---

The Sundress and the Serpent

by Craig Church

Tears burn my eyes as I crack open the sliding door and slip out the back of the house. I pull up the hood of my jacket and cinch it tight against the heavy, damp cold, looking over my shoulder to where the flickering light of the television illuminates Dad’s beer gut, rising and falling in time with his guttural snoring. At least one of us can sleep.

The sun will be up before long. I need to get a move on.

I know the path by heart after making this trek so many times, so the soupy morning fog doesn’t deter me. I stroll past the dark, uninhabited vacation homes dotting the shoreline and recall how indignant I was when Dad moved us into a cramped mobile home along this remote stretch of Oregon’s coast. He’d just wanted to run away after Mom died, and didn’t give a second thought to uprooting his teenage daughter. At the time I’d hated him for it.

Now, maybe not so much.

The salty, sickly-sweet aroma of ocean and seaweed strengthens. The rocks beneath my feet loosen as my boots sink into sand. I turn left, heading south down the deserted beach toward the Ghost Forest.

Arriving here in Neskowin, the first thing Dad tried to sell me on was its proximity to the famed patch of beach where the remnants of a 2,000-year-old Sitka spruce forest protrude from the sand. Apparently, an ancient tsunami cut the forest down and preserved the stumps until a storm in the ’90s unearthed them. Now they just sit there, eerie monuments to the past. Dad thought it’d appeal to me, his daughter with the black nail polish and budding taste in metal bands. He wasn’t wrong.

When Mom was still healthy and I’d get upset or anxious, we’d go on a walk together. Sometimes the walk would be in the afternoon after school, sometimes it’d be in the wee hours of morning after a sleepless night. We’d talk things out if I was up for it, but more often than not we’d just stride along in silence, content and grateful for each other’s unspoken understanding. When Mom passed and Dad trucked us out here, I still went on walks, talking aloud to Mom like she was still here. It’s how, three months ago, my feet led me to the Ghost Forest at sunrise and everything changed.

A sliver of morning light illuminates the fog before me. I can see the silhouettes. Stumps rise from the thick, water-logged sand like totems. Beside each one, a figure, translucent enough for rays of sunlight to pass through. I approach the first and nod to my late Uncle Jeff. He’s dressed in the nursing scrubs I constantly saw him in when I was a little girl, before his car wrapped itself around a tree. He doesn’t acknowledge me—he never does. Like always, he faces the ocean, his mouth forming words with no sound. I’m not here to see Uncle Jeff, though. I keep walking.

When I spot Mom, my breath catches. I’m used to the sight of her by now, but it’s the mustard-yellow sundress she’s wearing and what it implies that sends my stomach into free fall. Visiting the Ghost Forest like this has a price, and I begin to doubt my willingness to pay it. Mom is radiant and beautiful. Her long, raven black hair flutters in the sea breeze; her cheeks as rosy and plump as they were before cachexia stretched skin across bone. A faint smile plays on her lips as she watches the ocean, muttering inaudibly.

The packed, wet sand thrums and quivers beneath my feet. I follow Mom’s gaze, and see two glowing, ruby eyes emerge from the waves. There is no getting used to the Serpent or her enormity. She slithers onto the beach, encircling the Ghost Forest before looping back to face me. The emerald green scales—each the size of my hand—are smooth and polished, reflecting my pale, uneasy expression. Her forked tongue flies out, and I flinch as it caresses my cheek. A primal, naive part of me wishes Dad was here, but the true nature of the Ghost Forest and its slithery caretaker only appear when I come alone.

“Back so soon?” the Serpent says, cocking her head.

I nod toward Mom. “I need to talk to her.”

“About what?”

“School stuff,” I say, not eager to describe how cruel a small, rural high school of 50 kids can be to the new queer kid; how it felt to arrive at my locker the previous morning to see the words rug muncher scrawled across it in Sharpie. I used to be able to talk to Dad about this kind of stuff, but since losing Mom, he avoids me by working late hours and deflecting any serious conversation. He used to not be able to shut up about how much I looked like my mother, and I think that’s why his eyes get so sad anytime he looks at me. It’s so much easier to come here and talk to the one person who still wants to be around me.

The Serpent turns her head, her gleaming, red eye looking me up and down appraisingly. “You understand today’s price?”

My eyes dart back to Mom’s sundress. “Please, there has to be something else.”

“I do not negotiate my terms.”

The Serpent begins sliding past me, heading back out to sea. I panic and shout “Okay! Okay.”

When the snake turns back to me, it’s with a greedy, wolfish grin. “Excellent. Begin.”

An old memory for a new one. That’s how this works, and I’ve been burning through my capital at a rate I know is too fast. I haven’t been able to stop coming here, whittling down my stockpile of precious memories until only a precious few remain. The cost only goes up. I close my eyes and replay the memory the Serpent wants in my head, savoring it one last time. I can smell the powdered sugar. I can see Mom standing at the kitchen island in her sundress, frosting cupcakes. I can feel the warmth of her loving smile.

I look the Serpent in the eye and oblige.

“When I was fifteen, I started figuring out who I was. I’d been crushing on Mia Duncan since eighth grade, but still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell my parents I was into girls. I’d heard of a couple kids whose families treated them differently once they knew. Mom and Dad had been nothing but supportive and loving my whole life, and I was terrified that might change.”

The Serpent’s tongue flicks about, as if it can smell the grief radiating off me at the thought of losing this memory. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom’s lips stop moving. She turns from the ocean and stares at me, hands folded at her waist, listening in silence. I press on.

“Mia would always talk about how much she loved homemade funfetti cake, so when I worked up the nerve to ask her to the spring dance, I knew I’d need cupcakes. Problem is, I suck at baking. I had to ask Mom for help, which meant telling her why I was so desperate for a dozen cupcakes with letters spelling out S-P-R-I-N-G-F-L-I-N-G-? frosted across their tops.”

I can’t help myself. I break my eye contact with the Serpent and look at Mom. Her smile is wide, flashing the front-tooth gap she passed onto me. The snake’s long, forked tongue lashes out, gripping the side of my head and yanking it back to face the mythical beast.

“Complete the payment,” the Serpent chides, an edge of annoyance coloring her tone.

I swallow and nod. Guilt wells up inside my chest, knowing what will happen once I finish the story.

“I stared at my shoes while I told Mom everything. I couldn’t look at her; I didn’t want to witness the moment when the way she felt about me changed. I remember her soft fingers sliding under my chin and gently turning my eyes up to hers. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but the love that shone from them was the same I’d seen my entire life. Her first words to me were ‘What color of frosting?’”

“Yes, yessss,” the Serpent says, licking her lips as if she’d devoured a great meal. “Delicious.”

Lightheadedness washes over me. I steady myself on the nearby stump and stare at the sated Serpent, wondering what precious memory I’d just sacrificed. It’s an odd feeling, knowing something invaluable has been extracted from you, as if a pillar of what makes you you has been removed. My chest begins to seize up with anxiety, and I have to take a few seconds to practice the box breathing technique Dr. Martin taught me to stave off an attack.

“Robin?”

The sound of Mom’s voice snaps my attention away from the Serpent. I rush to my mother and wrap her in a cordial hug, because it seems like the right thing to do. “Hey, Mom,” I say, voice breaking.

When she doesn’t respond, I pull back. Mom’s brow is furrowed, her eyes searching mine with a distance and suspicion that cut into me like a hot knife. “Robin, what’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?”

I open my mouth to tell her about the bullying, about the locker. But I can’t. A part of me wants to trust Mom, but what if it causes her to think differently of me? Am I ready for the answer to that question? Even asking Mom to go on a walk feels dumb. What would we talk about, the weather?

Anger and dread begin to swirl within me. The solace I’d found on this damn beach before is being denied to me. Feeling duped, I glare at the Serpent and ask “What have you done?”

The beast grins. “Provided what you asked of me.”

I look at my mother, who returns my skeptical side eye, and turn back to the snake. “Why is she like this?”

The Serpent stares at me, waiting for the answer to register in my mind. When it does, I sink to my knees in the wet sand. I’ve spent so many of my best memories of Mom for these new stolen moments with her, I no longer have enough left to leave our relationship intact. I’ve already sacrificed too much. Now I have to make sure the sacrifice matters.

I steel myself and climb back onto my feet, taking Mom’s hands in mine as I whisper “I really need you right now.”

Mom lifts an eyebrow in confusion. “Is this something we do? We talk through your problems? I can’t remember you opening up like this to me before.”

Heartache sears my chest. Mom’s words feel wrong, like a lie I can’t disprove. The answer as to why dances just out of reach, like some half-remembered dream. I search my mother’s face for the warmth and understanding some dormant part of me says should be there, but I don’t find it.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” I say aloud, throat tightening with anxiety.

The Serpent asks, “How so?”

I try and explain. “I can’t tell you how, but this isn’t my mom. Like, I expect her to be a certain way, but she’s not. I’ve given you too much. Without our memories of each other we’re just…”

“Shells. Husks,” the Serpent interjects. “Bones of a carcass I’ve picked clean. I thank you for the nourishment.”

I understand clearly now: when she devours a memory, it no longer exists for anyone, not even the dead.

She begins slithering toward the sea, leaving me behind with the ghost of my mother in every sense of the word. I seethe with self-hatred. I wish Dad had never moved us out of the city. I wish my grief hadn’t led me to wander the Ghost Forest in the wee hours of the morning all those weeks ago. I wish I’d had enough sense to know this bargain was too good to be true.

“How can I undo this?!” I shout through my tears. “Is there anything I can do to fix what I’ve done?”

The Serpent pauses. “There is only one way.”

Desperation overrides any caution I should rightfully have about striking a new deal with this creature. “What do you need from me?”

“Quid pro quo, of course,” the Serpent answers, eyes gleaming with renewed hunger. “Your ledger runs long, girl. Only the feast of a soul forgives this debt.”

The Serpent looks at Mom, then back to me, the offer implicit.

I shake my head. I shake it harder. “No. No.” I’m not sure what kind of afterlife Mom’s had, but I won’t damn her to an eternity in this snake’s stomach.

“It’s not your choice to make,” I hear Mom say as she leaves her stump and steps to the Serpent’s side. “I feel it too, you know; the absence of a connection between us that should be there.” A weak smile turns the corners of her mouth. “We used to go on walks, right? You and me. I remember that. We must’ve been closer than it feels now for that to have happened.”

“Mom, don’t,” I beg, my voice shaking.

She shakes her head. “I do not accept this emptiness consuming me. I will go into the dark knowing my daughter.”

The Serpent nods and opens its maw like a door. I stumble forward, feet sinking into sand, as I try to intervene. I’m nowhere near fast enough. As Mom places a foot inside the Serpent’s waiting mouth, nausea overwhelms me. I fall to all fours heaving, retching. Blood and ocean water pass my lips as the memories I traded away flood my mind.

I peer up. Mom is looking over her shoulder at me with familiar, loving eyes; eyes that teared up during my violin recitals, narrowed in annoyance after I pierced my septum at the mall, and sparkled with excitement while taking photos of Mia and I before we went to the dance. It’s Mom as I always want to remember her.

When the Serpent snaps her mouth shut my heart shatters the same way it did when the doctors told us Mom was gone. I barely notice the snake disappear back into the sea, or that the spirits of people I once knew are no longer present in my peripheral vision. I cry. I cry so much every muscle in my neck is sore and time loses all meaning.

“Kiddo?”

I turn. Dad is standing there on the beach, face lined with concern as the morning sun burns off the last of the fog. “I’ve been looking for you for over an hour now.”

“Sorry.” My voice is frail and raspy. I wipe my swollen, tear-stained cheeks with the cuff of my sleeves. “I should’ve told you I was coming out here.”

Dad rests his hands on his hips, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he searches for the right words to say. He doesn’t find them, just asks “What are you doing out here?”

I open my mouth to answer, but it occurs to me I have no idea why I’m knee deep in sand with tears streaming down my face and an aching chest. I gaze out at the sea, and my heart tells me what I need to know.

“I was thinking about Mom.”

 

 

---

Host Commentary

When we lose someone close, letting go can be hard. I found this story incredibly moving, in its slow unfolding of the importance – and endurance– of memories. When I lost my own father…in many ways, I found that perhaps I hadn’t? He was still there, in all those earlier moments of my life, and he’d always be there. His life might have come to an end, but he was still a big part of my own. So, although we all inevitably have to say goodbye… those footprints in the flow of time are very slow to fade.