bunch of run-down floats hooked up to rotting pilings and bobbing on the tides. Peeling green paint and dying potted plants everywhere.
“Hey, sweetie,” Dad greets me, squinting against the setting sun. “How goes it?”
He’s sitting on the warped planks of the houseboat’s outer deck, tying up some newspapers with twine. I step over the rope fence and try to slide quickly past, avoiding his worried eyes. But he gets up and follows me inside anyway, trailing behind like a pet. That just makes me even sadder, reminding me of another casualty of Mom’s leaving, my lost cat, Blackberry.
“Hungry?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks,” I lie. My backpack hits the floor with a thud. “I’ve got tons of homework.” I start down the tiny hall and almost make it to my room.
“Did you stop at the PO on the way home?”
I shake my head no again and keep walking.
“O-kaaaaay,” Dad says, stretching out the word. “Well, come on out later if you change your mind about dinner … or want to talk.”
Without turning, I nod and push the door closed, wishing for the umpteenth time that I wasn’t an only child. I throw myself down on my narrow bed, the houseboat swaying with the sudden movement, and stare up at the ceiling.
Talk. That’s all Dad wants to do now, but it feels too late to talk.
Mom tried to talk too, that night before she left. She came into my room and switched on the light, but I was furious. I jumped out of bed and flicked it back off. I didn’t want to look at her, or hear anything she had to say. So we had our last conversation in the dark. Only it wasn’t a conversation really, it was more like a fight.
“It’s complicated, M. I don’t know how to explain it all right now,” Mom said. “I’m sorry.” She reached out to stroke my hair but I pulled away from her touch. “So dark … and wavy,” she went on anyway. “Just like my mother’s.”
Silence. More waiting. Finally, Mom let out a sigh.
“I know what I’m asking is huge, M. But I need you to trust me. I can’t do this alone. You’re such a capable girl. Can you be strong for me now, Marisa?” She stopped and waited, but I was determined not to say a word. I had no clue what she was talking about or what it had to do with me.
Until I remembered what she’d said to Dad that night in the kitchen. The words shot through me like a bolt, scaring me all over again.
“I just need some time, M. I’ll be back. But it’s the only—”
“So GO!” I shouted. “I know you want to! Just go!” I flung my foot out and kicked. Mom jumped up. The hurt … the fear … I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“No! Marisa, that’s not what I’m say—”
“You don’t care about anything anymore! Not Dad, or me or anything! So just go!”
“Honey, please. I need to—”
“Take all the time you want! I don’t care if you EVER come back! GO!”
With that last scream, I scrunched down in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and didn’t move again until after I heard the bedroom door close.
Long minutes passed. I waited there in the dark, my brain zipping back and forth between being so angry my body couldn’t stop shaking and another part thinking I should jump up and run into the hall after her. I kept waiting for the door to open again, waiting for Mom to come back in, smooth my hair and tell me everything was going to be okay, she wasn’t going anywhere, she was staying right there with me. I waited and waited, until I fell asleep waiting.
When I woke up, I could feel it—she was gone. An empty space opened up someplace deep inside me, filled with a fluttery fear that’s stayed trapped inside ever since. For days, my mind raced, thinking surely she’d come back soon. But she didn’t.
I’ve taken to counting the slats on the old houseboat ceiling, so I already know there are eighteen going from left to right, but now I count them again anyway. From the tiny window set at eye level to my bed, I can just see the edge of the Narrows as it curves up toward the open inlet and the tip of the Warren Avenue Bridge. I lay silent, trying to steady my breathing. Outside, the sky goes from deep purple to near black and the moon begins its slow rise.
Across the room, on my dresser, an envelope sits propped against the oval mirror. That next morning, when I woke up to find Mom had really gone, I also found that letter, written with one of Mom’s favorite blue felt-tip pens. I read it at lightning speed in an angry blur of emotions, then shoved it back into its envelope.
Since that morning, I’ve reread that letter probably fifty times looking for some clue, some reason why she really left. I’ve got the whole darn thing memorized and could recite it out loud right now to you, down to her last two words.
But there’s nothing in it that explains anything. I groan and sink back on my bed. I don’t need any more letters from Mom that don’t make any sense. One is enough.
––––
M—
I knew this would be hard, but it’s so much worse than I expected. I’ve rewritten this letter a dozen times and still it doesn’t feel right. Writing words no one would want to read. They would sound every bit as wrong if I were saying them to you in person.
Something happened to me years ago, M. Something I never expected. I don’t know how I’ve managed to avoid it all these years, but I can’t avoid it any longer. Have you ever done that? Pretended something would just go away? It’s so easy to do. I thought that with time, things would change. And they did, but not the way I’d planned.
I’ve been given a second chance, M, and I need to find the courage to take it.
Do you remember how we used to love to walk across the Warren Ave Bridge and look all up and down the inlet? How sometimes, it was only from that vantage point that we could tell which direction the salmon were running? Well, it’s taken me 24 years and 1,140 miles to finally see which way I was running. I can’t go back in time and change what happened, but I can make it right now. And I’m beginning to think that’s the only way for me to move forward, by looking back.
I love you, Marisa. I’ll write again, I promise. Trust me.
And I’m coming back. Trust me on that, too.
Be good, Mom
CHAPTER 3
Orca Day 2
Marisa. Honey … wake up.”
Dad sits on the edge of my bed, lightly scratching my back, his special way of waking me since I was a little girl. The tiny window facing the bay is still dark.
“What time is it?” I ask, my voice groggy. Waking up still doesn’t feel the same. A minute of calm, then a rush of remembering.
“Just six,” Dad says. “Tal phoned. He wants
