The Rattled Bones(61)

“I feel okay, Gram. Really.” I grab the jam from the fridge, the peanut butter from the shelf.

“We already made lunch,” Sam says. “Egg salad with celery.”

“My favorite.” I spear at a watermelon cube on Gram’s plate. “We should get going, then.”

Sam nods. “Ready when you are.” He stands to clear the dishes.

“Ya stay with Rilla at all times.” Gram folds her paper napkin, smooths it against the table.

“You have my word.”

“Around here that means something, Sam Taylor. Your word is a contract.”

He nods his understanding. “You have my contract. Rilla will not be alone on the boat today, and we’ll be extra careful.”

“Do I get to weigh in on this at all?”

Gram stands, steadies her hip against the table. “Not right now ya don’t. Ya just focus on keeping your feet on that boat today, keeping your mind clear. Can ya do that?”

“I can, Gram. Promise.” I kiss her on the head, then pull the Rilla Brae’s keys from their holder. Today Gram has threaded a wisteria vine around the chain. For love and longevity. I double back, kiss her again. “Thank you, Gram.”

“Ya come home safe.”

“Always.”

Sam and I head across the lawn. Today’s waves barely break into rolling whitecaps. There is only a soft wind. The air seems still, like it too is recovering.

“So . . . did you really pass out last night?”

“Um, no. Is that the story Gram’s selling you?”

“The long and short of it.”

“I had a headache, that’s all. But then I slept like a rock. I feel good.” It’s not entirely untrue. We reach the dock and I climb aboard. Sam unties the ropes from their cleats.

“Did it have something to do with that girl? Did you see her again?”

I freeze. It’s strange hearing Sam talk about my girl, but I don’t overthink the consequences of letting the fullest truth swim out: “Yes.” I can’t say how she conjured the blinding embers of light or how she wrote more words in my sill. I know only that she’s here. Somewhere. “I need to find her, Sam.”

“We will.” He looks toward the house where Gram is on the deck, arms planted at her hips. “But first we fish, okay?”

“Okay.” It takes me a second to start the engine. It seems like an impossible gift that Sam will help me find the girl, that he doesn’t judge me or doubt me. Then there’s a movement on the shore, a hovering. A blue heron sweeps down to the water, her prehistoric wings parting the air with grace. She lands, stands statue still in the shallow tide, waiting for her prey.

“Did you know that the heron is a bird of the in-between?”

I turn to Sam, my eyes all question.

“Herons prefer to hunt at twilight, which is a symbolic time of ‘in-between’ since it’s not night, not day. And the heron’s at home on earth, in the water, and in the air. Some American Indians see this as a sign of liminality—of easily crossing into the space that is neither here nor there.”

The heron’s head twitches, her gaze finding us. “My dad taught me that blue herons were lucky.”

“That too.” Sam unties the final rope, gathering it into a circle hung at his wrist. He lays the bundle on the dock, steps over it to board the Rilla Brae. “Maybe it’s a sign that we’ll have luck with the in-between.”

The heron pushes upward and lifts to the bluest sky, her wings finding their glide. “I hope so.”

*

Something in our first pot is flailing when Sam hauls it to the rail. “What is that?”

I move to the trap, spring the coils. “Puffer shark.” I grab for the small fish and toss her to the deep. “Gotta get her back in the water before she takes a gulp of air and blows up like a balloon.”

“Would it really do that?” He moves to the lobsters, throwing out three tiny ones without even measuring.

“In the ocean they swallow water to blow up four times their size. To ward off predators.” I measure a keeper, band her, and toss her in the tanks. “If a puffer shark’s out of the sea too long, they’ll breathe air, and then they can’t swim for hours. They just float on the surface in a helpless ball.”

“Does it hurt them?” Sam rebaits the trap.

“Dunno for sure. I’ve seen young kids who keep them out of the water for fun so they can watch them bob, but it was always my dad’s basic rule that we don’t kill or harm anything we’re not here to catch.”

“I like your dad.”

Still present tense. Even now. “Me too.”

Sam and I catch a good rhythm, and we’re through with all of our pots by early afternoon. A lot of hungry lobsters found our cages in the time they soaked, and we head to the co-op, where Sam unloads with Hoopah.

“Rumor has it ya fell in the drink,” Hoopah calls to me as I dump the bait bucket, the screeching gulls diving for remnants.

“I may have taken a little swim.” It’s best to make light of what happened yesterday so no one gives it too much thought. It may be fishing superstition, but we all know it’s better not to call too much attention to the near misses at sea.

“It might be best not ta swim with a rope grabbing at ya ankle, but that’s just me.” He gives me a wink, one that tells me he’s glad I’m safe.