The Circle

the kayak, her feet landing on the stones, all rounded and smooth.
     As she was pulling the kayak up, the bay rose up and engulfed her legs. It wasn’t
     a wave; it was more of a sudden uniform rising of the water level. One second she
     was standing on a dry shore and the next the water was at her shins and she was soaked.
    When the water fell again, it left a wide swath of bizarre, bejeweledseaweed—blue, and green, and, in a certain light, iridescent. She held it in her hands,
     and it was smooth, rubbery, its edges ruffled extravagantly. Mae’s feet were wet,
     and the water was snow cold but she didn’t mind. She sat on the rocky beach, picked
     up a stick and drew with it, clicking through the smooth stones. Tiny crabs, unearthed
     and annoyed, scurried to find new shelters. A pelican landed downshore, on the trunk
     of a dead tree, which had been bleached white and leaned diagonally, rising from the
     steel-grey water, pointing lazily to the sky.
    And then Mae found herself sobbing. Her father was a mess. No, he wasn’t a mess. He
     was managing it all with great dignity. But there had been something very tired about
     him that morning, something defeated, accepting, as if he knew that he couldn’t fight
     both what was happening in his body and the companies managing his care. And there
     was nothing she could do for him. No, there was too much to do for him. She could
     quit her job. She could quit and help make the phone calls, fight the many fights
     to keep him well. This is what a good daughter would do. What a good child, an only
     child, would do. A good only child would spend the next three to five years, which
     might be his last years of mobility, of full capability, with him, helping him, helping
     her mother, being part of the family machinery. But she knew her parents wouldn’t
     let her do all that. They wouldn’t allow it. And so she would be caught between the
     job she needed and loved, and her parents, whom she couldn’t help.
    But it felt good to cry, to let her shoulders shake, to feel the hot tears on her
     face, to taste their baby salt, to wipe snot all over the underside of her shirt.
     And when she was done, she pushed the kayak out again and she found herself paddling
     at a brisk pace. Once in themiddle of the bay, she stopped. Her tears were dry now, her breathing steady. She
     was calm and felt strong, but instead of reaching the red buoy, which she no longer
     had any interest in, she sat, her paddle on her lap, letting the waves tilt her gently,
     feeling the warm sun dry her hands and feet. She often did this when she was far from
     any shore—she just sat still, feeling the vast volume of the ocean beneath her. There
     were leopard sharks in this part of the bay, and bat rays, and jellyfish, and the
     occasional harbor porpoise, but she could see none of them. They were hidden in the
     dark water, in their black parallel world, and knowing they were there, but not knowing
     where, or really anything else, felt, at that moment, strangely right. Far beyond,
     she could see where the mouth of the bay led to the ocean and there, making its way
     through a band of light fog, she saw an enormous container ship heading into open
     water. She thought about moving, but saw no point. There seemed no reason to go anywhere.
     Being here, in the middle of the bay, nothing to do or see, was plenty. She stayed
     there, drifting slowly, for the better part of an hour. Occasionally she would smell
     that dog-and-tuna smell again, and turn to find another curious seal, and they would
     watch each other, and she would wonder if the seal knew, as she did, how good this
     was, how lucky they were to have all this to themselves.
    By the late afternoon, the winds coming from the Pacific picked up, and getting back
     to shore was trying. When she got home her limbs were leaden and her head was slow.
     She made herself a salad and ate half a bag of chips, staring out the window. She
     fell asleep at eight and slept for eleven hours.
    The morning was busy, as Dan had warned her it would be. He’d gathered her and the
     hundred-odd other CE reps at eight a.m., reminding them all that opening the chute
     on Monday morning was always a hazardous thing. All the customers who wanted answers
     over the weekend certainly expected them on Monday morning.
    He was right. The chute opened, the deluge arrived, and Mae worked against the flood
     until eleven or so, when there was something like respite.