"Lobster Girl" by Joseph Sackett
Lobster Girl
by Joseph Sackett
The sun hammered the sand, turning it into a griddle that burned against Kessara's bare knees. She stayed put despite the heat searing her skin. The pain felt right somehow.
"You're getting crispy again," Kessara murmured, squeezing a ribbon of white lotion onto her palm. The cool gel made a soft squishing sound as she rubbed her hands together.
Thalia's skin felt hot beneath Kessara's fingertips. The lotion spread across her sister's arms as Kessara worked it in small circles, covering the places where yesterday's sun had done its damage.
The ocean breeze carried salt and seaweed, coating her tongue with brine.
"Remember when Dad used to call you 'Lobster Girl'?" Kessara asked, her fingers tracing the stark line where golden tan met angry red at Thalia's shoulders. "You'd get so mad."
The lotion disappeared into Thalia's skin, leaving behind a sheen that caught the sunlight. Kessara squeezed more onto her palm and moved to her sister's other arm, her touch gentler now, almost hesitant.
"We should've brought the umbrella," she said. Her eyes fixed on the peeling skin, the deepening tan lines that hadn't been there last week. Evidence of days under the relentless sun. Too many days.
Her fingers paused at Thalia's wrist, lingering there while her eyes searched her sister's face. Something cold spread through Kessara's chest.
"You're getting burned," she whispered, her thumb brushing over a patch of skin that had started to blister. "You never remember sunscreen."
The tide lapped at the shore, each wave drawing closer to their spot. Kessara stared at the patterns it made in the wet sand. She capped the lotion with a sharp click and tossed it into her bag.
"I don't know why I bother," she said, the words scraping her throat raw. "You never listen."
Her chest tightened, that familiar pressure building behind her ribs. Dr. Meyers had called it trauma response—the mind's way of protecting itself when reality became too much to bear. The sessions were only six months old, but the feelings weren't...
The breathing exercises weren't working today. Four counts in, hold for seven, out for eight. The numbers tangled in her head.
"This was supposed to be a vacation," Kessara said, louder this time. "Family time. Remember? Before you leave for New York."
Thalia didn't answer.
The rental boat sat anchored twenty yards out, rocking in the shallow water. Its white hull had yellowed with age, paint chipping along the waterline. ISLAND ADVENTURES was printed on the side in faded blue letters.
Kessara glanced toward the palm trees lining the far end of the beach. Her parents sat propped against the largest trunk, where they'd set up their makeshift camp. Her dad's fishing hat cast a shadow over his face, and her mom's romance book lay open on her lap.
"We should head back," Kessara said, brushing sand from her knees. "It's almost dinner time."
Her stomach growled, a hollow reminder that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. The cooler sat beside her parents, red plastic bright against the sand. She could picture the sandwiches inside, tuna with too much mayo, just the way her dad always made them.
A fly landed on her forearm, its tiny legs tickling her skin. She brushed it away with a quick swipe, only for three more to buzz around her head. The insects had been getting worse throughout the afternoon.
"Stop it," she muttered, waving her hand through the air. The flies scattered momentarily before regrouping, circling her head like a living crown.
Kessara frowned. They weren't usually this bad on the island, not with the constant breeze off the water.
"I'm going to get something to eat," she told Thalia. "You want anything?"
Kessara waited, her eyes fixed on Thalia. No response. No witty comeback. No dramatic sigh. Nothing.
"Fine," she muttered, trudging through the sand. "Be that way."
The flies followed her. She tried to ignore them, focusing instead on the hunger gnawing at her stomach and the growing distance between her and her sister.
She knelt beside the cooler, the plastic hot against her fingers as she flipped open the lid. Empty. Just as she had figured. Only a shallow puddle of warm water at the bottom.
"I thought you packed enough for us?" Kessara called over her shoulder, turning toward her mother.
Her mom's empty eye sockets stared back, dark hollows where warm hazel eyes had once been. The book on her lap had slipped to the sand, pages darkened with dried blood.
"Is no one speaking to me today? Jeez."
Kessara reached for her father's fishing vest, fingers finding the handle of his fillet knife in the front pocket. She pulled it out, the blade catching the fading sunlight. She sliced another piece of flesh from his calf, the knife sliding through like butter.
She placed the meat on a stick and held it over the small fire. The flames licked at the flesh. Fat dripped into the fire with a sizzle.
"Maybe if you wouldn't have gotten us lost at sea with no gas, we wouldn't be stuck here," she said, glancing back at her father's body. A week under the relentless sun had turned his skin the color of old leather, pulled tight over his skull. His fishing hat lay crooked, barely covering the sunken eye sockets and the blackened lips that had split open days ago.
Kessara pulled the meat from the fire and blew on it gently. The flies swarmed around her meal, drawn by the scent of cooked flesh.
She looked out at the waves, watching as the setting sun painted them gold and crimson. Their boat bobbed in the distance, useless without fuel. Her cracked lips stretched into a smile as darkness crept across the water.
"At least the sunset's pretty," she whispered, taking a bite.