My Sister Is the Abalone Girl
Chapter 1: The Scent of Secrets
The scent of sizzling butter and sea brine drifts three blocks down Main Street every abalone day. Dad’s seafood shack is the only place in Maple Heights where you’ll see a line of muddy boots and wingtips waiting side by side. Folks say it’s famous for wild abalone that’s supposedly reserved just for men—and always in short supply.
Maple Heights is the kind of Ohio town where the local paper’s headlines are taped to the pie case, neon beer signs flicker above Formica counters, and the sound of Friday night football crackles on the radio. Dad’s “just for men” abalone claim is a running joke at the diner, but somehow it keeps the lines long and the legend alive. On game nights, it’s all anyone talks about at the bowling alley. Old-timers at the VFW swear it’s the secret to their pep.
Customers who’ve tried the abalone say it’s firm and springy, and with one bite you’re transported straight to paradise. Even the toughest locals, the ones who roll their eyes at anything fancier than a fish fry, can’t help but spread the word. I’ve overheard more than one blue-collar dad whisper, “Nothing like it on this side of the Mississippi.”
Because of this, people spare no expense just to try it once. Abalone wasn’t exactly a Midwest staple—most folks around here grew up on fried catfish and hush puppies, not fancy shellfish you’d expect in California.
Out-of-towners call ahead weeks in advance, hoping for a reservation on the right day. There’s always someone in a suit, driving a Tesla, mixed in with the regulars who pulled up in muddy F-150s. At this point, eating Dad’s abalone is as much a badge of honor as a meal.
But every time Dad opens the abalone shack, my sister Abby suddenly falls ill, curled up in bed with a flushed face.
It’s always around abalone days that Abby disappears—her door closed, bedroom dim, phone unanswered. Sometimes, Mom hushes me if I even knock. “Your sister’s not feeling well, honey. Let her rest,” she’ll say, but her eyes always flick away. Even our old Labrador, Moose, seems to know not to bother her.
