EMILY DICKINSON
I slow from a jog to a walk as Hitch and I head toward home, way too out of breath for someone my age. If I’m going to start making changes, regular exercise probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. Studying the sand as it squishes between my toes, I draft a mental to-do list. First, try to be nicer to Mom. Second, replace my favorite flip-flops.
A speck of orange catches my eye, and I blink. I pause, holding my breath. Hitch doubles back to check on me, nudging my thigh with his nose.
It can’t be.
I squat, balancing on the balls of my feet, afraid to believe my eyes. A frosty shard of glass glistens against a dark-gray backdrop of wet sand. I reach for it, half expecting it to disappear. It’s not a dream. It’s sea glass.
Orange sea glass.
I pry it loose, turning it over for closer inspection. It’s smooth, almost soft, in my cold palm, sanded and buffed to perfection from tumbling along the ocean floor. The delicate treasure looks more like a shard of orange sherbet than glass.
Finally.
I laugh, holding it up to the sky—to heaven. “Daddy, I found it. I found your orange.”
We spent days, weeks, months before his death searching for orange sea glass. Dad so wanted to leave me with the color of hope. We searched and scoured. Mom and I suggested purchasing a piece from a collector. Dad refused, saying we’d find it when the universe wanted us to have it—when we needed it most.
He was right. It’s like God or the universe or whoever has been waiting for me to open my eyes. Now that I have, I see beauty and possibility everywhere. I focus on these blessings and . . . bam. The universe offers up more beauty and possibility.
I press the cool glass to my lips and hold it up in the fading daylight. “Kisses, Daddy. I love you.”
The breeze caresses my cheek like a gentle hand, and I break into a run. Hitch joins me. Minutes later we’re rushing along the boardwalk, onto the deck, and through the back door. We cross the threshold into a spotless house. Candles glow on the bar and table. All traces of shrimp guts and shells have been cleared away. The smell of chocolate chip cookies hangs in the air.
“Mom, where are you?” I brace myself against a barstool, trying to catch my breath. “I’m home,” I shout. She doesn’t answer, so I head down the hall. Hitch pauses to shake, showering the backs of my legs and the floor with a gritty mixture of salt water and sand.
Mom barges out of her room. “Good Lord. What’s—” She freezes when she sees us.
I open my mouth, but don’t know where to begin. How do I explain to Mom I left an hour ago bitter and lifeless and returned crazy to live? How do I explain to her my out-of-body experience? I can’t. I have to show her.
She steps forward, brushing wet, tangled hair off my face. “Emilie, are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” I wrap her in a wet hug. “Great, actually.”
She laughs but doesn’t pull away. “What in the world is going on?”
“I just . . .” I let go of her, careful to hide the glass behind my back. “I love you.” I meet her eyes. “I love you.”
She smiles hesitantly, like I’ve been possessed by a friendly apparition. Or maybe she’s thrown off by the saturated hair and wet T-shirt look in November.
“I have something to show you.” I pull my closed fist from behind my back. Her brow creases.
Flipping my hand over, I present the orange treasure. Neither of us speaks for a long time. Then she pulls me in hard against her chest, our hearts separated from each other by only a thin layer of cloth and skin. We don’t move or breathe until Hitch stands on his hind legs and weasels his way in for a group hug.
I look at her and chuckle. She belly laughs. Then we’re both cracking up—snorting and holding our sides. Hitch smiles, hopping back and forth between the two of us. To an outsider, we’d look happy—normal. Like a family.
The laughing subsides, and I pull her up the hall to the kitchen. Her warm hand clings to mine. She watches as I gently add the final piece to Dad’s collection. Tears stream down both our faces. We stand still, clinging to one another. All is silent, except for the ticking clock over the window and the occasional hiss of a flickering candle.
I turn toward her, smiling.
“Emilie?” Her voice cracks.
“Yes?” The single syllable hangs on the air.
“Do you want me to call Roger . . . to cancel?”
Yes. Yes. Yes, my instincts scream. I inhale, counting to ten. She’s already given me permission to quit school. Now she’s offering to ditch Roger for me—at least for one night.
I open my mouth. My breath catches, and I swallow. Candlelight dances across Dad’s collection. The orange reflects a ray of ginger on Mom’s cheek.
“No, Mom.” My shoulders relax. My fists unclench at my sides. “No. Let me take a shower. Then I’ll help you with dinner.”
She’s smiling, but a fat tear rolls down her cheek when she nods.
Someone’s flipped Wonderland upside down and is shaking us out, sending us back to the real world—or at least something resembling normal.
“Give me like ten minutes. Okay?” I leave her in the soft candlelight, determined to ignore the nerves quivering in my gut when I think about sitting through a meal with her and Roger.
Dinner is a relative success. I don’t roll my eyes at Roger when he holds out my chair or choke on the shrimp scampi when he tells a knock-knock joke that wouldn’t entertain a four-year-old. The three of us clean up in the tiny kitchen. I wash. Roger dries. Hitch lays at our feet, and it’s really not that horrible. We talk about the weather. Roger admires the beach glass in the windowsill above the sink.
And then he picks up the orange piece with his free hand.
Every muscle in my body tenses. I don’t want him touching Dad’s things. I turn, ready to pounce. Mom stands behind him, mouth ajar, eyes wide like a bystander at a plane crash.
Awkward silence invades the room. Roger glances from Mom to me and back. From the look on his face, he knows he’s blundered, but he’s not sure how.
My heart softens. Roger is an innocent victim. He can’t know what he’s done wrong. He’s trying his best.
“The orange is my favorite too.” I smile, willing Dad and the universe to take note of my tentative strokes and flutter kicks. I may not make the swim team, but I’m trying.
The tension in the air dissipates. I exhale. Roger and I wipe down the counters while Mom sweeps. They ask me to watch a movie. I decline—nicely. Leave ’em laughing. That’s what Granny Day says. I don’t want to press my luck on the first attempt, swim out too far, and drown. So I head to my room. Hitch peeks at Mom and Roger on the couch but follows me.
“I put your phone in your room,” Mom calls as I close the door.
I haven’t thought about it since the game Thursday. When I pick it up, it’s almost dead. I check my missed calls—nineteen in less than seventy-two hours. Ten from Chatham. Seven from Ayla. And two numbers I don’t recognize.
Chatham called me ten times. There are a bunch of texts too, mostly from Chatham and Ayla. But also one from Ms. Ringgold, wishing me well. And one from Katsu.
My palms sweat at the thought of returning these messages, much less dealing with these people in person. I’m about to tuck the phone into my desk drawer for safekeeping when the swimming promise pops in my head, followed by an image of orange sea glass glowing in cold, slick sand.
Before I can change my mind, I scroll to Chatham’s last text and hit Reply.
Hey.
He responds a minute later. Hey.
Well, that went well. I sigh, wondering what I’m getting myself into.
Do you still want to talk? I ask.
Several long minutes pass. I pace the floor, the phone clutched in my right hand. Hitch’s head follows me like a spectator at a tennis match. I examine the fingernails of my left hand, contemplate tearing at a hangnail, think better of it, and shove my free hand in my front pocket.
When the phone vibrates, I jump. It slips out of my moist palm. I scoop it off the floor.
Yes.
He said yes. He said yes. He said yes.
I pump my fist in the air while Hitch bounces around my knees. When I throw myself on the bed, phone clutched to my chest, he joins me.
Crap. Chatham said yes. What do I say? I have to respond. When and where? Short, sweet, and to the point. I pat myself on the back.
At school? Can you meet me at
the pool tomorrow morning after
practice? Seven twenty?
School? I collapse onto the pillows while the universe enjoys its sick little joke, then type my response.
Sure.
Here goes nothing. I’m sinking or swimming—literally or figuratively or both.