“Then I would tell her that I didn’t grow anything,” Isabelle replied. “The moss and vines grew themselves.” A true and clever response. She placed the tray on her grandmother’s lap. “Besides, she won’t come up here. She can’t get up the stairs. So please don’t worry. Look, Boris saved half a roll for you.”
“Such a kind man.” Grandma Maxine’s long gray hair had fallen loose of its braid. She raised the spoon to her mouth with a shaky hand. Isabelle’s stomach clenched as she realized that her grandmother had grown even weaker. Isabelle took the spoon and started to feed her.
“I’m such a burden to you,” the old woman said, tears filling her red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re not a burden.” It was a sweet lie. Isabelle would never say or think the word “burden,” not ever, but her skinny, tired body felt differently, having worked all those extra factory hours to pay the rent.
“I don’t feel very hungry.” Grandma Maxine turned her head away.
“Try to eat,” Isabelle insisted.
“Maybe later. Go on and feed your critters. They’ve been waiting all day.”
“Okay.”
A table, made from a discarded factory crate, sat next to Isabelle’s rickety old bed. On top of the table sat a pickle jar. Mama Lu had eaten the pickles and had thrown the jar into the street. No one else seemed interested in the jar, so Isabelle had transformed it into an aquarium. The only occupant was a creature that looked like a little white rock.
“How’s your barnacle?” Grandma Maxine asked.
“I think it’s sleeping,” Isabelle replied. She had found the lone barnacle on one of the creosote pilings. Because she had never been to school, and because Mama Lu didn’t own any books on marine biology, Isabelle hadn’t known what to call it. No one kept books in Runny Cove—not a single one. Paper tended to bloat and mold. Bindings disintegrated within weeks. When Mama Lu got a catalogue in the mail, the pages were always stuck together.
But Grandma Maxine knew it was called a barnacle because there had been lots of barnacles on the beach when she was little. She had studied them in school. She knew that barnacles ate tiny creatures called plankton. She knew that Isabelle would need to collect new water for the barnacle so its food supply wouldn’t run out.
Isabelle opened the window and, holding the barnacle in place, carefully poured out the aquarium’s old water. Rain blew against her face, soaking her short hair. My grandmother can’t hold onto a spoon anymore. Time isn’t making her better. These thoughts made Isabelle feel heavy, so she leaned against the window frame. That’s when she noticed something unusual.
A tall person stood across the narrow street, on Gertrude’s front porch. The porch light illuminated the edges of a long hooded cape. How strange. Most everyone in Runny Cove wore cheap plastic slickers, sold at the factory store. Who could that be? No one ever visited Runny Cove.
Grandma Maxine coughed—a deep, wet sound. Cold night air rushed through the window, so Isabelle quickly closed it. She filled the aquarium with the fresh seawater she had collected. The barnacle opened and a white feather emerged, fanning the water. “It’s eating,” she reported.
“That’s nice,” Grandma Maxine said, coughing again.
There were other critters to feed. Isabelle pulled some grass blades from her pocket and tossed them into a cracker box that she had turned into a slug garden. She dropped a small piece of rotten driftwood into an empty milk carton that she had turned into a potato bug palace.
“I’m so sleepy,” Grandma Maxine murmured, closing her eyes.
“Oh, wait.” Isabelle had almost forgotten. She rushed across the soft moss and grabbed the apple. “Look, I have something special for dessert.”
“I’m too tired to eat.”
“But it’s an apple.” Isabelle beamed with pride, presenting the apple with a formal bow.
Grandma Maxine opened her eyes and gasped. “An apple? Oh, Isabelle. I know we don’t have enough food, but you shouldn’t steal. It’s wrong.”
“I didn’t steal it.” Isabelle dug a small chunk from the apple with the spoon. “Go on, eat some.” She gently pressed the piece into her grandmother’s mouth.
Grandma Maxine chewed slowly, then her eyes widened. “As sweet as I remember,” she said. “It’s been so long.”
Isabelle eagerly took a bite. Sweet juice burst onto her tongue. She wanted to shove the entire apple into her mouth. “It’s the best thing ever!” She dug her grandmother another chunk. As the old woman ate, her eyes ignited, as if a lightning bolt had shot right through her. She held out her withered hand for another piece.
“How much I’ve missed this taste. When I was a little girl, we had an apple tree in our backyard and we ate apple pie and drank apple cider. Our neighbor had a plum tree and the church on the corner had a cherry tree. It was so different when I was little. It used to be called Sunny Cove in those days.”
Isabelle knew all about her grandmother’s childhood. Life in the old days sounded like a dream.
“My father loved apple cider. He was a fisherman, like all the other fathers. He’d leave in the mornings before I woke. After school I would run down to the docks and wave as his boat came in. There were plenty of fish in those days. We ate halibut and salmon and herring. My father was the best fisherman in Sunny Cove.” The light faded from her eyes and she slumped against the pillow. Talking about the old days always made Grandma Maxine sad.
Isabelle knew the rest of the story. Each year the fishing fleet caught more and more fish until there were no more to catch. The people almost starved. Then the factory came and Mr. Supreme Senior gave everyone jobs. Then, mysteriously, the endless rain arrived and life changed forever. It was the saddest story she had ever heard.
The overhead light shut off with a popping sound. All the bedroom lights turned off automatically at eight o’clock. It didn’t matter
