The Sea in Winter

by Christine Day

Jack is seated in the chair beside me, directly across from Connor. He’s in a short-sleeved black T-shirt, faded gray jeans. His dark hair is slightly ruffled, the grown-up version of his son’s mischievous look. His hands are folded on the tabletop, his fingers absently twisting his wedding band. “Is it just me, or does this sound like an unfortunate case of unrequited love?”

  Mom snorts. Covers her mouth a second too late to stop the nasally sound.

  Connor blinks. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, annoyed. “What? No. It’s not—that.”

  Jack grins. “Oh, good. So you think the girl likes you back?”

  Connor’s ears turn bright red. “I don’t like her. I just wanted to know why she put the note in my cubby, instead of my mailbox.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jack leans toward me and adds in a mock whisper: “Also, what’s the difference between a cubby and a mailbox?”

  “We made our boxes specifically for valentines,” Connor says, in a tone that implies this should be extremely obvious. “We decorated them and set them out on our desks, and everyone went around the room to put stuff in them, including Abby. She even gave me candy! Here, I’ll show you.”

  Connor leaps from the chair and dashes down the hall toward his room. Mom tells him to walk, not run, through the house, and he responds by hurrying across the floorboards on his tiptoes.

  Jack wraps an arm around me, hugging me to his side. “How are you? You’ve been quiet tonight.”

  “I’m good. Tired.”

  Jack nods and rests his chin on the top of my head. I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder, slow and steady and strong.

  “I’m excited for this trip back home,” he murmurs. “I think it’ll be good for all of us.”

  “Agreed,” Mom says. “I think we could all use a little heart medicine.”

  I can’t help but frown. I wonder if Mom and Jack really do feel that way. If the Olympic Peninsula truly is heart medicine for them, considering what happened in their childhoods.

  Connor comes tiptoe-running back into the room. His shoebox-turned-mailbox is cradled in his arms. Its surface is lined with hot-pink construction paper, covered in blue and purple heart stickers. His name is written across the top in glitter-glued letters. Beneath the drop slot, there are two more stickers—a soccer ball, and a soccer net—along with the word GOAL! in gel pen.

  Jack nods his approval. “Great box, bud.”

  “Thanks,” Connor says distractedly. He sets it on the tabletop and rips the lid off, revealing a mess of fun-sized chocolates and heart-shaped lollipops and red-and-pink wrappers. He grabs a small carton of Conversation Hearts and holds it up for our inspection. Like this is a crucial piece of evidence in some wild conspiracy theory.

  “See?” he cries, pointing at the penciled inscription. “To me, from Abby. She gave these to everyone in class, but she only wrote a note for me, and she put it in my cubby. What does it mean?”

  “Well, son. I think you’ve started something that can’t be stopped.”

  “What? But I didn’t do anything.” He fidgets, wide-eyed. “Unless—wait, do you think I should’ve written a letter for her? Was I not supposed to wait for her in line today? Was that wrong?”

  Jack straightens, removing his arm from my shoulders as he gradually rises from his chair. “Oh, I’m not talking about Abby. I’m talking about the mistake you made just now. You’ve unleashed a series of events that must run their course.” He lifts his right hand, his index finger curling into the shape of a hook. “Arr.”

  All at once, Mom bursts out laughing, Connor shrieks, and Jack pretends to swipe for the box filled with candy.

  “Ye’ve revealed yer treasure to a mad-hungry pirate!” Jack shouts in his pirate drawl. “Finders be keepers, ye bloody landlubber!”

  Connor scoops the box against his chest, bending his torso in a protective stance. In his haste, he’s forgotten the lid, and stray pieces go flying. I hear the crack of impact as candies skitter across the hardwood floor. Tiny folded cards flit to the floor like flightless butterflies.

  “Arr,” Jack says. “Ye loot is mine.”

  Connor drops, scrambling to retrieve the fallen candies before Jack can reach him. Jack makes an exaggerated show of trying to hobble around the table on his “peg leg.”

  Mom is laughing so hard, she starts to clutch at a stitch in her side. I laugh a little bit, too. But even as the laughter comes out, even as I’m sitting here with my family, with the people I love so much, I feel weird. Disconnected from myself. Like I’m not fully here with them, right now.

  I don’t know where that feeling is coming from. But it won’t go away.

  13

  Little Crossing-Over Place

  February 16

  We board the Seattle–Bainbridge Island ferry the next morning.

  The alarm clocks went off in our house at 7:00 a.m., and after we all silently made a pact not to wake quite yet, the alarms beeped again at 7:05 a.m. Then Jack lurched down the hall, banging on our doors and shouting, “Get up, we’re late. Need to go now.” And the morning took off in a frenzy, with Mom and Jack brewing coffee and reading traffic updates and the overnight breaking news reports, Connor yawning theatrically, me double-checking my packed bags and my text messages, rain pummeling the roof and windows.

  Today is rumbling and wet. On our way here, cars splashed through puddled dips in the road, trees bent to the whims of the wind. We drove through the crowded avenues downtown, where pedestrians walked with bowed postures, their umbrellas angled like shields against the gusts. Sleek carbon skyscrapers seemed to pierce the soft bellies of the clouds.

  After we park our car on the ferry, we climb a narrow staircase. It’s cold and loud on the way up, the sounds of the loading cars and the crashing sea spray echoing up the walkway. I clutch my red winter jacket tighter around my body.

  Inside, the floors are lined with gleaming tiles. Vinyl booths border the boat’s windowed perimeter. There is a cafeteria toward the back of the ship. Beneath the salty marine air, I can smell something like bacon grease and fried eggs, the smells of breakfast.

  The four of us find a creaky booth and settle in to gaze out the window. The glass is sea splattered. The waves are storm colored, vast and gray and edged in whitecaps. The ferry rocks and sways in a gentle motion. I can hear the thrash and gasp of the Puget Sound, overlapping with the hum of the other passengers, the relentless power of the rain. Of the sea in winter.

  Connor nestles against me. I have the window seat, and I can’t tell if he’s cuddling me because he’s cold or because he’s scared or because he wants to see everything outside. His bright yellow raincoat crinkles with his movements. His body is small and bony.

  “Hey, Dad?” he says. “How does this boat compare to your pirate ship?”

  Across from us, Jack smirks. He and Mom sit with their knees touching, their coffee tumblers still clutched in their palms. “My ship is quicker,” he says. “This old vessel couldn’t catch me if she tried.”

  The right side of Connor’s face is pressed against my arm. I can feel his cheek lift as he smiles.

  “When will you take me out on the boat with you?”

  Jack hums, considering. “Someday when you are much, much taller.”

  “How tall?” Connor asks.

  “Nearly full grown.” “Like Maisie?”

  I snort and Connor twists to peer up at me, his eyes brown and sweet beneath a dark fringe of lashes.

  “What?” he says. “It’s true. You’re twelve, and you’re almost as big as Mom.”

  “That’s because your mother is, um—vertically challenged.” Jack softens his words with a gentle pat on Mom’s knee. She scoffs and pretends to brush him off, even though she’s smiling and obviously doesn’t care about her height.

  “Mommy’s doing what kind of challenge?”

  “It means she’s short, son.”

  “Oh.”

  We all feel the moment when the ferry dislodges from the p
ier. Sometimes, if you take the ferry when the weather is nice and the water is smooth, it can be easy to miss. Sometimes, these departures feel effortless.

  Not today. The giant boat jolts and drops, fighting the waves as we venture out into the open water. Winds slant sideways, crushing raindrops mixed with sea spray against the glass panes. The Seattle skyline looms behind us, all sharp vertical lines and blurry grayness. Down at Pier 57, the Great Wheel pinwheels and flashes through brilliant color patterns: electric violets, neon greens, siren reds. In the distance between buildings, I can see the bright yellow T shape of construction cranes.

  Mom and Jack focus their attention on their phone screens. Jack is squinting and scrolling slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration; Mom is taking pictures of our surroundings. Connor loops his arm through the crook of my elbow. He snuggles more firmly against me. I take a deep breath and rest my cheek on the spiky-soft top of his head. Together, we silently watch the thrash and spattering mist of the sea.

  The ferry ride is quick and choppy. And by the time we reach the dock on Bainbridge Island, Seattle has faded far into the distance. A rain-drenched mirage across the Puget Sound.

  14

  Unanswered Texts

  February 16

  We disembark and drive north.

  We pass through small towns and quiet neighborhoods. We cross bridges standing on stilts over water inlets, red barns tucked deep within rolling meadows, a giant wood-carved bear standing at the edge of the highway. We follow winding roads through ancient green groves, woodlands filled with secrets and murmurs and mist. There are old, broad fir trunks with knobby twists in their bark. Slender, leaning trunks that are splotchy with lichen. Canopies of green needles. Dense thickets of wild briars. The air tastes piney and sweet out here, so different from the city, which usually smells more like wet pavement and car exhaust.

  The rain has slowed to a drizzle. The windshield wipers glide across the glass in an easy rhythm. Connor is watching downloaded episodes of his favorite TV show on a tablet in his lap with headphones on. Mom and Jack are listening to some politics-focused podcast. They both nod along with the commentary. At one point, Jack says, “This is the Twitter discussion I told you about.” And meanwhile, I am texting Eva, before either: (a) I lose service, or (b) her Saturday-morning pointe class begins.

  Eva: Did I tell you I’m trying out a new brand? This is going to be my first class on Gaynor Mindens. Really hope I like them lol.

  Me: Really? Let me know what you think. Pretty sure I’m a Capezio girl.

  I bite my lip as I hit send. My mind flashes back to that day I spent at the beginning of the school year, trying on pointe shoes in a dancewear shop in the U District. I remember the woman who explained the pros and cons and price differences of various brands, how she measured my foot and told me I have an exceptionally narrow heel. We spent at least an hour at the barre in her store, her cold fingers pressed against my heel, holding the satin tight to show me how each shoe would fit once the ribbons were sewn on. Meanwhile, Mom kept Connor entertained by showing him around the store, letting him sift through the multicolored leotards, the tulle-ruffled tutus, the floral headpieces and rhinestone tiaras. I remember quietly apologizing to the salesclerk as Connor clacked around in a pair of character shoes he found, then tugged at a belly dancing skirt that was displayed on a mannequin, its little golden coins clinking noisily with each pull.

  Eva: I’ve already gone through like five pairs of pointe shoes this school year. They honestly wear out so fast. At least that’s how it is for me.

  Eva: Then again, Hattie has gone through eight? I think? So maybe I shouldn’t complain, lol!

  Me: Hattie also has extremely strong, arched feet. Her pointe shoes probably snap in half when she points and flexes.

  Me: No offense to either of us, but our arches aren’t nearly as impressive. Lol.

  Eva: Very true!

  I swallow hard, thinking of Hattie and her perfect ballerina feet. Her golden-straw hair and blonde eyelashes and bright blue eyes. I click the backward arrow in my messaging app and scroll down to my conversation with her.

  After I tore my ACL, Hattie felt so guilty. She felt responsible. When I was recovering from the surgery in the hospital, she visited me with a bouquet of flowers and a plastic container filled with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She hugged me and cried and asked for my forgiveness. And even though I said it was okay, I hadn’t really forgiven her yet. The pain in my knee had been too hard to ignore in that moment.

  It’s been hard to ignore for months.

  But now I’m sitting here, on the road to rainy, dreary Port Angeles. And I’m staring down at our most recent text messages, most of which have been from Hattie. And I’m thinking about how weird it is for us to go from the way we were to the way things are now:

  (January 16) Hattie: Two weeks in, and I’ve already broken my New Year’s resolution. Hope your January is going better than mine! Lol!

  (January 18) Hattie: We did barre to music from Romeo and Juliet today. I recognized it right away, and it made me think of you. Remember when we went and saw it together? That was so much fun.

  (January 18) Me: I remember. That was a great night.

  (January 18) Hattie: Probably my favorite ballet, tbh.

  (January 21) Hattie: Hi I’m bored. What are you up to right now?

  (January 30) Hattie: Hey! What’s up! Hope your knee is getting better.

  (January 30) Me: Hey. I’m good. The knee is feeling fine. How are you?

  (January 30) Hattie: That’s great! I’m so glad. And I’m good, thanks ☺ I auditioned for SAB yesterday, and I was really nervous about it. Still nervous about it, actually.

  (January 30) Me: I’m sure you’re fine. If anyone could get in there, it’s you.

  (January 30) Hattie: Thanks, girl. That means a lot to me. More than you probably know.

  (February 1) Hattie: Hi again! Hope you have a great day today.

  (February 9) Hattie: Helloooo ☺

  (February 14) Hattie: Happy Valentine’s Day! Miss you so much.

  I swallow the hard lump in my throat. I feel like the biggest jerk in the world. Because I know I shouldn’t have blamed her for what happened. I know I shouldn’t give her the cold shoulder. It’s not fair. And I don’t like the feeling I get in my stomach when I think about it. The queasiness. The tightness.

  But the truth is, I don’t really know how to talk to her anymore. When I see her texts, I usually end up avoiding them, telling myself I’ll respond later. Once the weird feelings pass. Once the right words come to me. And then too much time will pass, and I’ll start to worry that I ruined our friendship.

  My phone buzzes in my hand; a new notification drops down from Eva. She’s moved on from the pointe shoes, and is now asking if I’ve watched Catriona’s Crown, the new TV show she told me about. I reply that I haven’t seen any of it yet, and she starts shouting at me in all caps, and I type back with lots of exclamation marks and emojis, even though the guilt and queasiness over Hattie continues to gnaw at me.

  15

  Tse-Whit-Zen

  February 16

  By the early afternoon, we arrive at our motel in Port Angeles.

  The asphalt in the parking lot is dark and gleaming, its white paint strips faded almost to the point of nonexistence. Cracks spiderweb out from an indent near the sewer grate. We pull into a spot near the front office.

  This building is calm and quiet and a little sad. The air outside is cold as glass.

  Jack goes inside alone to get us checked in, and returns to the car with an abnormally serious look on his face. It makes the rest of us instantly anxious.

  Mom lowers the passenger-side window. Leans across the center console to ask, “Is something wrong?”

  Jack frowns. “Their elevator is out of order.”

  For a brief second, my first thought is: And? But then Mom and Jack both turn to me.

  Connor lifts his headphones from his ears and asks
, “Wait, what’s going on?”

  Jack says, “Your knee—”

  “Is fine,” I insist.

  “Are you sure?”

  Something inside me snaps. “Yes, Jack. Mr. Lawson has me do exercises that are much harder than going up and down stairs, I promise you. I’ve been doing squats. I’ve been using resistance bands. And we’re about to go hiking on this trip! I can handle the stairs.”

  Jack blinks, surprised by my outburst. Honestly, I’m surprised by it, too. Embarrassed by the sharp tone of my voice. I don’t meet Mom’s gaze, but I can sense the lift of her brows. Even Connor stays quiet for a moment.

  “Okaaaay,” Jack says, drawing the two syllables out all awkwardly.

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  I push the car door open and scramble outside. Unfortunately, there is a low pulse in my knee right now, a dull throbbing sensation that feels the way distant sirens sound. And because of this, I lose my footing, stumbling slightly.

  Jack reaches for me reflexively, lifting his arm as a barrier behind me; I flinch away from his touch.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter. “My leg is asleep, that’s all. It was a long car ride.”

  “Sure,” Jack says, but his voice sounds hollow.

  Mom and Connor exit the car in silence, and I avoid looking at everyone as we pull our bags out of the open trunk. I swallow my guilt and hoist my own over my shoulder, just to make a point that I can carry it myself. That my recovery is going well. That I’m getting strong again.

  My parents need to see it. They need to start believing it. I haven’t told them about Mr. Lawson’s update yet. That in addition to fewer and shorter physical therapy visits, it’s possible I could return to ballet as soon as the summer. That I might be okay to participate in at least one or two auditions this spring.

  If Mom and Jack think I can’t even handle a bag, or a set of stairs, there’s no way they’ll let me audition. There’s no way they’ll trust me on my own.

  I ask Jack, “What’s the room number?”

  He says, “206.”