Anchor

Margot was gone for two years before she found me at the lagoon. At the deepest point, its sandy foundation

bore two fathoms of water, and beyond the reef, the ocean carried thousands, traversable by my family’s

catboat. For now, I stayed on shore, not wanting another lecture from my eldest sister, Dylan, about the

dangers of the riptides. With my Polaroid camera, I snapped a photo of the bullheaded sunset, which glared

on the water’s surface.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

I jumped and turned toward the voice, which belonged to a woman surrounded by swaying horseradish.

“Never change, Fish,” she insisted. Her face was bare without make-up and an undercut had usurped her

golden curls. Only because of my nickname and Dylan’s denim jacket did I recognize my sister, Margot.

I was stunned. As my picture began to print, I stared at her and the jacket, which was ratty from overuse.

When I was three years old, Mom and Dad passed away, so, unlike my sisters, I remember almost nothing

about them. For me, our family had only ever been just Dylan, Margot, and me—at least until Margot got a

scholarship to Juilliard.

When she did, hardly anyone was shocked, and least of all me. Even before she was a ballerina, I saw Margot

as the marbled Aphrodite. Margot’s stone-faced beauty belonged in the Louvre. Margot’s hard-won

excellence never waned. Margot’s star-struck ambition guaranteed victory.

I thought that Margot never visited, wrote, or called because she condescended to the lighthouse, Dylan, and

me. The shell of my consciousness had long since shrunk to accommodate her absence. She became but a

headstone, carved with an unsolvable riddle. But now that she stood in front of me, alive and transformed,

my progress relapsed. I was eleven-years-old again and silenced by Margot’s power.

Suddenly Margot collapsed, and my reflective paralysis broke. She was a chopped lizard’s tail, writhing.

Terrified, I ran to her and screamed for help. Atop the weedy knoll, the door of our family’s lighthouse burst

open. Two braids ribboning, Dylan sprinted to us, turned Margot on her side, and ripped off the jacket. The

bowling ball in my stomach swelled and swelled until, after minutes that felt like centuries, Margot came to.

Dylan hauled Margot to her feet. “I’m taking her to the hospital.”

She dragged Margot to the truck and I followed. With methodical precision, Dylan pushed our sister’s body,

which was pale and limp as a corpse, into the passenger seat.

Before getting in, the impulse to run back to the shore to retrieve Dylan’s jacket overcame me. By the time I

returned to the driveway, the tail lights had already dimmed. I swallowed my frustration and I looked over my

possessions: my Polaroid camera, check; Dylan’s jacket, check; and Margot’s lighter, check — this last I

flicked open.

Three years ago, when I was eleven and she was seventeen, Margot had reached into her pocket and pulled

out a clunky, white toothpick. “Check it out.” After burning its edge, she sucked on it.

I frowned. “Where’d you get that?”

She shrugged. “Coach Brosch. She says it keeps you skinny.” In those days, Margot talked exclusively about

her dance coach and skinniness.

In a fixed arch, Margot tossed the lighter to me. I caught it.

“This is our secret,” she told me and ruffled my hair. “If I see you showing off that flame, I’ll hunt you

down.”

To keep Margot satisfied, I zipped my mouth shut, but visions of what secrets like these could lead to —

Margot shamed, hurt, or dead — began to haunt me. I imagined strangers trying to help too late. Because I

could’ve saved her from the beginning and didn’t, for every nightmare, I was to blame.

While I waited for Dylan and Margot to return, I sat in Margot’s old bedroom on Margot’s old bed. After

searching the pockets of Dylan’s jacket, I found some cherry sours, a wallet, and Polaroid pictures of aquatic

animals, the lagoon, and Dylan. For all of them, I was the photographer, except for one, which depicted me

by a beachside campfire.

I picked it up. The image sparked no memory for me, but I guessed it must’ve been important. Otherwise,

Margot wouldn’t have kept it. Strange, I thought; it felt heavier than the others, so I flipped it over. Taped to

the back was a baggie of white pills.

My hands turned sweaty. The room began to wobble. This is our secret, Margot had said. After shoving

everything back in the pockets, I fled up the staircase to the lighthouse’s lamp. The wind spat off the sea.

Those pills were just Tylenol, I told myself, or calcium supplements. Resting on the horizon, the dot of Bucky

Island — the sight of which almost never failed in comforting me — failed. I descended to my room and

combed through my National Geographics, willing myself to forget what I saw, but the pills demanded

judgment.

Finally, with Dylan’s jacket and all its contents, I raced to the lagoon. In a fixed arch, I threw everything into

the water. It bobbed up and down before drowning.

I stayed there, sitting amongst the horseradish, for hours. The sea lapped at my ankles until every glimmer of

the once stubborn sunset was lost. When the moon lifted, I understood that my family either hadn’t come

back or wasn’t looking for me.

When I eventually returned to the lighthouse, I heard music. Peeking through the screened window, I saw

food, drink, and bodies romping about. I recognized several faces: Margot’s friends from either high school

or church. The floods of my anger rose. They were blind to the truth I knew, fooled by Margot’s faux

perfection.

As the hubbub dragged on, I sat on the porch, stared at the stars, and felt small.

Half an hour later, Dylan sat beside me. “Where have you been?”

“I did homework at the library,” I lied.

When she hugged me, I smelled cinnamon and antiseptic. She exhaled. “I’m so sorry, Fish. I planned on

calling, but everything happened so fast.

”Dylan explained that Margot had had a seizure, caused by overdose. A year and a half ago, a classmate offered

Margot prescription medication to soothe muscle soreness. This led to her addiction to Vicodin, and that led

to Margot failing out of Juilliard. Ashamed and without recourse, Margot had returned home.

I shook my head and scooted away. “It isn’t fair,” I mumbled. “I always do everything you tell me to. But

when Margot freaks out, she gets a party.”

Dylan laughed and pulled me back. “Yes, because Margot’s alive and home.” Her hand cupped and turned

my face. “Come inside and celebrate with us.”

I said nothing.

Dylan’s lips pursed. “You’ll understand one day.” Then, Dylan ruffled my hair and went inside.

After the guests left, I crept into my bedroom and slept. At the break of dawn, as Dylan and I made avocado

toast and scrambled eggs — enough for three, just like before Margot left — I wondered if Margot had

vanished again.

Dylan sensed my thoughts. “The doctors said Margot needs rest.”

I nodded. By evening, a storm began to plunder the sky and waves. As Dylan crocheted and I read, Margot

stomped downstairs — finally out of the grave.

Margot’s hands were fists. “Where’s Dylan’s denim jacket?”

I flipped a page. Margot turned on me.

“Rosemary, you had it last.”

That roused my irritation. “Not my name.”

“Give it back.” From my hands, she took my book and launched it.

Dylan stood up. “Margot.”

Because she abandoned me, Margot had revoked her rights to my secret-keeping. I met her gaze. “In one of

the pockets, I found a bag of pills. So I threw everything in the ocean.”

Margot seized my shoulders. Her nails drilled deep. “You what?”

I pushed her away — hard. Against every expectation, the graceful Margot stumbled and fell. On the ground,

her lovely features contorted with ugly rage. “You little…”

When Margot stood and lunged for my throat, I surged forward like the tide, but Dylan got between us.

“Stop it, both of you!”

Dylan reached out to Margot, either to restrain or embrace; I didn’t know, but Margot reeled back. She

trembled. “She’s lying. I’m better now.”

I was trembling, too, and shouting. “It’s true, and it’s gone and never coming back.” I couldn’t stop myself.

“You should go, too, because no one here wants you.”

For a moment, everything was still. Then Margot’s tears poured over, and she fled upstairs. Without

hesitation, Dylan followed her.

When I was alone again, that ancient bottle of resentment within me fell off the shelf and broke. Regret took

its place. To this day, that was the one time I ever saw Margot cry.

The storm cackled, taunting me. I grabbed my raincoat off the hook. I rounded the lighthouse and dashed to

the lagoon. Because if Margot knew dance, I knew the ocean, and if Dylan’s jacket could force Margot to

forgive me, I would find it.

As I barged around, sand erupted and fish leapt away from me, but the jacket was nowhere to be found. But I

never was so easily deterred. After throwing the tarp off the catboat, I dragged it to the shore and pushed off.

Waves tossed the hull. I hoisted the sails. Wiping rainwater from my eyes, I adjusted the heading. Then the

catboat was running, splitting the ocean in half. After rifling through our supplies, I retrieved a spotlight.

Over and over, its beam swung out across the ocean’s surface. But searching and searching rendered no

treasure, only emptiness.

A riptide yanked the bow. I was no ballerina. I lost my balance. For a second, my fingers clung to the deck’s

rim. Then a wave shoved me underwater. At first, I felt only shock. My helpless body twisted as grit and foam

streamed past. Then, fear set in and my limbs flayed, trying to swim. The pressure mounted in my ears.

The catboat hit me.

—

I gasped. Underneath the blazing sun, I was splayed on rocks. As I tried to get up, my body imploded with

agony. My skin was torn and bruised — ribs probably broken.

Somewhere within me, I heard Dylan say, “Come on, Fish. What do you see?”

Gritting my teeth as the blood roared in my ears, I managed to stand. I surveyed my surroundings: black

granite, skeletal scrubs, and twenty or so oaks. This was Bucky Island, I guessed. The uninhabited mound had

barely the circumference of our high school’s gym. A million summers ago, Dylan, Margot, and I picnicked

here.

I checked my pockets. Upon feeling Margot’s lighter, I laughed out loud. It was the loyal Mjölnir to my

mighty Thor. Holding my weapon and aching torso, I stumbled over the terrain. Whatever I could find —

twigs, leaves, a sock — I gathered into a pile on the shoreline. With Margot’s lighter, I ignited the fire.

I repeated the regime. Fires need heat, oxygen, and fuel. My pain was beyond endurance, but when the fire

required more fuel, I endured. As lifetimes passed, I wondered if Margot and Dylan were ever coming. I

selected a hefty log and began to pull. When it snapped, I tripped and fell. Against my lips, the ground tasted

sweet. I found that I couldn’t get up anymore. So, I stayed there and fell asleep, wondering if anyone even

noticed my absence.

When I awoke, a barefaced angel floated above. I blinked. “Are you real?”

As the angel knelt by my side, peace itself did, too. “I’m here.” She pulled me into an embrace.

I sniffled and tried to get away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Fish.” Inexplicably, she turned her face toward the beach and screamed for help. I didn’t

know who she was calling or why. After all, nothing hurt anymore. She smiled weakly. “I am only grateful.

You brought me home.”

Clarity overwhelmed me. Every wonder aligned. Margot wasn’t a statue or an angel, but first and foremost,

she was my sister and, always and forever, I was her anchor.

“If I…” I trailed off.

Margot’s voice quivered. “Keep holding on.”

There was no more fear, only love, stretching out to infinity. “Tell Dylan that I understand.”