Annie is discovering that her mother is sentimental. Nautical charts and weather maps cover her office desk, wrinkled and stained with rings of coffee. Outdated oceanography textbooks and unclaimed student essays gather dust in her cabinets. Not to mention the saltwater aquariums that once held her molluscs: the sea snails and whelks and hard-shell clams. When Annie was a kid, she hated the fishy smell of them. Brine and algae, like the underside of a dock. Now she cringes to see the glass tanks lined up on shelves, empty save for their mysterious hydrometers.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t touch that,\u201d her mother barks whenever she tries to tidy some of the clutter. When Annie moved in, she laughed at her mother\u2019s hoarding. On the phone with her father, she\u2019d crack jokes about the Plateau condo being a scientist\u2019s time capsule. But now she suspects that the flotsam her mother clings to is an anchor that keeps her from drifting away.<\/p>\n
\u201cLucia has a soft heart,\u201d says her father, Martin, during their weekly phone call. \u201cShe hides it well, but it\u2019s there.\u201d His forgiveness is far-reaching, spanning decades.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnnie, bring me herbata i mi\u00f3d,\u201d her mother commands from her favourite armchair. In some ways, she is exactly as Annie remembers: impatient and authoritative, quick to anger. But her voice softens when she speaks to her tabby cat Baz, and her hands are gentle when she plays with Annie\u2019s hair. \u201cSo long now,\u201d she mutters approvingly, her fingers weaving tiny braids. \u201cLike a syrena.\u201d She has landscape paintings in every room: wide-open skies and faraway hills. None of them are Annie\u2019s.<\/p>\n
More and more, her mother speaks to her in Polish. When Annie was growing up, her parents spoke a blend of English and French. Polish belonged only to her mother, and while she did try to share pieces through children\u2019s books and nursery rhymes, her efforts were half-hearted, like she knew it would never take. Child Annie was indifferent. Polish was comforting nonsense, round vowels rolled in psht<\/em> and tch<\/em>. Now she wishes she\u2019d learned more. Val spends every July in Sicily with her nonna, rolling pasta and flirting with the town\u2019s ragazzos. Jamal, who\u2019s never set foot in Cuba, exaggerates his Spanish accent and spits curse words his parents carried with them from Havana. Next to them, Annie is stunted; a tree with severed roots.<\/p>\n Annie hasn\u2019t told her father how quickly her mother\u2019s dementia is progressing. \u201cComment \u00e7a va, ma belle?\u201d he asks every time she calls. Annie loves hearing his voice, the Quebec drawl of his French. He lives in Vancouver now, studying the ecosystems of bullfrogs. \u201c\u00c7a va, papa,\u201d she always replies with fake optimism. She distorts the truth, paints a picture that will appease his worries. If he knew how bad it was, he\u2019d jump on a plane. Martin is practical, stalwart. He believes in finding solutions and making the best of things. When Lucia became pregnant, it was a shock. They were in their late thirties, tenure-track, unmarried. But her father has no regrets. \u201cYou were a gift, un heureux accident,\u201d he says. Annie was six when her parents separated, and when her father filed for sole custody, her mother quietly acquiesced.<\/p>\n At sixty-five, Lucia is still beautiful. Her hair is wiry and ash-coloured, her curls wild around her face. Cerulean eyes, skin pale and crinkled like tissue paper. She has Annie\u2019s long nose and the same crooked smile. She wears men\u2019s shirts, sneakers, and loose-fitting jeans. For now, her symptoms are not so bad. Most days she spends poring over scientific articles, emailing students, and making frantic phone calls to the man who has taken over her lab. Stubbornly refusing to detach from her work. Only a few weeks ago she was still teaching. She could recite her lectures smoothly, but deadlines dropped clear from her mind. Students\u2019 names vanished, then reappeared a few hours later. For months, she compartmentalized these moments of forgetting, refusing to see the pattern.<\/p>\n It\u2019s early October. The days are still warm, the sun soft but bright. Annie has tried to instil a routine. She brings her mother tea with honey and turns the radio on. She washes the dishes, scoops the kitty litter. A nurse visits every Sunday with memory exercises and assessments. A financial planner helps manage the bills. Jamal visits often, toting gifts of cigarettes and beer, and at night they drink on the balcony and reminisce about high school and their carefree youth. But otherwise, Annie is alone.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n The phone call came in June. Annie was working at an oyster bar in the Mile End, the kind with twenty-dollar cocktails and mandatory coat check. It was a Wednesday night and the place was dim, quiet. A few well-dressed grad students getting after-work drinks; an older couple picking at their lobster salad. The low buzz of conversations mingled with the R&B playlist. Val was in the kitchen, chatting with the new line cook. Annie avoided the kitchen. The fishy smells made her queasy. Bored, she swirled a rum and coke and doodled trees on a napkin. Weekend rushes were her favourite; she fed off the heat, the electric buzz of the crowd. Most Fridays, Devon would drop by after a late-night band practice. He\u2019d lament about his stoner roommates, his empty bank account. Annie would sneak him free drinks and he\u2019d stay until closing, all drunk laughter and fun energy, and sometimes they\u2019d make out in the darkened, empty bar. It wasn\u2019t love, but it was easy.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s like a Lost Boy,\u201d Val would joke. \u201cLiving in Neverland.\u201d She was a psychology major, driven and unwavering. Before a shift, she\u2019d lock herself in the bathroom and draw eyeliner around her puffy lids. She wore unflattering hoodies and never small-talked with the regulars. \u201cI can\u2019t wait to have a real job,\u201d she\u2019d sigh, dragging a rag across the counter, and Annie would smile stiffly, wondering what real<\/em> meant.<\/p>\n It was almost eleven when her phone buzzed in her back pocket. Seeing her mother\u2019s name made her lightheaded, like she\u2019d just done a shot of tequila. Lucia never called. Annie stepped into the kitchen, where Val was ooing over the line cook\u2019s consomm\u00e9. The poor kid flushed and stammered into his shirt.<\/p>\n \u201cVal, watch the bar for a second?\u201d Without waiting for a reply, Annie slipped out the back door into the alley. The night was dark and melancholy. She brought the phone to her ear, shivered, and lit a cigarette. A few yards away, a man retched between his knees.<\/p>\n \u201cAnnie, sweetie.\u201d Her mother didn\u2019t sound like herself. Her voice was thin and strained. She hadn\u2019t called her sweetie in years and the word sounded manipulative, superficial. \u201cI need to tell you something.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay.\u201d Annie sucked in smoke and waited. A breeze whipped her hair back, giving her goosebumps. It had been months since their last text exchange. Before her mother spoke, she knew it was going to be bad. She listened as if in a trance, not yet understanding, watching the drunk man teeter off into the darkness.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n November. Outside, frost has crusted over the yellow grass. Lafontaine Park is quieter now as the summer tourists dwindle. The air is frigid, the days short and dark.<\/p>\n Annie\u2019s mother is changing. She\u2019s lost weight; her appetite waxes and wanes. Sometimes, if Annie doesn\u2019t pay attention, she forgets to eat altogether. When she\u2019s hungry, she asks for food Annie has no idea how to make, like cabbage perogies and beet soup. Meals from her childhood in Warsaw. Annie does her best, combing recipe blogs and borrowing cookbooks from the library. She applies the bits of cooking knowledge she\u2019s gathered from working around restaurant kitchens. Her mother is comforted by the textures and smells. Annie dislikes it all\u2014the fermented, sour flavours are alien to her\u2014but often finds herself stabbing at the leftovers, choking down mouthfuls and wishing they tasted familiar.<\/p>\n Every morning, Annie gives her mother her pills. They\u2019re round and white, easy to swallow. \u201cIt should ease the symptoms,\u201d the neurologist had said. \u201cRestore a kind of balance.\u201d They\u2019d helped through the summer; her mother had fewer memory gaps and could string together whole sentences. It was Annie who struggled to speak, to converse with the stranger who was her mother. After the divorce, their relationship had lapsed into something casual, tinged with resentment. They lived in the same neighbourhood but never saw each other. Every few months, Annie would send her a spontaneous text message and wouldn\u2019t receive a reply for days or maybe weeks. Sometimes all Annie got was a picture, some stunning shot of a turquoise beach or rocky shoreline, of night sea waves white and black. If Annie was drunk, she\u2019d reply with a picture of herself and her father. Amazing day with my #rolemodel<\/em>, she\u2019d caption, for added provocation. Winner of the #bestdadaward<\/em>. To these, her mother never responded.<\/p>\n By autumn, the pills lost their efficacy. Lucia still swallows them without protest, but when Annie talks to her, she no longer tries to conceal that she\u2019s elsewhere. The only topic that rouses her is her research. Nothing that interests Annie\u2014indie films and art exhibits, the latest song by Thom Yorke\u2014can hold Lucia\u2019s attention.<\/p>\n \u201cLow tide,\u201d she exclaimed one morning, as Annie spooned honey into her tea. \u201cIt\u2019s wonderful. You can see the pools appear, mikrokosmos of anomeones and… and mi\u0119czaki, even tiny fish. Everything visible.\u201d She stared out the window in a kind of bliss. \u201cThen, the tide comes in and you watch them go, the pools swallowed whole. For a while it\u2019s like they never existed at all.\u201d<\/p>\n Lucia\u2019s mind is more and more like the sea. Every day, the waters rise and recede. Her memories sink and surface with the cycle of the moon.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you hire someone?\u201d Jamal asks. \u201cYour mom\u2019s rich, isn\u2019t she?\u201d They\u2019re sitting on the futon that doubles as Annie\u2019s bed, drinking Boreals and chewing on stale popcorn. Baz is purring on Annie\u2019s lap. Jamal cracks open the window and lights a cigarette. He\u2019s wearing after-work sweats, his dark braids gathered into a velvet pink scrunchie. Frosty air seeps into the room. It\u2019s late, after midnight, and Lucia is asleep.<\/p>\n Annie ignores his question and scratches Baz\u2019s head, enjoying the warmth on her thighs. The subject makes her uneasy, not least because Lucia is covering her living expenses. It was part of the deal they\u2019d struck, but the way Jamal says rich<\/em> sends prickles of guilt down her spine. He has med school debt, a sister on disability. Annie veers directions. \u201cAre you still dating that guy, the paramedic?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFreckles?\u201d Jamal grins in the lamp light. \u201cYeah, as a matter of fact. But I see what you\u2019re doing.\u201d Ash falls onto the windowsill like warm, grey snow. \u201cI could ask around for a live-in caregiver or something.\u201d He blows smoke out the window. Jamal is a neurology resident and understands the mysterious science behind her mother\u2019s decline.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe eventually,\u201d she says, shrugging. Her fingers tear at the beer bottle\u2019s label. \u201cFor now, she needs help with day-to-day stuff. Paying bills, making appointments.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy you? That\u2019s what I\u2019m saying.\u201d He sighs. \u201cYour mom never gave a shit about you. What about grad school? You haven\u2019t been painting.\u201d<\/p>\n Annie blushes but says nothing. She hasn\u2019t told him about the rejection letter, which she\u2019d immediately torn into strips\u2014bisecting the I regret to inform you<\/em>, the We appreciate your interest<\/em>\u2014and flushed down the toilet. Since then, she hasn\u2019t been able to pick up a brush. She expects that the tubes of acrylic paint in her closet have dried up from disuse multiplied by time. If anything, her mother\u2019s diagnosis has given her an excuse, one she clings to now to avoid having to explain.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s this place in Greenfield Park,\u201d Jamal continues. \u201cA long-term care residence. They have a great reputation.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not putting her in a home,\u201d Annie protests. Jamal shakes his head and waves impatiently, the cigarette trailing a plume through the air.<\/p>\n \u201cGirl, don\u2019t take this the wrong way. You\u2019re doing a great job.\u201d<\/p>\n The surprise in his voice makes Annie bristle. She gulps her beer and looks out the window. Earlier on the phone, Val had said something similar. \u201cIncredible\u201d was the word she\u2019d used, as if Annie\u2019s adeptness as a caregiver was too shocking to believe. Outside, soft rain is falling mixed with hail, tiny chips of ice tinkling on glass. Everything is dark, the world blotted out. Baz wakes and pounces to the floor, flicks his tail and disappears into the shadows.<\/p>\n \u201cBut things can move fast,\u201d Jamal goes on. \u201cSome people start hearing things, seeing things. They wander off, get lost.\u201d He pauses, perhaps weighing how honest to be. Annie tenses her shoulders, braced for a blow. \u201cBasically, your mom is going to get a lot worse. And sooner than you think.\u201d<\/p>\n It\u2019s after two by the time Jamal pulls on his sneakers and lets himself out. Annie shuffles tipsy into the kitchen for a glass of water. A brochure has materialized on the stainless-steel fridge, clamped under her mother\u2019s fish-shaped That\u2019s a moray!<\/em> magnet. Annie walks over, considers Jamal\u2019s doctor scrawl in the upper corner, then yanks it free. She crumples it into her purse before switching off the lamp.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n It\u2019s the longest winter of Annie\u2019s life. Every week brings record-breaking snowfalls, the streets outside pillowy and muffled. Most days her mother spends in the small den\u2014what Annie thinks of as the game room\u2014struggling through crosswords or piecing together simple puzzles. She\u2019s calm, docile. Annie has read stories of dementia patients who get panicked and violent in moments of confusion. Even on her bad days, Lucia seems to accept the blank unknown without fear.<\/p>\n Her memories come and go; high tide can last for days. She wakes up in another season or decade, the space between years fading to black. Some days she thinks Annie is her mother, some days, one of her students.<\/p>\n \u201cJe m\u2019inqui\u00e8te,\u201d Martin says, his voice crackling on the line. \u201cIt\u2019s progressing very fast. Should I come?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNon, non,\u201d Annie says, cupping her cell phone to her ear. \u201cEverything\u2019s fine. I have Genevi\u00e8ve, she helps.\u201d<\/p>\n Genevi\u00e8ve is a young, curly-haired nurse that Annie hired after the holidays, on Jamal\u2019s urging. \u201cShe\u2019s a friend,\u201d he\u2019d insisted. \u201cExpensive, but good.\u201d She spends most days at the condo, helping with housework and cooking, keeping Lucia fed and safe when Annie is out. Despite her stern face, she\u2019s remarkably patient. Lucia eyes her with suspicion. At least once a week, she pulls Annie aside and whispers that a stranger has invaded the house.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll tell me,\u201d Martin says, \u201cif things get bad?\u201d<\/p>\n Annie suspects that he still loves her mother, and this is another reason she doesn\u2019t want him to come. After Annie was born, he took a sabbatical. He gave up grants and publications, let his career flounder while his wife\u2019s name appeared in journals like Science<\/em> and Nature<\/em>. It took him a long time to accept that Lucia\u2019s molluscs left little space for anything else. Annie remembers their arguments, how they\u2019d yell behind the bedroom door. Her father would drag out the suitcase and threaten to leave, but Lucia always found a way to diffuse his anger. In the end, it was her mother who asked for the divorce.<\/p>\n \u201cOf course I will,\u201d she lies. \u201cJe t\u2019aime, papa.\u201d<\/p>\n That evening, after Genevi\u00e8ve lets herself out into the wintry dark, Annie pulls her mother\u2019s photo albums from the office bookshelf. There\u2019s a half dozen, each carefully annotated, the pictures sheathed in clear plastic. Most are labelled POLAND and Annie carries these into the living room.<\/p>\n Back in July, when she first moved in, she was shocked to discover an album titled ANNIE. Inside were dozens of photographs. Most were baby and toddler photos taken in their low-slung suburban bungalow. But others were more recent. Neat and square, home-printed on cardstock. All of them were selfies of Annie and her father: Martin\u2019s arm around her shoulder at her college graduation; them clinking beers on a beach in Vancouver. At least a dozen more. Had she sent so many? The captions and hashtags had been carefully cropped out. Annie wanted to tear the pages from their spine. She wanted to spread them around the office and set them on fire. But even that, she suspected, wouldn\u2019t hurt her mother. She slammed the album shut and hid it on a low shelf, behind back issues of scientific journals. It\u2019s been months and she hasn\u2019t looked at it since.<\/p>\n Annie leads Lucia into the living room and points to the Poland albums.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going to play a game,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n The neurologist called it reminiscence therapy, \u201ca way to trigger deep-rooted memories.\u201d Annie picks one from the pile. She balances it on her knees and turns the stiff pages. Her mother fiddles with her knit sweater, eyes unfocused. \u201cMom. Do you know who this is?\u201d Annie points to each photograph. A black and white shot of Lucia\u2019s parents on a porch. A faded Polaroid of distant uncles and aunts. She describes the faces and reads the names aloud, waiting for something to trigger interest. Sepia and greyscale prints make way for colour. Uncountable birthdays and crowded Christmas dinners. In one, a teenaged Lucia laughs with a group of friends in Warsaw\u2019s Old Town Square, her white-blonde hair mussed up by the wind. Behind them is a statue of a mermaid wielding an iron shield and sword, rising above waves.<\/p>\n \u201cSyrena,\u201d Lucia says immediately, making Annie start. Her finger traces circles around the statue, eyes suddenly clear. \u201cDid I ever tell you about the mermaid of Warsaw?\u201d A half-smile curtains her teeth, making tiny wrinkles appear around her mouth. \u201cShe\u2019s a… a wojownik. The protector of sailors and fishermen. I\u2019m sure I read you the myths when you were little.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t remember,\u201d Annie says. \u201cI don\u2019t think you ever read to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou loved those stories,\u201d she goes on, as if she didn\u2019t hear. \u201cYou were very… inteligentna. Like your mama.\u201d She nods proudly and pats Annie on the knee. The gesture is so uncharacteristic that Annie freezes. Finally, she takes her mother\u2019s hand and gives it a tentative, constrained squeeze. Lucia\u2019s fingers feel thin and fragile. Skin like paper, bones like glass.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n End of May. The sky is cloudless, the sun hot on their backs. Damp grass and small budding leaves: a study in chartreuse. It\u2019s the first beautiful spring day and the park is crowded with picnickers and sunbathers. The smell of weed drifts in the breeze.<\/p>\n \u201cOur new album is going to be neo-grunge,\u201d Devon is saying. \u201cLike, Nirvana meets Prince. Heavy on the electric guitar.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUh-huh.\u201d<\/p>\n Annie pops open her second can of beer and smiles, only half listening. She hasn\u2019t seen Devon all winter. When she quit bartending, she fell out of his orbit, and could only assume he\u2019d forgotten all about her. But that afternoon he showed up at the condo with a six-pack under his arm. Annie, who hadn\u2019t had any real fun in months, was swayed. She\u2019d left Genevi\u00e8ve and Lucia in the game room, huddling over a game of checkers.<\/p>\n They\u2019re dappled in shade, but Annie is sweating. The beer swishes in her empty stomach. Splayed on the grass, she\u2019s sleepy, fuzzy-eyed. She can\u2019t focus on Devon\u2019s story\u2014something about a rat living in his apartment\u2014so she smiles inanely. She savours the weight of his hand on her knee.<\/p>\n Bursts of laughter at the fountain make Annie turn. Lucia is sitting at the cement edge, splashing her bare feet in the scummy green water. Children squeal and stare, their ball forgotten. Annie blinks to dispel the insane mirage.<\/p>\n \u201cWoah,\u201d Devon laughs. \u201cI love old folks. They don\u2019t give a shit, you know? They do what they want.\u201d<\/p>\n It is<\/em> Lucia, wearing a long yellow dress that Annie has never seen before. Her arms are bone-white, her hair a silver cloud. With a little cry, she pushes herself into the pond. She\u2019s tall, almost six feet, and the water laps below her chest. Ducks swim nearby, paddling through the murk.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at her go,\u201d Devon crows, delighted. A small group has gathered. They stare and mutter. A few teenagers laugh. Annie does nothing. Her head is foggy. She gulps more beer. \u201cElle a besoin d\u2019aide,\u201d one woman says, cradling her baby, her voice high with concern. She\u2019s trying to get her boyfriend, a big guy in a leather jacket, to jump in. She\u2019s fine<\/em>, Annie silently protests. Look at her, she\u2019s fine<\/em>. He is reluctantly taking off his jacket. A couple of teens have whipped out their smartphones to capture his heroics.<\/p>\n \u201cShit,\u201d Annie says. She pushes herself to her feet. Devon stares. \u201cSorry, I have to…\u201d The sentence hangs, unfinished. She stumbles down the slope, ignoring his bewildered calls. Almost trips. Pushes past the gawking crowd and crouches at the fountain\u2019s wet edge. Her mother is quite close, just a few feet away. Lucia strokes the surface of the water, eyes closed and face tilted up. In the sunlight she looks calm, almost serene. She submerges her head and for a moment she\u2019s a mermaid: silver hair glistening, yellow dress billowing.<\/p>\n \u201cMom!\u201d Annie makes a grab for her mother but misses. \u201cGet out. You need to get out now.\u201d Her legs are heavy, her tongue thick in her mouth.<\/p>\n \u201cOh!\u201d Lucia splashes and opens her eyes, blinking like she\u2019s waking from a dream. As she turns Annie catches hold of her hand, but Lucia shrieks and pulls away. She looks up at Annie and begins to cry. \u201cWho are you?\u201d she sobs. Flailing in the water, arms like windmills. In the sun, her irises are small and dark. \u201cWho are you,\u201d she repeats, over and over. Around her, blood is clouding the water.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Val meets Annie at the hospital. She brings a book of crosswords and oat muffins from the caf\u00e9 across the street. Annie is relieved to see her. Jamal would lecture and console and recite his medical textbooks. Val is quiet. She scribbles and mutters crossword clues as Annie chews on stale oats and ruminates on her failures: the hardened paint tubes abandoned in her closet, the strips of her rejection letter decomposing in the sewers. And now, her mother\u2019s wet dress, balled in a plastic bag on her lap. The blood has tinged the fabric a sickly shade of orange.<\/p>\n She had never seen Lucia so hysterical. It took a long time for Annie to calm her down, but eventually she fell back into herself, becoming passive and listless, timid as a child. The concerned onlooker\u2019s boyfriend lifted her from the water like she weighed nothing. On dry land she looked sick and tiny, a skeleton in a dress. Her left foot had been cleaved by some sunken piece of pond trash, a shattered wine bottle or a rusted-out chain wheel. The amount of blood made Annie woozy. She stammered thank-yous as leather jacket tied his girlfriend\u2019s scarf around her mother\u2019s foot, who sat patiently in the grass. Devon was nowhere to be seen. \u201cTu veux que j\u2019appelle une ambulance?\u201d the woman asked, baby wailing in her arms, but Annie shook her head, not knowing how Lucia would respond to flashing lights and sirens. Her rideshare driver was young, French. He swore at her mother\u2019s soaked dress, at the blood stains on his car mat. Annie was nauseous, unfocused. Her mother\u2019s small, bloody footprints trailed them through the emergency room. There were nurses, doctors, a battery of questions. Finally, Lucia was whisked away for a shower and stitches. From the time they\u2019d left the park, Annie\u2019s mother had said nothing, as if her mind had emptied.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n It\u2019s very late. Lucia is asleep. Clean and bandaged, antibiotics on her nightstand. Outside the moon is full, a perfect circle behind a veil of clouds. Annie sits on the futon and shakes the contents of her purse onto the coffee table. She finds the crumpled pamphlet, spreads it flat, and finds the phone number on the back. Tomorrow, she\u2019ll speak to the receptionist and read off a list of questions. She\u2019ll make an appointment at the residence for the following week.<\/p>\n Annie sits at the kitchen table, presses her face into her hands, and cries. It is more violent than she expects, her tears coming in rhythmic sobs and wheezes. When she\u2019s finished, she pulls a beer from the fridge and sits near the window overlooking the street. Outside, the rain is coming down heavy and cold. Leaves and branches collect in the gutters. Annie watches the deluge and thinks about tide pools. How, when the waters rise and the waves come in, they sink into oblivion. Barnacled rocks slip below the surface, along with the seaweed and plankton and delicate invertebrates. Microcosms vanish in the blink of an eye. \u201cBut not destroyed,\u201d her mother had said, sometime last summer\u2014a lifetime ago. Fingers tapping the kitchen table, voice earnest. \u201cNo, no! They merge with the sea. It\u2019s a cycle, ani dobry, ani \u017ale.\u201d Annie had nodded abstractedly, spooning honey into her mother\u2019s porcelain mug, amber strands swirling and disintegrating. Why had her mind stored this conversation? All those tiny, insignificant details: the crumbs on the table, the smell of toast and oranges. How the light had made her mother\u2019s eyes impossibly blue. Lucia had leaned back, mouth crinkling with some secret, impenetrable joy. Like she knew that everything was right with the world.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Annie is discovering that her mother is sentimental. Nautical charts and weather maps cover her office desk, wrinkled and stained with rings of coffee. Outdated oceanography textbooks and unclaimed student essays gather dust in her cabinets. Not to mention the saltwater aquariums that once held her molluscs: the sea snails and whelks and hard-shell clams. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2247,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[69],"tags":[20],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-4qY","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17048"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2247"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17048"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17048\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17115,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17048\/revisions\/17115"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17048"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17048"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17048"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Megan Callahan<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"