Seaglass Summer Read online

  In memory of

  our beloved, sweet cat,

  Monet, 1999–2009

  Chapter One

  TO THE ISLAND

  Move over, Dr. Dolittle.

  I, Poppy Ray, age eleven, am on a mission to heal all the animals at my uncle’s clinic. Mom and Dad are off to India on business, but I’m not going this time. I love curries, Bengali sweets, and my cousins, but I don’t love being cooped up indoors during the monsoon floods. I convinced my parents I’d be better off with Uncle Sanjay this summer, even if he lives on a faraway island in Washington State. He’s our only relative in North America, and he loves me to death because I love animals. How could he say no?

  So that’s how I found myself leaving everything I knew behind—Los Angeles smog, traffic, and all my friends—and boarding an airplane for a strange new place. After two hours, we’re about to land in Seattle, on the edge of the Northwest sea. As we drop through the clouds, I press my nose to the window. I’ve never been this far north, where mountains rise around us like giant Sno-Kones, where sparkling rivers run through a city of glittering high-rises. On the harbor between Seattle and the mountains, ferryboats, freighters, and cruise ships glide through the waves. Hundreds of green dots float in the distance. Which one is my uncle’s island? What if I get lost on the way?

  We land and hurry through baggage claim and out into the sunshine and cool breeze. A Yellow Cab carries us through the hilly city to the waterfront, and then Mom and Dad rush me up a hundred concrete steps and into the ferry building. Dad hauls my giant purple suitcase, which holds my most precious belongings—my clothes, my fifth-grade yearbook, and my veterinarian first-aid kit. I saved up six months’ allowance to buy just the right one, complete with tongue depressors, cotton swabs, a stethoscope, a digital thermometer, and a blanket wrap. These aren’t the kid versions. They’re the real thing. I’m serious about becoming an animal doctor, just like my uncle. I even took pictures of the label on the clear plastic carrying case. In big black letters are the words “Deluxe First-Aid Kit for Animals.” I sent the photos to my relatives, and I brought the kit to school. My friends kept bending the flexible thermometer, made for pet safety. I can’t wait to show the kit to my uncle.

  At the top of the stairs, Mom hugs me and says, “Oh, Poppy, I wish we could take you all the way to the island, but our plane left late. We can’t miss our connecting flight to Mumbai. We have to see you off here.”

  And you could be coming with us if you hadn’t been so stubborn. That is what she doesn’t say. But she sighs. My mother is an expert in the sigh department.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, and it comes out way too chirpy. I’ll be perfectly okay on my own. This is what I wanted. So why is my throat dry?

  Mom sighs again. “Uncle Sanjay will be waiting for you at the Nisqually Island stop. The ferry worker will stay with you. See that woman over there?”

  A powerful-looking blond lady waves at us. I bet she could push the boat all by herself. But she’s wearing a soft pink jacket, like a puff of cotton candy.

  I wave back, pretending to be brave. “Don’t worry. I’ve got everything I need.”

  Mom’s eyes mist and she hugs me again. “We’ll miss you. You can still come to India with us. We could try to get you on a flight.”

  “No!” I say. She’d do it, too.

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “You could still go to wilderness camp with Emma and Anna—”

  “I’m staying with Uncle Sanjay,” I say. Emma and Anna Chen are identical twins, my very best friends. I promised to buy them postcards and presents on the island.

  “Be good at Uncle Sanjay’s,” Mom says. “We’ll pick you up at his place. It’s about time we saw his house.”

  I’ve wanted to visit him ever since he moved to the island four years ago, but he lives with a large furry dog and Mom is allergic to anything with fur. We could stay in a motel, but we haven’t had the chance so far. He visits us often in L.A., bringing gifts made in Washington—Seattle chocolates, huckleberry jam, or Walla Walla onions. He takes me for walks and tells funny stories about the animals that come into his clinic.

  “I hope you’ll have fun with the cats and dogs,” Mom says, being nice even though the thought of pets makes her queasy.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say.

  Maybe it’s the people jostling by to get on the ferry. Maybe it’s the mournful honking of waterbirds. But for some reason, a twinge of worry prods at my ribs. I’ve never ridden a ferry before. I’ve never been away from my parents for a whole month. First time for everything, I tell myself. I’m not a baby anymore.

  Mom gives me a Suffocation Cuddle. I breathe in the lavender scent of her hair. She blurs at close range—the dimple on her cheek, her tea-colored skin, the paint stains under her fingernails. The artwork she wears all over her—the earrings she made from beads, the bells that serve as buttons on her homemade floral-print shirt—jingles and clinks.

  Dad squeezes my hand. Suddenly, I don’t want to let go. “Have you got everything, Poppykins? Cell phone in case of emergency?”

  I nod. I can’t speak. Dad is always organized, just like me. In my bedroom at home, I line up my animal books on the top shelf, and on the second shelf, I keep trophies for spelling and the science fair. In my closet, my jeans are on one side, my shirts on the other. I make my bed and vacuum almost every day. For a split second, I miss my room. I wonder where I’ll sleep at Uncle Sanjay’s house.

  “If you don’t get a signal, call from Uncle’s home phone,” Mom says. “We’ll also try to call you.”

  If I don’t get a signal? But I get a signal everywhere.

  “Have you got your gum boots?” Dad asks, letting go of my hand.

  He means rain boots. He still uses a few words from India.

  “I have my blue ones.”

  “Don’t get off the ferry before Nisqually Island,” Mom says. “Listen to the ferry lady.”

  “I promise.”

  Dad flips open his wallet. “Did we give you enough emergency cash?”

  I shake my purse. “It’s all in here.”

  Mom hugs me again, and I hang on a moment too long.

  The ferry lady comes over. “We’d better go.” She leads me down the ramp. She tries to chat, but I can’t talk for the frog jumping in my throat. The boat engine hums. I glance back at Mom, her frizzy black hair blowing in the wind; and at Dad, in his pressed blue suit, holding her hand. As I board the ferry, I can still see my parents’ dark eyes watching me from the dock.

  Chapter Two

  A BUMP IN THE ROAD

  On the voyage to Nisqually Island, I watch for killer whales hiding beneath the ocean waves. The ride is calm and smooth. The sea lifts hilly green-black islands; small boats pass with their flapping white sails, and two sea lions rest on a buoy, watching me. I wonder what they think of a skinny girl with tangled black hair and eyes the gold color of sunset. Do they have dreams? Wishes?

  Halfway across the water, when the mist rolls in and the air turns cool and salty, my cell phone signal disappears. The ocean spreads out on all sides. I don’t know which way is home. A touch of panic rises in my chest. I’ve never been alone in a strange place, except once when I was little and Mom lost me at Disneyland. I cried at the top of my lungs—I thought she was gone forever—but then she came running and grabbed my hand. I must’ve been lost for only a minute, but it felt like a year.

  After a while, the ferry lady comes over and sits next to me. She smells like french fries. “So what do you have planned for the summer?” she asks.

  “I plan to save the animals on Nisqually Island.” I sit up straight and take a deep breath. “I’m going to work at the Furry Friends Animal Clinic.”

  “Is that so?” Her nos
e twitches. “Good for you. Nisqually is my favorite place to visit. You can drive the whole length, top to bottom, in about an hour. Boats, seagulls, beaches—the island is beautiful. Holds many surprises. Look, there it is.” She points out the window.

  The island creeps toward us. I imagined bright flowers and cute bungalows perched along the shoreline, and happy dogs running on the beach. But instead, a dense forest covers the hillsides all the way down to the water. I don’t see any buildings. What if my uncle lives in a tree house? I’m heading into the uncharted wilderness. I could turn around now, go to India with my parents. I could dive into the water and swim back …

  No, that’s silly. Uncle Sanjay lives in a house in a town, probably on the other side of the island. His address is 25 Sitka Spruce Road, Witless Cove, on Nisqually Island, in Washington State.

  The boat docks with a thud and the passengers sweep me to the exit doors. I nearly lose my suitcase as I stumble down the narrow ramp into a parking lot. My heart pounds, but I stride forward, pretending to know where I’m going. Lines of cars are parked in rows facing the ferry, waiting to board. Ahead of me are a square gray building with a sign, NISQUALLY LANDING, and a two-lane road that disappears into the forest.

  The ferry lady stays close to me as I watch for Uncle Sanjay. I have his number in my purse, but I can’t get a cell phone signal. I keep checking my watch. What if he doesn’t come?

  I wait and wait, and then a noisy, dented red pickup truck rattles into the parking lot and belches a few times before pulling to a stop. A tall man gets out of the truck. Uncle Sanjay. Someone else, a dark shape bouncing up and down, waits in the passenger seat.

  “There’s my uncle,” I say, pointing at the man.

  “Okay, hon,” the ferry lady says. “You have a good time with your furry friends.” Then she is gone.

  Uncle Sanjay runs toward me, his feet pointing out sideways. He’s a tall, hazelnut brown version of Mom—same wide forehead and huge interested eyes.

  “My dearest niece, I’m sorry I’m late!” He hugs me so hard he lifts me off my feet. He smells of wood smoke and spice.

  “I was getting worried,” I say.

  “A Jack Russell terrier came in with garbage gut. We had to pump his stomach, and I fell behind on my schedule.” He grabs the handle of my suitcase.

  Poor little dog. “Will he be okay?”

  “Garbage gut can be dangerous, but he’ll be fine. Come come, let’s go.” Uncle Sanjay wheels my suitcase toward the truck. A bumper sticker on the back reads GEODUCK FOR STATE BIRD. I picture a giant island duck chasing me, flapping its wings.

  Furry Friends Animal Clinic is painted in bright blue on each side of the truck. Inside, a huge yellow dog jumps up and down.

  Uncle Sanjay taps on the window. “That’s Stu. He still acts like a puppy.” He throws my suitcase into the back. It lands with a whump. He slams the tailgate a few times to keep it closed, then yanks open the passenger-side door.

  Stu charges out and leaps at me, knocking me back into the grass. He sits on top of me, paws on my shoulders. Floppy ears dangle in my face.

  I scrunch up my nose. “Help! I’m suffocating. Stu, stop it!” But he doesn’t listen.

  “Stu!” Uncle Sanjay says from far away. “Leave your cousin Poppy alone.”

  Cousin? I am not the dog’s cousin. Stu breathes hot doggy breath on my cheeks.

  “Stu, bad dog. Get off me!” I shout, but Stu keeps drooling and licking my face.

  Uncle Sanjay laughs—a rolling roar. “Stay calm—”

  “Calm? How can I be calm with a giant dog in my face?”

  “Studebaker Chatterji, come.”

  Studebaker? The dog lumbers up and leaps into the truck. I climb in next to him. I’m turning into a pancake, squished against the door. Stu rests his paws on my lap.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Uncle Sanjay says cheerfully. He shoves junk onto the floor.

  As the truck rumbles to life, he pats the dashboard. “I’ve had this hump of tin since my early days as a vet in Virginia. Drove across the country and it has not failed me yet.”

  “Don’t you mean hunk of tin?” I hold on to the door handle.

  “That’s what I said.” He presses the pedal with his foot and the truck wobbles down the narrow road. Tall trees bend their branches low, forming a tunnel of green above us. There isn’t much traffic, but everyone who passes us waves. Uncle Sanjay waves back. Nobody waves in L.A. unless they’re angry at you, and they usually wave one finger, not a whole hand.

  “How was the ferry ride?” he says as he speeds along. He waggles his forefinger at me. “The boat stops at only a few of these islands, nah? There are many more islands. Some are invisible at high tide. Water rises up and covers them completely.”

  “Invisible islands?” I don’t want to sound too interested, but my mouth drops open.

  “Well, you can see them underwater.” He grins. “Nisqually Island is always visible, however. It’s bigger than you’d think. Many beaches and parks. Swifty Bay, Witless Cove Beach, Humphrey Landing. And we have three towns, too, not only Witless Cove. Lopty Village and Freetown.”

  “Wow, three whole towns.” I won’t have time to explore. I’ll be too busy with the animals. “When do we go to work?”

  “Tomorrow. The clinic is closed on Sunday afternoon.” The truck rattles and creaks, but we don’t slow down, even when the road twists around curves or climbs hills or crashes through puddles. Rain fell in the night; puddles are everywhere, reflecting the sky and trees.

  “Oops, water in the road.” Uncle Sanjay spins the steering wheel. The truck veers and skids through a stream. I hear a loud clunk, some bumping, and a couple of thuds. I glance in the side mirror. Bright colors flap away behind the truck. My suitcase bounces along the road, snapped open, spitting out my clothes, my shoes, and my underwear—right into the rushing stream.

  Chapter Three

  ISLAND GEAR

  “Uncle Sanjay, stop! My suitcase fell out!”

  Uncle Sanjay glances in the rearview mirror. “Oh, my dear niece.” He pulls over to the shoulder, and the three of us scramble out of the truck. Uncle Sanjay scratches his head. “Must get that tailgate fixed.”

  “It’s broken? And you put my suitcase back there?”

  “Nowhere else to put it. I could’ve strapped it to the hood, I suppose.”

  I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my jeans, and wade into the stream. Icy water laps over my feet. Uncle Sanjay follows to help search for my clothes. Stu leaps around, splashing us. I find my pants, shirts, and socks, all soggy. Stu chomps one of my T-shirts.

  Uncle Sanjay grabs the shirt. “Stu, no eating. Bad for you.”

  I catch my sneakers before they float away, and my yearbook.

  “What am I going to wear?” I say. Where is my vet kit? The stream rushes more loudly, bubbling in my ears.

  “Not to worry. We’ll buy you some clothes. Nothing much is open today, except the Trading Post, if we get there soon. You’ll find some good solid gear. Island gear.”

  Island gear? I start to shiver. Cars whiz by, people waving from the windows. I’m too upset to wave back. I try to remember my bedroom at home and the way my clothes used to be, folded neatly and dry.

  Uncle Sanjay grabs the soaking, broken carrying case. Cotton swabs and tongue depressors are floating downstream.

  I catch my stethoscope and thermometer before they sink. “The water ruined everything! I saved up for that kit. What am I going to do?”

  His eyebrows rise. “You bought the kit for your trip to the island?” His lips are pressed together, as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  I snatch the container from him. “It’s cracked now. And there goes the blanket wrap!”

  “Not to worry. We have the proper equipment at the clinic.” He pats my back.

  “But this was my kit. I put my name on it in Magic Marker, right there.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, keep the box. Perhaps you’ll fill it with something ne
w. Come, let’s go.”

  How could I ever fill it with anything but emergency veterinary supplies?

  We climb back into the truck. I try to send 911 text messages to Mom, but I still can’t get a signal. The deeper Uncle Sanjay drives into the shadowy woods, the slower the world moves, as if time skips Nisqually Island and races on through to Seattle.

  But then we burst out into the sunshine, next to the shoreline. A wooden sign appears, half covered by twisty madrone branches: WELCOME TO WITLESS COVE.

  “Where did that name come from?” I ask Uncle Sanjay.

  “In the early 1800s, when the Wilkes Expedition sailed through these islands, Captain Wilkes found this cove shallow and exposed to storms, useless for boats wanting to come ashore or drop anchor here. Scared sailors ‘witless.’ Wilkes coined the name Witless Cove.”

  He points to the right, to a curved, sandy ribbon of shore littered with rocks and driftwood. The black ocean throws up huge white-capped waves, and the smells of kelp and sea salt waft into my nose. Stu whines as we pass the beach.

  “You can find many treasures there,” Uncle Sanjay goes on. “Quartz, shells, seaglass. Stu likes to go exploring.”

  I want to stop at the beach right away, but Uncle Sanjay turns left, away from the water and into town. No mall, no painted lines in the road. No fast-food restaurants. I bet nobody here has heard of a traffic light. People are biking and strolling along brick sidewalks. What’s with all the smiling and waving? Uncle Sanjay must be famous in this village of old-fashioned lampposts, shops, and hanging flowerpots. A rusty fire truck sits in the overgrown driveway of an old white church. I have to admit, Witless Cove is pretty, but nothing can fix my broken suitcase or my first aid kit, and I’m still in desperate need of a telephone.

  In one blink, we pass the main street and pull up at a square building made of giant logs. A wooden sign reads, THE WITLESS COVE TRADING POST. I have to buy clothes in there? When Uncle Sanjay and I get out, Stu moves into the driver’s seat. He looks like a proud human disguised as a dog.

  Inside the store, families in jeans and T-shirts mix with people in fancy clothes. They browse the soaps, lotions, and displays of cockleshells and colorful chunks of seaglass. Up front, a few women chat about a clambake and a Girl Scout Cookie sale.