Back to the Sea

01 | hometown

"TIME WAITS FOR NO ONE," Eomma used to say. 

There would be a slight tightness in her voice, but the phrase would be delivered so gently that none of the children ever batted an eye when she repeated it over and over and over again. She would say this with her soft hair fastened in a stubby ponytail, her gold bracelets jingling as she peeled apples with a knife. She would be wearing that red gingham apron that Appa got her all those years ago. She would smell of fresh laundry and hibiscus perfume. Everything would be painted in yellow afternoon gold and everything would be soft and tender and perfect.

And Appa used to say, "There is beauty in simplicity." He would come home from work, wrinkled and frumpled, but smiley. He would set his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door and come into the kitchen with a plastic bag of Chinese takeout. He would lift his children off the floor and swing them in a circle and say something about a new movie he wanted to see and everything would be soft and tender and perfect. Almost too perfect. 

Sophie would watch from the kitchen table, swinging her legs, wondering how Eomma ran the sharp edge of the blade over her thumb, slicing the peels with such carelessness, yet with such exactitude. She would watch as Appa put his own apron on to wash the dirty dishes in the sink, as he flicked cold water in his wife's direction. She watched as her parents laughed together.

The velvet-dipped image of her parents usually nestled softly in her mind. It was a warm keepsake that she opened up when she felt lonely. 

But today, not even the warmth of the honey-glowed kitchen could soothe the ache in her stomach. 

Today, the memory burned. 

Today, her mouth tasted of mint toothpaste as she glanced down at the white and blue goop on the roadside. 

Eomma was right—time was cruel and greedy and unfair—it pulled her limbs apart slowly. And Appa was right—she should have appreciated the quiet moments while they lasted. Because now, all she wanted to do was run into his arms and cry and apologize and sit in his warmth. She wanted to feel her mother's touch in her hair, hear her short breathy giggles again, breathe in the comfort of both parents.

Slowly, Sophie's gaze moved from the spittle to the pink toothbrush in her hand, to the ugly pile of vomit sitting in the dead grass. Panting, she lifted a water bottle to her lips and rinsed the taste from her mouth, spitting the remains next to the toothpaste.

The spring air whistled across dry grass, quietly shaking the trees by the little beach houses. The sky was a soft purple, almost completing its descent into starry darkness. Sophie thought she could hear the ocean. She could certainly smell it. If it weren't for the obscenities on the ground or her current circumstance, she might've found this spot a little scenic.

"You okay over there, Soph?" Judah's voice sounded behind her. She turned slowly, blinking as the wind tangled with her hair. Her brother was in the driver's seat of the stupid red sedan, leaning across the seat where she had first started to feel nauseous.

She nodded, turning away, embarrassed. "I'm okay. Carsick." Her cheeks were warm. She was embarrassed that she had cried into hyperventilation for the first hour of their road trip. She was embarrassed Judah had to pull over for a vomit break. She was embarrassed Dawn had to dig through their luggage to find a toothbrush and toothpaste. She was embarrassed she had used the last of her water to wash away the taste of puke.

It had been a long drive.

Sophie faced the car once more, meeting the gaze of her younger sister, who frowned sympathetically from the backseat window. "Ready to get going?" the eighteen-year-old asked. Her eyes were red.