resurface

4

Then

The sun was bright and glowing, hanging low in a pink-streaked sky. The air was warm and sticky, and sand stuck to my feet, legs, and fingertips. The breeze blew my hair into my face and sweat on my forehead made it stick.

The game was loud, people shouting, clapping, and laughing. It was impossible to see over them, though. A few times I caught a flash of bathing suit or saw the ball fly out of bounds, but my uncle had never been the best company. And it was hopelessly boring.

I wanted to go down to the beach. My mother had given me a mission that summer, to find as many perfect shells as I could so that we could drill holes in the middle and sell them as necklaces. I still wanted to see her smile at me back then. So I convinced Ivy and Macon to come with me—my parters in crime.

Ivy grabbed my hand and ran straight to the water, pulling me behind her. We didn't stop until the waves splashed against our shorts. Her long black hair whipped me in the face, and we splashed each other as the waves rolled over our ankles and slid under our feet and back into the sea. We laughed and twirled around and reveled in our moment and our home. Seaside was perfect then. We couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

From there, the Volleyball Tournament was just a wash of different colors and the occasional cheer and applause. Ivy and I focused on shells, digging into the sand, wading through shallow water, and sifting through whatever we found. I moved along the edge of the shifting tide, snatching up shells the waves were trying to pull back, while Ivy searched along the line where high tide had long since left things behind. Twice she ran over to show me something she found.

My mother would be so excited with our finds. So many of them were perfect for necklaces.

Then Macon was there. A clump of wet sand him my shoulder, then another hit my cheek. When I raced toward him, her stole the best shell from my stash and ran. I chased him. It wasn't the first time he'd stolen something I valued and I'd needed to run him down and get it back. It was a game we'd played too many times before.

We ended up in the ocean. He always forgot that I could swim just as well as I could run, better at both than he was. The water was cold—it always was, but it felt good to catch his foot, grab his shoulders and push him under the waves. He gave up, giving me the shell before dunking me and racing back toward the shore. I still beat him, and when we emerged we were laughing and smiling. I liked to win, and he seemed to like it too. We walked back slowly, the cool saltwater had washed away the sand and sweat, and now the sun would dry us off.

When we got back, our clothes and hair were wet, our skin covered with a fine layer of salt. And Ivy was gone.

The water was blue, brighter than it usually was, the sand white, the boardwalk and shops a mix of green and browns, and the tournament stuck out, a clashing mix of everything. There was nothing else. No fair skinned girl in a white sundress with long dark hair.

I turned in a circle. She could have gone closer to the tournament, further into the ocean; she could have drifted down the beach. There were shells everywhere and she always took my mother's missions seriously. The wind caught my hair. Blond strands whipping past my face. I pushed them back and turned again—and again. Still I didn't see her.

I called her name and looked around again, scanning the same blue water, white sand, brown and green boardwalk, but nothing changed.

Macon called her name. Still nothing.

She didn't reappear or sneak about behind me or jump on my back or even pop out of the water. No matter how many times I called her name, no matter where I looked, it was just Macon and me alone.