Page 31 of Spectacular Things
Back to the Beach
They haven’t been here together in years, but now Mia and Cricket come every morning, just as they did as girls.
And like any destination mythologized in youth, the beach strikes the Lowe sisters as less impressive now—instead of the ten-foot waves they remember, the ocean’s surface is glassy enough to host a slew of bobbing seagulls, mallards, and great cormorants.
The rocky shoreline goes on for maybe a half mile, which contradicts their elementary school estimate of forever and ever.
Nevertheless, walking along the water’s edge and allowing their eyes to comb the sand for worthwhile shells is a welcome distraction from the grief eating them alive at home.
The beach appears smaller now but no less beautiful.
Especially at sunrise. “It’s like she’s here, and also so obviously not here,” Cricket says, staring into the orange blaze consuming the eastern corner of the sky.
“Like, I keep waiting for her to pass me the ball.”
Mia smiles, nods. It’s an impossible reality, being here. Being anywhere, really—existing has felt like such a chore since last Saturday—but being at the beach, in Liz’s favorite place, feels especially impossible. Impossible and maddening and profoundly reassuring.
It’s been eight days since the accident and forty-eight hours since the funeral, which Sally Green organized with Mia and Cricket’s permission.
The service had been fine. The day of their mother’s funeral was never going to be a good day so much as something to shower for and get through.
But everyone felt compelled to tell them afterward, at the reception Lucia hosted at Primo Bistro, that it was the best-attended funeral they’d ever seen, including the retired police chief’s.
“Liz would have loved that her service was standing room only,” Lucia told the girls in Primo’s kitchen as she covered extra trays of manicotti and stuffed shells for them to take home.
Mia had nodded, catatonic. Cricket looked stoned.
But it was true, what Lucia said, her mother would have appreciated the great turnout.
Over the years, Liz had accrued many admirers, and they’d all shown up to pay their respects: The entire crew of mechanics from Victory Auto had made an appearance, along with the team of technicians from Cute Nails and the hot barista Liz liked to flirt with when she thought Mia and Cricket weren’t paying attention.
All the volunteers from the swap shop, and several tellers Mia recognized from the bank, and even her high school assistant principal who’d tried to ask Liz out multiple times but failed because Liz was a black belt in romantic jiujitsu.
But even after the funeral home director had turned on the ceiling fans to accommodate the crowd, Mia understood they would be on their own.
Because despite her friendly waves and infectious smile, Liz had kept everyone at a distance—at first because being a single parent didn’t afford her the luxury of a social life, and then, when the girls were older, out of habit.
At her core, Liz was a lone wolf, even if the dozens of sympathy cards crammed into the mailbox suggested differently.
“We’re going to be okay,” Mia says now, threading her arm through Cricket’s as they walk toward the far jetty, where Liz used to hold their morning training sessions.
“How do you know?” Cricket asks, picking up a stone larger than her fist and hurling it into the ocean. The rock makes a satisfying splash. Cricket turns to Mia and the bright sun forces her to squint, making her look even more like their mom. “How could we ever be okay?”
“Because we have to be,” Mia says. “She’d want us—I don’t know—I feel like she’d say something annoying about B-positive.”
The sisters climb out on the jetty, aware of the slick seaweed, the incoming tide.
All the things their mother would point out.
All the warnings they always chose to ignore, they now wish to hear one more time.
In Liz’s absence, the sisters are careful on the rocks, her voice in their heads.
The sun continues to rise, carving their silhouettes into the horizon.
This is where they feel closest to her and the most like themselves.
“I can’t live without her,” Cricket says, the tip of her nose pink from the cold.
“Neither can I,” Mia agrees. “But we’ve got to try. She’d still want you to play soccer. I think she’d actually be pissed if you didn’t—at you and at me.”
“I was thinking, Mom would have played at UCLA if—”
“So you’ll go to UCLA,” Mia says matter-of-factly. “If that’s where you want to play, then that’s where you’ll play.”
“And you’ll graduate from Yale and become a super successful therapist,” Cricket decides, because Mia was planning on declaring a major in psychology.
“Yeah,” Mia agrees with far less conviction.
Ben’s sweet face flashes behind her eyes but it wasn’t that serious, she tells herself.
Nothing at school was real life, as best proven by the stilted condolence messages Mia received from the people she considered her best friends.
No one had even called, they’d all just texted.
Ben didn’t come up for the funeral, or even offer to come, and he was supposed to be her boyfriend.
Mia’s college friends had never met her mom—except for Nell on move-in day their freshman year—so how substantive could their connection have been?
Six months ago, Mia valued her pregame social circle above all else.
But now, abandoned at the intersection of loss and crisis, she sees Nell and Landon and Ben as loose bonds of convenience, strung together by proximity and alcohol, lust and ambition.
“Or a sports psych!” Cricket shouts suddenly, interrupting Mia’s thoughts and startling a nearby seagull, who rebukes her with a ragged caw! before flying off. “Or just, like, a famous doctor to the stars, and you’ll treat so many celebrities that you’ll get your own show.”
Mia laughs. “We’ll see,” she says, turning away from the ocean to appreciate how the sun has started its daily transformation of Victory.
The boughs of their neighborhood oaks and pines and hemlocks glow golden.
At this time of day, from this particular beach, even the wonkiest rooflines and ugliest additions look majestic.
Despite the cold, everything the sun touches wears a crown of warm light.
“I think the key for now is to stick together.”
Cricket nods. Her plan has always been to stay as close to Mia as her sister will allow. Liz often said Cricket learned to walk so early and then run so fast because she was born trying to catch up to Mia, as if closing in on a five-year gap were possible.
“If you don’t want to be a sports psych, you can be my manager instead, and then once I become rich and famous, we’ll build soccer fields all over the world and name them after Mom.”
“I love that idea,” Mia says, dragging her heel through the sand, only semiconscious of the L she is creating. “Although I’m probably better suited to be your accountant.”
“Be both!” Cricket offers magnanimously, stopping to watch Mia. She jumps ahead and uses her heel to draw a five-foot Z .
Walking toward the entrance, Mia and Cricket relish the sun on their faces, the lapping waves, this place they’ve been lucky enough to know their entire lives. She is here, and they will be okay. When the Lowe sisters leave the beach, they have a plan for the present and a vision for the future.