Edith watches the sea from a small table in front of the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony. She finishes a puzzle by the end of each day, between glances and gazes at the sky and the horizon. The uneven stacks of puzzles lean in towers against the wood-paneled walls on either side of the door. If her father were still here, he would turn on the light overhead. Instead, she takes only the light offered from the door, from the sky.
She has come here to heal, though she would avoid ever saying such a thing. Her family, much to their dismay, knows where to find her but cannot reach her. She has no electricity, just a gas for the stove and plenty of wood from back home for the fireplace. She has turned off her cell phone and never hooked up the internet. She never even installed a telephone landline because of the chance it would ring. When Randy came to fix the kitchen faucet’s perpetual drip, he lectured her about the electricity, but seemed to understand the rest.
We’ve got the best lines on the coast, he said. They spent years diggin’ ‘em into the ground to protect them from the winds. And when those winds hit something fierce and you’re getting nothing but noise from the sky, you will want a little light and maybe something in the oven.
Edith only smiled.