The Sea in Winter: Chapters 14–20

We disembark and drive north. We pass through small towns and quiet neighborhoods.

We follow winding roads through ancient green groves, woodlands filled with secrets and murmurs and mist. There are old, broad fir trunks with knobby twists in their bark. Slender, leaning trunks that are splotchy with lichen. Canopies of green needles. Dense thickets of wild briars.

We follow winding roads through ancient green groves, woodlands filled with secrets and murmurs and mist. There are old, broad fir trunks with knobby twists in their bark. Slender, leaning trunks that are splotchy with lichen. Canopies of green needles. Dense thickets of wild briars.

I remember quietly apologizing to the salesclerk as Connor clacked around in a pair of character shoes he found, then tugged at a belly dancing skirt that was displayed on a mannequin, its little golden coins clinking noisily with each pull.

I swallow the hard lump in my throat. I feel like the biggest jerk in the world. Because I know I shouldn’t have blamed her for what happened. I know I shouldn’t give her the cold shoulder.

Unfortunately, there is a low pulse in my knee right now, a dull throbbing sensation that feels the way distant sirens sound. And because of this, I lose my footing, stumbling slightly. Jack reaches for me reflexively, lifting his arm as a barrier behind me; I flinch away from his touch.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Connor’s disappointment only lasts about two seconds, because our server returns to our table with a tray full of plates wafting delicious steam.

Jack meets my gaze across the table. He gives me a subtle wink. I smile back at him.

On Curriculum Night at the beginning of the school year, my mom signed up for each of my teachers’ newsletters.

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.

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.

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.

The cold front rolls in overnight, just as the meteorologists predicted.

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’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.

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

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 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.”

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.

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.”

“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.”

The wind picks up as we hike back to the car, a rustling hush through the pines and foliage.

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.

Connor looks absolutely fascinated as he collects and filters water from a ravine.

Jack says, “Those are sediments, bud. Just dirt and sand. All natural.”

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.

Eva: They can’t be together, because she’s royalty and he works in the stables.
Me: Sounds scandalous.

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.

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.