“And with Cade,” I say pointedly.
Mom grins and drapes an arm around Cade’s shoulder. “Yes, Breezy,” she says with a laugh, “and with Cade.”
After we unpack our suitcases, Mom takes a drive to the local market while Dad takes the rest of us for a short walk on the beach. The sun has already dropped to just above the waterline, leaving the entire horizon bathed in a fiery brew of orange and purple.
I can’t help but notice that Ann keeps filling her lungs with long, deep breaths as we pace through the sand. After one particularly long breath, she twirls around, lifting her hands high above her head, and exclaims, “I could die today and be perfectly happy.”
“Well, don’t,” I tell her, “because I don’t want to have to live alone with you-know-who.” With my head, I motion to Cade.
“I was joking. Chill.”
“I wasn’t,” I mutter.
Ann takes another huge breath, letting it out slowly, savoring it. “Don’t you feel it? The crash of the waves, the roar, the spray—it just makes me feel so alive.”
“That’s what we want,” my father says as he bends over to draw in the sand with his finger. He makes a heart. “Being here is all about feeling alive.” For a second or two he and Ann share a peaceful daddy-daughter stare. “It’s about you living, Ann, and getting a new one of these.” He stands up and brushes the sand from his finger.
“Then it’s also about dying,” Cade blurts out. “Because if you’re getting a new heart, then someone out there is going to have to have a very bad summer.”
Ann’s face sinks like an anchor. “Thank you so very much for reminding me of that,” she says, her eyes turning suddenly red and welling up with tears. “Way to ruin the moment.” She turns immediately and marches back to the house.
“Nice job, Dimwit,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “You’ve got to learn to keep some thoughts to yourself, Cade.”
“But it’s true, Dad. I don’t want Ann to die, but I don’t want anyone to die.”
He smiles half-heartedly and ruffles Cade’s hair. “I know you don’t. But can I tell you something? As a parent, I’m selfish. I want Ann to live a long, long time. So if someone has to die this summer—and I wish they didn’t—but if that’s God’s plan, then I pray to God that it isn’t your sister.” Dad reaches out and gives Cade a little squeeze on the shoulder. “C’mon, son.” He turns back to me and motions for me to follow them.
I don’t move. “Can I just stay here a little longer?” The words come quietly from my mouth, but are carried to his ears on the steady breeze. “Just until the sun sets?”
At first I’m sure he’ll say no, that a teenage girl shouldn’t be alone on the beach. But then maybe he sees something in my expression, because he relaxes. “Don’t wander off,” he cautions. “And the tide is coming in, so don’t get too close to the water. We’ll see you in a little bit.”
Once he is out of sight, I head straight for the water. Not too close, though—just close enough to get my feet wet. It is freezing, after all; the Oregon coast always is. For a while I just stand in place, sinking a little in the sand every time the water around my ankles is sucked back into the ocean. Once my feet are sufficiently numb, I retreat to a place on the beach that hasn’t been touched by the water. With a stick, I draw a small shape in the sand—a tiny heart, like the one my dad made with his finger.
Only mine looks more like my sister’s heart: imperfect and slightly misshapen.
When it comes to art—and to me, even simple sketches in the sand should be treated as art—I’m a perfectionist. I don’t want to draw one like Ann’s, with flaws. To fix it, I draw a larger heart around the first one, but the new heart is equally distorted.
What is wrong with me? This shouldn’t be so hard. Maybe my hands are numb too.
Frustrated, in the fading light I continue tracing hearts around the outside, hoping that the next one will perfect the image. Each new line makes the picture bigger, but not necessarily better. Eventually, the collection of hearts grows to a width of at least twenty feet, but by then it is almost touching the incoming tide. When I see that the water will soon destroy my hard work, I tiptoe across my creation to the original cockeyed heart—Ann’s heart, in the middle—as if my presence there will protect it.
A few minutes later, pulled by the rising moon, the foaming water again tickles my ankles, and the heart of hearts washes away. “Why can’t you just leave her alone?” I ask the ocean. Or God. Or whoever.