Blue
iii
And so it is.
The house is as I remember it—small and yellow, tucked away from the main road and drowning in memories of our family as it had been. In the backyard, our swing set is rusting and faded with age; inside the house, there are pictures everywhere. They hang in old frames on the walls and sit on the tables in the living room, pictures of my brothers and me through the years. I see myself aging from diapers to elementary school and then the occasional picture of myself in my early teenage years, awkward and young and nothing like who I am now. My school picture from the year before is stuck to the fridge with a magnet on top of a Christmas card of the three of us and old newspaper clippings. Mom’s face stares at me from behind glass in nearly every room, permanently smiling and young and beautiful. Looking at the pictures, I understand why Dad is still in love with her—though she has grown older, the pictures never changed.
The weeks move by quickly and dully. Dad returns to work and Chris finds his old summer friends, leaving me to myself. He apologizes a hundred times over, but never invites me anyway, something about not wanting to annoy them and Dad getting upset. I can’t bring myself to protest. Even if I tagged along, I know that I would end up at home anyway, left out of their activities. I spend my time reading and walking along the beaches with our old dog, Bernie, sometimes going for runs on the long trails that snake through the woods around the house to take my mind off of things.
Chris and I make conversation only occasionally; meeting somewhere between one of the meals Dad makes us eat together or just before Dad comes to the table. I tell him about what I’ve been doing and he tells me about the guys and the other people that living on the reservation. There are a lot of people our age, he tells me, but none of them are ever around. Most of the guys hang around Sam Uley, one of the council members. Chris never speaks of him fondly.
“They follow him around like he’s a god, Gem,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s something weird about him. I don’t know why, but I don’t like it.”
Whenever Dad hears Chris speaking poorly of Sam, he goes off about how Sam has never done anything wrong, how he’s done loads for the youth on the reservation, and how he’s going to become chief one day. I partially agree with him and, though my loyalty lies with Chris, I doubt that Sam is as bad as he’s made out to be. I had met him in passing at the general store in town with Dad, intimidated by his height and the air of serious that seemed to hover around him. He had introduced himself and spoke quietly with Dad at the front of the store as I wandered around. Sam seems to hold the weight of the reservation of his shoulders, his young eyes seeming too old and wise. I think to myself that the reservation does this to people—turns them into something that they weren’t before, weighs them down. The reservation is black and blue, worn with time and years of poverty and the people who live here are no different.
“Hey, Gem,” Chris says, looking at me with tired eyes over the table. We’re eating breakfast together for the first time in a long time, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. “Me and a couple of the guys are going cliff-diving, you wanna come?”
“Cliff-diving?” My eyes meet his unevenly, watching as he fills his bowl once again. I’m on my first bowl of cereal and he’s on his fourth, shoveling Cheerios into his mouth and talking to me at the same time. “What’s that?”
“Jumping off of the cliffs near Third Beach,” he mumbles, wiping milk from his chin. “Everyone does it.”
For a minute, I’m reminded of when Mom used to say ‘if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?’ but I don’t say anything. Chris has mentioned jumping off the Third Beach cliffs before—after the summers he spent with Dad, he used to tell me stories of all the crazy things that he and his friends had done. They were kicked out of stores in Port Angeles and spent weeks camping in the woods north of the reservation, jumping off of the cliffs almost every day. Watching him now, I can’t see him doing any of the things that he says he’s done, his eyes, like Dad’s, weathered and drained of the color that they used to have. His hair has grown out since we got here and the curls hang almost near his shoulders, shaggy and unkempt. The height and muscles that he had in New York seemed to have doubled and he stands nearly three inches taller, towering over both Dad and I. His shoulders are broader, too. He looks much older than he did before, more mature and strong, in some strange way.
“So, what do you say? You in?” Chris looks at me expectantly, his eyebrows raised. Looking at me then, his eyes looked impossibly young and bright, hopeful. “It’ll be fun!”
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, standing up.
My brother shoves his empty cereal bowl at me and stands, too. When he stretches, his fingertips brush the ceiling. “Alright, well, we leave in ten. Get ready.”
The house is as I remember it—small and yellow, tucked away from the main road and drowning in memories of our family as it had been. In the backyard, our swing set is rusting and faded with age; inside the house, there are pictures everywhere. They hang in old frames on the walls and sit on the tables in the living room, pictures of my brothers and me through the years. I see myself aging from diapers to elementary school and then the occasional picture of myself in my early teenage years, awkward and young and nothing like who I am now. My school picture from the year before is stuck to the fridge with a magnet on top of a Christmas card of the three of us and old newspaper clippings. Mom’s face stares at me from behind glass in nearly every room, permanently smiling and young and beautiful. Looking at the pictures, I understand why Dad is still in love with her—though she has grown older, the pictures never changed.
The weeks move by quickly and dully. Dad returns to work and Chris finds his old summer friends, leaving me to myself. He apologizes a hundred times over, but never invites me anyway, something about not wanting to annoy them and Dad getting upset. I can’t bring myself to protest. Even if I tagged along, I know that I would end up at home anyway, left out of their activities. I spend my time reading and walking along the beaches with our old dog, Bernie, sometimes going for runs on the long trails that snake through the woods around the house to take my mind off of things.
Chris and I make conversation only occasionally; meeting somewhere between one of the meals Dad makes us eat together or just before Dad comes to the table. I tell him about what I’ve been doing and he tells me about the guys and the other people that living on the reservation. There are a lot of people our age, he tells me, but none of them are ever around. Most of the guys hang around Sam Uley, one of the council members. Chris never speaks of him fondly.
“They follow him around like he’s a god, Gem,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s something weird about him. I don’t know why, but I don’t like it.”
Whenever Dad hears Chris speaking poorly of Sam, he goes off about how Sam has never done anything wrong, how he’s done loads for the youth on the reservation, and how he’s going to become chief one day. I partially agree with him and, though my loyalty lies with Chris, I doubt that Sam is as bad as he’s made out to be. I had met him in passing at the general store in town with Dad, intimidated by his height and the air of serious that seemed to hover around him. He had introduced himself and spoke quietly with Dad at the front of the store as I wandered around. Sam seems to hold the weight of the reservation of his shoulders, his young eyes seeming too old and wise. I think to myself that the reservation does this to people—turns them into something that they weren’t before, weighs them down. The reservation is black and blue, worn with time and years of poverty and the people who live here are no different.
“Hey, Gem,” Chris says, looking at me with tired eyes over the table. We’re eating breakfast together for the first time in a long time, sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. “Me and a couple of the guys are going cliff-diving, you wanna come?”
“Cliff-diving?” My eyes meet his unevenly, watching as he fills his bowl once again. I’m on my first bowl of cereal and he’s on his fourth, shoveling Cheerios into his mouth and talking to me at the same time. “What’s that?”
“Jumping off of the cliffs near Third Beach,” he mumbles, wiping milk from his chin. “Everyone does it.”
For a minute, I’m reminded of when Mom used to say ‘if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you?’ but I don’t say anything. Chris has mentioned jumping off the Third Beach cliffs before—after the summers he spent with Dad, he used to tell me stories of all the crazy things that he and his friends had done. They were kicked out of stores in Port Angeles and spent weeks camping in the woods north of the reservation, jumping off of the cliffs almost every day. Watching him now, I can’t see him doing any of the things that he says he’s done, his eyes, like Dad’s, weathered and drained of the color that they used to have. His hair has grown out since we got here and the curls hang almost near his shoulders, shaggy and unkempt. The height and muscles that he had in New York seemed to have doubled and he stands nearly three inches taller, towering over both Dad and I. His shoulders are broader, too. He looks much older than he did before, more mature and strong, in some strange way.
“So, what do you say? You in?” Chris looks at me expectantly, his eyebrows raised. Looking at me then, his eyes looked impossibly young and bright, hopeful. “It’ll be fun!”
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, standing up.
My brother shoves his empty cereal bowl at me and stands, too. When he stretches, his fingertips brush the ceiling. “Alright, well, we leave in ten. Get ready.”