmma, dear. Daddy is in the recovery room. He’s still pretty knocked out. I can talk only a minute—I want to be there when he comes out of the anesthesia. The operation went well. All the news is good.”
    â€œWhen will he wake up?” Emma asked.
    â€œOh—very soon. Then he goes to a special place called Intensive Care. And if everything goes right, he