close to the water. Weâll see you in a little bit.â
Once he is out of sight, I head straight for the water. Not too close, thoughâjust 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 hasnât been touched by the water. With a stick, I draw a small shape in the sandâa tiny heart, like the one my dad made with his finger.
Only mine looks more like my sisterâs heart: imperfect and slightly misshapen.
When it comes to artâand to me, even simple sketches in the sand should be treated as artâIâm a perfectionist. I donât want to draw one like Annâs, 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 shouldnât 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 heartâ Annâs heart , in the middleâas 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. âWhy canât you just leave her alone?â I ask the ocean. Or God. Or whoever.
The ocean doesnât reply. It just keeps rolling in and out, lapping at the sand. Yet as my feet turn blue with cold, each new wave is a chilling reminder of what I already knew. Imperfect hearts arenât meant to last .
 Â
âHey, stranger. We were about to send a rescue crew,â jokes Mom when I finally come in from the beach through the back door. Sheâs at the stove stirring a pot of spaghetti. With a little curtsy she says, âWhat do you think of my apron? It was hanging in the pantry, just begging to be worn.â
The apron is designed to look exactly like an overgrown Dungeness crab. The main body is the shell, with beady black eyes looking up at Momâs chin, spiny legs wrapped around her back as ties, and two giant claws joined behind her neck to keep it up. âItâsâ¦sick,â I tell her.
âIs that good or bad these days?â
I chuckle. âTake another look at what youâre wearing, and you tell me.â
âWell, thereâs not much cooking left to do, but thereâs also a lobster-apron in the pantry if you want to try it on.â
âNah, Iâm good.â
She winks at me and then goes back to stirring noodles.
âHave you seen Ann?â
âSheâs upstairs resting, I think.â
Cade and Dad are engrossed in a game of backgammon as I pass through the living room. âWelcome back,â says Dad before I reach the sea-blue stairwell.
âHey,â I say, then continue on.
There are three doors at the top of the stairs. The one to the left is the half bath, the one straight ahead leads to the attic, and the one to the right is âthe girlsââ bedroom. I twist the handle on the right, then push gently.
Ann is laying flat on her back on the bottom bunk. She has a pen in her hand and is in the middle of writing something on the wood slat above her head. When she hears the door sliding on the carpet, she quickly drops the pen and acts like she wasnât doing something that she probably shouldnât. But when she sees itâs just me, she relaxes and gives me a half smile. âHey.â
âHey,â I reply. âSoâ¦how you