Even in Saltwater

I held the snake plant on my lap as we drove west, west, south for a ways, then west again. Hundreds of miles and then thousands. Even when we stopped, my hands kept the shape of the plant’s pot. On the way, Burke told me about the home he’d arranged for us. He described the balcony unit he’d reserved, with a view of the ocean. The apartment manager had been honest with him: it was only a partial view. But the sunsets would be lovely even if we couldn’t see all the way to the water. We would drink cold white wine under pink skies. We’d be only a few blocks to the beach. We could go anytime, once we were settled in. 

“Yes,” I said to all of it. “Yes, absolutely. It sounds wonderful.” 

Burke would look over at me to check that I was sincere and I’d dip my head until I was changing the shape of the world, making my horizon mountainous with leaf-tips. 

The best word he could say to me was imagine. On our second date, crowded by the sounds and jostles at the bar, he leaned close and told me to close my eyes, pretend a glass wall was around us, snow falling outside, Northern Lights above us. Snow would mean clouds, I knew, but I leaned into him anyway. He told stories as if he could see it all: the vacations, the quick cash, the houses with good bones that we could repaint together. Things always got in the way, of course, but this one we’d committed to; this one we’d packed and driven toward. He was sure in a new way. The word imagine had gravity now, pulling us west. 

We arrived after three days, late at night. I rolled my window down and leaned my face into the warm air. I pulled in deep breaths, imagining I could smell the ocean from a few blocks away. 

Burke pulled into the guest parking and squeezed my knee. “We’re here! You excited?”

I smiled. I nodded. Yes, absolutely. But as I left the snake plant in the wheel well to get out and stretch, I saw the building. It was five stories. Maybe six. The unit he’d described in such detail was on the twelfth. 

He’d first brought up the idea of moving last year. Around the time my mom got sick. She asked why he wanted to go so far away. Didn’t he have a job here?

Obviously he did, but there might be a better one out there. But she didn’t have to worry, it wouldn’t be tomorrow. I’d be here with her for a long time. 

She watched me as if hearing something I hadn’t said, reading between lines I couldn’t see. But she smiled anyway. I was grateful for that. 

It happened quickly: her fading, her shrinking. Her ribs suddenly becoming a shape I could see under her skin. Who says ribcage and visualizes a thing they can see lurking inside another person? And then I was standing in scratchy pantyhose and pinching shoes, nodding to all her friends in a church. Sobs twisting up my throat but never quite breaking out. Burke standing close, holding my arm. 

After that there was nothing holding us back, he said. We could leave right away. So we did.

Inside the building, the doorman shook his head. “No twelfth floor here. You’re in the wrong spot.”

Burke double checked the address. We were in the right place. 

“Check again,” Burke said. 

The doorman grunted a laugh. “You want me to check if there’s a twelfth floor? Come on, man.” He smirked, then scrubbed his mouth with his hand. When he lowered his hand, his mouth was flat again. 

I could have told him that laughing at Burke was one of the worst things you can do. Worse than ignoring him. 

The doorman was older than us, maybe in his forties, wearing a wrinkled gray uniform jacket. His eyelids drooped on the sides, giving him a sleepy look, but his voice was alert and deeper than Burke’s. His tag reflected the light so I couldn’t see his name. 

Burke spoke slowly. “I talked to someone named Joe a couple weeks ago.”

It was nearly midnight and we were the only ones in the lobby. We’d entered through sliding doors so sensitive a breeze outside would trigger them open. The lobby was narrow and empty, with shining concrete floors leading down to elevators. The light fixtures were bare bulbs on metal rods hanging at different lengths. The doorman’s desk was metal and wood, held together with huge rivets. 

I preferred clutter. I liked framed pictures jostling for wall space, velvet furniture crushed into comfort, vases with origin stories. My mother had joked that I was born with the design sense of a grandmother. Burke hated all that. Yellowing lace made him cringe. He couldn’t stand mismatched picture frames. Not much had fit in the car, anyway, and I would learn to appreciate everything sleek and matched. A new place, a new start. 

The doorman said the manager and the receptionist and the concierge were all long gone. “Come back in the morning.” He glanced at me. “Sort it out then.” 

“No.” Burke put his fists on the countertop, knuckles down. He raised his voice and leaned forward. “We’re here now. You’re going to let us into our home.”

The doorman stood up. He didn’t seem upset; it was the motion of someone who had to stand up a couple times a week, maybe, and now was one of those times. Just part of his job. I saw Burke, with a quick glance, notice the difference in their heights. 

“I told you, man. You’re not on the list for move-ins.” He made his voice quieter. “You need to come back at nine.” 

Burke pulled out his wallet. Looked for something he didn’t find, then shoved it back into his pocket. “And the manager’s named Joe, right?” His aggressiveness couldn’t cover the childish thread of hope. I nearly cringed. I thought I held still, but the sliding doors must have sensed me, because they hushed open.

I hadn’t brought in my bags, I realized. Burke hadn’t even offered to pop the trunk. The thought, tiny and insidious: he’d known we wouldn’t be staying. 

It’s a delicate balance with Burke, what to believe and what to tell him I believe. I have different kinds of silences. Some feel like whipped cream from the can, coating my teeth and choking me into quiet. Some feel like blades under my tongue, making me bleed for holding back.

The doorman said: “No one named Joe here.”

Burke snarled and turned to me. I nearly dipped my head, as if I could hide behind the snake plant. But I’d left it in the car. I tried to keep my face steady and neutral, as if I’d fallen asleep, as if I wasn’t hearing any of this. “Call the manager at home,” said Burke. He was still looking toward me. “Get the updated resident list.”

“The office folks are nine to five.” The doorman planted his hands on his side of the counter and leaned forward a couple inches. Beside us, the doors sighed shut. “You need to leave. Last time I’m telling you. Don’t make me embarrass you in front of your girl.” 

The word girl, pointing at me. I ached from keeping still. Don’t call attention to me, don’t let Burke blame me for this. 

The thing about a snake plant: they are endlessly forgiving. They will tolerate almost any level of water or light. Back at home, I would forget to water it sometimes. Sometimes I gave it too much. It always looked the same, its leaves pointing up, splashed with streaks of every green, vibrant to mysterious. 

The doors opened again. Outside air drifted in, bringing the smells of bougainvillea and smog. The warm air pulsed against my arm, fighting the air conditioning. I realized I had goosebumps. 

“Fine,” Burke said. He knuckled the desk once more. “But we’re coming back at nine.” 

He passed in front of me, heading for the parking lot. The doorman caught my eye. He opened his mouth just a bit, just the beginning of a question. Maybe a caution. Or an offer. Things my mother thought, but never said aloud. Now that he’d stood up, the light was no longer hiding the name on his tag. His name was Patrick. I shook my head no, the smallest movement. And then I was gone, following Burke into the warm air. 

Back in the car, I pictured what the doorman would see if he was still watching us. Burke: handsome, furious, hitting the steering wheel. Me: skinny, slumped, clutching a plant. “That goddamn crook.” Burke pulled on the wheel until his muscles flexed. “We should have known.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow.” The snake plant was solid and warm in my lap. “You’ll get an answer from Joe.”

Burke snorted. “Don’t be an idiot. He ripped us off.” He started the engine and the leaves of the snake plant vibrated. “He doesn’t even work here.”

I’d brought the snake plant from my mom’s house. I told Burke I was holding it because I didn’t want soil spilling in the car. But I preferred to see the horizon through the points of its leaves. I felt protective of it, as if I was holding a piece of myself. A combination of the person I’d been back at home, and the person I wanted to be. The one I could become just as soon as we were settled. 

“We don’t have enough money for a hotel.” Burke was quieter now. If you didn’t know him, you’d think that his anger had cooled. 

I imagined saying the words: yes, we were nearly out of money. But we could sleep on the beach. It was warm enough. And I could see the beach at last, even in the dark. And we’d been driving for so long, right now I could probably sleep anywhere. 

I decided to risk it. I said: “We’re only a few blocks from the beach.” 

“You’re going to say sleep on the beach? That’s your brilliant idea?” He must have heard how he sounded because he reached under my hair and rubbed the back of my neck. He rubbed hard and it was a relief when he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was supposed to be all fixed.”

I nodded. He kept going: “Maybe there’s a hostel or something. Or we can just park at a rest stop, crash for a while there.”

He turned south, out of the parking lot. West, I wanted to beg. Let me see the ocean, I don’t care if it’s dark, I just want to stand in the sand. I know you’ll get angry if I ask, but please, please just go west those two blocks. But my jaw was stitched shut. 

“You can set that thing down, you know.” He shook his head, his face flashing yellow as we drove under a streetlight. “You’ve got to be sick of holding it. Better yet just toss it, get a new one when we’re settled.” We were going east, backtracking. It seemed like he had a destination in mind, he just hadn’t told me yet. 

I imagined setting the snake plant at the waterline at low tide. The waves would claim it, lifting it out of its pot, carrying it away. It would drift down to the ocean floor and its roots would find home in the sand underwater, its leaves pointing toward the sun. It would flourish, even in saltwater.

Artwork by Fatema Al Fardan

Andrea Eaker lives in the Seattle area of the United States. In addition to writing fiction and creative nonfiction, she works as a researcher in the aviation industry. She loves coffee and theater and overcast days of the Pacific Northwest. Her stories have appeared in Blue Fifth Review, Shooter Literary Magazine, and Every Day Fiction.