I never slept well when there was a storm.

[Disclaimer: Contains themes that may be considered violent, disturbing, and/or dark in nature.]

“Fine, I’ll say this one. You should know. Got my coffee now, too.

“Was at that clam shack at Scarborough with family. Was ten years old. Were outside at a spool table. Just like the photo on the way up here that you hung up.

“Grampa was across me, petting the twins’ brown hair. Happy crows feet. Arms had cancer scabs.

“Twins, Mark and Jen, were five years old. Wearing GAP outfits, like they did on that boat.

“Pop and Mum were at the right and left of me. Matching white shirts and black shorts.

“Mum wore that straw hat holding down her brown hair. Wore large black sunglasses to block us and the sun out.

“Pop adjusted his cap to itch his head and hide his bald spot ruining his haircut. Was light blonde. Changed with the season. Bent the brim, trying to do the same.

“Twins guzzled chocolate milk. Table got fries with salt and vinegar. Got a Connecticut Roll somehow. Seasoned it with butter, took a bite. Pop drenched the thing with butter.

“Said ‘You can’t even get fat right.’

“Spat it out on the table after another bite, nearly barfed. Mark called me fat from under Grampa’s hand. Jen glared.

“Went to the beach next to the shack. Murder of seagulls wandering and flying. Teens trying to kill them with pebbles. Sky was overcast, cold. Mum said to get rocks and shooed me away. Had long, pale arms. Blue nails. Was still in college then.

“Headed left. Remembered this beach. Were big boulders getting eroded by waves. Seagulls nested in the cliffside. Kent was helping me, nice guy. Was a half-black kid in his red swim trunks and black tank. We’d go this place every summer as kids. Wasn’t at Scarborough, but it was here. Think it was Briggs Beach. Helped me with getting rocks. Said I let Pop yank my chain. Couldn’t argue but he’s family.

“Got back with Kent. Pop stabbed the sand with the umbrella stake. Beat Kent up with a beach chair that was folded up. Told me to put the rocks in the hole around the umbrella stake. I poured them in.

“Screamed at me, ‘Can’t you do anything as you’re told?’

“Mum opened the green and white umbrella, unfolded the chair dad beath with Kent, sat down, grabbed cigarettes, took out a wine bottle, took a drag, opened the bottle with her back teeth, spit out the cork, poured into a solo cup, nested the bottle into the sand, put her thumb around the bottleneck with the lit cigarette in her fingers, took out a Connecticut Roll, and ate.

“Said ‘Not, yuh, mawm. Quit staring at me.’

“Twins stole the shade. Were in bathing suits.

“Mark said ‘Get out, you’re too fat.’

“Jen stared at me. I left.

“Sky got darker. Caught up with Grampa. Was shin deep in water. Hand in his pocket. Seagulls perched on his shoulders. Fed them fries. Said ‘Water’s warm, it’s September.’

“Went in the water with him. Looked at the nautical horizon.

“Said, ‘There’s a fishing pole. Should grab it. Keep you busy with me.’

“Wind picked up. Umbrella got carried by a gust of wind and tumbled us. I lugged it out of the ocean to Mum. Was in her chair, reading some magazine. Letters didn’t make sense. My mother was on the cover in her green summer dress, sweet potato pie on the counter. Was my favorite photo from her wake.

“Said ‘Y’ever think of yuh brothuh and sistuh or just yuhself?’.

“Made myself useful. All I could do.

“Set the umbrella back up. Twins got back in the shade. Didn’t want to be in it but kicked me out anyway. Took the fishing pole that was in a bag Pop carried.

“Jen said, ‘You’re always dead weight.’

Mark spat on my foot and called me fat.

“Ocean salt mixed in the air with trash and cigarette smoke. Sunlight dimmed. Grampa was out there looking. Call to him. Run over. Was happy to see me.

“Asked him ‘Should we go to the shore?’

“Said ‘Get us Klondike Bars. I’ll get us dinner’ Took the fishing pole, grabbed a worm from his pocket and cast out the line.

“Went to the basket at the umbrella and then there was nothing but jars of pills, condoms, and sunscreen. Twins had the Klondike Bars. Three each.

“Told them ‘That was for everyone,’ and they stared back at me.

“Mark called me fat again and pointed at my gray shirt, soaked in sweat and saltwater draping my chunky stomach.

“Pop said ‘Quit your bitching.’

“Look to the shoreline to tell Grampa. Gone.

“Ask Mum ‘Where’s Grampa?’

“Said ‘Join em already.’

“Ran to the ocean thinking it was advice. Fishing pole swam with the waves. Sky got darker, like nightfall. At noon.

“Got out the water. Mum, Mark, and Jen were gone. Pop sat staring at me. Umbrella still in the ground, bent to an angle now. Towels scattered on the sand. Sprinted after to get them. Wrap the fishing pole in one. Pop sat on two towels.

“Ask him ‘Where’d they go?’

“‘Since when do you care?’ asked me back, blank face.

“Said, ‘We need to find them.’

“’Since when do you care?’ asked again.

“Walked the beach, listening to the waves, seagulls, sand beneath our feet getting kicked and pushed, the beach weeds and bushes rustling from the wind. Kept an ear out for them.

“Pop said ‘Knew I hated you for a reason.’

“Rain fell. Kept walking. Sand was tough. Muddy. Legs wore out. Time we reached a sand bar, was the man you see now. Pop found a shack of driftwood. Silently agree to go there with him.

“Pop looked at me and the fishing pole. Walked past. Stood still.

“Said to him, ‘Let’s sit a bit. Storm’s not letting up. Maybe they’ll run in here.

“Said like he said a long time back, ‘Been dead eight years and you act like it was yesterday,’ with a moonlit smile.

“Saw Grampa in the hospital bed, back of the shack, behind Pop. Soul escaped his yellow, scabbed body from his mouth. Got up. Rest the fishing pole on his lap. Turn to Pop.

“Said ‘Let’s keep looking.’

“Said like he said little while back: ‘Wasn’t a chance. Was a choice. You failed. Failed deliberately. Mark and Jen are gone. You act like God took them yesterday. But you did that twenty years ago. Stole them in front me. Got that drunk teenager to lie for you. Hannah died from a broken heart. You did all that. That was you. What would your real mother say?’

“Said, ‘Let’s keep looking.’ Didn’t punch him, like at our wedding.

“Torrent came. Saw the day sailor, dredged up with seaweed on it, port wedged into the beach. Twins were there, bloated, gray. Legs tied on rope. Like at the coroner’s office. Now draped over starboard. Instructor was there with his head under his forearm at the stern. Vomiting.

“Mum flushed her face in sand. Jar of Vicodin and Nyquil at her left thigh. A Woodbridge Chardonay bottle in her right hand. Small bottle of formaldehyde scattered away from it. A stillborn under her legs. Book of baby names under her chest. Like when I got up for school.

“Blood washed away. Murder of seagulls sat and watched.

“Said ‘I’m sorry. I tried to get them out. Boating instructor did too! It was during a storm! I’m sorry!’

“Pop’s face didn’t move from that smile. He wrestled me down to the sand by my throat. Staked me down with some driftwood.

“Didn’t try to kick him off. I still deserved it. No matter what witnesses said. Watched the rain fall. Pop grabbed a smooth white rock. Was happy with me for once. Smashed my head in.

“Then I woke up to you wrestling me down slapping my face.

“It’s like you said. Dreams are just that.”