The Sea in Winter

by Christine Day

  I nod and lead the way. The motel is painted a deep shade of gray. Its rows of windows are outlined in bright white trim. Its doors are dark blue, with bronze number plates posted above the peepholes. There is a handrail leading up the concrete stairs, lined with thin white metal bars that have rusted in places, reddish-brown flecks peeking through the chipped paint.

  At the top of the stairs, I’m embarrassingly winded, but I refuse to let it show. I keep my mouth sealed to prevent myself from gasping for air; I force my breathing into a steady rhythm. A light sheen of sweat forms along my hairline at the base of my neck as I move down the row of doors to find 206.

  My knee is still pulsing, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel terrible.

  But as a person, I feel kind of terrible right now. That fierce surge I felt a few moments ago has already left me. Evaporated into nothing.

  I sounded so childish. Childish and wrong.

  Once I reach our room, I lower my eyes and step aside to let Jack use his key. The door opens with a gentle creak, and we all shuffle our way inside.

  The heat is already on in our room. Warm air blows through the vents, rattling slightly with the steady gusts. There are two queen-sized beds in here, pushed against the wall, with identical nightstands and lamps positioned on either side of them. Both beds are layered in stiff, thick blankets and way too many pillows. The comforters are the color of green olives, the fabric stitched with swirling lines. There is a long dresser against the opposite wall, topped with a plasma TV, an empty ice bucket, a small tray filled with travel brochures for Port Angeles, the Olympic National Park, and the Pacific Coast. There are two wide windows with sheer curtains, a closet with an ironing board tucked inside, a mini fridge, a mini wastebasket. A kitchenette with white cupboards, a white enamel sink, a stovetop, and a coffeepot.

  Our home for the next few days.

  Connor and I claim the bed closest to the windows; Mom and Jack take the bed closer to the door. We fall into a quiet rhythm of unpacking and settling in. Jack carries the cooler we brought, filled with cut veggies and sandwiches and juice boxes, and starts to transfer everything over to the fridge. Mom unzips her cosmetics bag in the bathroom, lining her preferred shampoos and conditioners along the edge of the bathtub, her skin creams and cleansing tonics across the counter. Connor sprawls on the bed—with his shoes and rain jacket still on, ugh—his tablet held a few inches away from his nose, glued to the next episode of his TV show, absorbing as much as he can until someone finally cuts off his screen time.

  I sit in the armchair by the windows, refreshing my messages, but there’s nothing new to see from Eva. There’s nothing new from anybody. And as my family continues to focus on their own things, smoothly forgetting about the awkwardness over the elevator, I feel more and more like a lonely storm cloud. Like a dark and dreaded presence, hovering at the edge of their happy vacation.

  16

  End of the Road I

  February 16

  “There’s a high-pressure system moving down from Alaska tonight,” Jack tells us. “Which is good, because that means it should hopefully stay clear over the next few days. We might get lucky.”

  Mom gives an exaggerated shiver. “Clear but cold,” she says. “What are the temperatures supposed to be?”

  “High twenties overnight, mid-thirties to low forties during the day.”

  “Snow!” Connor cries. “Isn’t that cold enough for snow?”

  Jack shakes his head. “Sorry, bud. With the high-pressure system, chances of snow are pretty low. There won’t be any clouds.”

  Connor deflates, his ecstatic grin shrinking at the corners. “Oh.”

  We’re all seated around a table at a Chinese restaurant. The lighting in here is dim. The walls are painted a deep shade of red, a dramatic contrast to the sleek black chairs, the crisp white tablecloths. A golden dragon with long whiskers and a snakelike body is painted across one wall.

  Connor’s disappointment only lasts about two seconds, because our server returns to our table with a tray full of plates wafting delicious steam. My little brother actually bounces in his seat and claps as the food is distributed. The plates are piled high with golden-brown noodles, colorful cooked vegetables with tofu, and deep-fried, orange-glazed chicken. Each serving is accompanied by perfectly round scoops of white rice.

  We all express thanks to our server, who offers a courteous nod before she departs. Jack unsheathes a set of wooden chopsticks, breaking them apart with a clean snip. Mom takes quick pictures of her plate and the table before picking up her fork. Connor dumps soy sauce over his rice with a splash.

  “Mmmm,” Connor hums happily, crunching a piece of orange chicken. “I want to go to China someday. They have the best food.”

  “Real Chinese cuisines aren’t typically like this, bud. We’re eating Chinese-American food. It’s a different thing.”

  “Really?” Connor squints at his dad, unconvinced. “How do you know?”

  Jack shrugs. “I’m a pirate. Pirates tend to know these things.”

  “Have you been there? On your ship?”

  “Haven’t traveled that far yet myself,” Jack says. “But I do business with Chinese pirates all the time. I’d love to visit China. I’m also dying to go see Japan. It’s on my bucket list.”

  Connor stares at Jack, wide-eyed and fascinated.

  Jack meets my gaze across the table. He gives me a subtle wink.

  I smile back at him.

  When I was Connor’s age, Jack had me convinced he was an actual pirate, too. But a few years ago, I learned the truth. Jack is a geoduck diver. He drives his boat throughout the Salish Sea, harvesting giant clams from the seafloor. He sells these clams to local restaurants (which is how he met Mom; she works as a server in a fancy seafood bar), as well as international markets.

  According to Jack, geoducks are some of the hardest shellfish to hunt. But they are also worth the most money. Geoducks are among the longest-living creatures in the world. They anchor themselves into the sand, and can live up to 160 years or more. Jack says you can count the rings on their shells to determine their age, the same way you would count the growth rings in a tree’s trunk. Geoducks are also among the world’s rarest creatures. They only live here, in the Pacific Northwest. In the coastal waters between Washington State and British Columbia.

  But there’s a huge demand for these clams in Asia. Especially in China and Japan. That’s where most of Jack’s harvests are sent. That’s why he claims to “do business with Chinese pirates all the time.”

  A short silence falls over our table, broken only by the clang of forks against porcelain, the obnoxious slurping sounds Connor makes as he eats his chow mein.

  Then Mom brightens and says, “How’s the food, Maisie?”

  “Good.”

  “Oh, good. Very good.”

  Jack eyes me. “Since when do you eat tofu, by the way?”

  I shrug. “I had it at Hattie’s house. I liked it.”

  He shudders. “I’ve never cared for it. It’s flavorless. What’s the point of flavorless food?”

  I ignore him and take another bite. But I can almost hear Mom thinking. Bracing herself to say more. I can sense it in the frenzied way she’s scooting grains of rice around on her plate. The way her eyes keep darting to me.

  “So. Maisie,” she says eventually. “I received an email from your math teacher. Ms. Finch said that she graded those unit exams. She listed the class averages for each period.”

  My fork freezes on my plate. I stare blankly at my food.

  On Curriculum Night at the beginning of the school year, my mom signed up for each of my teachers’ newsletters. Sometimes, I really wish she hadn’t done that.

  “What was the average for my class?” I manage to croak.

  “Seventy-six percent.”

  I think of the red-inked comments on my papers. The crossed-out answers.

  Mom is waiting for me to respond. Jack and Connor are both staring at me. The w
eight of their gazes makes it hard to breathe as I finally admit, “I got a seventy.”

  Connor grins. “Whoa! Seventy? That’s a huge number. That’s so much, Maisie!”

  Mom and Jack don’t share his enthusiasm. They both watch me with sad, wary eyes.

  “Maisie,” Jack says, his tone heavy with disappointment. “You are so much smarter than that.”

  I drag my breath in through my nose, out through my mouth. For a second, I’m afraid I might cry. I’m terrified I might actually break down over something as stupid as a math test.

  Mom’s voice is tight as she says, “Jack—”

  “I’m serious,” he counters. “This is getting out of hand. First, we find out she’s getting a D in history. Then the GPA in her last report card dipped to a 2.3. And now this? Wasn’t this exam worth forty percent of her grade? Maisie, what’s going on here?”

  I shrug, unable to speak.

  “Do we need to hire a tutor for you? Are you having a hard time focusing in class? What about your friends? Can you find a study buddy?”

  Friends? At this suggestion, I straight-up laugh. A cold, cruel cough of a laugh, because I don’t have any friends in school. I only have the girls from ballet, who I never even see anymore, and who don’t go to my school. Eva goes to a Catholic school; her curriculum has always been a little different than mine. Hattie also attends a private school, an “arts and humanities” school that rejects all forms of standardized tests. Hattie’s teachers don’t “believe” in grading rubrics.

  “I don’t see how this is funny,” Jack says firmly. “Your mother and I know you’re capable of more than this.”

  This is true. I’m capable of doing ballet. Which is so much harder and bigger and better than anything middle school has to offer.

  Jack plants his elbows on the tabletop. Leans forward to meet my gaze. His brown eyes burn as he says, “I don’t know what’s happening with you lately. But I won’t let you continue down this path. You are my daughter—”

  “I’m not,” I snap without thinking. “Not really. Not technically.”

  Mom gasps. Connor’s fork clangs against his plate.

  My skin instantly burns hot with shame. My throat tightens reflexively, as if my body wants to take it back. Grasp those words out of the air between us. What did I just say?

  What is wrong with me?

  “You,” he says slowly, pointedly, pressing the word deep into my skin. “You are my daughter. When I married your mother, I made a promise. To her, to the spirit and memory of your father, and to you. To you, most of all. I swore that there would be no difference between you and Connor. I swore to guide you and protect you and teach you, to the best of my ability. To be stern with you, when need be. And this is one of those moments. I won’t let you push me away. I won’t let you talk back to me like this. And I certainly won’t let you make the same mistakes I made when I was your age. This is it. The end of the road. No more.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. Refuse to meet his gaze. I’m embarrassed and miserable and I wish I didn’t disappoint them so much. I wish I could erase my words from existence. I wish I could go back in time and redo the stupid math test. Redo this whole conversation. Redo everything.

  Jack says: “Maisie, you will look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  I blink back the wetness. Barely peek at him out of the corners of my eyes. My breaths have turned shallow and tight. My heart feels like a clenched fist.

  I’m sorry, Jack. But I can’t speak these words without crying. So I just sit here, saying nothing.

  “You need to start caring about school again,” he says. “Get your grades up. Get your act together. Or we won’t send you back to ballet, even after your knee is all healed. These are your options. The choice is yours.”

  17

  X Marks the Spot

  February 17

  The cold front rolls in overnight, just as the meteorologists predicted. When we leave our motel room early in the morning, the air outside smells like snow, even though there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The Olympic Mountains and their rolling foothills loom behind Port Angeles. The sun hangs low in the distance, casting their snowcapped peaks in light shades of pink, and their wide, bare slopes in deep blue. The banks of fir trees below almost look black. And our surroundings are crusted in frost: the railing along the stairwell, the windshields of every car in the parking lot.

  Connor and I sit in the back seat as the car idles. The frosted car windows glow teal in the muted light as he asks me, “Are you excited, Maisie? Aren’t you so happy we’re looking for treasure today? If I find any gold, I’ll share it with you. I promise.”

  I tell him, “Yeah. That’s nice. Thank you.” But I don’t have the heart to tell him there probably won’t be any gold. Or any other treasure.

  Mom is in the front seat, sipping her coffee and setting the GPS for our destination. Jack is outside, scraping the ice crystals off the windows in scratchy strips. Kirshh-kirshh. The frost gathers along the scraper’s edge in a flaky white film; Jack clears it with a quick swipe of his gloved fingertips. He works his way around the car, his movements brisk and deliberate. I watch him without meeting his gaze.

  I’m still not sure if Jack was being serious last night. If he’d really keep me from ballet until I raised my GPA. If he’d really do something like that to me.

  It seems a little hypocritical, coming from a man who didn’t finish high school. A man whose life turned out just fine, regardless of his education level.

  But at the same time—I feel so guilty for reacting the way that I did. For saying he wasn’t really my dad. Ever since those words left my mouth, I’ve been replaying them in my head. Not really. Not technically. The shame of it makes my skin feel tight. The wrongness of it makes me sick.

  And I still need to apologize. I need to find some way to make it right.

  But how?

  Jack finishes clearing the windows and climbs into the passenger seat. He snaps the glove box open, places the scraper inside, and says, “Who’s ready to go exercise some treaty rights?”

  And even though I’m sure Connor doesn’t understand what he means, he shouts, “Me!”

  Jack grins. “Want to see something cool, bud?”

  Connor nods, fast and insistent. As Mom pulls out of our parking spot, Jack does a quick internet search on his phone and holds the screen up for us to see in the back seat. He zooms in on the words.

  “Maisie,” he says. “Will you please read this aloud for your brother?”

  I squint at the words. “I—I don’t really know how to pronounce these names.”

  “Sound them out. You’ve got this.”

  I draw in a breath. “Yaht-le-min, or General Taylor, S’klallam subchief, his x mark.” I meet Jack’s eyes; he nods excitedly, urging me to continue. “Kla-koisht, or Captain, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Sna-talc, or General Scott, S’klallam subchief, his x mark.”

  “What on earth are you looking at?” Mom asks as we roll up to a red light.

  “An important document.”

  “What kind of document?”

  “You’ll see. Maisie, please go on.”

  “Tseh-a-take, or Tom Benton, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Yah-kwi-e-nook, or General Gaines, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Kai-at-lah, or General Lane Jr., S’klallam subchief, his x mark.” I pause. Glance up at Jack’s utterly unapologetic grin. “Captain Jack,” I read aloud. “S’klallam subchief, his x mark.”

  Connor gasps. “Captain Jack? But Daddy’s name is Jack!”

  “That’s right,” Jack crows. “And your daddy is a pirate. So, what does this mean? What might the x stand for?”

  My brother’s eyes go impossibly wide. “Treasure,” he cries. “X marks the spot!”

  Mom’s voice turns suspicious as she murmurs, “Wait, those names . . .”

  But Jack surges ahead and says, “Yep! X marks the spot, bud. This is a treasure map! Are you ready to see where the treasure is hidden
?”

  Connor starts to cheer. He claps his hands and bounces in his booster seat. The light turns green, and we jolt forward as Mom says, “Jack. Were those names from the treaty?”

  But Jack is pumping one fist in the air and chanting, “Treasure hunt! Treasure hunt!” Connor chimes in, “Treasure hunt!”

  “Jack.”

  “Angie. Honey. I’m getting the kids excited about our history, and our rights—”

  “You’re pretending that the treaty your ancestors signed is actually a treasure map—”

  “We’re having fun! Look at him go. He can’t wait to start digging at the beach.”

  Sure enough, Connor is still bouncing and shouting, “Treasure hunt!” He’s completely oblivious to our parents’ conversation.

  Mom sighs. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”

  “And you love it,” Jack teases, nudging her shoulder.

  She nudges him back and emphasizes, “Sometimes.”

  We park at a trailhead and walk down the rocky beach. The pebbles crunch beneath our rubber boots. We maneuver over slick boulders and smooth white driftwood logs. Each step I take is slow and careful. Jack pauses at the flat edge of a giant stone; he extends his gloved hand to me. I slide my palm into his, leaning against him to keep the weight off my tingling knee as I inch my way down to a patch of sand below. He holds me up; his lifted arm doesn’t even shake.

  He asks, “You’re okay?”

  I nod in response. Then, as he starts to turn away, I softly add: “Thanks.”

  Eventually, we reach an open stretch of sand. The waves trickle and hiss across its smooth wet surface. The air smells of salt and seawater, braided with cold breezes. Connor does a full spin—his arms held out at his sides, the hood of his yellow raincoat drawn over his head—and says, “Is this it? Is this where X marks the spot?”

  Jack chuckles. “This is it, bud.”

  Mom starts taking pictures. Anytime we go anywhere, she runs out of storage space on her phone. She holds her phone high above her head, pointed at the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the pale blue sky. Then she turns, snapping pictures of the evergreen trees at our backs, the boulders we climbed across, the nearby tide pools.