Jack carried the clam-digging supplies all the way here. He drops his duffel bag onto the packed sand with a jostling thud.
“Are you both ready for a crash course in digging for treasure?”
Connor jumps up and down and says, “Yes!”
Jack grins, unzips the duffel bag, and retrieves a shovel. He hoists it over his shoulder and walks with confidence into the swelling tide.
18
Dig Deep
February 17
The trick is to watch for bubbles and dimples in the sand as the shallow waves retreat. Jack is an expert at this. He explains that the dimples form when the razor clams attempt to burrow deeper underground. He tells us to be quick so they don’t get away, demonstrating by plunging his shovel straight down in the ground, then heaving clumps of wet sand away. Water pools instantly in the newly formed hole. Jack isn’t wearing his gloves anymore, and the thick sleeves of his jacket are rolled up to his elbows as he reaches into the muck. He pulls the razor clam out; its oblong body fits perfectly in the palm of his hand.
Connor gasps as the clam wriggles its short neck. Its flesh nearly matches the grayish-brown color of the sand. Its goldish-brown shell is curved and lined with textured rings.
“Simple as that,” Jack says. He crouches beside our collection bucket; he murmurs a few words of thanks to the clam, for feeding his family. Then he sets it inside and picks up his shovel again.
“Do you always thank the clams?” I ask. A couple of years ago, Jack brought me onto his boat for Take Our Daughters to Work Day. I can’t remember if he thanked the geoducks—the giant razor clams that he hunts for his work—or not; I just remember feeling amazed and a little grossed out by how big they were.
Jack removes his baseball cap with a flick of his wrist, using its bill to scratch the top of his head. “I try to,” he says. “It’s a good habit. It’s important to express thanks to those that help us survive. And our clams have always done that. They’ve always fed and nurtured our people.” He replaces his cap on his head. Looks out across the water. “I’m assuming you two know about how the Duwamish Tribe saved the Denny Party’s children by feeding them clam juice, right?”
Connor scrunches his nose. “The who did what?”
“The Duwamish Tribe? When the settlers landed at Alki Point?” Jack meets my gaze. “Ringing any bells?”
“I know who the Denny Party was,” I tell him. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about with the clam juice.”
Jack makes a face. “What the heck kind of history are they teaching you in school, then?”
Connor says, “Dinosaurs!” at the same time as I mutter, “The Treaty of Paris.”
“Yikes. Well. Okay, then. I guess I’ll be the one to tell you. When the Denny Party landed at Alki Point in 1851, they had a few babies and toddlers with them, including Rolland Denny, who was only a few weeks old. This was in the beginning of the winter season, and they were struggling. The cabin they were supposed to stay in was unfinished. David Denny was ill. One of their other men was missing. They were in a completely unfamiliar environment; they knew nothing about how to hunt or gather in this region. The women were so malnourished, the mothers were struggling to produce breastmilk for their little ones. And so, the Duwamish went to them, and showed them how to feed their babies with clam juice. If it weren’t for those clams, or the knowledge and generosity of the Duwamish, it’s possible those kids might not have survived their first winter in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe none of them would have.”
The waves rush back in, the water swishing and rising to my ankles. Even though my feet are safe from getting wet in my tall rubber boots, I can still sense the cold surge. It makes me shiver where I stand.
Connor’s response is a small, clear “Oh.”
Jack nods. Scans the shoreline for more bubbles. Taps the packed sand with the flat side of his shovel.
“Why the serious faces?” Mom shouts from her seat on a long, bent piece of driftwood. She isn’t participating in the clam dig; she’s content with taking pictures of us, and with staying far away from the freezing sea.
Jack calls back, “Just telling our kids about how the Denny Party survived their first winter out at Alki.”
Mom sits up a little straighter. And I can tell she didn’t catch everything he said over the sound of the waves, because she replies, “Oh! I love Alki! So many great memories.”
Jack smirks. Turns toward the sea. Chuckles under his breath.
“What’s funny?” I ask him.
He shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “Nothing. Our first date was in Alki.”
Connor is absolutely shocked. “Wait, what? You and Mommy went on a date before?”
Jack grimaces. “God, bud. Of course Mommy and I go on dates.”
“When?”
“You know—special occasions, the occasional Friday night. We have romantic dinners, and we go see movies. . . .”
“When was the last time?”
“It was just the other—well, it wasn’t really . . .” Jack blinks wildly at the sea, his face scrunched in concentration. He visibly shudders. “Okay, it couldn’t have been that long ago. Maisie, help me out here.”
I ask, “How am I supposed to do that?”
“I mean, you must remember, right? When was the last time Mrs. Baransky came to babysit the two of you?”
“Like three years ago?”
“No. No way. No, no, no. What about that day I took your mother to the pinball museum? When was that?”
Connor says, “What’s a pinball?” at the same time as I snort and say, “Really? You took her to the pinball museum? Is that your idea of romance now, Jack?”
“Hey, I know romance, okay? Remember the camellias I gathered for her on Valentine’s Day? That was romantic. And thoughtful. And—”
“Free?” I give him a toothy grin. “Yeah, that was super nice of you. Women love free gifts on the most romantic holiday of the year.”
“Okay, you know what? Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark holiday. It’s a cash grab for the greeting card companies, between Christmas and Easter—”
“Yikes, Jack.”
“And I, personally, would argue that New Year’s Eve is actually the most romantic holiday of the year. Because it’s all about new beginnings and anticipation and fireworks. It’s about setting intentions together, growing older together, sharing midnight kisses.”
“This year, you were asleep on the couch before the ball dropped. In New York City. Which happened at nine o’clock in our time zone.”
“I work for a living! I’m asleep by nine o’clock every night, and I—and I—” Jack whips his baseball cap off again. Gives it a brisk flap. Heaves a deep sigh. “God. Okay. That’s it, I get it. I need to take your mother out on a proper date.”
I give his arm a gentle pat. “That’s the spirit.”
He sighs again and stalks off, scanning the shoreline for bubbles. My smile lingers as I watch him go. And I’m grateful that the tension between us is gone for a moment.
I still owe him an apology, though.
Connor inches closer to me. “Maisie,” he says softly. “Do you think—when Abby put her note in my cubby, was that a cash grab?”
My little brother looks up at me with wide brown eyes, and I can’t help but laugh as I put my arm around his shoulders and pull him close.
“Don’t worry, Con. It wasn’t anything like that.”
19
Slippery Shell
February 17
The wind picks up as we hike back to the car, a rustling hush through the pines and foliage. It whips my dark hair around my shoulders, the strands lashing against my cheekbones. Gusts of air and seawater pummel the rocky shore. Even with my base layers on and the stiff shell of my red winter jacket shielding my torso, I can’t help but shiver.
Jack is carrying his duffel bag over one shoulder, the bucket filled with razor clams in his other hand. I caught one of them, and it was fun, at first. The rush of s
eeing those bubbles rise after the waves retreated. How I didn’t hesitate to plunge my shovel into the sand, chasing the clam as it burrowed deep. How Jack and Connor cheered me on as I dug in with my bare hands, clenching my teeth against the cold as I gripped its slippery shell. As I pulled it out, revealing its body to the harsh winter sun, the brisk marine air.
But as I murmured my words of thanks to the clam and dropped it into the bucket, I felt a sudden streak of pain in my knee. I winced, staggered a little. Mom noticed right away, her head snapping up from her phone screen.
“Maisie? You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, but the word came out tight, like the letters had been squeezed together.
Then I crossed the beach to sit beside her. And I explained that I was fine, just trying to be careful, just trying to be cautious with my knee, and also my fingers were cold, so that was enough clam digging for me.
Even so, she eyed me like a hawk. She watched me as I walked. As I sat beside her, she pulled a protein bar out of her bag for me and asked again if I was sure I was okay. I sighed and snatched the protein bar, popped open its wrapper in my fist, and snapped at her to stop worrying so much. Because I was fine, okay? I already told her I was fine.
And she said, “Okay.” She turned back to her phone, scrolling through the notifications on the pictures she’d posted from our trip so far. Then she chuckled under her breath and held the screen up to show me.
It was a picture of Connor leaning on me during our ferry ride. Both of us were looking out the window at the stormy Puget Sound, completely unaware of the photo being taken. The look on Connor’s face was dreamy, content. The look on my face was—closed off, unreadable.
Beneath the photo, there was a new comment from Alice Cannon, my dad’s sister.
Alice Cannon: My niece looks so beautiful and striking in that red coat! And the facial expression is exactly like her dad. The resemblance. Omg. My heart almost can’t take it. Please give her a big hug from Auntie Alice! Tell her I miss her and am thinking of her all the time.
Mom wrapped her arm around my shoulders, hugging me tight against her side on Alice’s behalf. And I blinked in surprise, staring at the tiny profile picture beside these words, at the beaming, bronze-skinned, round-faced woman who missed me and was thinking of me.
It made my heart feel bruised. It made chewing the protein bar difficult.
And now, as we’re climbing back across the boulders and driftwood logs, I feel the muscles around my knee burn and tighten. I’m trying not to concentrate on it. I’m trying not to worry about it. But it’s there now, my knee throbbing as I balance across the bleached driftwood and step between the barnacle-edged rocks. Up ahead, I can hear Mom laughing at something Connor said. I can hear the clams sloshing and knocking around in Jack’s bucket. I can hear the whistling wind.
The fine hairs along the back of my neck stand upright. Chills shoot up my spine. The pulse in my knee grows faster, more persistent.
I try not to think about what this might mean.
I try not to stumble or fall too far behind.
20
Lessons
February 17
Back at the motel room, Mom cleans, then cooks the clams. They’re simmering in a pan on the stovetop right now, swimming in butter and garlic and white wine. Linguine noodles are boiling in a large pot. Lemon wedges are piled in a small bowl on the counter. Mom is chopping parsley on a cutting board. The knife flashes with each deliberate slice.
Jack and Connor are snuggling on Mom and Jack’s bed, watching a wilderness survival show on the TV. Some white dude is hiking through a rain forest somewhere in Central America. Connor looks absolutely fascinated as he collects and filters water from a ravine.
“Is there poop in that water?” Connor asks.
Jack says, “Those are sediments, bud. Just dirt and sand. All natural.”
“But it looks like poop.”
I roll my eyes and hold the tablet closer to my face, turn the volume up on the headphones. I’m watching the video tutorials Ms. Finch recommended for our last unit in class. Since I supposedly need to become a math genius in order to keep doing what I love. My dance lessons are the only education I really care about, the only lessons that will serve my future.
But I watch as the numbers move around on the screen. As the equation is solved for x.
It doesn’t take long for my mind to wander. A neat line cuts through the next set of numbers, and I imagine the ballet barres set up in parallel rows down the center of a studio. The same steps are repeated, and I think of the mirrored, practiced movements of barre warm-ups: the diamond shapes of pliés, the long reaches of port de bras, the clean elegance of standing tall in fifth position.
I miss those classes so much. I miss feeling my muscles work through the movements. I miss the ebb and flow of the music. I miss breathing through the adagios and soaring through the grand allegros.
My phone buzzes in my lap, interrupting my thoughts; it’s a text from Eva. She’s raging about Catriona’s Crown again, asking if I will ever catch up, because it’s on right now and it’s good. And it’s important. And I need to see it.
I bite back a laugh. Lift my phone and take a picture of the TV. I send it to her with the message: Jack and Connor have dibs right now.
Her response is instantaneous: CHANGE THE CHANNEL
Me: They’re watching something else!
Eva: Change it NOW! OMG!
Eva: Phillipe is about to confess his love to Catriona.
Eva: Omg he’s saying he’s never felt this way about anyone.
Eva: Maisie, you don’t understand.
Eva: They can’t be together, because she’s royalty and he works in the stables.
Me: Sounds scandalous.
Eva: Listen. He helped her overcome her fear of horses. Catriona used to be terrified of them, because her brother was killed in a horseback riding accident.
Me: Yikes!
Eva: Omg they cut to a commercial break. I hate cable television. Why isn’t this show available through a streaming service? Just let me binge it all right now, like a normal person.
I start to type my response, but Mom calls out, “Dinner’s ready! Maisie, put your phone and tablet away, please.”
Irritated, I delete what I was saying, and instead send a message to let Eva know that my mom wants my phone away. Then I click the screen to black and slide it back inside my pocket.
I follow Jack and Connor into the cramped kitchenette. The buttery garlic sauce smells amazing. Mom has already scooped servings of pasta and clams into four bowls, each garnished with sprinkles of parsley and squeezes of lemon.
Connor grabs his bowl with a cute, villainous little laugh. Mom is grating black pepper over her own bowl. Since the counter space is limited, Jack motions for me to go ahead of him. “After you.”
“Thanks.” I still can’t quite meet his gaze.
The four of us find seats throughout the motel room. Mom changes the channel to the evening news. We eat our dinner and watch in silence, as weather and traffic updates scroll across the bottom of the screen, as the news anchors discuss the opiate epidemic, the severe winter storms happening across the East Coast, and the quirky first name that some supermodel gave to her newborn child, which has already gone viral on the internet. The news anchors chuckle and shake their heads as they read other famous people’s rude comments about it.
Sometimes, the evening news feels like the worst kind of entertainment. Like we’re all just here to witness each other’s tragedies. Or to make fun of other people’s choices. To make us all feel crushed and frustrated. To remind us that we live in an uncaring world.
It’s too much.
As if she can read my mind, Mom changes the channel again, settling on a trivia game show.
I twist the noodles around the edge of my fork. Mom and Jack and Connor are playing along with the game, shouting and laughing and guessing the answers. There’s a dribble of sauce smeared down Connor’s ch
in, because he’s getting too excited and keeps missing his mouth as he eats.
21
Ice Machine
February 17
My family is asleep, and my knee is aching. It’s a surprising, bone-deep soreness that makes me wince. Makes me panic. Makes me toss and turn in the stiff bedsheets while Connor snores gently, his drool pooling on his white pillowcase.
The heater clicks on: a gust of warm air, rattling slightly. The sheer curtains drawn over the windows look creamy in the moonlight. Our neighbors in room 205 are awake, and they are watching an action film with car chase scenes. I know this because I can smell their microwave popcorn, and I can hear the tire-screeching noises and instrumental sound effects and gunfire. All trumpets and percussion and bullets.
I check the time again: 11:13 p.m.
With slow, careful motions, I scoot to the edge of the bed. I glance back at Connor, but he doesn’t stir as I slip free from the covers, the fabric whispering against my flannel pajamas. Mom and Jack don’t flinch or open their eyes as I tiptoe across the room and swipe the room key from the desk. Open the empty ice bucket and remove its thin plastic bag. Then I ease my feet into my sheepskin-lined slippers. Pull a sweatshirt over my head. And I creep over to the door, slowly twist its knob, and quickly step outside.
The cold air blasts my senses. It’s like being dunked in water, coming up gasping and spluttering. My breath forms ghostly puffs in the air. I cross my arms over my chest in a feeble attempt to keep myself warm. I move briskly down the walkway, advancing toward the alcove near the stairwell, my ghost breaths trailing behind me.
I pull the door open and duck inside. There are two vending machines snug against the wall, both of them illuminated in a fluorescent radiance, shiny with their rows of brightly colored snack wrappers and bottled sodas. The silver elevator doors are sealed shut across from them, each taped with “Out of Order” signs. And there is the ice machine, humming softly in the corner.
The Sea in Winter Page 6