1HaseHALF MOON BAY, 2016
As far as official records go, I do not exist. There is no history of my life: no bank statements, no credit cards, no driver’s license or passport. I have no birth certificate, no Social Security number, no pay stubs, no tax returns. No close friends, aside from Harriet, and Jake, who isn’t particularly close. My only family is my dad, who isn’t my biological father.
There is no adoption record, of course.
Call me Hase. Names are like lipstick or to-do lists. I have many. I choose one that suits my mood. For now, I choose Hase, because my father calls me that. I’m waiting for him, searching the horizon for his boat, the wind tangling my hair and clothes, the ocean lending me its odor. Here, I am Hase.
Elsewhere, I go by other appellations. The strangers who ask for my number or offer to buy me a drink call me Grace. The children I tutor call me Ms. H. On Wikipedia—I contribute as a hobby (anyone can, few do)—I go by TheRabbit, though I’ve used many handles there, most banned because I break the rules too frequently.
Untrustworthy, the editors call me.
For what it’s worth, I don’t trust them, either.
Today is my birthday. It’s not the day I was born, but I always celebrate on June 11 because eleven is my favorite number and June has the longest days. Dates mean very little, my father taught me. You might as well choose a day you like.
And I did.
As a child, my father and I celebrated June 11 with Jell-O that I’d mold into shapes—a heart, a fish, a house—using pans we found in thrift stores. Each year, I picked a different shape and my father made up a story about how the next year would be informed by the Jell-O duck, or flower, or ghost.
I haven’t eaten Jell-O since I moved to San Francisco, nor has my father told me a story, but as I wait for him at the dock, I think of the last time we celebrated. That story, for my nineteenth birthday, concerned a rectangle. At the time, I considered the rectangle dull if not disappointing after years of animals and hearts, but my father insisted it was a perfect form.
“A box will not look special if you don’t open it.”
When I pointed out that I couldn’t open the Jell-O rectangle, he told me that humans are constrained by the limit of their imaginations.
In truth, I don’t think I ever liked the taste of Jell-O; I’m simply fascinated by how the powder dissolves into water and how the water then becomes solid. The solid is neither rigid, like the mold, nor hard, like the table beneath it. However, these qualities did not prevent my father from telling the story of the Jell-O box, which served as a safe with no need for a lock, as no one thought to open it.
My father has never cared for the saying “hiding in plain sight,” and the story of the Jell-O box is the story of why. The treasure inside the Jell-O box was not in plain sight. It was hidden by our failure to see beyond what we already know.
While my father told this final birthday story, I stared through the lemon-yellow Jell-O to the plate beneath. There was no way there was a treasure inside.
* * *
Today, the ocean is playing like a wrestling child, bold but without malice. I hear both the gulls and the highway traffic. The water glows with the same muted light that illuminates the shops and parking lot.
Overhead, the skies are silent. I heard a helicopter hours ago, but I’ve not heard a return flight. The fog is thick, even now, just after noon. The boats stand out against the mist, shadowy but recognizable. I watch them, though the view leaves me melancholy. There’s a falseness to my life in San Francisco. I wander between living room and dining room, kitchen and bath, and feel uncomfortable in all of these spaces. I miss the smell of diesel and ocean.
I miss my father’s boat.
I turn away from the pier and walk alongside the tourist-filled strip mall—seashells, seafood, books. The waiting has left my calves weary, my lower back and shoulders sore. I should have worn better shoes. I sit down on a bench that faces a bookstore and kick off my plastic sandals. I’ve worn down the soles unevenly. Perhaps I walk incorrectly. Maybe my posture’s bad. I’ve spent too much time bent over my laptop.
A damp chill runs from the bench through my clothes. From here, I can’t see the water, but I hear the waves. I used to think the ocean was speaking, that if I listened long enough, I’d understand its voice. The sea is telling us something, I explained, and my father agreed that the message, however unclear, must be very important. I sometimes think love is like this. We hear only the crash of its waves.
In the shop window is an advertisement for a weekly reading group and a display of books. I count seventy-four, only two by women. I count a second time to be sure. Then the salesperson emerges from the shop to ask if I need help. I know this question isn’t concern but a warning: No loitering.
“No,” I say. “I do not need help.”
I recognize the salesperson, though I don’t know his name. For the past few weeks, I’ve seen him when I meet my father. He’s one of a dozen familiar strangers I will leave behind when my father decides to meet at another harbor. Before Half Moon Bay, we met in Sausalito; before that, San Francisco; and before that, Berkeley. Ever since Dr. Ord died, we’ve moved around. It’s quieter, or easier, or safer, my father says, though I wonder if he’s mourning the loss of his friend by fleeing the places where his memories include her. Dr. Ord was his best friend. The boat belongs—belonged—to her, actually.
The bookseller leaves, but I’m tired of sitting. I slip on my sandals and return to the pier and the spectrum of grays that join the sky and the ocean. Usually, when I meet my father, he arrives first. Usually, I don’t wait for him. I’m concerned, but not worried. He’s rarely late, though he’s sometimes missed our meetings entirely: the harbor was closed and he couldn’t sail out to meet me; he failed to account for the leap year and arrived a day early; he was consumed by work or correspondence and lost track of the time. When he arrives, he’ll be happy to see I have a letter for him, tucked into my handbag. He won’t notice that I dressed in a nice plaid shirt and the one pair of jeans I own that has no holes or stains. I know better than to wear torn clothes here. People judge me: I’m sloppy. I have no fashion sense. I’m stupid. Unrefined.
Online, I’m judged even more harshly, but I feel more comfortable there. I once explained this to Harriet, and she blamed my dad.
“You basically grew up alone in a cave,” she said.
“That’s not true,” I said. “I grew up with you.”
Though even with Harriet, I don’t feel completely at ease—my breath is too loud or my stomach is grumbling. Something about me is always protesting.
But today is my birthday. I don’t wish to dwell on such things. My dad will be happy to see me and thrilled to get his letter—a thick white envelope that, like the hundreds of others I’ve retrieved over the years, is addressed only to the P.O. box, with no return address.
I search the horizon once more. A foghorn sounds, then another. The wind whips my hair. Where is he?
Copyright © 2025 by Kirsten Menger-Anderson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
