Chapter Six

THE PRESS IS AT JIMMY'Shouse when he wakes up. He parts the blinds and stares, cup of coffee in hand, as they chuckle with one another in the frigid air. He sips and frowns at one of the newscasters who has drifted onto his lawn. He can hear the reporter through the thin pane of glass, practicing his speech. He is lauding Ellie for her resiliency. Jimmy's daughter is the one who got away. People adore a feisty heroine. Ellie is the lucky one. It all makes Jimmy sick—sick and angry. His little girl's name in their mouths. Like most kids in Coldwell, Jimmy grew up ready to fight at a moment's notice. He trembles with the urge to hit something.

A maroon SUV parks along the curb. Sam's car. Jimmy's elder daughter's family wades through the sea of reporters. Sam's wife, Valerie, holds their baby, Mia, in one arm and wraps the other around Sam. Both women hunch and scurry toward the house. Mia wails.

"I said no comment, assholes." Sam slams the door.

Valerie wanders into the corner of the living room, whispering platitudes to Mia. The baby's bawling subsides to a whimper.

"Dad." Then Sam is in his arms, and he's cupping the back of her head while she soaks his shirt with tears. He takes a moment and lets his cheek rest on the top of her head. She does not fit like she did when she was a child, right into the crook of his chest. She doesn't cling like she used to, either. In fact, they don't hug much. Guilt stabs at him; he's enjoying the moment while Ellie is upstairs.

"Where is Ellie? Where's Mom?" comes Sam's muffled voice.

She pulls away and tilts her head up at him, and it is like she's a little girl again. Looking at Jimmy as if he holds the solutions to the universe. It is Jimmy's greatest secret that he knows nothing. He fears someday he will be found out. Fears that someday someone will realize he has spent most of his life up before dawn, just trying to figure out how to get by. You're the man of the house, Jimmy, he remembers his aunt telling him, mouth full of potato salad, after his dad died when he was eight. You take care of your family. "They're both sleeping."

Sam nods, then her eyes narrow at a pack of cigarettes on the mantel. "I thought Mom quit." Adult Sam is back. Sam was ten when Ellie was born. She'd been excited about a little sister. Had been a little helper, a second mother. And it stayed that way for the rest of her life. It does not escape Jimmy that Sam sometimes tries to mother her own mother, him too. When Sam had Mia, it was clear she planned to do things differently than her parents did. Better was heavily implied. He supposed that was the natural way of things, wanting to fix your parents' mistakes. Jimmy is left-handed, and his father had forced him to use his right. When Kat had been pregnant with Sam, Jimmy made a big deal of never asking his kid to change.

Jimmy runs a hand through his hair, surprised at how thin it is. He wonders if he's been asleep the last two years and is only awake now, with the world completely changed around him. "Cut her some slack, would you? It's been a rough night."

"She needs to learn better coping mechanisms," Sam says. "You're enabling her."

Enable. Sam had said something similar about how he and Kat parented Ellie. When Ellie stole Sam's ID, Sam wanted them to report it to the police. It's identity fraud, she'd exclaimed. You have to report her. If you don't, it's enabling. She'll never learn. Sam's need for control doubled after Ellie disappeared, then tripled when she had Mia. When Kat watched Mia, Sam brought over typed annotated schedules. You may let Mia cry for seven minutes when you put her down, then go back in and gently reassure her you are there but DO NOT PICK HER UP. She can have anything organic and nothing with more than 3g of sugar. This is the ripple. Sam will be strict with Mia. Because Sam always thought they were too soft on Ellie. Maybe being strict will work. But most likely not. He should have taught his daughters that you cannot save yourself from heartbreak. You cannot save yourself from grief.

"How is she?" Sam asks.

"I don't know," is all he says, honestly. The floorboards in the hallway squeak. And then Ellie appears, a specter in the doorway.

Sam gasps and cups her hands over her mouth.

Valerie smiles, bouncing Mia. "Ellie, it's good to see you again. Welcome home. This is your niece, Mia."

Ellie blinks, turns, and walks away. They hear the back door slam. Sam steps forward, but Jimmy throws up a hand. "I'll go."

Outside, the garage door is open. Boxes line the walls. Old bikes with flat tires lean on each other; there is a broken shop vac, a dented bumper. Jimmy has a hard time throwing things away, believing someday they may need them. It is always good to have something to sell. It is Jimmy's greatest shame Kat worked at the salon while she was pregnant and after she had the girls. He knew Kat was ashamed, too. She used to tell the girls at the shop she was working to keep herself busy. Then she'd come home and add up her tips, carefully stacking the bills. One pile for formula. Another for diapers. Too many times to count, he's had to go to one of those check-cashing places with interest around twenty percent. He always went late, right before closing, and could never look the teller in the eye.

"Ellie, you in here?" he calls, and finds her at the very back, at the workbench.

"I'm just getting some air," she says. She hasn't showered and wears one of Jimmy's old jackets, the size is too big and the color—sand—washes her out.

He steps forward and picks up a plastic pipe, rolling it around in his hands. It's small, only six inches, with capped edges. It's a remnant from when he fixed some duct work at the house. "You get this down?" He holds it up. The tip of his left ring finger is missing. He'd been out on the boat and alone when fishing wire twisted around his finger, slicing it clean off. Blood soaking the deck, he'd wrapped up his hand and finished his day before stopping by the ER on the way home.

A flush sweeps across Ellie's cheeks. A similar reaction when Jimmy asked her about stealing Sam's license way back when. "No," she states.

Jimmy sighs and decides to let it go. He does not want to cause friction. It's not a big deal. He places the pipe back up high and faces Ellie, crossing his arms. "There is a lot of press outside. Sam is inside. I've got some work to do on the boat, was thinking of heading to the docks." It's how they used to connect, out on the water. Ellie would come with him on short fishing runs and test her dead reckoning skills or chart the stars.

Ellie curls her hands in. "That sounds good."

A rush of relief. Finally, something he can fix. "We can stop on the way and pick up a new phone for you." He already has his phone out and is texting Kat and Sam that he's taking Ellie away.

Ellie shakes her head as if dislodging something unpleasant. Her eyes are dark with guilt, and she glances down. "I don't need a phone."

Jimmy draws in a breath. Now he remembers. They'd fought about a new phone before she disappeared. It was why she had the motel party, Jimmy later learned. It seems like such a small issue now. The most inconsequential thing. Especially because Jimmy and Kat were doing all right then financially. They could have pinched their pennies, gotten Ellie a new phone. Saved her life. Jimmy thinks about choices people make. How a decision cascades. How one event can change everything.

"Sure you do. I bet we can get the same number. We never… we never canceled your plan. We'll get you a new phone," he insists, and Ellie doesn't say anything. But she does follow him out of the garage and into his truck.

Jimmy's boat is called Turmoil. She is forty-six feet of fiberglass, aluminum, and wood. Her paint is peeling, the deck is stained with rust and fish blood, and sometimes the engine smokes. But she is a good boat. Reliable and worthy of trips all the way to Alaska. Ellie stands on the deck next to the cargo hatch, peering into eleven thousand pounds of tuna on ice. Jimmy imagines hundreds of round black eyes staring back up at her, questioning. She has not spoken very much since they left. Only a begrudging thank-you when he pressed the new phone into her hand. She left it in the car.

Jimmy pulls a bag of coarse salt across the deck. He's wearing thick gloves. "Back up." Ellie steps away, and he dumps the salt into the hatch. It will mix with the water to make a brine, which will keep the tuna frozen until he can process and sell it. It also causes moderate to severe burns. Jimmy's arms are flecked with red spots from the brine.

Ellie wanders to the railing, wind blowing hair in her face, and he watches her. "You want to take her out awhile?" he yells over the sound of water pumping into the cargo hatch. Jimmy is a solemn man, but the ocean opens him up. He believes everything is ten times more beautiful when you're on the water. He used to believe the ocean swallowed problems. But he doesn't anymore.

He knew Kat was pissed when he went out on the boat three days after Ellie disappeared. Honest to god, he'd stared into the ocean and thought of throwing himself over. He had failed at protecting his daughter. He deserved to die. He hated himself. But he'd come back. And thought himself a coward because he couldn't do it. He wanted to live. To be with Kat. To fish and remember Ellie and the good times. His baby girl was all over the boat. Standing at the helm, face turned up, laughing at the sea spray. Behind the wheel, tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth as they navigated home by the stars. Dancing on the deck to Motown and singing to the fish. They'd been happy then.

She's gripping the railing now, and her eyes are squeezed shut, and Jimmy can tell something is wrong. Askew. He struggles to find words. He'd been a quiet boy and had a slight lisp when he was younger. Kids at school made fun of him, called him a girl. So he kind of stopped speaking after that. Used the least amount of words possible. While Jimmy is quiet, Ellie darts away.

"Ellie," Jimmy calls, but she's already climbing the ladder and running down the dock. "Shit. Shit. Shit." He rips the gloves from his hands, remnants of the brine burning his fingers, and chases her. He flashes on a memory of Ellie at age four, running from him, lost in a hurricane of a temper tantrum. She hadn't been looking where she was going and ran toward the ocean. A wave came, knocked her down, and he scooped her up before the ocean could take her. He relives that moment now. The sickening dread, the fear you may lose something precious. After he'd rescued her, he'd tossed her up in the air, crying and laughing at the same time.

Now, he slows, seeing her waiting for him by the truck. The tin-roofed cannery is behind her. Once, it boasted hundreds of jobs, and now, only a few, most replaced by machines. Big companies are buying up commercial boats and licenses. Jimmy has had offers for seven figures. But he won't take it. It's his legacy. He is from a long line of laborers, of maimed men, underpaid men. Salt of the earth men. Jimmy believes all of his self-worth lies on the boat. In the blood-soaked planks and peanut butter sandwiches. He lumbers forward and watches as Ellie plucks a white piece of paper from the windshield. She stares at it, face drawn, then crumples it in her palm. Jimmy is still regaining his breath when he reaches her. He feels old. Out of shape. "Jesus Christ, you can't… you can't run off like that!"

"Sorry," Ellie whispers. She's shaking. Her lips and chin tremble, and Jimmy thinks he's made her afraid by yelling. Rage explodes behind Jimmy's eyes. Not at Ellie. But at whoever did this to her. His daughter has never been afraid of him before.

A car door slams and they both turn toward the noise. Detective Calhoun steps out of her plain sedan and waves. "Morning." She smiles bright and walks toward them.

The paper falls from Ellie's hand, and Jimmy stoops to pick it up. It's a postcard with birch trees on the front and the number three sharpied on the back. Other cars in the lot are peppered with bright-colored flyers pinned under their windshields, different from the postcard. Odd.

But then again… lots of folks come through Coldwell as a stopover on their way to the Olympic National Forest. The woods draw all types. Those who are lost. Those seeking to be lost. Those with something to say. It's not unusual for cryptic flyers to appear on your doorstep or under your windshield or pinned to telephone poles—proselytizations flapping in the Coldwell wind. Jimmy recrumples the postcard and throws it into the back of his truck. It lands near the leaflet someone left last week on his windshield. A plain white folded piece of paper with nine words printed on the inside: MAY YOU NEVER IGNORE YOUR GROWING SENSE OF DISQUIET.