The Sea in Winter

by Christine Day

  I tell him, “It’s a show.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I won’t really know if you keep distracting me.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He goes quiet. Snuggles even closer. Mom and Jack exchange glances, and I can tell they’re bothered by my attitude, but neither of them says anything. Instead, they both cross the room and sit on the green pleather chairs pushed up against the wall.

  For a moment, we all watch Catriona and Phillipe ride on horseback into the meadow, away from the castle. We let the dramatic orchestra music fill the awkward silence for us.

  I wonder what my family is thinking. What they must think of me.

  And then Mom pulls her phone out of her pocket. The screen lights up in her hand. She starts tapping and scrolling, her brow furrowed in concentration. And I don’t know why, but the fact that she’s on her phone right now, the fact that she could stomach social media at a time like this, when her daughter is in the hospital—it makes me so angry. I mean, wow.

  “Can you not?” I snap through my despair. “Why do you need to be on your ph-phone right now? Why are you always on your stupid phone?”

  Mom glances up, surprised.

  Jack narrows his eyes at me. There’s a warning in his voice as he says, “Maisie. Don’t.”

  But I stare back at them and say, “It’s true.” Because it is. My mother practically lives on her phone. She is constantly taking pictures, constantly following hashtags. And it’s totally okay for her to do that, but anytime I barely peek at my screen, someone scolds me. Why am I always the one being punished? Why does it feel like I can never get anything right? Why can’t anything ever be fair in my life?

  Mom says, “I just had to check something—”

  “Every minute of your life,” I mutter.

  Jack says, “That’s enough. Show your mother some respect.”

  “But she doesn’t need to respect me?” I ask, chest heaving. “How does that make any sense?”

  Jack’s eyes pop. “Maisie, how could you even—?”

  Mom places one hand on his knee. Gives it a gentle squeeze, silencing him. Connor glances back and forth between me and our parents. I can tell how nervous he is. I feel a pinch of guilt as he fidgets beside me.

  “Maisie,” Mom says. “Look at me.”

  I blink. Breathe. Meet her gaze again.

  33

  More Than What We Got

  February 19

  Mom releases Jack’s knee. She clicks her phone screen to black and turns it over and over in her hands. Her gaze drops and she sighs.

  “You know,” she says, “I hear you. Sometimes I think about how much I rely on this device now. How I use it for everything. Pictures. Messages. Social media. How I have apps for banking, for meditating, for tracking my daily steps, for playing music and podcasts.” She looks up at me. Shrugs. “It wasn’t always like that. Phones used to just be phones. I remember calling my friends on landlines when I was your age. I remember going to libraries and internet cafés in order to check my emails in college. I remember—” She swallows. “I remember buying my first cell phone. A flip phone. It was this indestructible little brick; no matter how many times I dropped it, the screen never shattered. And it had one of the earliest phone cameras, so the picture quality wasn’t too great, but that didn’t matter.”

  She shakes her head. “It really didn’t,” she says. “Because all I wanted was the ability to send your dad pictures during his deployment. I just wanted him to be able to see you. The screens were tiny, the pictures were pixelated, and the phones were a huge expense for us, but it was worth it. It made him happy. He felt like he was missing out on so much. So many firsts with you.”

  Heat rushes into my cheeks. Shame settles deep in my belly.

  “I heard your father’s voice for the last time through that little phone,” she says. “I remember it so clearly. Our last conversation. I told him about how it’d been pouring all week, but that day the rain had stopped long enough to take you out for an afternoon walk in your stroller. How it felt so good to get out of the house for a while, breathe some fresh air. I told him about the new onesies I’d bought for you, which were all patterned with polka dots, and tulips, and pink teddy bears. I promised to send pictures to him, after your bath. He laughed and said that your fashion shoot would be the highlight of his whole week.”

  She draws a shaky breath. Chuckles a little. “He had a great laugh. He was kind of a quiet, serious person. A total perfectionist. But when he laughed? God, it was contagious. It was the best sound.” Connor nudges closer; he rests his cheek on my shoulder. Mom looks up at us with a smile and says, “That’s when you remind me of him the most, Maisie. When you laugh your deep belly laugh.” Her smile fades. She holds my gaze. “But that laughter of yours has been rare lately. I can’t even remember the last time I heard it.”

  I have to look away. It suddenly hurts to breathe.

  “Anyway,” she says. “I remember telling him to be careful. I always reminded him to be careful. I told him that I loved him, I missed him, and I couldn’t wait for him to come home. And he laughed again. He said all the same things back, and he told me not to worry. He promised to call again as soon as he could.

  “We hung up, and I went about my night. Gave you your bath. I took pictures of you in the new onesies, before I put you to bed. Sent them along to him, as promised.

  “But he never responded. I checked my phone the next morning, and he hadn’t said anything about your pictures, hadn’t given me any updates about where he was or how things went the day before. Which wasn’t too unusual. He couldn’t carry his phone around while he was in the field, and there could be days—or even weeks—when I wouldn’t hear from him. And he wasn’t always able to update me on where he was going, or how long he’d be offline. I tried not to worry about it too much. I trusted that I would hear from him, when his mission was over. As I always did.

  “Four days later, the army officers knocked at my front door.” She stops. Runs one hand roughly down her face. “This is the part I don’t remember so well. I know they were dressed sharp in their formal uniforms. I know that they asked if they could come inside. They told me I should sit down. When the news came, I screamed. I yelled at them. In the moment, I think I blamed them. I can’t recall everything I said, but I’m fairly certain I told them it was their fault, that they took him away from me, from his family. I hit one of the men square in the chest, and slapped him across the face, before I collapsed in a heap on the floor.”

  The room goes completely still. Jack and Connor and I don’t breathe for a long moment. Mom’s face is turned toward me, but her eyes are unfocused. Her skin is pale.

  I’ve never heard this story. I’ve never known her to be violent toward anyone.

  “I have no idea how long those officers were in my house,” she says. “But I know they didn’t leave me alone through that initial, horrific wave of grief. One of them—the man I hit, I think—sat me down on the couch and let me sob against his shoulder, maybe for an entire hour. And by some small miracle, you weren’t there to witness any of this, Maisie. At least not at first. My parents were watching you. They had taken you to their apartment so I could get some cleaning done around the house.” She shifts her weight on the bench. Rolls her shoulders. “Needless to say, I didn’t finish cleaning.”

  Another breathless silence. Mom seems to blink a few times and comes back to herself, her eyes focusing on me again. Jack quietly wraps one arm around her. Connor makes a soft sniffling sound.

  Her voice is ragged as she says, “The first protests I ever attended were against endless wars in the Middle East. Did you know that? I was a senior in high school, and I took the bus all the way from Tacoma to Seattle, to march with everyone who thought the best way to support our troops was to save them. I remember walking through the streets downtown with tens of thousands of other people and thinking, Wow, we might really be able to stop this from happening. But we didn�
�t stop anything, did we? And who paid the price? Who lost the most?”

  At her pause, I whisper, “Lots of people. Innocent people.”

  “That’s right,” she says. “An entire new generation of refugees. An entire new generation of orphaned children. Too much trauma. Far too many tragedies. And for what?”

  Jack sighs. Sweeps his hand across her back.

  “And your dad was gone,” she says. “The man I loved. We were supposed to have a lifetime. We were supposed to have so much more than what we got. And I was filled with guilt and anger and sorrow. I was afraid for the future, and I regretted the past. I kept thinking: if only we’d done more to stop the war. If only we’d done more than march and petition, if only we’d found some other way to stop it all from happening. And when I realized this was irrational, I started to wish for other things: if only he had been stationed in some other place. If only he could have seen those pictures of you, before he left for that mission. If only his tribe had won state recognition years ago, then maybe he would’ve gone straight to college, instead of enlisting in the military at all. I kept imagining these impossible scenarios where something was different, where some small detail could have changed the outcome of our story.

  “I won’t lie to you, Maisie. It took me a long time to stop feeling those regrets. It took me a long time to realize that there was nothing I could’ve done. No way to ever bring him back. And that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life chasing his ghost, wishing for a life other than the one I was living.”

  I blink back the moisture in my eyes and stare up at the white ceiling tiles.

  And I ask her, “How?” Because it occurs to me that I’ve never really asked this. How did she find the strength to move on? How does she keep going? Even after everything.

  “Well,” she says. “I turned to the teachings of my ancestors, for one thing. I looked back at our histories of resilience and survival. How the Makahs managed to bring their community together, despite horrible events, like that mudslide I told you about. And I spent a lot of time with my family. I focused my energy on you. Raising you. Being there for you when you needed me.” I hear the smile in her voice as she says, “And also, therapy. I had a really great therapist.”

  I glance at Mom. Her eyes shine as she looks back at me.

  “In fact,” she says, “that’s why I was on my phone. I was about to shoot her an email. I want to see if she works with children. And if she does, I’m going to ask if she’d be open to seeing you.”

  34

  This Loss

  February 19

  There is a short, stunned silence. Or at least, the silence feels stunned to me. Maybe not to Mom and Jack, who are both observing me with expectant looks on their faces. Maybe not to Connor, who is still nestled against my side.

  My throat is scratchy as I say, “A therapist?”

  Mom nods.

  “But I already have one.”

  “You have a physical therapist,” Mom says. “But you don’t have someone to talk to, about this moment in your life. The crossroads you’re standing in right now.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Sweetheart, Jack and I have already discussed this. We think you need to confide in a professional. We think you need some guidance. Someone who can help you sort through these feelings, this—this loss you’re going through . . .” She trails off. Looks at me with pleading eyes.

  “This loss,” I repeat in a whisper. “So you think it’s over, then? My time in ballet?”

  “We wouldn’t have said so,” Jack murmurs. “But that’s what you told us, in the forest. You repeated it over and over.”

  Did I?

  I can’t even remember. I know I thought it; I didn’t realize I’d said it.

  “For what it’s worth,” Mom says gently, “I think this is the right choice. I think your body needs to recover. And I think this is a great time for you to focus on your other interests. Maybe even find a new passion.”

  “Or, you know, you can just enjoy being a kid,” Jack says. “I mean, really.”

  “Very true,” Mom agrees.

  “But—” I attempt to clear my throat; it doesn’t work. “But am I giving up? Isn’t quitting kind of the same thing as failing?”

  “None of this means that you’ve failed,” Jack tells me. “It just means that you’re moving forward. Which is about the bravest thing any of us can do.”

  My voice still sounds thick as I say, “But all of my friends are from ballet. All of them. I don’t h-have anyone in my middle school.”

  Mom sighs. “Oh, Maisie. I know how hard it is to feel far away from your friends. But luckily for your generation, distance doesn’t equal the end of friendships. At least, not like it used to. These days you all have phones. You can call or text each other anytime. And when you’re old enough, you’ll probably find each other on social media. And there are so many other ways to stay connected; it doesn’t have to be digital. But that’s one way in which technologies have helped us, isn’t it? I mean, I’m always chatting with friends from high school and college online. I’m always seeing pictures from your dad’s side of the family, even though none of us have physically seen each other in years. It’s all so possible now. And besides, you can always find and make new friends. People who share your interests outside of ballet.”

  “But I’m not like you, Mom. I can’t just—I’m not always—” I squeeze my hands into fists, frustrated with myself. “My friends do text me. But I don’t always message them back. I don’t always know what to say. Sometimes texting or talking just makes me so tired. You probably don’t even get how something like that can be hard. But it is. It’s hard for me.”

  Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve.

  Connor pats my uninjured knee.

  “And I—” I choke down a sob. Gulp the air. “I love ballet. I love dancing so much. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without—without—”

  With these words, I can’t really hold it together anymore. I’m sick and tired of pretending to be strong. I’m sick and tired of pretending, period. And as I start to cry, the realizations start to hit me, all over again. They’re raw and real, like a reopened wound.

  I started ballet lessons when I was four years old. And at first, it was all just fun and games. I remember skipping across the studio floors, spinning with colorful scarves in my hands. I remember the teachers telling us to hold our arms rounded, like we were carrying imaginary beach balls.

  I remember growing older, growing taller, growing stronger, all while attending ballet. How I met my friends in the studio. How I started attending auditions and working hard through rehearsals. That soaring sensation in my heart, after every perfectly executed combination, after every onstage performance.

  Can I live without all of that?

  Can I really?

  “Take it from someone who has gone through big changes, someone who’s experienced the loss of love,” Mom says. “It will hurt. Making your way through these crossroads will be painful and scary and unpredictable. There will be times when it will feel like the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. And there will be times when you feel unsure of your ability to handle it.” She leans forward on her elbows. Looks me in the eyes. “But you can. And you will. Because you must.”

  Connor nestles more firmly against my side. He continues to pat my uninjured knee as I sniffle and shake my head.

  “I’m not like you,” I tell her again.

  “You’re very much like me,” she says. “I cried and threw a fit when my parents decided to move us away from Neah Bay. In the first full year at my new school in Tacoma, I sat alone at lunch. I felt far away from my friends, my extended family, from everyone and everything that I loved. And it felt like the end of the world, but it wasn’t. I grew up and grew stronger from the experience, and I learned to fight for what I believe in. Learned to stand tall. Learned to love my people harder. And then I lost your fath
er, and it felt like the end of the world all over again. But it wasn’t. It was tragic and horrific, and I still carry so much love and sadness for him, but it’s a weight I’ve learned to bear. And luckily for all of us, I was able to move forward. I took a chance and was open to falling in love again.”

  Jack gives her an affectionate nudge. “Thank God for that,” he says. “Because if you hadn’t, Connor wouldn’t be here. And imagine how boring this world would be without him.”

  Connor goes wide-eyed. “What?”

  Mom smirks at Jack. Turns her attention back to me. She bites her lip and says, “But I had a lot of help. And I want you to feel supported too, Maisie. So what do you think? Would you be willing to see a therapist? Someone who could help talk you through these feelings?”

  There is a heavy feeling in my chest. Connor looks up at me, his warm brown eyes fringed by his long eyelashes. Jack gives a slight nod when I look at him; Mom watches me with a hopeful expression.

  “Okay,” I murmur. I still don’t think that talking to a therapist will change anything.

  But I’ll go. I’ll try. For them.

  35

  I’ll Be Okay

  February 19

  On-screen, Catriona says: “Phillipe, I don’t care about my family’s status anymore. I don’t care if they think you’re wrong for me. They can keep my crown. All I want is to be with you!”

  We’re still waiting on my discharge paperwork, and the episode is nearly over. We’ve been quiet for a while now; our conversation was intense and tiring. This whole day has been exhausting; I can barely keep my eyes open.

  Phillipe says: “You can’t do this. I won’t let you sacrifice your future for me.”

  Catriona says: “It’s my choice. I choose you!”

  “Do you really think you can live happily as a peasant? You’ve never known hunger, Catriona. You’ve never known what it’s like to want things you can’t have.”

  “If you truly believe that, then you haven’t paid attention to a word I’ve said!”