From Part Two

We ate dinner together every night. During the meal, both of my parents would inquire about my day at school. I’d report my lessons in each subject, and any special activities or outings I’d done with my class. After dinner, I would do my homework alone in my room. When I was through, I would seek them out again to show them. They never asked to see my homework, and I often felt I was imposing on them for this small attention.

They were usually curled up on the couch together, watching the news or reading. Holding out my few worksheets, I’d say, “I’m finished, you can check it.” My mom would smile at me and return to her book or the television. My father was always the one to take the papers, look them over. “Fine job, Anna, very good.” They were like a buoy, making an appearance of security but impossible to get a foothold on.

I didn’t think we would ever go to the beach again. But a year after Megan’s death we solemnly went to see the California coast. We drove across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. We didn’t bring pails and shovels. I sat in the backseat of the car, already in my bathing suit, a yellow terry cloth dress over it. I could see gray water passing by underneath as we drove. When we’d first climbed into the car, left our driveway, we were cheerful in false anticipation. But we never did pretend much, especially when it was just the three of us, and we quickly grew quiet.

We parked, and each carried a bundle toward the shore. I took off my sneakers after we’d already walked a way in the sand, spilling out the fine pebbles. The familiar sensation of my bare feet in the sand made my throat constrict. After laying down our things, my father and I moved forward together. We stepped into the waves, simultaneously stooping to cup the water in our hands.

“It seems colder,” I stated in comparison, glancing at my father to see if he approved of my openness in remembering the ocean. It seemed as if he hadn’t heard me. He stared out to sea. I followed his gaze. Perhaps from this new perspective Megan would be in plain sight. What if here on Golden Gate Beach sat Megan, patiently filling a pail with sand, waiting for her slow land-bound family to catch up? I looked back at my mother. She was seated in the sand. She had buried her feet and was sifting dry sand through her fingers. She was looking down at her hands, her long brown hair falling over her bent knees.

Suddenly I felt incredibly long legged, giant and unchildlike, as if the ocean could never cover my long pale body from sight. I headed back toward my mother.

She looked up and stared right through me, then turned her gaze down again. I turned back to my father. He still stared out as if the earth might indeed be flat and he could just make out the opposite shore. I felt newly afraid to be near the ocean.

I ran back to him and followed his eyes gazing out to sea. “Is it Massachusetts on the other side?”

“No, come here.” He awkwardly picked me up. He was knee-deep in the water. I perched clumsily on his hip, remembering being younger and clinging to his body before I could swim. “The other side is Japan. You realize we haven’t seen the ocean in over a year? The beach was my favorite place before Megan died.”

I suspected that my father thought I was my mother. I said only, “Put me down.”