Kazuko sits down at the kitchen table opposite her husband Nick.  

‘Nice day,’ she says. 

His eyes remain fixed on his newspaper. He always checks the obituaries before reading anything else.  He is a great believer in “paying your respects”. That’s what good Italians do.    

‘Did anyone die?’ she asks.  

‘Nobody we know.’  

First thing each day he collects the Hudson Daily from the mailbox. Then he prepares his instant coffee. He doesn’t understand how she can drink the real thing. She doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand.  

‘Look at date,’ she says. 

‘What?’ 

‘Look at date on paper.’  

He brings it closer to his face. ‘Oh, yeah. Hmm. Happy First day of Fall.’  

‘Today our—Today is our 25th Wedding Anniversary,’ she says. 

‘Oh, yeah. It is.’ His eyes remain on the page. ‘You want to do something? Let’s go to Cascades and grab a sandwich. We can get one of those tuna melts you like?’  

‘Cascades? I prefer stay home and make own sandwich. Anyway, I do not wish anyone to know we celebrate anniversary in luncheonette,’ she says.    

‘Well, it’s just another day anyway, isn’t it.’   

He stands abruptly.    

She flinches.    

He walks around to the other side of the counter, fills his cup with tap water and places it into the microwave to boil for another instant coffee. ‘What do you care what other people think anyway?’

‘You are right. Stupid of me to mention.’

He keeps his back to her while he waits for the machine to ding. Then he scoops in a heaping spoon of instant Folger’s and two sugar cubes, stirring so vigorously it spills. He leaves it the mess and returns to his paper.  

‘Look at this. They’re building a new Mount Carmel Church right near here. In Stottville.’

‘That’s nice.’ She couldn’t care less about that church. She couldn’t care less about anything in their town. She has no friends here. Never had.    

‘You be happy Nick?’ Her body stiffens as the wrong words spill out, but it is too late.  

‘Jesus Christ. You’ve been here for more than twenty-five years. Come on. Say it,’ he shouts. ‘Are – you- happy – Nick. Is that what you want to ask me? Say it!’  

Her eyes remain fixed on her hands as she folds an unfolds a paper napkin into an origami crane. Her lips move, repeating the phrase to herself. 

He gets up and goes to the cupboard, he takes a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He returns to his chair, pours himself a double and lights up a Lucky Strike that he keeps in the drawer for emergencies.

‘You smoke again?’

‘I didn’t forget our anniversary. What’s to celebrate? You know, maybe… if you had tried to learn to speak English better…’ 

She stands up and closes the window behind him so the neighbours don’t hear. Then, she crosses the kitchen and pours herself a cup of coffee. On the fridge is a photo, faded with age. They are in Tokyo in their favourite restaurant celebrating their engagement. Cheek to cheek. Drunken smiles. A couple mad about each other.

She turns to look at him. Funny. That smile, she hadn’t seen it in years. She takes the photo down, crumples it in her hand and slips it into the pocket of her robe.  

She leaves her coffee and instead, takes a glass from the cupboard. She sits down in front of him and reaches for the bottle of Jack.    

‘What the hell are you doing?’    

‘I like drink too. I celebrate that I survive twenty-five years with you.’  

I click my fingers, make the children freeze, because I can pause time.

I’ve never been much good at controlling this class. They’ve known for a while the end is coming, so they don’t care. Why spend their final days learning stuff they can’t pass down? Knowledge is powerless.

I put my feet on my desk, observe the tableau: Amelia poised like a graceful bird, as she takes a leap from her chair; Harrison gripping his paper aeroplane, ready to let it soar; Josh, his face in nasty contortion, Amy’s pigtail in this grasp, her tears crystals fixed to her cheeks; Mason hunched at his table, quiet and forgotten; lice-ridden Lily, mid-step, her toes pinching in her ragged shoes; Ethan with his arms in mid-flap, unable to relate to the chaos of a neurotypical world; clumsy Beyoncé – honestly, what were her parents thinking – amid a flat-footed stumble.

I come to Maisie, the artist – my favourite but I’m not allowed to show it. Her head is down, pencil poised to draw her dreams. Dreams that will never come.

My turn to run amok. I yank off my hijab, let my hair tumble free, weave through the statues, twirl and dance till breathless. Finally, I collapse into my chair, straighten my clothes, click my fingers.

The chaos resumes. Amelia lands, all grace lost; Harrison’s plane nose-dives to the floor; Amy yelps and smashes her fist into Josh’s face; Mason slides under the table; Lily’s foot comes down, toes diving through the split in her shoe; Ethan flaps on; Beyoncé falls to her knees. But Maisie looks up, stares me down, as if it’s just us, in the eye of the storm.

‘Miss, where is your scarf?’

My fingers flounder in my hair. I’m rumbled.

Maisie rises.

She clicks her fingers.

Everyone freezes except me and her.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew she was special.

‘Come on,’ I say, as I take her hand.

I lead Maisie from the classroom, down the corridors past the other classes frozen in time, and out into a world poised for destruction. We take in the greenness of it all, everything we’d planted to save ourselves. We look up. The comet is hard to miss now, a fiery bullet in the sky. I remember the daughter I almost had, incomplete, lost in blood and pain, and wonder if that was a blessing. I squeeze Maisie’s hand. We can hold on to this moment for as long as we wish.

Every night, just as it got dark on the island, Mr. Albert would climb up the stairs and visit him in his bedroom. There, in a low scratchy voice, he’d tell the boy his favorite story. The large man would start with his back to the boy as he set the scene, and then as he came to what he called “the good part” he’d turn and face him with a theatrical flourish.

“The Sandman rubbed his little hands together and said in a voice that was little more than a whisper: ‘now I’ve got your eyes, and they’ll make a nice meal for my children. Not too chewy, not too crunchy. Just right.’”

That summer they were all together on the little island called Nantucket. Mr. Albert worked with his father at the university back home, and they were here to write a book together. Mr. Albert was a very large man whose shirts often spilled out over his pants. He had long hair, was funny, and the boy liked him, even if the story about the eyes scared him. Everyone seemed to like Mr. Albert, and the boy had noticed that Mr. Albert’s wife was very pretty. Sometimes when she smiled at him, the boy felt dizzy and happy and wanted to run away.

During the day, when the boy ran up and down the dunes in his bare feet, the beach grass was scratchy, and the sand grew in between his toes. Sand was everywhere on the island. No matter how much the boy tried to wash it off, it clung to him like a second skin. It crunched in his mouth when he ate peanut butter sandwiches, and he found it in his underwear before changing into pajamas. But worst of all, it got in his eyes. He couldn’t wait to get home to Minnesota.

Their last night on the island, his father and Mr. Albert threw a party. There was no bedtime story, so the boy had trouble falling asleep. Downstairs the adults were making what his mother used to call a “racket.” She used to tuck him in at night while his father wrote books and smoked cigars.

The sand was in the bedsheets and scraped his bare legs. It seemed to be alive and have a mind of its own, drifting everywhere freely, making things uncomfortable for everyone it had decided to torment. Finally, the boy drifted off. He dreamt that he was walking with his mother back in Minnesota. Her hand was soft in his until suddenly it was not. He saw Mr. Albert’s wife somewhere in the distance, and her eyes captured him. She was smiling, and he awoke to a feeling he’d never known before, one that left him feeling dirty. He wanted to make it go away but nothing he tried worked.

Downstairs, he knew they were drinking. His father liked an orangey-brown drink best that he poured over ice. Mr. Albert’s drinks always looked like water, and were decorated with a green slice of fruit that smelled a little bit like lemons. There was no music, but the boy heard lots of voices. He wondered what Mr. Albert’s wife was drinking.

He went to the window and raised it so that he could look at the moon and feel a little wind. On the window sill, he saw the sand scurrying about in crazy patterns. Pushed by the Nantucket wind, a few grains flew up into his eye, and he tried to blink them away. The sand seemed to be chasing itself, playing a game he didn’t understand. Other people knew what to call things, but now that he and his father were alone, the boy had trouble sorting out his thoughts. Nothing was his anymore. Everything seemed to belong to someone else. He wasn’t even sure he was himself anymore.

Now he heard Mr. Albert shouting at another man. The two men were saying words his mother had asked him never to use. Beneath him, in the moonlight, he saw Mr. Albert push the other man. Then they were wrestling. It didn’t seem fair because Mr. Albert was so much bigger than the other man. As they jostled each other, they hit a handle, and the clean-off shower came on.

The boy had never seen a real fight before. He knew some boys didn’t like each other, but he had never imagined that adults might behave this way. The two wet men below him didn’t seem very good at fighting. They kept slipping, and used their mouths to shout as much as they used their hands to fight. Mr. Albert suddenly raised a hand to his face with a cry of pain. The other man saw this and punched him hard in the stomach. He stood over Mr. Albert a moment, then walked away. The boy saw Mr. Albert on his knees, and he seemed to be feeling for his eye.

Even though he had been told to stay in his room, the boy threw open his door and ran downstairs. Everyone had a glass in their hand, but he didn’t see his father. He wondered again what Mr. Albert’s wife might be drinking, but ran outside without even looking for her.

Mr. Albert was sitting in a puddle, and the shower was still on. It seemed to be raining on Mr. Albert. “Look,” he said to the boy, with a laugh. “The Sandman tried to get my eye, but his kiddies will just have to go hungry tonight.”

The boy took three steps forward and joined the man in the shower. He didn’t know if his friend had one eye or two now, but he thought it didn’t matter. His laugh was still the same, and the boy remembered his mother telling him that laughter was good medicine. The water felt wonderful as it ran over his head, his neck, and finally down to his feet. The boy laughed along with Mr. Albert as he watched the sand run from in between his toes.

He felt clean again and knew now that anywhere you were, the wind blew things in your eyes.

That stepmothers have an impossible job – they can never replace an angel-wing parent. That her husband – a woodcutter or a hunter, does it even matter? – was a louse who never paid her any attention. That her pointy green chin has more character than Snow White’s doll cheeks. Each age spot on her hands a perfect kiss. That her eyes are two nightingales lost in the woods. That she smells of cinnamon and honeysuckle. That the curve of her throat is the prettiest hook. That the thunderclap of jealousy could never be boring. That she only asks Who’s the Fairest of Them All? because every other question is a dandelion in the wind – weed-useless, scattered. That Jonagold apples, flushed red, thin-skinned, are sweet, yet tart. That she longed to save her stepdaughter from a life of drudgery with seven tiny men who forced the girl to cook and clean for them all day long, to save her from becoming lonely, despised, proud. That she always knew a Prince who only loves a pretty face is someone who won’t hesitate to stray. That she is a Queen without scepter or throne. That at Snow White’s wedding to the king’s son they made her wear slippers dipped in fire, and she danced in the flaming shoes until she turned to ashes. That not every story has a moral. That if she ever took him off the wall, he’d like to go to Venice with her and ride in a glass-bottomed boat, kissing her reflection in moonlit canals. That love is a fairy tale told by a fool. That he too contains poison, in the form of mercury. That he would have danced with her in the dove white ballroom, her fingers caressing his silver frame, twirling, spinning to violins until he slipped from her grasp. That shards splinter into stars, into jagged bits of rain.  

The location wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I signed up for a week’s conservation volunteering. I think the other five participants had also imagined something different under “Waste Management & Recycling”.

“I’m sure we’re all going to have fun sorting out this place,” said Dave, the cheery project leader.

“But it’s a landfill site,” said the woman next to me, holding a scarf over her nose.

“Exactly,” Dave said. ”It may not look like much now, but imagine how nice it’ll be after we spend five days cleaning it up.”

Dave gave each of us a colour-coded rubbish bag. Yellow was plastic, blue was paper, red was metal. I got a red bag. I felt sorry for the guy who got green, organic waste. Dave instructed us to fill our bags with the appropriate materials. “We call it resource mining.”

I scoured the landfill for tin cans and scrap metal, feeling satisfied every time I spotted something. The smell made me nauseous at first, but it disappeared after a few minutes as my brain filtered it out, and I stopped noticing the squawks of the seagulls fighting over scraps of food. I even got used to the disturbing way the surface of the rubbish heap yielded with each step, as if I was walking on a giant mound of moss.

Soon my bag was too heavy to carry and I made my way to Dave’s designated collection point, where I dropped it next to the others. Dave gave me a yellow bag this time. “Just to mix things up.” I had a vision of an endless rotation of different coloured bags over the course of the week. I was wondering if I’d be able to stand it when I heard an excited shout.

One of the volunteers, who’d introduced herself as Sarah, was staring at something she’d found. I followed Dave and the others as they hurried over.

“I don’t believe it,” Sarah was saying. “This is the collar from my first pet dog. I lost it years ago when we were moving house.”

“Are you sure it’s the same one?” someone asked.

“Definitely.” Sarah pointed to the tag. “His name was Boris. And I remember this pattern of studs.” She clutched it to her chest. “I thought I’d lost it forever.”

When we were eating our packed lunches, huddled out of the wind next to Dave’s white van, I noticed Sarah wasn’t there. I asked Dave where she was. “I told her to take the rest of the day off,” he said. “She was very emotional.”
As the afternoon wore on and the autumnal sun began to set, I found myself thinking of the incident with my husband. It would soon be a year since it happened. Signing up for the course had been an attempt to take my mind off the anniversary. I shook my head and got back to work.

The next day I was on my third bag when I noticed some of the volunteers huddled together. I went over to see what was going on. Tom was holding his face in his hands.

“Is he OK?” I asked Dave.

“He’s absolutely fine. He found a collection of his daughter’s old drawings.”

Tom wiped away his tears with a cloth handkerchief. “My ex-wife threw them out when we got divorced. I never thought I’d see them again.”

Dave told Tom to take the rest of the day off. He walked towards the car park carrying the folder of drawings in both hands.

Over the next couple of days, all the other volunteers found things that were meaningful to them. Samir discovered a box of letters from his first love. Jake found his childhood collection of Star Wars figures. Michaela came across a bottle of sand she’d brought home from Bali. Each left after their discovery and never returned.

By Friday, it was just me and Dave. “One more vanload and we’re done,” Dave said, chipper as ever.

I worked hard that day, aware I didn’t have much time left. Part of me wondered if I was also going to find something, but I knew the other volunteers’ discoveries had just been luck.

The sun was going down when I pulled up an aluminium sheet and noticed something glinting in the dark space below. I took a closer look and saw a signet ring. A ring I recognised. It was attached to a finger. I moved the sheet further out of the way and saw an arm.

“We should probably call it a day.” I hadn’t heard Dave come up behind me. I quickly replaced the sheet and stood up.

“You go ahead. I might stay here for a moment and enjoy the sunset.”

I watched as Dave walked off towards the car park, his figure silhouetted against the orange sky. Then I turned back and started digging.

Last night, you told me you wanted to adopt the orange cat that sits on our boundary wall. We made a list of names, researched litter box prices, and stocked up on antihistamines. The night passed without much fanfare, as usual, and in the morning, you’d gotten up before me. As always, you hadn’t shut the fridge door properly before bed, and the milk is sour.

Last week, you told me your parents no longer sleep in the same house. Every night, your mother rides her college bicycle to her parent’s house and sleeps in their garage with their dog at her feet, and your father paces the living room for two hours before bed. Their red and orange carpet is worn only in the middle and can now be folded exactly in half. You’ve kept this information a secret for months now. I feel betrayed that you didn’t tell me.

You’ve begun wearing an elastic band around your wrist, even though you shave your head over the bathroom sink every few days. You enjoy rubbing the smooth oval of your scalp; enjoy snapping your wrist with that band even more. Your skin is more elastic these days, too, and your movements are somehow slower, more balanced. I know you use my skincare products after you think I’ve fallen asleep. I just wish you would tell me, instead of trying to move around surreptitiously in the bathroom at two in the morning.

Lately, the banter has been trickling, dripping steadily, and I can sense its stopping nearing. Each morning at breakfast, we stand on opposite sides of the table, the bread bin filled with a seeded loaf in between us. You’ve begun to make stacks of pancakes, and you drink from a sweating glass of orange juice every day. You comment on how stale the air smells and how dry your tongue feels. In return, I comment on how there isn’t much left to say, but we’re determined not to let everything run dry.

I know you’ve been sneaking the cat in and keeping it on the balcony. Your tiny blue tooth speaker does little to drown its sorrowful mews out, and the white tiles reek of piss. It hisses at me when I slide the screen door open but nudges its triangle ears into your palm when it knows I’m watching you both from inside.

It isn’t a secret that you are keeping these things from me. I’m not sure why they’re badly hidden.

Tomorrow, when we wake up, I will pretend not to notice the unclean divot in my freshly opened jar of moisturizer. I will ignore that cat, eavesdrop on conversations about your mother’s depression, throw your elastic band out.

I will smile and eat a slice of bread, and when you ask me if I am alright, I will bare my teeth and say, “Let’s see.”