by Christy Hartman
My daughter pushes a salt-crusted curl off her face, crouching to examine the pebbles surrounding the tidepool. Show her where it is, Dad.
Ruthie’s delighted squeal signals a discovery. “Mom, look!” My twelve-year-old expertly hops over the rocky shore, a piece of sea glass in her palm.
“Oh cool, another brown one.” I open my father’s leather-bound notebook and tick a box in the correct column.
“It’s amber mom.” Ruthie rolls her eyes. “Grandpa says only amateurs call it brown.”
I flinch. My therapist says it’s normal for her to refer to him in the present tense, but it rattles me every time. “Let’s try down there, by the driftwood.”
Ruthie flies over the rocky beach. Yawning, I follow, careful not to roll an ankle. Dad’s ghost is everywhere on this beach. His laughter bubbles up from the cresting waves, he sings Merle Haggard ballads on the sea-salt breeze, and his unrestrained joy lives on in my daughter, scouring the stones for a glimmer of glass. He and Ruthie were kindred spirits, I never shared their exuberance for rocks, shells, and critters. Dad’s sudden illness and death over Christmas shattered Ruthie; spending the summer here is my attempt to pick up the pieces.
The foamy edge of the ocean rolls over my toes. Soon the tide will cover any remaining treasure. “Let’s head back for lunch kiddo, my shoulders are getting burnt.”
“Found one!” Ruthie holds up a cloudy fragment. “It’s just white, but a really cool shape.”
The water laps at my ankles. “Great! Now let’s go before the ocean swallows us.”
Her smile fades. “We haven’t been to Grandpa’s cove yet.”
“We’ll come back later.” I ruffle her hair.
Ruthie jerks away. “Fine!” She stomps up the grassy path, rubbing the sea glass between her fingers.
Back in the bungalow, Ruthie disappears into her room. My enthusiastic treasure-hunter is replaced by a sullen pre-teen wanting nothing to do with me. I make BLTs and leave one outside her door with a can of Coke.
I carry the wooden box to the patio to have lunch with Dad.
Was I like Ruthie, Dad? She just hides in her room, or snaps at me for looking at her the wrong way.
Happy chatter of a family walking the shoreline drifts on the breeze.
Why couldn’t your deathbed confession be an affair, or a body buried under the floorboards? I hate lying and I am pissed that you’re making me do it.
Dad had whispered his secret in my ear during an endless hospital evening, Ruthie curled like a kitten on the vinyl sofa behind us, “I bought the glass.”
“What?” I took his hands between mine. Teal veins pulsed under the paper-thin skin.
“The sea glass.” Dad’s breath rattles in his chest. “For Ruthie.”
In the whirlwind of funeral plans, lawyers, and banks, I hadn’t thought of these last words again until I’d watched Ruthie wander the beach for hours during our first days here, always returning to the little house with nothing but wind-burned cheeks and grief. Cursing my well-meaning father, I’d placed an Amazon order for quick delivery.
I need to tell her the truth, Dad. Prepare whoever else is listening up there for some tween rage coming your way.
A door slams inside. I balance my empty plate on the box and steel myself. Ruthie’s door is open and the room my parents decorated for their only granddaughter is empty. My stomach drops when I see the yellow package on the comforter. Piles of machine-smoothed brown and white sea glass spill from the plastic bag next to Dad’s old ledger book.
Shit.
The waves slam against the crag, producing a perpetual mist over the beach below.
“Ruthie!” I shout over the rush of the sea.
She turns to me, red-faced, screaming into the wind. “I hate you! And Grandpa, and this stupid beach, and these stupid pieces of garbage.” Ruthie throws handfuls of glass pieces into the churning water.
I run forward, slip and tumble, the box under my arm crashing onto the algae-covered stones. We stare at the splintered wood, ash spilling from the upturned box.
Dad, I can’t do this without you.
I pull my knees to my chest; sharp rocks press into my legs. I sob until Ruthie sits down, sliding her arm around me. Icy water falls over us, turning the grey ash black.
Ruthie’s shoulders shake. “Grandpa’s literally turning to sludge.” She laughs so hard I can barely understand her. “Why did you bring that here?”
I’m hysterical. Tears of horror and laughter stream down my cheeks. “I thought we’d have a nice moment. Spread his ashes in the ocean.”
“Too late now.” Ruthie hiccups, sitting next to me. “But he’ll end up there soon.”
“We should say something.” I tilt my head to the sky, closing my eyes against the salty mist. “You were a wonderful dad and an amazing grandpa.”
“God, you’re so cheesy.” Ruthie poked at the nearby pebbles. “Grandpa, I’m mad you put the sea glass on the beach. But thanks for loving me enough to do it.”
“Hey, look.” I point at a speck by her toes.
Ruthie picks up a pale piece of glass; ribbons of fuchsia and pale pink entwine through it. “Where’d you buy this one?”
“I didn’t.” I touch the smooth surface. “I swear.”
“My favourite colours.” Her damp head presses into my shoulder. “Grandpa must’ve left it for me.”
The tide inches forward.
“I’m sorry I lied,” I whisper. “I wanted to help you.”
“I miss him.”
“Me too.”
Ruthie and I hold each other tight and watch the tide pull his ashes into the sea.
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Elegant Literature, Sci-Fi Shorts, Fairfield Scribes, and others.
January House Literary Journal 
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