Connor nestles against me. I have the window seat, and I can’t tell if he’s cuddling me because he’s cold or because he’s scared or because he wants to see everything outside. His bright yellow raincoat crinkles with his movements. His body is small and bony.
“Hey, Dad?” he says. “How does this boat compare to your pirate ship?”
Across from us, Jack smirks. He and Mom sit with their knees touching, their coffee tumblers still clutched in their palms. “My ship is quicker,” he says. “This old vessel couldn’t catch me if she tried.”
The right side of Connor’s face is pressed against my arm. I can feel his cheek lift as he smiles.
“When will you take me out on the boat with you?”
Jack hums, considering. “Someday when you are much, much taller.”
“How tall?” Connor asks.
“Nearly full grown.” “Like Maisie?”
I snort and Connor twists to peer up at me, his eyes brown and sweet beneath a dark fringe of lashes.
“What?” he says. “It’s true. You’re twelve, and you’re almost as big as Mom.”
“That’s because your mother is, um—vertically challenged.” Jack softens his words with a gentle pat on Mom’s knee. She scoffs and pretends to brush him off, even though she’s smiling and obviously doesn’t care about her height.
“Mommy’s doing what kind of challenge?”
“It means she’s short, son.”
“Oh.”
We all feel the moment when the ferry dislodges from the pier. Sometimes, if you take the ferry when the weather is nice and the water is smooth, it can be easy to miss. Sometimes, these departures feel effortless.
Not today. The giant boat jolts and drops, fighting the waves as we venture out into the open water. Winds slant sideways, crushing raindrops mixed with sea spray against the glass panes. The Seattle skyline looms behind us, all sharp vertical lines and blurry grayness. Down at Pier 57, the Great Wheel pinwheels and flashes through brilliant color patterns: electric violets, neon greens, siren reds. In the distance between buildings, I can see the bright yellow T shape of construction cranes.
Mom and Jack focus their attention on their phone screens. Jack is squinting and scrolling slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration; Mom is taking pictures of our surroundings. Connor loops his arm through the crook of my elbow. He snuggles more firmly against me. I take a deep breath and rest my cheek on the spiky-soft top of his head. Together, we silently watch the thrash and spattering mist of the sea.
The ferry ride is quick and choppy. And by the time we reach the dock on Bainbridge Island, Seattle has faded far into the distance. A rain-drenched mirage across the Puget Sound.
14
Unanswered Texts
February 16
We disembark and drive north.
We pass through small towns and quiet neighborhoods. We cross bridges standing on stilts over water inlets, red barns tucked deep within rolling meadows, a giant wood-carved bear standing at the edge of the highway. 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. The air tastes piney and sweet out here, so different from the city, which usually smells more like wet pavement and car exhaust.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle. The windshield wipers glide across the glass in an easy rhythm. Connor is watching downloaded episodes of his favorite TV show on a tablet in his lap with headphones on. Mom and Jack are listening to some politics-focused podcast. They both nod along with the commentary. At one point, Jack says, “This is the Twitter discussion I told you about.” And meanwhile, I am texting Eva, before either: (a) I lose service, or (b) her Saturday-morning pointe class begins.
Eva: Did I tell you I’m trying out a new brand? This is going to be my first class on Gaynor Mindens. Really hope I like them lol.
Me: Really? Let me know what you think. Pretty sure I’m a Capezio girl.
I bite my lip as I hit send. My mind flashes back to that day I spent at the beginning of the school year, trying on pointe shoes in a dancewear shop in the U District. I remember the woman who explained the pros and cons and price differences of various brands, how she measured my foot and told me I have an exceptionally narrow heel. We spent at least an hour at the barre in her store, her cold fingers pressed against my heel, holding the satin tight to show me how each shoe would fit once the ribbons were sewn on. Meanwhile, Mom kept Connor entertained by showing him around the store, letting him sift through the multicolored leotards, the tulle-ruffled tutus, the floral headpieces and rhinestone tiaras. 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.
Eva: I’ve already gone through like five pairs of pointe shoes this school year. They honestly wear out so fast. At least that’s how it is for me.
Eva: Then again, Hattie has gone through eight? I think? So maybe I shouldn’t complain, lol!
Me: Hattie also has extremely strong, arched feet. Her pointe shoes probably snap in half when she points and flexes.
Me: No offense to either of us, but our arches aren’t nearly as impressive. Lol.
Eva: Very true!
I swallow hard, thinking of Hattie and her perfect ballerina feet. Her golden-straw hair and blonde eyelashes and bright blue eyes. I click the backward arrow in my messaging app and scroll down to my conversation with her.
After I tore my ACL, Hattie felt so guilty. She felt responsible. When I was recovering from the surgery in the hospital, she visited me with a bouquet of flowers and a plastic container filled with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She hugged me and cried and asked for my forgiveness. And even though I said it was okay, I hadn’t really forgiven her yet. The pain in my knee had been too hard to ignore in that moment.
It’s been hard to ignore for months.
But now I’m sitting here, on the road to rainy, dreary Port Angeles. And I’m staring down at our most recent text messages, most of which have been from Hattie. And I’m thinking about how weird it is for us to go from the way we were to the way things are now:
(January 16) Hattie: Two weeks in, and I’ve already broken my New Year’s resolution. Hope your January is going better than mine! Lol!
(January 18) Hattie: We did barre to music from Romeo and Juliet today. I recognized it right away, and it made me think of you. Remember when we went and saw it together? That was so much fun.
(January 18) Me: I remember. That was a great night.
(January 18) Hattie: Probably my favorite ballet, tbh.
(January 21) Hattie: Hi I’m bored. What are you up to right now?
(January 30) Hattie: Hey! What’s up! Hope your knee is getting better.
(January 30) Me: Hey. I’m good. The knee is feeling fine. How are you?
(January 30) Hattie: That’s great! I’m so glad. And I’m good, thanks ☺ I auditioned for SAB yesterday, and I was really nervous about it. Still nervous about it, actually.
(January 30) Me: I’m sure you’re fine. If anyone could get in there, it’s you.