“Yep,” I murmur.
We’re going on a road trip around the Olympic Peninsula. During this trip, we will dig for razor clams (or treasure, according to Connor) on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. We will hike the Cape Alava Trail (with permission from my doctor and physical therapist). We will visit Cape Flattery. And we’ll visit the Elwha River.
I reach for a granola bar. Connor rushes to my side. “I want one! Can I have one? Can I please, Maisie?”
I grab a second bar, toss it to him.
“Thank you!”
I walk over to the dining room table, and he follows me, happily ripping his wrapper apart. I open mine too and start to chew. It tastes like chocolate chips and gooey oats mixed with peanut butter.
“Do you want to play with me?” Connor asks. The words come out muffled, because he’s speaking with his mouth full. Which is something he knows he’s not supposed to do.
“Stop that,” I tell him. “How many times do I have to remind you?”
He ducks his head. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry. Just stop talking until you’re done chewing.”
“Okay.”
“Connor.”
“What?” he asks, his mouth popping open wide enough for me to see the mushed-up granola.
“Gross. Cut it out. I’m serious.”
“Hey, Maisie,” Mom says as she comes breezing into the room. She’s dressed in a worn flannel shirt and dark blue jeans. She kneads her long, wet hair with a towel from the bathroom. Her smile is soft and warm. “How was your last day of school?”
“Mom, Connor keeps talking with his mouth full, even though I’ve told him not to multiple times.”
Connor’s entire face scrunches. “It’s not fair!” he wails. “I only asked if Maisie would play with me.”
The corners of her smile droop a little. “Okay, okay. Maisie, you’re not the boss of your little brother. But, Connor, you need to be more mindful of your manners. We had this discussion at dinner last night too, remember?”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“But can’t Maisie at least play with me?”
“Maybe later,” Mom says diplomatically. “Mrs. Baransky is on her way over. Maisie and I are about to go see Mr. Lawson.”
His small shoulders slump forward. “Mrs. Baransky? But where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy is on his way. He had to do some maintenance work on the boat, and it took longer than expected. But don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”
Connor perks up. Takes another huge bite of his granola bar. He keeps his lips sealed as he chews, his jaw working in an exaggerated motion.
Mom nods her approval. “That’s better, Connor, thank you.” She bends at the waist, twisting her hair inside the towel, before straightening back up again. She walks into the kitchen, lowers the dishwasher’s stout door, and yanks the top tray open, its contents rattling.
“You didn’t answer my question, Maisie,” she says as she tucks the colorful coffee mugs back into the cupboards. “How was school? Are you hungry? Did you grab a sandwich from the fridge?”
“It was fine. And I’m okay; I ate a granola bar.”
“Just fine? And are you sure?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
I finish my granola bar, toss the wrapper into the garbage, and turn to go down the hall.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” Mom calls out after me. “Be quick, okay?”
“Okay.”
I step inside my bedroom and snap the door shut before Connor can follow.
5
The Shape of a Triangle
February 15
I change into a pair of shorts and swap my red winter jacket for a freshly laundered sweatshirt. I sit on the edge of my bed, slump back against the mattress.
Stare up at the ceiling.
My room is small and sparsely decorated. I have theater-sized posters from the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s productions of Romeo and Juliet and The Sleeping Beauty. I have a bookcase filled with all kinds of stories: mysteries, fantasy adventures, sci-fi. I have a homework desk with a gooseneck lamp; a collection of cute, pastel-colored pens from Japan; and a tiny potted cactus. Fairy lights are strung across the wall below my window, clipped with photos from important moments in my life: being the flower girl in Mom and Jack’s wedding, meeting Connor for the first time in the hospital, hugging Hattie and Eva after our final performance in The Nutcracker. We were still in our Polichinelle costumes and stage makeup. The thick eyeliner made us look like raccoons; the bright circles of rouge on our cheeks made us look like dolls. The overall look was pretty creepy, but you can tell we were happy.
Above my bed, there is a shelf with two objects balanced on it. An autographed pointe shoe from Noelani Pantastico, my favorite principal dancer. And a baseball mitt, signed by someone who played for the Orioles in 1997.
I inherited the mitt from my dad. It was one of his most prized possessions.
My parents had a short and tragic romance. The type of story that everyone loves to see in ballets or books or movies but hates to hear about in real life.
They were both Native, but they grew up in different coastal communities, on opposite sides of the continent. Mom is Makah; she grew up in Neah Bay, in the northwestern edge of Washington State. My father was Piscataway; he grew up in Baltimore, on the Chesapeake Bay. Mom spent her childhood playing outdoors, riding her red bicycle around the reservation, and eating fresh seafood. My father spent his childhood going on field trips to the historic sites of Maryland, playing video games with his friends, and eating fresh seafood.
They both went through big changes in their teen years.
When Mom was fourteen years old, the Makah Nation hunted a gray whale. It was their first whaling voyage in seventy years. They agreed to stop hunting them when whales were listed as an endangered species. They waited until the Pacific populations were stable before legally asking for permission to resume this ancient tradition.
They received permission. But it was a controversial situation.
News helicopters buzzed above the choppy waters as the men set out in their canoe. The hunt was broadcast live on television. Protestors pulled their boats into Neah Bay. And in the days and weeks that followed, hundreds of angry and threatening phone calls were made to the tribe. Picketers carried signs and created bumper stickers that said: Save a whale, kill a Makah.
As the threats of violence continued, Mom’s parents started to fear for her safety. They told her not to go out on her bicycle anymore. They told her to stay indoors.
After a bomb threat was made at her school, they decided the safest solution was to move to another town. None of them wanted to go; Neah Bay was their home, Mom was starting to learn the Makah language, and the whale hunt had brought the tribal community together. But my grandparents feared that the threats would continue. That they might turn into something real.
And so, over the summer, the family moved to an apartment in Tacoma. The transition was hard at first, but Mom has always made friends easily. As she attended high school in the city, she started a small Native American Pride Club on campus, where she met some Puyallup and Muckleshoot and Nisqually kids.
Meanwhile, my father struggled through high school. Mom likes to say that he was one of the smartest people she’s ever known, but that he wasn’t “good at school.” He dropped out during his senior year, earned his GED, and then enlisted in the US Army. At the age of twenty-one, he was sent to JBLM, a joint military base south of Tacoma.