The Last True Poets of the Sea

by Julia Drake

  “Let’s have it be just us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said, rapping on his helmet. “We’ll go to the touristy place, okay?”

  The lobster shack was crowded with vacationing families, the air thick with salt and fried clams and ketchup. In line, Sam asked me, “Did you ever think that other people survived the wreck, maybe?”

  I’d never thought that, but once he’d said it, I knew there was a chance.

  We sat with our lobster rolls on a picnic table that faced the water, squeezing in on the end. Sam took slow bites of his roll, even the bun. He didn’t finish the whole thing, but progress was still progress.

  The night was beautiful, but something was still bothering me.

  “Sam,” I said cautiously, “when you went out in the kayak—what was going through your mind?”

  “I wanted to see the wreck,” he said. “That’s all.”

  The pause between us was painful and searching. Should I ask what I wanted to ask? Kids dashed by us, running for the playground, screeching with delight. My brother looked down at his plate. His eyelashes were so long; his freckles so sweet. He had so much longer to live. He wanted to, didn’t he?

  I hadn’t said what I’d needed to say—I needed to say more—to convince him—

  “Sam. No matter what happens in the future. If you ever feel like you did in June—I want you to talk to me. I’m here for you. You’re needed.”

  A long time passed before Sam spoke. “I swam up, Violet. We both did.”

  After, we walked down to the beach and skipped stones. Sam helped me perfect my form, showing me how to whip my wrist just so.

  “The trick’s in the rock, though. You have to get a good, smooth, flat one. Big, but not too big.”

  “Let’s keep doing this in New York,” I said.

  “Skipping stones?”

  “Brother-sister dates.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I just mean—it’s okay. If you get a better offer.”

  “I want to,” I said. “You’re my brother. But I want to be your friend, too. If that’s okay.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Thanks for letting me come on the search.”

  “Thanks for coming,” I said, “thanks for being here.”

  The sun grew orange over the water. Maybe we’d come back here next summer. Maybe Liv and I would last. Maybe she’d go to Oxford and meet some dashing British chick with glasses and a tweed blazer, or some bloke who played the organ. Maybe Sam and I would have our own families one day, bring them here, to this very spot. Maybe neither of us would have kids. Maybe the seas would rise so high that they’d lap at the back door of our grandmother’s house.

  “Seven skips!” Sam said, bursting into a grin. “Did you see that?!”

  I wouldn’t worry, not tonight. We’d come back here one day, when we were old. We had a long way to go, but by then we’d be so knowledgeable, so wise, that between the two of us, we’d be able to name all the constellations.

  EPILOGUE

  NEW FOUND LAND

  Two weeks later, New York City was a blistering September inferno. Sam and I stood at the top of the subway entrance, headed home from our third appointment with Dr. Blank. I liked her, as much as one could like the stranger who’d seen you cry the first three times you’d met them. I didn’t feel grown-up around her. I felt like a baby. Feeling better would be slow, hard work—but at least Dr. Blank had great shoes and an excellent listening face. At least Sam and I were in it together.

  A train thundered into the station below, and heat gasped up the stairs. Sam grimaced and started down, shielding himself against the current of ascending travelers. I looked at my watch. We weren’t in a hurry.

  “Sam? Let’s walk.”

  We took my favorite route in Manhattan and strolled along the west side of the park, the shore where the city meets nature. We walked beneath the shade of leafy trees, the cobblestone sidewalk hilly and broken in places where roots burst through brick. We passed two middle-aged men, hands intertwined. A mother held her toddler close and crooned to him in Spanish. Far down the path, a handsome, lumbering Newfoundland paused to sniff the base of a tree.

  “Look,” I said to my brother.

  “He’s like a bear,” Sam agreed, amazed.

  A bear to Sam. A friend to his owner. A big, slobbering dog to anyone else. To me, the Newfoundland was a pebble landing in my pocket, smooth and flat as a good skipping stone.

  My phone buzzed as we waited to cross the street toward our apartment. It was a picture from Liv: her bicep sporting a nicotine patch. Day two, she’d written, somehow even harder than day one.

  She was keeping her promise. A second pebble clacked against the first. Two before noon: I was on a roll.

  Another buzz. PS Orion wants to know when you’ll have the next draft of Cousteau!

  “Sexts?”

  “Gross, Sam. Liv and Orion are just asking about Cousteau!”

  “Did you tell them that I’m making you finish the book before you go any further?”

  “I’m telling them that you’re helping me with critical research, yes.”

  My phone buzzed again before I could text back. For a self-proclaimed Luddite, Liv had seriously swift thumbs.

  PPS I miss you and I can’t wait to see you at Thanksgiving.

  The third pebble was bigger than the others, and heart-shaped.

  “Violet,” Sam said, and he reached for my hand. “We’re crossing.”

  A few blocks from our apartment, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a storefront widow. Growing out my hair had been far more challenging than I’d anticipated—my hair grew quickly, but the awkward phase was lasting an eternity. I thought about cutting it all the time, but then I’d just be back at square one and where would that leave me?

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I still don’t.

  But it’s just hair, I guess.

  Hairs plural.

  Each one grows, like love or trees or anything good.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m so grateful to all the people who helped bring this book into existence.

  Thank you to my agent extraordinaire, Pete Knapp, who believed wholeheartedly in this story after reading an early, messy draft. I so appreciate your patience, your spot-on feedback, and your dedication to this project.

  I could not be more grateful to Laura Schreiber, my wonderful editor, whose insight into this story was so startlingly perceptive that I suspect she might be magic. Thank you, Laura, for helping me write the book that I always wanted to. Thank you to the rest of the team at Hyperion for your unmatched enthusiasm and hard work, especially Holly Nagel, Danielle DiMartino, Seale Ballenger, Christine Saunders, Sara Liebling, Marci Senders, and Emily Meehan. Big thanks, too, to Jenna Stempel-Lobell and Katie Vernon for the gorgeous cover art.

  I’m lucky to have had so many wonderful teachers over the years who believed in my writing. Special thanks to Betsy de Luca, who taught me in eleventh grade to think a little harder, and to Gene Bell-Villada at Williams College, for always being so supportive of my writing and my thinking. Thank you to Elissa Schappell and Deborah Eisenberg, whose words I think of often when I write, and thank you to Stacey D’Erasmo, who told me “this book is going to work.” And eternal gratitude to Jim Shepard, who changed my life for the better. A big thank you to Sue Mendelsohn and the Columbia University Writing Center for throwing me a much-needed lifeline, and to Joe Cross and Kathleen Ross, for helping me through the first-year-teacher wilderness and for chatting with me about this book in its infancy.

  All my thanks to Sasha Berger for helping me find my way.

  For reading this book at different stages, and for making me a better writer: Dan Grossman, Chris Fox, Jesse Gordon, and John Magary. Special thank you to Jonathan Draxton, who read several drafts of this project and gave me excellent feedback. Thank you to workshop members at Columbia who read faint, sketchy versions of this novel an
d encouraged me to keep going.

  I’m grateful to the Sitka Fellows Program, where I revised a good chunk of this book in the summer of 2017, and to the marvelous Fellowesses, whose work and camaraderie kept me motivated: Hannah Brinkmann, Sarah Chadwick Gibson, Muira McCammon, Sylvia Ryerson, Madeleine Welsch, and Lauren Wimmer. Thank you also to the Sitka Sound Science Center for being a wonderful resource when I needed some aquarium inspiration.

  Thank you so very much to my wonderful students over the years, especially the hugely talented, fiercely inspirational Ireland writers of 2017 and 2018. Thanks to BJ Love and Chris Catanese, actual poets, for traveling and teaching alongside me, and for seeing me through some very long days.

  A big thank you to the Mittelstead family for your generosity and encouragement, and for making me sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving. Thank you to my friends, with whom I have celebrated and commiserated: Katherine Tandler, Jane Tandler, Noah Fields, Ariel Hubbard, and Mikaela Dunitz. Big hugs to the SF Thursday Night Crew for the beers and the raccoon inspo. Thank you to the whole of Combo Za for making me laugh till I cried, and for inspiring me with your wit, weirdness, and creativity.

  To my very best reader and even better friend, Clare Fielder, who believed in this project when it was just a “what if…?”: you are the reason this book exists. Thank you for your writing, your reading, and most of all, for your friendship.

  Thank you to my brother Nat, whose hilarious and beautiful writing always gave me something to aspire to, both growing up and now. A herd of sea horses to Madeline Miller for your love and support. My multitalented brother-in-law BJ Thompson is the genius behind Kelp!, and he took my author photograph and he saved an early draft of this book from a deep dark technological abyss: thank you. Thank you to my sister and mostly companion Tina, who designed my website, advised me on all matters oceanographic and/or mathematical, and read this book many times over. I’m very, very lucky you’re my sister.

  To my parents, Catherine and Jonathan Drake. There seems to be nothing I can’t thank you for, and that includes throwing a wedding for an invisible hamster. Thank you for always believing in me, and for always being there.

  And to Nick, who helped me through the hardest parts—I love you. You’re it.

  JULIA DRAKE grew up outside Philadelphia. As a teenager, she played some of Shakespeare’s best heroines in her high school theater program, and their stories would stay with her forever. Julia received her BA in Spanish from Williams College, and her MFA in creative writing from Columbia University, where she also taught writing to first-year students. She currently works as a book coach for aspiring writers and teaches creative writing classes for Writopia Lab, a nonprofit that fosters a love of writing in young adults. She lives in San Francisco with her partner and their rescue rabbit, Ned.