Leftovers

a story about sisterhood and survival

images from pinterest; collage by me

It was finally warm enough: periwinkle season. Our bellies rumbled, aching with hunger. We both hoped you would come home then, for periwinkle soup, your favorite. We hoped that some alchemy of sea and saffron would make him disappear so you could return—that all three of us sisters would find each other again over chipped bowls and steaming broth. We had to try. We had to do what we could, even if it was so much less than we wished, less than you deserved. 

The tide was low, the sun not yet risen, the beach a wide, wet plain. We used to play soccer when it was like this, time kept by the rising ocean, the sand sucking our toes as we ran. We hadn’t played in weeks, not since you left. It wasn’t as fun with just the two of us. 

Today we walked a squiggly path between the bumpers of ocean and dune, basket balanced between us, its bottom dipping in and out of tidal pools. The salt flats gleamed in the distance, low blue-green water shimmering in the gathering dawn, filling the spaces between patches of marsh grass. 

We didn’t speak. Our stomachs growled. Our feet shuffled. The ocean whispered. 

When we reached the flats, they were everywhere—the periwinkles. Such abundance. Our minds tripped over the concept. We waded in. 

The tide was so low we could see the silt spouts blooming between our toes. The marsh grass bent with the weight of periwinkles, grayish purple nodes on the olive-colored blades, little spiralized shells terminating in a hard nipple. We plucked them off, feeling the tug of tiny tentacles before the pop and plop into the basket. We tucked fronds of marsh grass into the waistband of our jean shorts. 

You had always been able to make the most beautiful things with palm fronds. Roses, hearts, bird’s nests. We could only make crosses. We would plant them along the dunes for you: a charm, an offering, signposts to guide you home. 

The shells rattled like bones in the basket. The marsh grass tickled our stomachs. As the basket grew heavier, our arms flipped akimbo, white flesh beneath our elbows pointed to the rising sun. 

We stumbled with the weight of the basket, the lip tipping, dipping, spilling a few shells back into the marsh. That was our cue to go home. 

Anyone combing the beach later that day might have thought us accomplices in a murder, the basket dragging a long, wet smear between our parallel footprints. The triplicate trail led all the way back to our front porch, to the clinking glass and seashell windchime, to the wide, weathered boards that shed hot splinters, splinters you had tweezed out. You’d always looked out for us. We wish we’d been able to do the same, wished we’d been able to protect you from him. You’d had to get rid of that splinter yourself. 

But we could make soup. And we could cast spells and whisper prayers to call you home—when you were ready. We would wait as long as you needed. We would get by. We would try to be like you, selfless in the face of too much. 

So we put the two pots on the stove. In one pot went water and periwinkles. In the other, water and whatever. Whatever we had left. It was supposed to be chicken stock. When you were here, it had been chicken stock. But chicken stock cost, so water it was. And while the periwinkles came to a boil in the one pot, the paprika, salt, pepper, and the last of the tarragon went in the other. 

The house smelled like home then, in the seven minutes while the periwinkles perished. You had made periwinkle soup the night before you left, the night before you kissed us swiftly on the cheek and said, “This is the safest way. I’ll come back as soon as the coast is clear.” 

So, maybe, though we never said so, we hoped, by some ancient law of witchcraft, the soup would clear the coast, call you back. It always made us feel safe. 

After seven minutes, it was picking time. With toothpicks, we prodded and plucked, slipping the little bodies out of their protective shells, letting them fall into the spiced water. It was a time-consuming process. Even after death, the periwinkles clung stubbornly to their shells. 

They hissed as they slid beneath the water, bobbing like cabbage heads in the murky broth. 

We scooped bowlfuls from the steaming pot, collapsing cross-legged on the floor. We’d sold the table and chairs last week. We didn’t need a family dining table anymore.

Our shoulders sighed and settled as we slurped, tendrils of warmth reaching deep inside us. As warm as your hands on our heads. As warm as your smile before everything went wrong.

Even after we were done, even after we’d licked all the salt from our lips, we left the pot on the stove, put the lid on to keep it warm, just in case. There was so much left over. 

The situation in this story is completely fictional, but I set it in the beach where I live and I made the central relationship dynamic one of three sisters, which is how I grew up. I find that writing a story where several elements like character or setting are familiar can be a helpful crutch. It takes some of the guesswork out of certain parts, which allows you to focus your imagination on the parts of the story that are less familiar to you.

If you enjoyed this story, try writing one of your own in which you select a setting from your own life, but invent a scenario or story to populate it.

If you’d like help writing your own story, you can check out the writing tab on my site with eight essays (and counting) on the craft of writing!

See you next Sunday with another story!