Thicker Than Water

It was on an overcast day in June that Rosie waded in the belly of a steel-grey ocean. She knew how vile the water was on this side of the beach. How her sister, Rachel, would grimace wading through its grey foam or complain if a rock grazed her foot. But Rosie liked the way the ocean liked her. The only distinguishable smell for miles along this coast was the seaweed, rotten and rubbery, brushing at her ankles and combing itself into her hair. She liked to believe this was the first sign that they wanted her here, that they were gripping at her: first, hair, then lips, then lungs.

She saw Rachel in the distance, half-wading, half-swimming, making her way towards her. She had been with the others in shallower waters. Over the sound of the waves, Rosie heard their shrieks and saw their figures, short and tall, as they darted into the water, only to heave themselves back out. They were still unused to the cold sting of the sea on their skin. And she saw her half-brother, wearing wellies one size too big, stomping in the wet sand beside his father.

Rosie turned her back and stared out at the horizon, at the sea that looked unending and like it could carry her with it, all the way from Dover into the harbour of Calais. It would be warm in France at this time of the year. The sun would burn the air, the wind humid and welcome. A real summer. Rosie willed for a current to pull her further out to sea, to propel her away from this harsh English summer and spit her out at France.

Where was Rachel? Rosie spun to face the beach. The shoreline was nothing more than a toothpick in front of her. Maybe the ocean was carrying her out already. Being this far out, Rachel must have given up trying to reach her, but Rosie could have predicted what she wanted.

If her sister had had the strength to reach her in these waters, she would have arrived saying nothing and waited for Rosie to speak first. Rachel would wriggle beside her, struggling not to drift away, and dipped low in the water to cover her pale shoulders. To get warmth more than anything, she would draw herself close to her sister, and Rosie would smell her sherry breath. But above all else, Rosie knew for certain that Rachel would be angry about yesterday.

…

The game had been running for an hour, yet nobody but Rosie seemed tired. The other adults sat, their eyes brightened by the sunset outside, their cheeks red from the warmth and the drinks. Rosie wrinkled her nose. She was sat in the corner, snuggled in an armchair and fiddling with a loose thread on her jumper. It was the third time that week that she’d questioned why she had come on this trip to begin with. Rachel, of all people, had accepted the invitation, so perhaps Rosie had come out of curiosity, too. But now she was surrounded by strangers, and one of them was their mother.

‘Maybe Rosie can fill in,’ said their mother’s husband. He and the rest of their family stared at Rosie with smiling faces. She couldn’t decide whether they seemed forced or not. A bottle of sherry sat beside them on the coffee table amongst a collection of colourful figurines, cardboard tokens, and plastic die. Then there was Rachel, dressed in black and wearing a feather earring, her narrow eyes transfixed on the game.

‘Rachel?’ Their mother tried to catch her eye. ‘Does Rosie want to sit in whilst Uncle James checks in on the kids?’

Uncle James. Rosie looked away, out of the cottage window and to the beach at the bottom of the hill. She knew how welcoming the sea would be even at this time of night, even in its chilliness. She pictured herself amongst the water, rising and falling with the swell of each wave.

‘Hey,’ said Rachel. Rosie turned around. ‘We can’t keep playing if you don’t take his place.’

Their mother was waiting. Rosie hoped she wouldn’t blame her for wanting to leave. Perhaps their father would be forced to take Rachel away, too, who could go back to being grumpy at her. Over time, they’d both begin to forget that weekend ever happened.

‘Yes, come on and join us,’ their mother said, a glass of sherry in her hand. She had her legs propped up on her husband’s lap and Rosie watched as he rubbed her feet. Then he patted her thigh and smiled at her.

‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it, Miranda?’ He turned to Rosie.

Rachel reached up and set a hand on Rosie’s knee. Rachel had chosen not to wear dark lipstick today. In fact, she wore no makeup at all, so Rosie saw the bags under her eyes and a fading mark just below her jaw.

‘Come on and play, moron,’ said Rachel.

Rosie slumped from her armchair and shuffled over to her.

‘It’s your turn, by the way,’ she said.

Rosie rolled the dice and reminded herself that it was their mother who was sitting opposite them. She studied her M-shaped necklace, the wedding ring, the chipped red nail polish on her fingers. It was strange to see her up close like this. Their usual interactions were restricted to the emails she sent their father and now the occasional Skype call.

‘Okay, six means you get a lifeline,’ Rachel said. Rosie blinked.

‘Oh, a lifeline,’ said someone else. Auntie Margaret. ‘That means you can ask someone to help you solve the next question — if you think they’ll know the answer better than you.’

Rachel picked up a card. ‘This American singer-songwriter, named William Martin Joel, is often known as the “Piano Man”. What is his stage name?’

Their mother shifted in her spot on the sofa. She looked at Rosie and blinked.

‘Oh, um.’ She smiled. ‘I know this one, Rosie. If you’d like my help, that is.’

‘No, that’s okay,’ said Rosie. ‘I think I’ve got this one.’

‘Are you sure? Probably a bit before your time,’ said Uncle Raymond, grinning at the others.

Their cousin Sheila winked. ‘And Miranda is a huge fan,’ she hinted.

Their grandmother laughed. ‘She’d have tried to marry him if it weren’t for Peter, here.’

‘No, no,’ their mother said, quieting them. ‘It’s her choice.’

The others stared and waited.

‘Well,’ said Auntie Margaret. ‘We’ll give you some time to think, and I’ll come back to you at the end. Okay?’

The others carried on around the circle. Rachel turned to Rosie.

‘What are you doing?’ She whispered. Rosie’s hair fell over her eyes. ‘God, stop being so shy. You will at least try to get on with her. Won’t you?’

Rosie stared out at the shoreline in the distance. Rachel followed her gaze and scoffed. ‘I’m not going to let you fuck off to the beach again, Rose.’ She shot a glance around the table before turning back to her sister. ‘Do you know how rude that looked last time?’

Rosie sighed. ‘You can’t blame me if I’d rather be out there than in here. Look — ’ She muttered. ‘Look at these people. I don’t know even them.’

‘Neither do I, but I’m here.’ Rachel fiddled with the figurine in front of her: a blue rose made of cheap plastic. Rosie watched. ‘Look, call me a sap, but we are related to her, and — ’ Rachel sighed. ‘I don’t know. I had a wild thought that this could be sort of good for us.’

Their mother giggled. Sheila was filling her glass with more sherry. It dribbled down the sides and began dropping stains onto the Persian rug. Someone cheered—Uncle Raymond, maybe.

‘Hey, you two,’ their mother said. ‘Rosie, have you decided what you want to do yet?’

Rosie looked up. Uncle Raymond was dabbing at the rug with his handkerchief. Sheila set the bottle of sherry back on the table. Their mother wiped the side of the glass with her finger and brought it to her lips.

Rachel nudged her. ‘Go,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you want to do, then go.’

‘Rosie?’ their mother said. She caught her daughter’s eye.

…

Rosie was still swimming. Rachel had found her. She asked Rosie something she didn’t hear; her frustrated tone lost in the sound of a wave as it broke at her back. It only took a few seconds of Rosie’s silence for Rachel’s face to twist into a scowl.

‘Are you really going to ignore me? After all that effort I put in for you?’ she said, her eyes round and full of an emotion Rosie tried not to figure out. Rosie looked away from her sister, out into the distance, where she spotted a yellow buoy struggling to stay still, a gull perched on its head.

‘Effort? Is what you’re calling it?’ Rosie bit back.

Rachel sighed. ‘So maybe I was a bit too critical, but I was trying my best, okay? Which, given how much of an asshole I usually am to you, means a lot for me.’

The gull faltered on top of the buoy, slipping with its wet feet. Rosie had always been scared of seagulls, but at this moment, she pitied this one.

‘Well, thanks, I guess,’ said Rosie.

‘Can I get an “I’m sorry” as well, or not?’

Rosie squinted against the sun on the horizon. One of the gull’s feet slid, but before it could fall, the wind picked up. It beat its wings against the breeze and left.

‘Fine, then,’ said Rachel. Rosie could sense her rolling her eyes. ‘You know, I came all this way so that you could apologise. I thought you owed me that much.’

The gull flew out towards land, where it was joined by another. Soon, about four or five of them were gathered together.

‘Rosie?’ said Rachel, trying to get at least one word out of her before she left her here. She waited. ‘God, fuck you.’ She began to swim away when she took a last look at Rosie, who finally turned to face her.

Rachel shook her head. ‘The one time I — ’ A brief spray of salty water spat on her face, stinging her eyes so she could hardly see her sister. Her jaw clenched. ‘Just don’t expect me to get you a towel when you get out,’ she said.

As soon as Rachel left, Rosie pulled herself underwater. Her body was beginning to forget how cold it was, and she let it fill her ears and fold over the top of her head. She liked the sounds there. The dull hum of the moving water, the occasional clicking as something scuffled along the seabed. She told herself she would stay as long as she could there, and she put aside all thoughts of her sister and their mother together on this beach, further away. Maybe, right now, Uncle James was running over to cover Rachel with a towel. Next, she would be sitting next to Uncle Raymond on the dry sand, roasting a marshmallow over their feeble campfire.

Rosie, instead, decided she would hang suspended in a place where she didn’t belong, but wanted desperately to be. Where her lungs of air felt heavy and out of place in her chest. She imagined they weren’t there at all — that, instead, her body was hollow, with water flowing through her nose and around her chest like blood flows in the heart. She pictured it filtering in and out. She and water as one.

When the soles of her feet touched the seabed, Rosie returned to herself. Her lungs began to shudder. They were tugging at her for something she didn’t want to provide them with. As she stared at the blurry light above her head, she knew the world would be too bright and loud when she emerged. Sheila would be shrieking as her hat got blown away by the wind. Their stepfather would yell and run to chase it down. She wished, then, that a part of her did belong in the water, where the light didn’t glare, and the sounds were smooth and soothing. But she did have lungs, and she had Rachel, and although she didn’t want to admit it, she needed both of them. They needed her, too.