Heart Bones(8)

He chuckles again. I hate it. I hate hearing people chuckle; it’s the most condescending of all laughs. “I did get a promotion a couple of years ago, but not the kind of promotion that would afford me seasonal houses. Alana’s divorce left her with a few assets, but she’s also a dentist, so she does okay for herself.”

A dentist.

This is so bad.

I grew up in a trailer house with a drug addict for a mother, and now I’m about to spend the summer in a beach house with a stepmother who holds a doctorate, which means her offspring is more than likely a spoiled rich girl I’ll have nothing in common with.

I should have stayed in Kentucky.

I don’t people well as it is, but I’m even worse at peopling with people who have money.

I need out of this car. I need a moment to myself.

I lift in my seat, trying to get a better look out the window to see if other people are out of their cars. I’ve never been to the ocean before, nor have I been on a ferry. My father lived in Spokane most of my life and it isn’t near the water, so Kentucky and Washington are the only two states I’ve been to until now.

“Am I allowed to get out of the car?”

“Yep,” he says. “There’s an observation deck upstairs. We have about fifteen minutes.”

“Are you getting out?”

He shakes his head and grabs his cell phone. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

I get out of his car and look toward the back of the ferry, but there are families tossing pieces of bread at hovering seagulls. There’s also a crowd at the front of the ferry, and at the observation deck above me, so I walk until I’m out of my father’s sight. There’s no one on the other side of the boat, so I make my way between the cars.

When I reach the railing, I grip it and lean forward, staring out over the ocean for the first time in my life.

If clear had a smell, this would be it.

I’m convinced I’ve never inhaled purer breaths than the ones I’m inhaling now. I close my eyes and breathe in as much of it as I can. There’s something about the saltiness of the air that feels forgiving as it mixes with the stale Kentucky air still clinging to the walls of my lungs.

The breeze whips my hair around, so I grab it in my hands and twist it, then secure it with the rubber band I’ve had on my wrist all day.

I look to the west. The sun is about to set and the whole sky is swirls of pink and orange and red. I’ve seen the sunset countless times, but I’ve never seen the sun when it’s separated from me by nothing more than ocean and a small sliver of land. It looks like it’s dangling above the earth like a floating flame.

It’s the first sunset I’ve ever felt this deep in my chest. I feel my eyes begin to tear up at the sheer beauty of it.

What does that say about me? I’ve yet to shed a tear for my mother, but I can somehow spare one for a repetitive act of nature?

I can’t help but be a little moved by this, though. The sky is swirled with so many colors, it’s as if the earth has written a poem using clouds, communicating her appreciation to those of us who take care of her.

I inhale another deep breath, wanting to remember this feeling and this smell and the sound of the seagulls forever. I’m scared the power of it all will fade the more I experience it. I’ve always been curious about that—if people who live on the beach appreciate it less than people whose only view is the back porch of their shitty landlord’s house.

I look around, wondering if the people on this ferry are taking this view for granted. Some of them are looking at the sunset. A lot of them remain in their cars.

If I’m about to spend the summer with views like this, will I start to take it for granted?

Someone from the back of the ferry yells that there are dolphins, and while I would love to see a dolphin, I like the idea of going in the opposite direction of the crowd even more. Everyone at the front of the ferry are like June bugs to a porch light as they flock to the back.

I take the opportunity to move to the front of the ferry. It’s empty and more secluded from the cars now.

I notice a half-empty loaf of Sunbeam bread lying on the deck of the ferry near my feet. It’s what the kids have been using to feed the seagulls. Someone must have dropped it in their rush to go look at the dolphins.

My stomach rumbles as soon as I see the bread, reminding me that I’ve hardly eaten in the last twenty-four hours. Besides a bag of pretzels on the plane, I haven’t had anything to eat since my lunch break at work yesterday, and even then, all I ate was a small order of fries.

I look around to make sure there are no people lingering, then I pick up the loaf of bread. I reach my hand inside and pull out a slice, then put the loaf back where it was discarded.

I lean against the railing and tear the bread off in pieces, slowly wadding them up and putting them in my mouth.

I’ve always eaten bread this way. Slowly.

It’s a misconception, at least in my case, that people who live in poverty scarf down food when they do get it. I’ve always savored it because I never knew when it would come again. Growing up, when I’d get to the heel of a loaf of bread, I’d make that slice last all day long.

That’s something I’ll have to get used to this summer, especially if my father’s new wife cooks. They probably have family dinners together.

This is going to be so strange.