What She Finds
Nadia collects things from the beach. Been doing it since she was eight. Shells mostly. Sawa shells with the spiral patterns. Smooth stones.
She's thirty-four now. Still collects. Except now half of what she finds isn't shells.
This morning she finds three. Metal. Ridged. Thumb-sized. Shell casings. Puts them in her pocket with the actual shells.
The willow tree is still there, half-buried, roots exposed. Been dead for months. Someone dragged an old wooden boat next to it.
She lives three streets from the water. Works at a bookstore mornings, gallery afternoons.
At the bookstore her manager asks if she can work Thursday nights now too. The night person quit.
"I can't Thursdays."
"Why not?"
"I have a thing."
She doesn't have a thing. Just doesn't want to work Thursday nights.
The gallery is installing a new piece. A dead tree. Cedar. In a pot. Gray. Brittle.
The artist is there. Young guy. Keeps moving the pot six inches left, six inches right.
"Where do you want it?" Nadia asks.
"I don't know. Here maybe?"
They put it in the center. He steps back. Moves it again. Nadia leaves him to it. Has to call the electrician about the track lighting that's been flickering for two weeks.
Her apartment is full of beach stuff. Shells on the windowsill. Stones in jars. Sea glass. Also shell casings in a cup. Shrapnel on a shelf. Bullet fragments in a dish.
All mixed.
Her mother visits. Sees it. Doesn't say anything this time. Just looks.
"Your rent is due," her mother says.
"I know."
"You paid it?"
"Not yet."
"Nadia."
"I'll pay it."
Her mother leaves some food. Goes.
Her brother calls from Germany. "Mom says you didn't pay rent."
"I'll pay it."
"You broke?"
"No. Just forgot."
"How do you forget rent?"
"I don't know. I just did."
"You're weird."
"Okay."
They talk about nothing. His roommate. His job. Some girl he's seeing. Hang up.
Nadia goes to the beach. Finds more casings. Four today. One shell. Pockets them.
The boat is more rotten. The dead willow hasn't changed. Someone put a potted plant next to the boat. The plant is dead too.
At work the artist is still adjusting the tree. It's been three days. The opening is tomorrow.
"Does this feel centered to you?" he asks.
"Sure."
"You're not even looking."
"It looks centered."
He moves it anyway.
Her coworker Sam asks if she's going to the opening tomorrow. Nadia says no. Sam says she has to, she works there. Nadia says she's off tomorrow. Sam says come anyway, there's free wine.
"Maybe."
Opening night Nadia doesn't go. Stays home. Her windowsill is full. No space for today's shells and casings. She starts a new jar. Realizes she doesn't have a new jar. Uses a mug.
Her toilet is running. Has been for a week. Keeps meaning to fix it. Doesn't know how. Should call someone. Doesn't.
Eats leftover rice her mother brought. Watches something on her phone. Goes to bed.
Next morning beach. Gray water. Finds two casings. Three shells. A piece of shrapnel.
At work Sam shows her photos from the opening. The dead tree. People standing around it. Wine glasses.
"It's pretty good," Sam says.
"It's a dead tree."
"Yeah but like, as a thing."
"Still a dead tree."
Sam shrugs. Goes back to the desk.
People come in all week to see the tree. Take photos. Nadia watches them from the desk. They look at it for maybe three minutes. Take photos. Leave.
Her mother calls. "You paid rent yet?"
"Yes."
"Good. Your cousin is getting married."
"Okay."
"In Cyprus. Next month."
"Okay."
"You should come."
"I'm working."
"Take time off."
"Maybe."
Won't though.
Beach. Casings. Shells. Stones. The boat is falling apart. Won't last much longer. The willow is still there. Always there.
Her brother texts: "Mom says you're not going to the wedding."
"Can't. Work."
"You could take off."
"Don't want to."
"Whatever. Weird."
At the gallery the tree show ends. The artist comes to get it. Loads it in a van. Nadia helps him. The tree is lighter than it looks. Dead wood.
"Thanks for your help," he says.
"Sure."
He drives away. The gallery is empty. White walls. Next week something else.
Nadia keeps collecting. Every morning. Shells. Casings. Metal. Stone. All mixed in her pockets. All catching light the same way.
Her windowsill is full. Her jars are full. The mug is full. She needs more containers. Doesn't get them. Just keeps adding to pockets.
Sam asks: "What do you do with all that stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"The shells. I see you collecting them."
"Just collect them."
"For what?"
"Nothing. Just to have them."
"That's weird."
"Okay."
Her toilet is still running. Her rent is due again. Her mother calls twice. She answers once. Her brother texts asking if she's okay. She says yes. He says okay.
Beach. Morning. Gray water. Dead willow. Rotting boat. Dead plant next to it.
She finds shells. She finds casings. Can't always tell which is which until she picks them up. Tests the weight. Chooses to know.
Goes home. Adds them to the mug. The mug is full. Starts putting them in her pockets. Keeps them there.
At work someone asks about the grief book. She says they don't have it. They do. Just doesn't want to find it.
Beach. Gallery. Home. Work. Beach. Repeat.
Her mother visits. Looks at the windowsill. The jars. The mug. The shells and casings everywhere.
"This is too much, Nadia."
"I know."
"So stop."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Nadia doesn't answer. Doesn't know.
Her mother leaves.
Beach. Shells. Casings. Boat. Willow. Home. Jars. Mug. Pockets.
Keeps collecting.
Doesn't know why. Just does.
