“Gross. Cut it out. I’m serious.”
“Hey, Maisie,” Mom says as she comes breezing into the room. She’s dressed in a worn flannel shirt and dark blue jeans. She kneads her long, wet hair with a towel from the bathroom. Her smile is soft and warm. “How was your last day of school?”
“Mom, Connor keeps talking with his mouth full, even though I’ve told him not to multiple times.”
Connor’s entire face scrunches. “It’s not fair!” he wails. “I only asked if Maisie would play with me.”
The corners of her smile droop a little. “Okay, okay. Maisie, you’re not the boss of your little brother. But, Connor, you need to be more mindful of your manners. We had this discussion at dinner last night too, remember?”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“But can’t Maisie at least play with me?”
“Maybe later,” Mom says diplomatically. “Mrs. Baransky is on her way over. Maisie and I are about to go see Mr. Lawson.”
His small shoulders slump forward. “Mrs. Baransky? But where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy is on his way. He had to do some maintenance work on the boat, and it took longer than expected. But don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”
Connor perks up. Takes another huge bite of his granola bar. He keeps his lips sealed as he chews, his jaw working in an exaggerated motion.
Mom nods her approval. “That’s better, Connor, thank you.” She bends at the waist, twisting her hair inside the towel, before straightening back up again. She walks into the kitchen, lowers the dishwasher’s stout door, and yanks the top tray open, its contents rattling.
“You didn’t answer my question, Maisie,” she says as she tucks the colorful coffee mugs back into the cupboards. “How was school? Are you hungry? Did you grab a sandwich from the fridge?”
“It was fine. And I’m okay; I ate a granola bar.”
“Just fine? And are you sure?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
I finish my granola bar, toss the wrapper into the garbage, and turn to go down the hall.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” Mom calls out after me. “Be quick, okay?”
“Okay.”
I step inside my bedroom and snap the door shut before Connor can follow.
5
The Shape of a Triangle
February 15
I change into a pair of shorts and swap my red winter jacket for a freshly laundered sweatshirt. I sit on the edge of my bed, slump back against the mattress.
Stare up at the ceiling.
My room is small and sparsely decorated. I have theater-sized posters from the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s productions of Romeo and Juliet and The Sleeping Beauty. I have a bookcase filled with all kinds of stories: mysteries, fantasy adventures, sci-fi. I have a homework desk with a gooseneck lamp; a collection of cute, pastel-colored pens from Japan; and a tiny potted cactus. Fairy lights are strung across the wall below my window, clipped with photos from important moments in my life: being the flower girl in Mom and Jack’s wedding, meeting Connor for the first time in the hospital, hugging Hattie and Eva after our final performance in The Nutcracker. We were still in our Polichinelle costumes and stage makeup. The thick eyeliner made us look like raccoons; the bright circles of rouge on our cheeks made us look like dolls. The overall look was pretty creepy, but you can tell we were happy.
Above my bed, there is a shelf with two objects balanced on it. An autographed pointe shoe from Noelani Pantastico, my favorite principal dancer. And a baseball mitt, signed by someone who played for the Orioles in 1997.
I inherited the mitt from my dad. It was one of his most prized possessions.
My parents had a short and tragic romance. The type of story that everyone loves to see in ballets or books or movies but hates to hear about in real life.
They were both Native, but they grew up in different coastal communities, on opposite sides of the continent. Mom is Makah; she grew up in Neah Bay, in the northwestern edge of Washington State. My father was Piscataway; he grew up in Baltimore, on the Chesapeake Bay. Mom spent her childhood playing outdoors, riding her red bicycle around the reservation, and eating fresh seafood. My father spent his childhood going on field trips to the historic sites of Maryland, playing video games with his friends, and eating fresh seafood.
They both went through big changes in their teen years.
When Mom was fourteen years old, the Makah Nation hunted a gray whale. It was their first whaling voyage in seventy years. They agreed to stop hunting them when whales were listed as an endangered species. They waited until the Pacific populations were stable before legally asking for permission to resume this ancient tradition.
They received permission. But it was a controversial situation.
News helicopters buzzed above the choppy waters as the men set out in their canoe. The hunt was broadcast live on television. Protestors pulled their boats into Neah Bay. And in the days and weeks that followed, hundreds of angry and threatening phone calls were made to the tribe. Picketers carried signs and created bumper stickers that said: Save a whale, kill a Makah.
As the threats of violence continued, Mom’s parents started to fear for her safety. They told her not to go out on her bicycle anymore. They told her to stay indoors.
After a bomb threat was made at her school, they decided the safest solution was to move to another town. None of them wanted to go; Neah Bay was their home, Mom was starting to learn the Makah language, and the whale hunt had brought the tribal community together. But my grandparents feared that the threats would continue. That they might turn into something real.
And so, over the summer, the family moved to an apartment in Tacoma. The transition was hard at first, but Mom has always made friends easily. As she attended high school in the city, she started a small Native American Pride Club on campus, where she met some Puyallup and Muckleshoot and Nisqually kids.
Meanwhile, my father struggled through high school. Mom likes to say that he was one of the smartest people she’s ever known, but that he wasn’t “good at school.” He dropped out during his senior year, earned his GED, and then enlisted in the US Army. At the age of twenty-one, he was sent to JBLM, a joint military base south of Tacoma.
That was how they met. Mom was a student at The Evergreen State College. He was a soldier, preparing for his deployment. Their paths crossed at an Indigenous arts market at the Evergreen Longhouse in Olympia.
Mom always tells me it was love at first sight. (I’m still not sure if I believe that part.)
They were married less than a year later. And less than a year after that, he was deployed to Afghanistan. We only have one picture of him during his tour there; it’s framed on the mantel in our living room. In it, he’s dressed in crisp white short sleeves, seated on the edge of his cot, misty-eyed and grinning as he holds up the ultrasound Mom sent him in the mail. It’s so different from his official, buttoned-up, and serious-faced serviceman portrait, which we also have framed on the mantel.
Between those two photographs, we have the American flag from his funeral. The flag is folded into the shape of a triangle and displayed in a glass case.
6
Deeply Underwhelming and Unhappy
February 15
“Maisie!” Mom calls from down the hall. “Mrs. Baransky is here. Let’s get going!”
As I emerge from my bedroom, I find that the front door is open and Mom is ushering Mrs. Baransky into the living room, apologizing for the nonexistent mess. Connor is yelling for Mrs. Baransky’s attention, asking if she got any candy for Valentine’s Day, asking if she likes chocolates. And Mrs. Baransky is laughing her easygoing laugh as she politely declines his offer of chocolate coins, then turns to our mother with a reassuring smile.
“The house is perfect, Angie. Honestly, it always is,” she says. “And I got a box of truffles for Valentine’s Day, Connor! Do you know what truffles are?” She meets my gaze across the room. Her round cheeks ar
e pink from the chilled air outside. Her blue eyes brighten as she smiles at me. “Maisie. How are you, dear?”
“Hi. I’m fine, thanks.”
Mom points at the throw pillows strewn across the floor. “Connor, was this you? Did you mess up the couch? You’re old enough to clean after yourself, young man. Put them back.”
“But I need to hug Mrs. Baransky!”
Connor launches himself across the room, hopping over the pillows on the floor, colliding with the soft curve of Mrs. Baransky’s belly.
Mom groans. “Connor.”
“It’s okay, Angie,” she says as she gingerly pats the top of Connor’s head. “We’ve got this. And you two better get going! Don’t want to be late.”
“Right,” Mom says. She grabs her purse from the hook by the door and peeks inside, shuffling through its contents. “Keys,” she murmurs. “Keys, keys.” She straightens and glances around the room. Pats the pockets of her jeans. “Where did I—?”
I spot them on top of the microwave. “They’re over here, Mom. I’ve got them.”
I walk through the kitchen and grab the keys, then circle back to the front door, where Connor has extracted himself from Mrs. Baransky to give Mom a goodbye hug and kiss. Mom hoists him up in her arms, snuggling him, pressing kisses all over his face.
“I love you so much,” she says. “Be good for Mrs. Baransky. I’ll see you when Maisie and I come back, okay?”
He nods. The moment she sets him down, he turns to me.
“Maisie, I need a hug from you, too!”
He comes barreling into me, his bony arms clasped around my torso. I hug him back, patting his shoulders.
“I’ll see you soon, Con.”
“And Connor,” Mom calls. “You better put that treasure chest away, before the pirate comes home and finds it.”
Connor gasps, horrified at the thought. He releases me and vanishes down the hallway with his shoebox filled with valentines. I follow Mom out the door. Mrs. Baransky beams at us, waving goodbye as she reassures Mom—once again— that the house isn’t a mess, the pillows aren’t a big deal, don’t worry so much.
Outside, the clouds have darkened, but the rain has stopped. Everything is dreary and gray and gleaming.
We climb in. Mom flicks the key in the ignition, and the car sputters to life with a creaky sound. Cold air blasts through the heater vents, and we both instantly shiver. Mom twists the knobs on the dash, shutting the heat off while the engine warms up.
“So,” she says quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” I mutter.
“Whatever happened at school today.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. School is school. It’s midwinter break now.”
She hesitates. I can feel her watching me. I can see the concerned crease between her brows.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing,” she says. Then, apparently changing her mind: “How is your knee feeling?”
“Better each day,” I tell her. It comes out sounding more sarcastic than I mean it to, so I take a deep breath and add: “I mean it. I feel so much better.”
“Okay.” She puts the car in reverse and repeats herself gently under her breath: “Okay.”
This is what happened at school today:
I ate lunch by myself. As I always do.
In my US Government and History class, Mr. Sandman somehow knew I wasn’t listening to his lecture. And so, he called on me. He asked me to tell him about the Treaty of Paris. In what year was it signed? I didn’t know. Which war did it end? I had no idea. Who was triumphant? I said, “The British?” Mr. Sandman snickered and said, “That was a good, educated guess.”
Ever since I tore my ACL in October and had the surgery to reattach the tendon, I haven’t been able to do anything in PE. Dr. Hart wrote a note to my teacher, declaring me banned from “strenuous activities.” And so I spent my time in PE seated on the bleachers, attempting to focus on homework from another class, despite all the basketball dribbles and squeaking sneakers across the polished gym floor.
In English, we’re reading some boring old book, by some boring old dude, set in some boring old time period. It’s filled with language that makes no sense to me. References I don’t understand. Metaphors that make me roll my eyes. But I’m required to read it, because my teacher says it’s a Classic.
School is boring; none of the classes mean anything to me. It’s the strangest thing, to spend all this time in school—forced through all these mandatory lessons—despite the fact that most of these subjects lead nowhere. Why do I need to learn about the Treaty of Paris? How will this Classic Book I’m reading serve my life? When I grow up, will I ever need to do math? Will I ever use algebraic expressions? I seriously doubt it.
And does Mom actually want to know any of this? Does she really want to hear about her daughter’s deeply underwhelming and unhappy existence in school? Does any of it matter?
I doubt that, too.
7
Mr. Lawson’s Office
February 15
Mr. Lawson’s outpatient physical therapy office is located in the same shopping plaza as a pizza place, a health food and supplements store, a tailor, a dentist, a hair salon, and an office for tax services. We park at the far end of the lot and hurry across the pavement, because we’re late. We’re always running late for these appointments.
The lettering across the glass door reads: Olympic Sports & Rehabilitation Therapy, Bryce Lawson, LPT. The bell above the door chimes as we walk in. There are leafy potted plants in all four corners of the room. Armchairs with teal cushions. A small table with piles of dog-eared fashion and lifestyle magazines. A coffee bar is set off to the side, below a rustic-looking sign that says: Caffeine maintains my sunny personality.
The receptionist, Marisol, and Mom are friends, because Mom makes friends everywhere she goes. They have long, loud, and sometimes serious conversations during my appointments. Last week, when I came back to the lobby, I found Mom telling Marisol about how many funerals she’s been to.
I have no idea how or why they got into that.
Marisol greets us both, and she asks me how I’m doing, and I kind of smile and shrug and sit in one of the armchairs. Mom goes to the coffee bar, filling a paper cup with steaming, bitter-smelling brew. She and Marisol start to chat; I tune them out. I place one hand to the bare skin of my injured knee, massaging the muscles with my chilled fingertips. I wince and grit my teeth.
“Maisie,” Marisol says. “I have a surprise for you, dear.”
I look up. My hand drops away from my knee. Marisol shuffles through one of her drawers. Then she rises up, placing a stack of three books on her desk. She says, “Fabiana cleared some space from her bookshelves again. She said that you would love these.”
A smile touches my lips. I stand and cross the room. The paperback spines are worn and creased; the titles are printed in matching fonts. I reach the desk and touch my fingertips to the top book: Beyond the Wildflowers, by J. A. Corsair.
“It’s a trilogy,” Marisol says. “Apparently, there’s a show based off this series. My Fabiana couldn’t put the books down, and now she’s glued to the TV every week. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as my daughter did.”
Gratitude wells up inside me. Ever since I became a patient here, Marisol has given me gifts like this. Books handed down from her sixteen-year-old daughter. I appreciate them both so much. When the injury was fresh and I was still struggling to walk or move at all, books kept me going. They helped me forget my own pain.
It’s been a while since I read anything for fun. Mostly, I’ve just been stuck with that Classic Book for my English homework.
I meet Marisol’s warm brown eyes. “Thank you.”
“You are so very welcome.”
I flip the book over and start to read the description on the back. Thank you doesn’t feel big enough to show how I’m feeling right now. I’m so touched by this surprise gift. As I stare at t
he small print, I try to think of something more to say. Perhaps a message for her to pass along to Fabiana.
But before I can, the frosted glass door on the opposite end of the room opens. Mr. Lawson peeks out at us. “Maisie,” he says. “Welcome back.”
I take a seat on the exam room table. Mr. Lawson sits in his rolling chair across from me. He has a clipboard on his lap, a ballpoint pen in one hand. He clicks the pen several times as he focuses on my chart. Brisk little flicks with his thumb.
He goes through the usual questions. Each appointment begins with this brief check-in. He asks about how frequently I’ve felt the injury in my knee. He asks about the severity of the pain and discomfort over the past few days. He asks me to give each day a rating between one and ten.
I bite my lower lip. “And today, I’d give it a two.”
He pauses, mid note-taking. “Really?”
I shrug. I mean, sure, I felt the injury a few different times today. But it was never painful or shocking. I was able to ignore it, mostly.
Mr. Lawson resumes his notes. “I believe it.”
I look up. “You do?”
“Yes.” Mr. Lawson wears rectangular black-framed glasses that magnify his gray eyes. He sets his pen aside and says, “I believe we’re making steady progress. I’ve consulted with Dr. Hart, and we both agree. When you come back from your vacation, I think we can cut your visits down to half-hour sessions occurring once a week. How does that sound?”
I can’t help but gasp. “Really? You think so?”
His voice remains soft, contemplative. “I do. I think you’ll be fine with those hikes your mother asked about. And did you notice you’re not limping today? Or at least you didn’t just now, as you came down the hall to this room. Your gait was perfectly steady.”
Perfectly steady.
Those two words fill me up with joy. I’m suddenly giddy and grinning, feeling electric, like a sunbreak bursting through a storm cloud.
I’m making progress. Mr. Lawson doesn’t think I need to come here as often, or stay and work through my exercises as long. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This changes everything.
The Sea in Winter Page 2