“I know.” Phyllis puts the waders and the tackle box in the back seat, and as they drive along the bank of the Intracoastal, toward the causeway, Wanda stares out the window at the flickering river. “Did you know,” Phyllis says, “that the Intracoastal is three thousand miles long?” Wanda did not know this. “It has lots of different names, depending where you are, but it’s all the same water body.”
Getting closer to Beachside, Wanda becomes tense. There is that tang of salt coming in through the open windows. She thinks again of Corey’s hand on her head, of the sensation of water occupying spaces it wasn’t supposed to: inside her, trickling into her eardrums, her nose, her throat. The burning in her chest, the sting in her sinuses, but another sensation, too—a different kind of pain, like bones growing in the middle of the night, a body expanding a little too quickly for its own comfort. She’d rather not think about any of this. She isn’t sure how to categorize it, whether it is a big deal or a small one, a secret she must keep or a thing she should tell. It’s easier to pretend it never happened, but even that is hard.
When they get to the embankment of the Intracoastal, Wanda knows roughly where they are but doesn’t recognize the pullout as a place she’s been before. In the distance, she can see the causeway stretching over the river, connecting Beachside to the mainland. She can glimpse it through the wilderness that grows along its edge. Water levels have ebbed somewhat since yesterday, but not much. The river is still choppy and high. Phyllis pulls on her waders, snapping the suspenders over her shoulders, and takes her tackle box from the back seat. Wanda watches as she navigates the underbrush, moving easily among the mangrove roots and across the marshy shore. This fluidity surprises her. Adults never seem to know how to walk in the wild. Even Lucas is clumsy. Kirby especially. But Phyllis moves like she belongs here.
“You come here lots?” Wanda asks when they reach the water at the same time. Phyllis kneels among the underbrush and sets her tackle box down, notched in between two roots, then slips seamlessly into the rushing water. A few steps and she’s already waist-deep. She takes a little notepad out of the bib pocket.
“Sure do,” Phyllis says, writing something down. Wanda studies her.
“How old are you?”
“Old.”
“How old?”
“Old enough,” Phyllis says. “How old are you?”
“Ten.” Phyllis slips the notebook back into her pocket and wades back over to where Wanda sits, fiddling with the latch on the tackle box. It suddenly occurs to her that if she’s in the company of a scientist, she’d better be exact. “Almost. My birthday is in nine days.”
“Hard to believe it’s been that long,” Phyllis says, absently running her fingers through the water.
“What do you mean?”
Phyllis just frowns and gestures at the tackle box. “Open that for me, would you?” Wanda is quickly distracted by the jumble inside the tackle box. There are petri dishes, vials, pH sticks, different-colored Sharpies, a little net. She resists the urge to paw through it. If this is a test, she wants to pass.
“What’s all that for?”
“It’s my field kit.”
“What’s a field kit?”
“It’s for collecting samples. In the field.”
“This isn’t a field.”
“No, that’s true. It’s the field.” Wanda sits with this for a moment while Phyllis selects a vial and scoops up a sample of water from the river, then rolls up her sleeves and, in a separate container, collects some sediment from where it’s shallow. “‘Field’ can mean different things. It’s one of those words with different lives. It could be an open grassy area. Or someone’s area of expertise. It can be a verb, too—to handle, take the lead on. Or, you know, to field a ball. But in ecology, the field is the place where I gather data. In nature. See?” Phyllis looks up at Wanda where she’s still crouched among the mangrove roots. “Some of my work I can do in my study. But the other part of what I do is in the field. Like now.” This is a lot of information about fields for Wanda to process.
“So I’m at work with you.”
“Yes.” Phyllis hands her the samples she’s collected and Wanda takes them, aware she’s holding regular things—dirt, water—that have somehow stopped being regular and become important. “Well, technically I’m retired from teaching, but I still like to work for myself on occasion. Curiosity never retires. Those go back into the kit, please. Carefully.” Wanda handles the containers with reverence, eager to prove that she is a good assistant. Kirby and Lucas have taken her to work before, but they never let her touch anything. And anyway, she’s not allowed to go with them anymore. Phyllis gives her an approving nod.
“What are they for?” Wanda asks when the samples are back in the tackle box.
“For measuring change. Like how much salt is in the water, or what kinds of creatures live in it, or what the sediment is made of, or…this is an important one, hand me that measuring tape.” Wanda is pleased that she can identify the measuring tape, even though this one looks strange to her. She hands it to Phyllis. “Measuring the water levels.” Phyllis takes it and finds a thick pole spiking out of the water, a little downstream. She measures the water against lines etched into it, writes something down, then wades back over to Wanda.
“Why?”
“Because everything is changing. And the way it’s changing…well, I’m curious about it. We all should be curious about it, because the way we live has to change, too. Some creatures can’t live in this water anymore. Others can. Someday, new ones might evolve.”
“Like what kinds of creatures?”
“All kinds. Mammals, fish, amphibians. Insects. But even smaller ones, too. Infinitesimal creatures.”
“Infini…” Wanda stumbles over the syllables.
“Infinitesimal. It just means very, very small. So small you can’t even see them unless you have a microscope.”
“And they live in the water?”
“They live everywhere. In the water. Inside our bodies. In our colons and stomachs and noses. Humans tend to think the bigger the creature, the more advanced. But tiny creatures have been around for much, much longer. Maybe they know more than we think they do.”
It goes on like this: Phyllis supplying Wanda with a never-ending trail of information, leapfrogging from one question to another. Wanda is not used to her questions being taken so seriously or answered with such patience. She doesn’t have to be afraid of the attention she’s drawing to herself out here by the river. The anxiety of learning indoors is gone—there are no bullies to snicker when she raises her hand. So she asks until there’s nothing left to ask. Until she is full of answers that need ruminating on.
Wanda insists on carrying the field kit on the way back. Phyllis moves a little more slowly now, favoring her right knee, while Wanda darts ahead. There is so much new information spinning through her mind, but she keeps coming back to what Phyllis said about “the way we live.” She isn’t sure what to make of that. Is there another way to live? It had never occurred to her. In the little parking lot, she waits for Phyllis to catch up. Watching her wind between the dying live oaks and the thriving mangroves, the rubber waders still glistening from the river, her hair glowing white beneath the dimness of the tree canopy, Wanda realizes she doesn’t want to go home yet. The excitement of the afternoon is a taste that lingers. Except it’s more than flavor; it’s nourishment. Phyllis reaches her, breathing heavily, a slick of sweat shining on her cheeks.