Page 34 of The Words We Lost

“Yes, I’m good now,” Ingrid said. “Thank you.”

“I might need proof of that. You were shivering pretty hard a minute ago.”

“Is that why you’re weirdly trying to pat my face right now?”

“It wouldn’t be weird if you stopped squirming,” he teased. “I’m trying to take the temperature of your nose. It’s what my mom always did when she was trying to convince me I needed to wear a coat when I was younger.”

“Sounds quite scientific.”

“Oh, it is.” The outline of Joel’s arm was white-washed under the moon’s glow; even still, Cece could clearly see him touch Ingrid’s nose. “Still feels pink to me.”

“Not sure my nose has ever been pink. I’m half Chinook, remember?”

“I could never forget, trust me.”

Ingrid propped her head on the heel of her hand, mirroring Joel’s position. Then he reached out to touch the black ring on her finger.

“I’m guessing this must have a story.” Joel’s voice was a curious kind of content. “I’ve never seen you without it.”

“I don’t take it off,” Ingrid supplied easily. “My mom had one just like it before I was born; my dad found it for her on a beach not too far from here. It was the only ring she wore—she wasn’t one for fancy jewelry. It’s said to be one of the rarest types of sea glass. The center is almost transparent, with a purple hue you can only see when the light shines through it. Most are over a hundred years old when they get to this stage.”

“Cece told me you call sea glass ‘ocean tears.’”

Cece quickly lowered her eyes back to her notebook. It was dark and shadowy inside the cabin, but the moon shone bright through the windows, casting an almost magical illumination on her cousin and best friend.

“My dad started calling them that after my mom died.”

“So this ring wasn’t hers?”

“No, Mom lost hers when we were swimming, back before she got sick. I don’t remember it, but my dad said she cried for a week. He searched every beach to find her another one, even tried to buy one to replace it, but never found one large enough to fit into a setting. Until my fifteenth birthday. Dad and I were here, actually. In Port Townsend on a short fishing run. And the second we stepped out of the marina, it was there on the shore, just sitting next to my dad’s big foot. He told me it must be a kiss from my mom to me. He’s not really into birthday presents or gifts at all, but that year he paid for me to get it set into this band. I’ve worn it ever since and have never seen another one like it.”

“That’s a better story than I would have guessed.”

Joel tucked a strand of hair behind Ingrid’s ear, his hushed voice unusually tender. “Will you tell me about her? How old were you when she passed?”

Cece set her pen down and strained to hear how Ingrid would answer this sensitive line of questioning. Joel seemed to elicit something different from her friend. And strangely, Cece didn’t mind being on the outside looking in this time.

“She died two weeks after my sixth birthday, almost twelve years ago now. My mom was sick for a long time. It’s hard for me to remember moments with her outside of her bed.” She paused. “I used to imagine what she’d look like using a vacuum or making dinner at a stovetop or walking to the playground with me like the moms I saw in my children’s books, but I don’t have actual memories of her doing any of those things.” She took a second before restarting. “She taught me to love books and taught me to read by the time I was four. I was reading at a fourth-grade level when she passed away. I read everything I could get my hands on.”

“Smarty,” Joel teased quietly, and Ingrid smiled.

“Hardly. I’m sure there’s so much I’ve missed by schooling myself on the boat—in math, especially. But Dad always says life experience is more important than book smarts.”

“But you want to go to college?”

“More than anything. I want to understand the classics, how to think and speak about them, maybe even how to teach my own literature class someday.”

“I’m sure your mom would be proud.” Joel wrapped a strand of her hair around his fingers.

Ingrid made a contemplative noise. “There is this one thing I remember about her clearly—something she did only for me.”

Joel released her hair, giving her his undivided attention. “Tell me.”

“Toward the end of her life, when speaking took too much of her strength, I would crawl into her bed beside her, and she would slip her hand over her heart like this”—Ingrid lowered the blankets to flatten her palm to her chest—“and then she’d pat it three times. Once for every word.” Cece strained to hear the sound of each one of the three thumps. “It was how she told me she loved me. And then I would tell herback the same way. It was our own secret language, not even my dad knew about it.”

Joel’s voice sounded constricted when he spoke again. “She sounds really special. Like you. Your dad’s a pretty lucky guy.”

“Not sure he’d agree with the lucky part.” Ingrid shifted in the blankets and propped her head on the pillow, tugging the blankets underneath her chin. “He’s missed out on a lot because of me. A lot of opportunities and jobs he would have taken if he wasn’t stuck raising a daughter on his own.”

---