She nods, serious in the way only a teenager can be, then turns her attention back to her treasures. “I wish we could stay here forever.”
The words hit me with the force of a sudden current. I want to say,Me too, but I don’t want to lie. Cassie has adapted to Kitty Hawk as if she’d always belonged to the place, while I feel likea sand crab awkwardly transplanted, skittering sideways, never quite able to dig in.
A knock on the front door startles us both. Cassie bolts upright, the jar nearly tipping, and races to the entryway, shouting, “Sara! You’re back!”
Sara Hastings stands in the doorway, cheeks windburned, hair pulled into a haphazard knot. She carries a paper sack in one hand and a thermos in the other. For a moment, I see the outline of her old self. The sharp, angular elegance of her posture, the mischief still alive in the corner of her smile. Then her left hand trembles, the thermos rattling, and she steadies it against the frame with a practiced, almost invisible motion.
“Delivery for the young scientist,” she calls, stepping over the threshold. Cassie nearly tackles her, burying her face in the crook of Sara’s elbow. Sara wraps an arm around her, balancing the thermos expertly despite the tremor.
“What’d you bring?” Cassie demands.
“Guess.” Sara holds up a paper sack, as if auctioning it.
Cassie inhales. “Cookies?”
“Not just any cookies. Chocolate chip with pecans. And there’s a treat in there for Rolo, too.” Sara hands over the bag, then glances at me. “And you, Diane, look like you need caffeine.”
I smile, trying to ignore the queasy relief that always comes when Sara’s symptoms are mild enough to be easily disguised. “You know me too well.”
She crosses to the kitchen, her gait steady but measured. As she sets down the thermos and mugs, I notice the subtle pauses in her movement, tiny hesitations where her muscles don’t quite fire right, little gaps the untrained eye would miss. She pours tea into the mugs with a steady hand, then grins at Cassie, who’s already inhaled two cookies and has crumbs dotting her chin.
“Don’t tell your mother I’m corrupting you with sugar before lunch,” Sara says, winking.
We settle at the small kitchen table, which Sara wipes compulsively with a damp cloth before sitting. Her hands are more still when occupied. Cassie bounces on her chair, talking through a mouthful of pecan cookie about the morning’s adventures and the relative merits of different shell shapes. I watch Sara as she listens, her head tilted, a slight smile softening her features.
I take a sip of the tea. It’s black and unsweetened, sharp enough to make my tongue curl. “You went all the way to Manteo for these?” I ask, gesturing at the bag.
Sara shrugs. “The drive’s not bad early. More pelicans than people.”
Cassie beams. “Pelicans are my favorite.”
“They always look like they’re thinking deep thoughts,” Sara says, and Cassie immediately imitates a pelican, folding her arms and sticking out her chin in dramatic contemplation.
Sara laughs. For a moment, she seems lighter, untethered. But when she reaches for her tea, her fingers spasm, and a few drops slosh onto the table. She dabs at them with a napkin, face impassive.
Cassie doesn’t seem to notice, but I do. I notice everything now. The careful way Sara moves, the way she holds her wrists close to her body, the way she swallows twice before drinking. There’s an awkwardness to it, but it’s also fierce, a refusal to be limited by her condition. She’s still herself, even as the perimeter closes in, inch by inch.
Sara looks at me, and for a moment I think she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “You’re quiet today.”
I shrug, embarrassed by how easily she can read me. “Just frustrated. The novel is going nowhere.”
“It’s going somewhere,” she says. “You just can’t see the path yet.”
Cassie, still fixated on her cookies, pipes up. “Mom says writing is like searching for shells. Sometimes you have to get your feet wet.”
“Wise words. You’ve got a real philosopher here.”
“I keep telling her,” I say, and Cassie rolls her eyes.
The three of us linger at the table, the sunlight shifting through the kitchen window, pooling in honey-colored patches on the wooden floor. For a while, the conversation drifts. Cassie discusses her favorite birds and the upcoming science project, while Sara tells us stories about time spent on the lake in her younger years. Each anecdote comes with a punchline, a little wink, as if Sara is gently reminding us that every story, every life, is a kind of performance.
The more time I spend with Sara, the more I realize how much she is teaching me about the art of the present tense. Not the grammatical kind, but the lived kind, the ability to hold a moment without demanding it add up to something later.
At one point, as Cassie disappears to wash her hands and feed Rolo, I catch Sara’s gaze lingering on the edge of her mug. She rubs her thumb along a crack in the glaze. I want to ask her if she’s scared, or angry, or both. I want to ask if she regrets letting us stay here, if she finds our company a comfort or an annoyance or just a distraction. But I don’t.
Instead, I say, “Thanks for this.”
Sara’s eyes brighten, as if she’s been startled out of her reverie. “You’re welcome, dear. I’m glad you’re here. Both of you.” She glances at the kitchen window, where the wind is picking up again. “Life is better when it’s shared.”