The Beach House

It’s summer in Montauk, August 1993. The waves lay foam gently on the shore. Thin grasses whisper in the breeze over the windswept dunes. The white framed windows of my parents’ beach house are too bright in the sun. The light glints into my eyes and makes me wince as I turn back towards the water, filling my lungs with the crisp sea air. It tastes like dampness and salt and grit. Waves dampen the bottom edge of my linen trousers, sticking them to my ankles. The thick, cool sand rests in between my poorly manicured toes. I let my hair blow in my eyes for once, a few strands sticking to my tear-dampened cheeks making my face itch. I wish I could dissolve into the horizon. My breath catches in my chest as I hear my brother call out from the porch, his voice getting carried by the breeze. Lunch is ready.

I pull my feet out of the sand, leaving holes in the earth where I once stood, and make the walk up the beach, through the grass dunes to the covered porch where Ryan stands. He looks tired; his bright blue eyes stand out against the dark circles that have made their home on his face. His mouth tilts down like it hadn’t before. His shoulders slouch, even after years of dance perfected his posture. I don’t bother to dry my face.

“Dad made sandwiches,” he tells me quietly.

I nod and follow him through the door to the breakfast nook where three plates, three sandwiches, and one old man sit. Dad looks up at us as we walk in, thoughtful as he always has been – brow furrowed, eyes semi-vacant. He says nothing to us as Ryan and I choose our places at the light wood table, sitting down on the handmade seat covers Mom made, worn from years of card games and late-night snacks. I look down at my plate: a single grilled cheese sandwich, cut in half to look like triangles. A fork and knife sit to the left of my plate even though we never once ate sandwiches with utensils. A pitcher of ice water in the center wobbles slightly as Ryan bounces his leg under the table. Dad clears his throat.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” his eyes dart quickly towards Ryan, “but I think it’s a good thing we came together like this. It’s what Mom would have wanted.”

I feel my eyes warm. I take a deep breath, thinking of the ocean.

“Yeah, Dad,” I choke out, looking over at my brother for support, a response, a reaction.

Anything.

Ryan shoots up out of his seat, pushing his chair back so loudly it scrapes the tile floor. He looks up at Dad, his eyes full of fury, and storms out towards the beach, slamming the porch door behind him. I stand up to go after him, but a soft hand on my wrist stops me. Dad’s eyes are bloodshot from sleepless nights. Sadness creeps over his face as I sit back down. He pats my small, cold hand in between his.

“You remind me so much of your mother.”

I sigh deeply, letting sobs take over my chest as I slide out of my seat onto the cool floors, letting my father hold me like he did when I was a child. The weight in my chest lightens a little.

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