Claire Kim

Third Place: Fiction

“Okeanós” 
by Claire Kim
12th grade, Bergen County Academies

—

It was only our first day in Greece when Mom started humming. She always did that when she got nervous; some favorite song from her twenties would resurface, and I would be forced to listen. This time, it was “Restless Farewell” by Bob Dylan. The only line I recall was one she sang all the time:

“And if I see the day
I’d only have to stay
So I’ll bid farewell in the night and be gone.”

Mom had a husky, mellow voice that could turn any simple line into a story. It reminded me of all the places I’ve known—cities, houses, the whole thing. Going away, drifting from one apartment to the next.

I remember how she drove us to the airport in the last week of summer, hands tight on the steering wheel as the sign Departures came into view. The window was half-cracked; sharp New York air pushed her hair into her face.

On our Sony Handycam, I am twelve again, on my last vacation before eighth grade, with Mom still beside me.

***

It’s late afternoon, and I hover near the rocks at the entrance of the beach. I go to where the ocean meets the sand, greeted by rough grains wedged into my skin.

Mom lets her hair fall loose, and I follow, tugging out my braids until the strands glue themselves against my damp shoulders. Together, we step forward, and I dip one toe into the water.

“It’s like we’re in a boiling pot and being swallowed whole.” I laugh, going in deeper. Mom trails behind. Her arms skim the top of the water like wings.

“I’ve never felt this warm,” she murmurs.

I dip my fingers in and stir the water gently. She walks forward until the water touches her chest. Then, without warning, she goes under, and the water swallows her completely.

I freeze. Her shape wavers in the water. I tell myself to follow her.

In three.

Two.

One.

I pinch my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. The water swallows my ears in a low hum, and I cling to the darkness, the only thing I see.

I don’t want to rise without her, but my chest tightens, and the world narrows down to oxygen I can’t reach. She’s not there—absolutely nothing beside me.

Then Mom gasps, her head breaking through the surface. Her shoulders jerk with each inhale, her chest rising and falling as if relearning the rhythm of breathing. For a moment, she looks untethered, like the sea itself is ready to claim her again.

But she just laughs, shaking herself free.

“It went up your nose, right?” Mom says, her voice coming out stuffy sounding.

I nod. “I never want to do that again.”

When I try to look at Mom, she’s gazing far away, across the ocean.

***

It’s past midnight, and we barely found our way back to the hotel. In the dim light, I nearly trip over the half-opened suitcases thrown across the floor. Outside, Athens has folded into darkness. The white marble buildings that gleamed all afternoon have dulled to a soft gray. Light flares every so often with the sputter of a passing moped or the flash of neon café signs stubbornly awake.

It’s the quietest it’s been all day.

“Mom?”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

I climb out of bed, shaking loose from the blanket.

Her side has been abandoned. It’s wrinkled, with the pillow still propped against the headboard. Then I see Mom through a crack in the hotel window. Outside on the balcony, perched on the railing. I step toward the deck almost without thought. With the snap of the sliding door, she lowers her arms at last. Her fingers curl around the railing, knuckles ghostly against the metal.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Mom asks without turning.

I pause, the words caught somewhere in my throat. For some reason, I can’t step closer.

“I don’t know,” I manage finally. “I think it’s the bed. Or something about the room.”

“I was just watching some of the videos you took today,” she says. I notice the camcorder balanced on her lap.

“Which ones?”

“The ones of you in front of the museum. You looked so happy.”

I step closer, and she tilts the camcorder so I can glimpse myself frozen on its small screen.

“Mom, is it okay that we’re both up so late right now?” My voice comes out quieter than I expected.

She doesn’t look away from the darkness above, just shakes her head.

“I think…we both needed this. We need time to remember everything from today, to let it settle in our bodies, really feel it before it’s gone.”

We stare out into the world, both of us surrendering to sleeplessness in this unfamiliar country. Her hand brushes against mine, the streetlights glow on our tanned skin, and I wish this moment could last forever.

***

Our faces vanish from the screen, swallowed by twenty-three years, and she is gone again.

The bathroom is dim, the only light coming from my camcorder. Its haze melts into the corners of the room. My tub swells with water. Tiny droplets slide down the mirror, catching the faint blue glow like liquid stars.

Whenever I think about Greece, I realize nothing has been as beautiful as my imagination. Back then, I was entertained by bets: if I could walk the stretch of sidewalk without falling, all of Mom’s bad feelings would go away; if I could hum the song she loved without missing a beat, she’d be here just to see me.

Now, Mom slips beneath the waves. On the counter, the stack of mascara-stained tissues has softened at the edges. They sag like little shipwrecks denied their descent back home.

My reflection trembles, and the aged lines of our faces blur together.

My limbs fill with water. I am ready for the plunge. On the glittering surface of the tub, I feel her—reaching, waiting—sinking with me.