Page 6 of Seashells and Other Souvenirs

I have a box of seashells

And other souvenirs

No matter where I open it

It brings me back to here

Most of the time I keep it

Tucked high up on a shelf

For inside, there lay sacred

Fragile pieces of myself

Whispers of sweet days gone by

And people I love dearest

Lessons learned and memories

I long to hold the nearest

Sometimes I hardly can believe

I’ve found myself so blessed

To have these treasures buried

Here so deep within this chest

I was seven the first time I had a legitimate shot at Olympic gold.

We were in second place in the relays with one event to go. My parents and I were teamed up with Rebekah, her four brothers, and my Aunt Jane and Uncle Jeff. The only things standing between us and the podium were a handful of other relatives and the open sand.

“You guys know the rules,” my Aunt Clara shouted above the roar of the waves. She pointed up the beach to where a line of sand buckets stood in the dry sand furthest from the water. “First team to fill up their bucket wins.”

I looked down at the giant sponge in my hand. “We got this,” Rebekah whispered.

“In your dreams,” Elle answered from the huddle next to us.

My aunt gave the signal, and we were off. Our first rotation was perfect, and it was my turn again before I’d even had a chance to fully catch my breath.

I was almost to our bucket when my flip-flop broke. Had the games commenced after dinner as scheduled, this would not have been a problem. But since the weather forecast had caused us to move them to earlier in the day, the sand was hot .

I squeezed out the sponge and hobbled back to tag Rebekah, who more than made up for the seconds I’d lost.

“Here.” She yanked her own sandal off when she returned. “Borrow mine.”

We were back on track, but two turns later, in our haste to transfer the shoe we were sharing, the strap pulled away from the sole.

“Crap!”

I would have found the look Aunt Jane shot Rebekah for using that word hilarious if I wasn’t so caught up in the fact that our Olympic dreams were about to die.

“What do we do?” Rebekah stood helpless with one shoe and a dripping sponge.

“Come on, kiddo.” Scooping her up and throwing her over his shoulder, Uncle Jeff took off down the beach. Rebekah squealed and held on for dear life.

When the sponge was finally passed back to me, my dad was ready. I watched Rebekah’s face as he carried me away and wondered if mine shone with pure joy the same way hers did.

The race ended, and we all collapsed in the sand, laughing until the tears spilled down our sunburnt cheeks.

I didn’t need a medal around my neck to know we’d won.

“Just like any other hotel, I guess. I’m not sure what you want me to say.

Hey, did you read that article I sent you?

” I try to change the subject. Lying to Sutton had been easy, but I’ve always had more difficulty keeping things from Rebekah.

And I’m not exactly certain why I feel so protective of the details surrounding my stay here, but I do.

“Not yet. I pulled a double shift, remember?”

“That’s right. You should sleep, hero.”

“You know me, saving the world one emptied bedpan at a time. K. Love you, Al. Send me pictures of your room.”

“Okay.” I won’t. “Love you too.”

I set my phone on the counter space next to the stove and study the note again. It was tucked under a house key when I stumbled into the kitchen late this morning.

Thought you might need this. Wednesdays are my long days, so I won’t be home until around 8:30. Make yourself at home. At the bottom of the page, there’s a drawing of a little mouse eating a piece of cheese.

The clock on the microwave reads 8:27. I fill a pot with water and turn on the burner, then open the fridge and find the pack of hotdogs we bought yesterday.

I’ve washed the grapes, opened a bag of chips, retrieved the ketchup and mustard, and set two places by the time he walks in the front door, looking exhausted and slightly disheveled.

“What’s all this?” He motions to the table.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten dinner yet,” I explain, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “If you aren’t hungry, that’s okay.”

His signature soft smile appears, and he sits. “No, I’m starving. Thank you. But you didn’t have to do all this.”

“It’s just hotdogs, Jude.” I shrug. “No big deal.” But even as I say it, I wonder if it’s actually a bigger deal than I realize. When’s the last time anyone cooked for Jude? The last time he didn’t eat alone in this kitchen?

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Do you ever get lonely here by yourself?”

He looks up from the perfect line of mustard he’s just drawn.

“Sorry,” I recover. “It’s just that coming from a big extended family, I’m used to being around a lot of people, and it was so quiet around here today. I can’t imagine being alone all the time.” I’m making this worse.

He picks up a chip. “Well, like I said, I stay pretty busy with work. But I guess I don’t really know anything different. Even when the four of us were here, everyone else was hardly ever . . . here.”

I want to ask him what happened, why they suddenly dropped off the face of the earth six years ago. Despite the fact that I feel like I know him and his family as well as my own, it isn’t true. And I don’t want to lose them again by pushing him away. A change of subject might be best.

“I know you’ve had a busy day, but is there any chance you’d be up for an adventure tonight?”

He nods and swallows the grape he’s chewing. “Every chance. What are we doing?”

I set my hotdog down so I can use my hands to present the words like a game show prize. “Night Castles.”

“I’m not sure I’m familiar with that particular tradition,” he confesses.

“Okay, so.” I scoot my chair closer. “It’s supposed to be a team sport, but it will work on a smaller scale for just the two of us.

The basic premise is that teams randomly draw a piece of paper with the name of a famous building or landmark on it.

You have a set amount of time to use sand and anything else you can find on the beach to construct it.

The catch is, the only light you can use is glow sticks.

No flashlights. Those are only for The Judging.

You get one point for every person who can guess what your building is, one point for every correct guess of your own, and two points for everyone who chooses yours as their favorite.

There’s a significant amount of math involved now that I think about it.

Of course, none of this will apply tonight.

We’ll just have to each decide what we want to build and then guess each other’s. ”

I look up and Jude is leaning back in his seat, looking at me like he’s very used to this specific brand of Henry family crazy. “Where are we going to get glow sticks?” is his only question.

I gesture to the counter with a flourish. “I’m very prepared. I’m no Night Castle rookie.”

We make quick work of cleaning up the kitchen, and Jude snaps the glow sticks and makes them into bracelets and necklaces while I run upstairs for the new shovels and buckets I picked up this afternoon.

“I was thinking,” he says as we make our way up the street.

“Since this is my first Night Castle experience and there are only two of us, why don’t we build something together?

You can kind of mentor me, and then next time, I can go Anakin Skywalker and try to defeat you with the skills you’ve taught me. ”

“Did you just infer that I’m Obi-Wan? Because I take that as a compliment.”

He holds up a glow stick and swings it like a lightsaber.

“You’re even funnier than you used to be,” I observe.

“Um . . . thanks?”

I laugh, something I’ve been doing much more of since I got here yesterday. A familiar place with a familiar friend is doing my heart a lot of good, I decide.

“Do you still like mint chocolate chip ice cream?” I suddenly need to know he hasn’t changed too much.

“I’m not a monster, Alex. Of course I do.”

“And do you still like being summoned with an off-key rendition of your favorite Beatles song?”

“I never liked that, and you know it.”

“Really?” I feign innocence, recalling one of the very few times I’ve ever seen him get angry. He was ten at the time, so I’m pretty sure it’s a safe subject now. “So from now on, I’ll just say, ‘Yo, Jude.’ Would that be . . . better?”

“Don’t do it.”

I sing the last word of my question over and over to the tune, and he rolls his eyes.

We reach the steps that lead to the beach, and he turns around. “You finished?”

“I want to say yes, but . . . ”

“Alex.”

“Nah.” I pause for effect before launching into a chorus of enthusiastic “nahs” that would make the British band proud.

A real laugh escapes Jude, and it makes me unreasonably happy. This feels right. Like maybe my childhood isn’t so long gone after all.