The Sea in Winter

by Christine Day

  Phillipe huffs in frustration, takes her face in both hands, and kisses her on the mouth. Connor yelps and covers his eyes, blasting me in the ribs with his elbow, making me wince.

  “Ick.” His face is puckered like he’s eaten something sour. He peeks at the TV through his fingers. “I didn’t think this was a kissing show. Why does there have to be kissing?”

  My phone starts buzzing loudly in the pocket of my red coat, which is slung across Mom’s lap. It must be Eva, freaking out over that kiss.

  My throat tightens as I think of Eva. Of her not knowing where I am. Not knowing what happened to me at all.

  A new nurse breezes past the curtain with a clipboard clutched in his hands. He smiles and introduces himself, explains that he is stepping in while our previous nurse clocks out for the night, and hands the paperwork over to my parents.

  “I need you to initial here and here, then sign and date here,” he says, indicating the open lines. Mom balances the clipboard on her knee and reads through the fine print, her lips moving soundlessly. She gives a slight nod and scribbles with the pen he offers to her.

  “Great,” the nurse says. “I’ll be right back with a wheelchair.”

  He leaves, and my phone buzzes again inside the jacket. Mom pats it and nods at me. “Want to check this? It seems important.”

  “Later,” I tell her.

  She says, “Okay,” even though her eyes look worried.

  We watch as the scene on TV changes from the happy couple in the wildflower meadows and sunshine to the dark, dreary cellars in the castle’s dungeons. A cloaked figure is hunched over a worktable filled with bubbling cauldrons, vials of neon-colored liquid, and candles dripping wax.

  “Aha,” the mysterious potion brewer says, lifting a vial of blue fluid in one hand. “At last. The perfect poison elixir, just as His Royal Highness requested.”

  Connor gasps. The episode ends, cutting immediately to a short preview of next week’s episode.

  “Poison?” Jack says in distress. “Is Catriona’s father trying to poison Phillipe? Would he really do that?”

  Mom pats his knee. “You’ll have to watch it next week to find out.” Then she stands, drops my red coat into Jack’s lap, and says, “Connor, why don’t we bring the car around, so Maisie doesn’t have to go through the entire parking lot?”

  Connor says, “I want to stay with Maisie.”

  “Go with your mother,” Jack tells him firmly.

  “But, Daddy—”

  “No arguing. Just do as you’re told, please. It’s been a long day.”

  “That’s right,” Mom agrees. “We all need to get back to the motel, and we need to rest. Come on, Connor.”

  “No,” Connor says, his voice rising to a higher pitch. “I’m staying right here.”

  “Maisie will be right behind us—”

  “Mommy, I already said no.”

  I give him a gentle nudge. “It’s okay, Con. You should go with Mom. Hold her hand in the parking lot, and look both ways when you’re going across the crosswalks, okay?”

  “But, Maisie, I can’t leave you. I can’t.” His chin wobbles as he speaks. He stares at me with wide, earnest eyes.

  “You’re not leaving me,” I tell him. “You’re just making it easier for me. I’ll see you in less than five minutes.”

  He looks uncertain.

  “I’m serious, Con. I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I swallow. “Positive.”

  He still isn’t totally convinced, I can tell. But I stare back at him with a look that I hope is reassuring. And it must be, because he launches forward, wrapping his arms around my torso in a rib-crushing hug. I place my hands on his back. Stroke his shoulder blades. His bones are pointy and pronounced, even through his multiple layers of clothing.

  Then he releases me. He hops down from the hospital bed, his muddy hiking boots hitting the glossy floor below. He goes to our mother and takes her outstretched hand.

  She smiles at me. “We’ll see you in the car.”

  I nod, and they slip through the curtain, out into the bright, bustling halls of the hospital.

  36

  Something I Need to Say

  February 19

  As we sit and wait for the wheelchair, Jack watches the TV, and I watch Jack. In this fluorescent lighting, the blemishes and wrinkles in his brown skin look more obvious than usual. There is a crease between his eyebrows and crow’s-feet around his eyes as he squints at the TV screen. His short black hair is peppered with silver strands. His posture sags, his shoulders are rounded. He looks so tired and unlike his usual vibrant self, worn down after everything that happened today.

  Sometimes, I forget that Jack is a few years older than Mom. And that I’ve known him for as long as I have. Sometimes, I forget that as I continue to grow older, so does he.

  I don’t know why this is suddenly hitting me right now. This pang in my chest.

  “You know,” Jack says, “I’ve been told many times that I’m eerily beautiful, but even so, it’s rude to stare.”

  He turns to me with a smirk, but the corners of his mouth droop when he sees the look on my face.

  “What just happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

  I nod and sniffle and look away, even though I feel silly and stupid for getting emotional all over again. Out of nowhere. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Who cries this much, other than newborn babies?

  “Therapy will help,” Jack says gently. “I know you probably feel trapped by your own thoughts and emotions right now. But it won’t always be like that.”

  I nod again, trying to trust him. Trying to believe him.

  The program on TV is a show about shipwrecked pirates. They’re all stranded on a deserted island, afraid to signal for help from passing ships in the distance, because they could belong to their enemies. To the empire trying to control trade and immigration across the seas.

  “We cannot go and blindly seek the empire’s aid,” the pirate leader says. “They will likely arrest us before helping us.”

  “He’s smart,” Jack says. “I’m rooting for this guy.”

  I can tell he’s trying to distract me. Trying to lighten the mood.

  But there’s something I need to say to him. Something that has already gone unsaid for too long.

  “Jack?”

  He looks at me again. “Yeah?”

  It takes me a moment to get the words out. To put them together right in my head. I take a deep breath. Chew nervously at my bottom lip.

  “I’m sorry. For the other night. For saying you weren’t really my dad. It wasn’t the right thing to say, and it isn’t how I truly feel.”

  His eyes soften around the corners. “Maisie—”

  “You’ve always been there for me. And I just wanted to thank you. For today. For everything.”

  A moment of stillness. Jack is now leaning forward slightly, his elbows propped on his knees as he stares at me. The pirate leader finishes his speech, there’s a break in the scene, a cut to the commercials.

  And Jack says, “Thank you for the apology. I love you. You’re my daughter. No matter what.”

  I tell him, “I love you, too.”

  The nurse whisks the curtain open and pushes a wheelchair and a set of crutches into the room with us. He’s accompanied by an elderly woman, April, the hospital volunteer who will wheel me safely to our vehicle. April smiles and waves hello. Then the nurse gives us both a smile, wishes me a speedy recovery, and goes on his way to check on his other patients.

  Jack helps me move off the hospital bed and into the wheelchair. He tells me to put my jacket on now before we go outside. And as I lean forward in the cramped seat to push my arms through the sleeves, he hovers behind me, chatting with April and holding the coat open for me, in line with my shoulders. I feel the weight of my cell phone in my pocket as I settle in.

  From there, April takes over. She pushes me down the bright white hallway, lined with doorways a
nd drawn curtains and hand sanitizer dispensers mounted on the walls. Jack walks briskly at my side. We pass by EMTs pushing gurneys, doctors striding out of elevators, nurses hurrying along in their sky-blue scrubs. The fluorescent bulbs cast spots of bleached light onto the tiled floors. The wheelchair has a squeaky wheel.

  We push through the door that leads into the lobby. There are potted plants in every corner of the room, TV screens positioned on the walls, cushiony chairs and couches. Men and women are seated in clusters throughout the space; many of them look tense, worried. The walls are painted in shades of dusty pink and mint green. The wide receptionist desk is made out of a honey-colored wood.

  We pass through the automatic sliding doors, and the cold air rushes forward to greet us. It’s crisp and clear, and it smells of snow and concrete and pine trees. Thick clouds swirl in the dark sky. Our car is idling by the curb; the engine is rattling, the exhaust pipe emitting fumes in the icy air.

  Jack thanks April for her help as he opens the door for me, and Mom waves hello from the front of the car. Connor is already asleep in his booster seat; his chin is tucked against his collarbone, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  Mom shrugs and whispers, “I could tell he was tired. That’s why I asked him to come with me.”

  Jack helps me slide from the wheelchair to the back seat. April waves farewell as she takes the wheelchair and rolls it back inside the hospital. Jack stores the new crutches in the trunk of our car. I close the door as gently as I can, in an effort not to disturb my brother.

  Once everyone is in the car, and Mom has verified that we’ve all buckled our seat belts, we pull away from the curb. We round the corner toward the hospital’s exit. We pull up to the short line of cars waiting there, the right-turn blinker ticking into the silence. Out of nowhere, my phone buzzes again. I glance down; the screen is lit up. It looks like a fallen star trapped inside my pocket.

  There are fifteen unread messages. Eleven are from Eva (and a quick scroll confirms they are all directly related to that kiss, as well as the poison), and the other four are from Hattie. My heart flutters as I open hers first.

  Hattie: Maisie! I’m so happy to hear from you. Sorry I didn’t answer right away, Mom and I were on a plane to Florida. We just left the airport, and we’re on our way to the hotel in Miami now.

  Hattie: Thank you for your kind words about SAB. I’m really excited. The only thing that would make this news better would be if you were going with me. How’s the knee? Any updates?

  The third message is a photo of the beach: a long stretch of white sand, a cloudless blue sky, and a glittering turquoise sea. The caption reads: My view right now.

  Her fourth message is the one that just came through a few seconds ago. It says, Hello? Are you there? Please don’t shut me out again.

  My throat feels achy as I read her words. I clutch the phone in both hands and press it against my chest, hugging it as I try to blink the blurriness out of my eyes. There’s so much I have to tell her. So many things I need to share. So many explanations and apologies to give.

  I suck in a sharp breath. Search for the courage inside myself to open up, to tell her how I’m really doing. To tell her how I’ve been these past few months. It’s been hard for me to find the words. It’s been hard for me to find the motivation to talk with anyone about this heavy feeling in my chest.

  But if I’m going to see a therapist soon, I might as well start trying.

  I pull the phone away from my chest. And I start to type.

  37

  Another Sanctuary

  Four Months Later

  Golden bars of light slant through the library’s windows. The colorful laminated spines along the shelves shine white with the glare, making me squint as I push my cart of books down the aisle. The library is filled with hushed sounds—clacking keyboards, turning pages, whispers. The air in here smells of ink and paper.

  I find the gaps I’m looking for and return the titles to their rightful places. I bend carefully as I tuck the books into the bottom shelves. My knee is feeling okay today; there’s a slight twinge as I lower myself, but I breathe through it. My movements are slow and careful.

  I rise again and push the empty cart back down the aisle, the wheels squeaking across the carpet. The intercom clicks on: a robotic female voice announces that the library will close in ten minutes. I circle around the bank of desktop computers and inch past the end tables stocked with titles recommended for Pride Month. I swerve around the long wooden tables, where groups of college students are reading textbooks, writing flash cards, typing on their laptops. I pass by the reading corner in the children’s section, where two brothers have pulled an entire stack of picture books from their shelves.

  Four months ago, I started seeing Dr. Estrada. At our first appointment, I entered her office on crutches, with bruises all over my heart. Mom was being relentlessly optimistic, and Connor had come along in the car with us because Jack was working and Mrs. Baransky was out of town. Connor was talking nonstop, telling me all about jellyfish, because his class had gone on a field trip to the aquarium, and the moon jellies were his favorites.

  And we were late, of course. We were late, and everything was hectic, and I didn’t want to be there.

  I didn’t want to be anywhere, really.

  But there I was. Mom wished me luck as I followed Dr. Estrada into the back room. Connor promised to tell me more about the moon jellies as soon as I returned.

  That first session of therapy left me feeling raw and overwhelmed. It was hard to meet someone for the first time and immediately start talking about my secrets, my dreams, my disappointments. All the deepest and darkest and most tender parts of myself.

  It was hard the following week, too. Therapy is a lot of work. It might sound like you’re just sitting and talking with someone for an hour, but there’s more to it than that. She leads me through exercises and gives me homework assignments. She listens to me speak, and she offers good advice. She guides me through my feelings. Through the emotions I don’t always have words for.

  Going to therapy made me realize my thoughts were like scribbles—like a messy black cloud of lines drawn all over a clean sheet of paper. Working with Dr. Estrada helps me detangle all those lines. It helps me make sense of the chaos in my own heart, my own mind.

  During one of my sessions with Dr. Estrada, she suggested that I join a club, or start doing volunteer work. She wanted me to fill my schedule outside of school, to participate in activities, other than visiting her and Mr. Lawson for therapy. Activities that were easy, or creative, or fun, or social. Activities that gave me something to look forward to. Her only recommendation was to avoid athletics, since my knee is still recovering.

  And so, I became a volunteer at the local public library.

  I push the empty cart all the way back to the front desk, where Brenna and Ethan are waiting for me. Ethan goes to my middle school; Brenna goes somewhere else in our district. They’re the other two student volunteers who come here on Thursdays to help the librarians process returned materials, reshelve books, and sharpen pencils. We also help out on Reading Buddy Nights, when little kids come to the library to read stories with middle schoolers like us. Connor and his friends participate in those sometimes. He usually joins Ethan’s reading group, because he’s kind of a traitor.

  “Maisie!” Ethan shout-whispers, waving me over. “Maisie, come look at this.”

  I push the cart beside the desk and join them at the counter. They’re looking through the new guide for the library’s summer reading programs. Ethan flips his sandy blond hair out of his eyes and passes the stapled pages to me. They’re still warm from the printer. Brenna scoots beside me and throws her arm around my shoulders.

  “Look at the grand prizes,” she says. “Tickets to the zoo! And the water park! Even if none of us win the reading log competition, can we make a pact to do stuff like this over the summer?”

  Ethan scoffs, “Duh, of course we can.”

&nb
sp; “Awesome.” Brenna bounces on her heels. “The parks and rec guide just came out, too! The new pool is opening on July first, and we all need to be there. They’re also doing all kinds of free concerts and movies in the parks and stuff. This summer is going to be amazing!”

  Ethan and Brenna continue to go back and forth as I turn my attention to the brightly colored library guide. Across the top page, there are the words Summer Reading Programs & Challenges. The activities are organized by age group and by the dates throughout the summer. Book recommendations are listed in columns down the sides of each page.

  It’s going to be a different kind of summer. My first summer without any ballet classes. My first summer after the injury. I feel a familiar pang in my chest as I think about Eva, who’s going to a ballet program in Chicago. And Hattie, who’s going all the way to New York City. A part of me still wishes I could be doing the things they’re doing. A part of me still wishes that I could return to dancing.

  And maybe I will, someday. But right now, I need to stay focused on recovering.

  And I need to stay focused on reading, if I want to win those tickets to the zoo.

  “Maisie?” Brenna nudges me. “You okay?”

  I give a quick nod. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “About what?” Ethan asks.

  “How much everything changes, I guess.”

  “Huh.” He tilts his head. “But change is good, right?”

  “Yeah, change is good.”

  Someone clears their throat behind us, a patron who wants to check out their books using the self-checkout scanner we’re currently blocking. We all murmur hasty apologies and scoot farther down the counter.

  One of the librarians—a woman named Birdie, who has blue streaks in her hair, square-rimmed black glasses, and tattoos of red roses down the length of her arms—looks up from her computer monitor. She adjusts her glasses and asks, “All finished reshelving in the nonfiction section?”

  We nod.

  “Wonderful. Just wait in here for your parents to come get you, okay?”