“A keyhole surgery now.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s move—”

“Prep keyhole.”

Then suddenly an IV was being put into her arm. Again, the doctor was there saying something about acute appendicitis…spread to the peritoneum? We’ll see, and then another doctor came in and asked about allergies to anesthesia and smiled and told her she’d be drifting off. As she did, she could feel the wet on her cheeks and she could hear herself whispering, “Powell. Mari. Apricot. Please. I need you.”

Then, dark came.

—

She opened her eyes, closed them, rested, opened them to see a dark-haired young woman. The same one from the café was sitting beside her bed, eyes closed.

“Apolena?” Ammalie whispered.

The young woman startled. “You know who I am? God, are you okay? You don’t look so fab—”

“Are you Vincent’s daughter? Are you my step—”

The young woman scowled, but her voice was very kind. “What?” Then a soft look of understanding spread over her face, and she smiled. “Noooo, no, no,” and then she laughed a beautiful liquid laugh. “That would have made a very predictable story, no? Life is more complicated than that. But no, I am not. I am Erik’s daughter. But I do know about Vincent. He was my mother’s great love before Erik. Then Erik was her great love. Vincent was here one summer, at my grandparents’ farm in the bush, and, yes, he and my mother were lovers. And then he went off and married you! And life went on.”

Ammalie felt blurry. She blinked her eyes hard, as if that would clear her brain. “But…did you go visit Vincent in Arizona?”

“I did.”

Ammalie felt a gasp escape. “But you’re not his daughter?”

“No, no. Listen. No. My mother, Nina, married Erik, and they had me. No affairs were had. I look just like my father, don’t worry. But my mother found Vincent on Facebook years ago. She sought him out because I was in trouble. I happened to be in the States, traveling across the American West, my big OE adventure—Overseas Experience, you know?—and it was harder than I thought it would be. I was lonely and tired and broke. Guidebooks make it seem so easy! Everyone else seems to make it sound so fun! But, you know, it is not easy. It’s not always fun! Life is scary! Everything costs so much! American buses are…creepy! A man showed me his…Well, it doesn’t matter. Well, it does, actually. I was having a panic attack in Tucson. I was pretty down-and-out. So my mother was frantic and found Vincent and put us in touch and then bought me a Greyhound bus ticket. I went to see the Dark Sky with him. He picked me up at the bus stop in Portal, Arizona.”

“But your name—”

“It was a family name, on Vincent’s side, I know. My mother heard it and loved it. She asked my father, and he loved it too. It’s unusual. It’s pretty. That’s all.” Apolena laughed her liquid laugh again and shrugged. “I was born a year after your son. Who is on his way to New Zealand, by the way. With your sister and your friend.”

“What?” Ammalie tried to sit up, but her abdomen roared with pain. The Sea Creature was cowering there, full of pricks and needles and nervy blasts.

“Nan’s driver is picking them up at the airport when they arrive.”

Ammalie made a gargling, gasping sound that surprised even her. “Why…for the love of the universe, why would Nan do that?”

Apolena shrugged. “Because Nan is Nan. As she puts it, she gets a ‘kick out of you.’ She went to the house and saw how you had taken out all the pots and pans and cleaned the cupboards, which is something she’s wanted to do for years. Or hoped someone else would do. She said the residents loved your beach designs. She said you left necklaces everywhere. She said that obviously, you were a good and strange soul. And, as we all know, the world needs more of those. The problem with this planet is that we don’t have enough of those sorts.”

Those words, said so kindly, made Ammalie start to weep a gentle weeping—her body was in too much pain and too traumatized to do much more—but the tears leaked and Apolena sat nearby, holding her hand.

—

The next day came and went in a haze. A haze fostered by pharmaceuticals, by a body injured and healing, by her own exhaustion. A haze that reminded her of sea spray. A haze she clung to because it was safe. But the morning after that came, and it became clear that she was supposed to be clear. She tried to concentrate—information on painkillers, rest, incision instructions, bloating—but all she really heard was the doctor’s final words: “Though it was an emergency, it was, after all, only a minor surgery. You can go home soon.”

Ammalie blew out air. “No, thank you.” Then, “Really? I’m in too much pain for that. Also, I don’t have a home.”

“I think you can. We’ll watch you tonight, though.”

She was too groggy to think it through, but heard herself venturing, “Do you know where my necklace is? I had one on…from my late husband.”

The doctor shook her head no. “I’m sorry. Later, I’ll ask the ambulance drivers.”

With her words came a memory—oh, god, how had she forgotten?—the man in the back of the ambulance had been Richard! He’d been hovering over her, stroking her hair back from her forehead. If she remembered right, his fingers had paused on her two scars, and his eyes had shown real concern. It had felt so good, just to have that touch, that moment of someone seeing her hurt. Maybe what humans want most: another human to see the hurt borne. To see it and to care.

And yet. She had hurt him. And she felt a deep pain echo in her chest. Surely he was angry—their real and beautiful moment had been built on a foundation of a lie.

Later that night, she woke and shuffled to the bathroom in her hospital room. She knew that much would happen in the light of the new day:

She’d be discharged from the hospital, then charged with crimes.

She’d face Nan.

She’d face her Three Keys.

She’d face her dead husband’s ex-lover.

And she’d need to apologize to several people.

She figured she might as well examine herself tonight, the self she was before this upcoming day, because she’d be a different Ammalie before tomorrow ended.

She looked in the mirror. At the two scars, one at her hairline from the restaurant long ago, one across her scalp from Arizona. Her hair was light gray, and she found it pretty, contrasted with the tan of her skin and her flushed cheeks. Her eyes looked bright and clear and calm, as if full of bigger thoughts, as if she had forgotten herself, in a good way. As if she was less Ammalie and more a part of the living, breathing creatures of the world. More a part of the birds, trees, stone, glass, stars, shells, curls, braids, patterns of the world.

—

The noise of feral happiness: When Powell walked in, she heard herself yelp in joy. He bent over and was saying “Oh, Mom.” Then Apricot and Mari were there. The two women looked the exact same as when she’d last seen them—Mari’s long white-black hair pinned up, Apricot’s blond dyed hair precisely cut, her lips plumped and covered with thick pink lipstick. But Powell looked different. Really different. He had an actual beard, scruffy-looking. She’d never seen him with facial hair at all. He’d filled out and muscled up a surprising amount for only a few months. Before she could comment, they were turning and shaking hands with Apolena, who had just walked in, and suddenly…What was that?

The air changed.

She could feel it radiate through the hospital room, clear as an approaching storm. Oh, how things happened all at once! She could not help but smile. As Powell shook Apolena’s hand, the air vibrated with the invisible but powerful electricity that happens when two people catch each other’s eye—and are surprised to discover something there. Attraction. It was an amazing thing to witness. And yes, it could happen just like that, in a moment. Ammalie’s eyes darted from Powell to Apolena and she laughed, startling everyone, but she said nothing.

There was an awkward silence, so she cleared her dry throat. “You all three came? You dropped everything…and came?”

“Of course,” Apricot said, reaching down to brush Ammalie’s hair from her face.

“Sure, Mom,” Powell said. “But I had to put it on your credit card.”

“I’ll pay you back for any other expenses. I’ll pay you all back,” she mumbled. “You’re here!”

After more gentle hugs—she was still hooked up to an IV—Mari lifted Ammalie’s shirt to stare at her scar. Apricot looked embarrassed but peered under too and said, “Ouch,” and Powell said, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” the way she had once said, “Powell, Powell, Powell.”

She became aware then that they were all staring at her.

“You’re so…muscly,” Mari said happily. “But have you been eating enough?”