The Winner's Game (5 page)

“Dell,” my mom says calmly, “don't threaten to cancel the trip. That's not necessary.”

He takes his eyes off the road and stares at her in disbelief. “Why are you undermining me? I'm trying to make a point here so they're not pulling this kind of crap all summer, and you go and say something like that?”

“It's your tone,” she says without looking at him. “It's no wonder the kids raise their voices so much.”

Dad focuses once more on the road and mumbles, “Oh, here we go again with the tone thing. I'm always using the wrong tone…” After letting the dust settle a little, he returns his attention to the rearview mirror. “Sorry for the interruption, kids. Now then, are you ready to behave yourselves, or should I turn around?”

“I be ready.”

“Me too,” chirps Bree. “Sorry, Ann. I didn't mean to get, you know, you and your heart all excited with the sirens.”

Ann is all smiles by now. “Are you kidding? That was hilarious. What other messages did you put in the window?”

For a split second, panic shows on Bree's face, and I know what she is thinking. “Oh, nothing much,” she says. “Just boring stuff.”

“Well, let me see.”

“Nah. They're stupid.
Just dumb stuff asking people to honk and wave.”

Ann is no dummy. Bree's resistance is more than enough to make her suspect that we're hiding something. She also knows, on account of her heart, that she can pretty much get my parents to do anything she wants, so she immediately turns to them. “Mom, Bree and Cade won't let me see the other things they wrote.”

“Bree?” my mother asks.

“Give 'em to her, guys,” Dad says flatly.

“But—”

“No ‘buts'!” barks Dad before Bree can finish her rebuttal. He gives my mom a quick sideways glance to see if she is going to scold him for raising his voice.

I hand the full stack of papers to Ann. It takes her all of about five seconds to get to the one about her. “Who wrote this?” she shrieks. Her face turns instantly red, which means her heart is working overtime. “You two are jerks, you know that?”

“Dimwit wrote that one,” says Bree quickly. “Mine were completely harmless.”

Harmless? Yours brought the cops!

“How do either of you know if I've been kissed or not?”

“Well, have ye?”

“It's none of your business!”

“Ann,” my mom says, “please, let's not get all riled up. Just take a deep breath and we'll sort this out.”

Ann's face is still burning, but she takes a long breath through her nose before turning back to me and asking, “Cade, why would you write something like that?”

It's a fair question. I take a moment to think how best to answer in Pirateese. “Well, ye ain't ever had a boyfriend, an' ye ain't ever brought a swashbuckler home fer dinner or studying, so I have to think ye ain't ever been kissed.”

“Ahhh! Dad, will you
please
make him stop talking like that. It's driving me nuts!”

“Cade,” says Dad, using his “this-is-the-last-straw” voice, “enough is enough. Talk-Like-a-Pirate Day is officially over.
Savvy
?”

Ann sneers, gloating at the power she holds over me on account of her weak heart.

“Poop deck,” I mumble as I turn again toward the rear window.

“Enough from
everyone
,” says Mom, raising her voice for the first time. “We're only half an hour away. I want complete silence until we get there. Nod if you understand.”

“Watch your tone, hun,” says my dad casually as my mom's face turns cherry red. “It's no wonder the kids raise their voices so much.”

T
HERE IS STILL
plenty of daylight left when we pull to a stop at the beach house, which sits along a cute little road running parallel to the beach. Dad backs the van into the driveway, right beside Grandma's old car, leaving me an open view of the sandy shoreline that will serve as our backyard for the next three months. Beyond the sand, at the crest of the waves, is Haystack Rock, a monolith jutting up to meet the sinking sun. Even with the windows up I can hear the surf pounding against it.

Before Dad turns off the car, Cade is already climbing over the seat toward the door. I bet the rotten little pirate in him can hardly wait to get out and make a dash for the sea, but Dad has different plans. “Nobody does anything,” he warns as he unlocks the car doors with the push of a button, “until everyone is unpacked and settled in.” Turning to my mom, he asks, “Did you mention the sleeping arrangements yet, Emily?”

Dad's question barely reaches my ears before Ann blurts out, “Dibs on the downstairs bedroom!”

We've stayed here enough times to know the layout of the place. The master and one guest room are on the main floor, with a much smaller third bedroom upstairs near the door to the attic. The master is obviously the biggest of the three, but the other two rooms have the best views of the beach.

“Then I call upstairs!” I yell a split second later.

As the obvious loser in the bedroom race, Cade throws his hands up in frustration. “Where am I sleeping, then? On the floor.”

“No,” Mom reassures him, “you'll have a bed.” She looks at Dad, then adds, “Most nights, anyway. The master bedroom still has all of Grandma's stuff in it, so we want to leave that alone for the time being. Which means your father and I will be in the other downstairs bedroom. There are two twin beds in there, so when your father is away during the week, you can share that room with me. On weekends, you get the couch. But Ann and Bree, you'll both be upstairs on the bunk bed.”

“I have to
share
?” Ann blurts out.

“With
her
?” I ask. “Totes lame.”

“Totes
fine
,” Mom corrects. “You'll survive, ladies. You're sisters, for Pete's sake. There's nothing wrong with sharing.”

Dad is already walking toward the house. “C'mon, gang,” he calls, “let's get settled. Cade, you carry Ann's suitcase, please.”

“Again?”

“Just do it, son. Be a pal.”

The house looks big from the outside, but I'm always surprised how small it feels on the inside.

“Where the heck am I supposed to play?” asks Cade as we walk through the front door.

Dad wraps an arm around him and whispers, “Please don't be negative. Remember, we're really here for Ann. And your great-grandma. You may have to play outside, but that's what the beach is for, right?”

Cade nods, then runs over to look at the beach through the rear window.

I glance at Ann, who is investigating a halibut mounted like a picture on the wall. It never ceases to amaze me how
fishy
this place is. After decades of living here, Grandma—and Grandpa, too, when he was alive—collected more sea-junk than anyone should be allowed. Above the halibut-art, hanging by its mouth on an oversized hook, is a stuffed puffer fish, blown up to its fullest and wired with a bulb to make a creepy overhead lamp. It fits right in, though, because every room in the place is decked out in a gag-worthy assortment of coastal crap—seagull-print wallpaper in the living room, mini-lighthouses in the kitchen, seashells in both bathrooms, fishing nets in the master bedroom, anchors in the guest room, and starfish in the bunk-bed room upstairs. The half bath upstairs even has a hand-tooled sign on the door that reads,
FOR BUOYS AND GULLS
. High-traffic areas are floored with sand-colored tiles, while the living room, bedrooms, and stairs are covered by a thick, sea-blue shag carpet.

“It's perfect,” declares Mom after we've all taken a quick tour to reacquaint ourselves with the place.

Perfect? More like a Little Mermaid horror film.
“It smells salty,” I point out.

“I like the smell,” Cade says. “It covers up your perfume.”

“I like it too,” remarks Ann before I can fire back at Cade. “It's like we're breathing the ocean with every breath. Mom's right, it's perfect for the summer.” She pauses and looks directly at me. “Except for sharing a room.”

“Believe me,” I sigh, “the feeling is mutual.”

Dad is standing in the kitchen, examining the floor in every direction. Now that he technically owns the place, he has a more critical eye than in past visits. “I feel a little…
off
. Does anyone else feel seasick?”

“I do,” I tell him, raising my hand. “I think it's the carpet.”

We all watch as Dad takes a pen from his pocket and sets it down on the tile near his feet. “I wonder,” he says softly. When he lets go of the pen, it begins rolling, slowly but surely toward the other side of the kitchen. “Wow, the house is off-kilter.”

“You're kidding,” says Mom.

“Gravity doesn't lie, but I'm surprised I've never noticed it before. It's probably just the sandy foundation, settled a bit over time. This is why the wise man built his house upon a rock.” He stops to think. “That might reduce its value some. We'll have to get it looked at before we sell.”

“Well, I don't care,” Mom says, undeterred. “It's still perfect. A perfect place for us to create perfect memories with our perfect children this summer.”

“And with Cade,” I say pointedly.

Mom grins and drapes an arm around Cade's shoulder. “Yes, Breezy,” she says with a laugh, “and with Cade.”

After we unpack our suitcases, Mom takes a drive to the local market while Dad takes the rest of us for a short walk on the beach. The sun has already dropped to just above the waterline, leaving the entire horizon bathed in a fiery brew of orange and purple.

I can't help but notice that Ann keeps filling her lungs with long, deep breaths as we pace through the sand. After one particularly long breath, she twirls around, lifting her hands high above her head, and exclaims, “I could die today and be perfectly happy.”

“Well, don't,” I tell her, “because I don't want to have to live alone with you-know-who.” With my head, I motion to Cade.

“I was joking. Chill.”

“I wasn't,” I mutter.

Ann takes another huge breath, letting it out slowly, savoring it. “Don't you feel it? The crash of the waves, the roar, the spray—it just makes me feel so alive.”

“That's what we want,” my father says as he bends over to draw in the sand with his finger. He makes a heart. “Being here is all about feeling alive.” For a second or two he and Ann share a peaceful daddy-daughter stare. “It's about you living, Ann, and getting a new one of these.” He stands up and brushes the sand from his finger.

“Then it's also about dying,” Cade blurts out. “Because if you're getting a new heart, then someone out there is going to have to have a very bad summer.”

Ann's face sinks like an anchor. “Thank you so very much for reminding me of that,” she says, her eyes turning suddenly red and welling up with tears. “Way to ruin the moment.” She turns immediately and marches back to the house.

“Nice job, Dimwit,” I say.

Dad shakes his head. “You've got to learn to keep some thoughts to yourself, Cade.”

“But it's true, Dad. I don't want Ann to die, but I don't want
anyone
to die.”

He smiles half-heartedly and ruffles Cade's hair. “I know you don't. But can I tell you something? As a parent, I'm selfish. I want Ann to live a long, long time. So if someone has to die this summer—and I wish they didn't—but if that's God's plan, then I pray to God that it isn't your sister.” Dad reaches out and gives Cade a little squeeze on the shoulder. “C'mon, son.” He turns back to me and motions for me to follow them.

I don't move. “Can I just stay here a little longer?” The words come quietly from my mouth, but are carried to his ears on the steady breeze. “Just until the sun sets?”

At first I'm sure he'll say no, that a teenage girl shouldn't be alone on the beach. But then maybe he sees something in my expression, because he relaxes. “Don't wander off,” he cautions. “And the tide is coming in, so don't get too close to the water. We'll see you in a little bit.”

Once he is out of sight, I head straight for the water. Not too close, though—just 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 hasn't been touched by the water. With a stick, I draw a small shape in the sand—a tiny heart, like the one my dad made with his finger.

Only mine looks more like my sister's heart: imperfect and slightly misshapen.

When it comes to art—and to me, even simple sketches in the sand should be treated as art—I'm a perfectionist. I don't want to draw one like Ann's, 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 shouldn't 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 heart—
Ann's heart
, in the middle—as 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. “Why can't you just leave her alone?” I ask the ocean. Or God. Or whoever.

The ocean doesn't 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 aren't meant to last
.

“Hey, stranger. We were about to send a rescue crew,” jokes Mom when I finally come in from the beach through the back door. She's at the stove stirring a pot of spaghetti. With a little curtsy she says, “What do you think of my apron? It was hanging in the pantry, just begging to be worn.”

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 Mom's chin, spiny legs wrapped around her back as ties, and two giant claws joined behind her neck to keep it up. “It's…sick,” I tell her.

“Is that good or bad these days?”

I chuckle. “Take another look at what you're wearing, and you tell me.”

“Well, there's not much cooking left to do, but there's also a lobster-apron in the pantry if you want to try it on.”

“Nah, I'm good.”

She winks at me and then goes back to stirring noodles.

“Have you seen Ann?”

“She's upstairs resting, I think.”

Cade and Dad are engrossed in a game of backgammon as I pass through the living room. “Welcome back,” says Dad before I reach the sea-blue stairwell.

“Hey,” 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 “the girls'” 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 wasn't doing something that she probably shouldn't. But when she sees it's just me, she relaxes and gives me a half smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply. “So…how you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Has Cade apologized yet?”

“For what?”

Seriously?
“Duh. For what he said out there on the beach.”

It takes her a moment to think. Then she bobs her head indifferently. “He was telling the truth. I just didn't want to hear it right then.” She pauses. “It's just so…weird.”

“What is?”

“The whole transplant thing. You know, about someone else dying. I try to block it out, because sometimes I'm not even sure I want someone else's heart beating inside me.”

I nod as though I understand, though I can't even begin to understand how that must make her feel. “So what were you writing on the bed?”

She grins. “I was watching you on the beach after we left.” There are two windows in the room; she points to the one on the wall facing the beach. Cade's binoculars are resting on the sill. “You inspired me. Want to see?”

Ann scoots over on her bed to make room. When I see what she's drawn, I have to swallow. On the plywood above us is a misshapen, Sharpie-red heart, with a slightly larger heart traced around it.

“A heart in a heart,” she says soberly, “because, like it or not, someone else's heart might end up in me.”

“Might?”

“
Will,
” she corrects.

“That's really cool, Ann. Are you going to make it bigger?”

“Yeah, but not tonight. I want to add one new heart for each day we're here, kind of like rings on a tree. The heart will continue to grow each day until I get my new one.”

“Cool,” I say again, deeply impressed that I've somehow inspired her.