We Speak in Storms

by Natalie Lund

  Callie’s hands continued to crawl spider-fast over her sandwich, but Brenna appeared to be musing, her eyes on the water-stained cafeteria ceiling. “What happens when we don’t need them anymore?” Brenna asked. “Will they return to wherever they came from?”

  Joshua’s stomach plummeted. Would Luke leave if Joshua did the things he planned and so badly wanted? Brenna’s face portrayed a similar fear. Only Callie, still so lost in her grief, didn’t react to the question.

  At Taco Bell, Amy was braiding Jade’s hair, piling it high like the wigs of eighteenth-century women. Jade was the most beautiful person Brenna knew—with green eyes, silky black hair that fell to her ass, and tiny stick-and-poke tattoos she’d etched into her skin. Even now, she was digging into the back of her hand with a pen, fashioning something that looked like a galaxy, which was both hard to watch and hard not to. Both of her friends were completely unaware of what was going on inside Brenna, of what had happened over the past several days. Brenna took out her lavender notebook. For Dot, writing was putting words to feelings, putting on paper what couldn’t be expressed out loud.

  Could it do the same for her?

  I am Brenna Daniela Ortiz, the in-between. I used to be afraid of being between, of being caught in the middle and crushed. But between is a space too, a room of my own. Between, I can see my grandmother, who wants us to be happy, successful, and part of the family, but is unable to expand her vision of what that might look like and is unable to forgive. I can see my mother, my solid foundation, who loves with her whole self and wants only love in return. I can see my friends, so wrapped in their shells that they are blind. I can see Colin, the fraud and narcissist. I can see Dot, the artist who was never heard. And I can see myself. A writer.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Brenna arrived home from Taco Bell, her mother’s car was still in the driveway. She looked at the time on her cell phone—nearly an hour after her mom normally left for work on Mondays. She felt it in her gut: something was wrong. Brenna pushed open the front door and let it slam behind her.

  “Mom,” she called. “What’s wrong?”

  “In here,” her mother said, her voice strained.

  Brenna rounded the corner into the kitchen quickly and stopped. Seated at the counter with his back to the doorway was Colin, wearing that same washed-soft T-shirt, the hole just visible. Had he known, somehow, how it made her hurt to see it? Her mother was leaning on the counter across from him in her gas station uniform, her visor curled in her hand.

  “What’s going on?” Brenna hissed. She meant the question for both of them. Colin, who’d appeared at her house. Her mother, who’d invited him in.

  Colin turned slowly on the stool and smiled sheepishly. Brenna shook her head wildly, as though that would separate whatever still connected them.

  She turned to her mother. “What is he doing here?”

  “He stopped by and insisted on waiting for you, so I thought it was best if I waited too.”

  Brenna hugged the straps of her book bag. She wanted to be angry at her mother for letting him in, but her mom was also protecting her. If she’d said no, Colin would have found another way.

  “I just thought we should talk,” Colin said. He glanced over his shoulder at her mother. “In your room maybe?”

  Her mother shook her head. “You two stay here. I’ll be in the living room.”

  Brenna glued her eyes to Matthew in the Last Supper print above the counter. He was incredulous. What is this? he seemed to be asking Simon. As a preteen, Brenna had had to name all the disciples in Spanish before she could have one of her grandmother’s empanadas—her abuela’s way of trying to make up for Brenna’s lack of religious education.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Colin said, when her mother had left.

  “For what? Hiding your Jeep a few blocks away so I wouldn’t know you were here?” Brenna asked, scanning the painting for the surprised Judas. So young. So taken aback. He couldn’t imagine what was going to happen.

  “For that night at the concert. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Done what exactly?” Brenna asked. She wanted him to speak his guilt out loud.

  “Put you in that position while I was still with Tara.” He was being careful with his words, Brenna knew, because her mother was just on the other side of the wall. “Yeah, Tara and I broke up,” he continued, as though she’d asked a question.

  “Good for her,” she said.

  He paled and ran his fingers through his hair. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “You already did,” Brenna said. “Anything else?”

  He exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry for hurting you before. You know, the first time.”

  Brenna nodded.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked.

  Brenna’s eyes found Christ in the print. His peaceful face, his downward gaze. She thought of the way Colin had said pals and given that flimsy peace-sign gesture of goodbye. She began to laugh. Cackle, really. Colin was trying to keep his options open and wanted to know that Brenna would still be there for a hookup. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with all the apologies. It was hilarious.

  Her mother returned to the kitchen, a worried look on her face, and shooed Colin out. He slid off the stool and, through her laughter, Brenna was aware of him looking at her one more time—surprise, confusion, maybe even hurt on his face. He would try again; she was sure of it. Someday, when her mother was gone. Or via text. Or even through his friends. But Brenna felt more secure now. She held up the two fingers of her right hand. Peace, she thought, though it was all for her.

  Callie walked home from the first cross-country practice she’d attended since the tornado, the sweat cooling too quickly on her skin, her teeth chattering. The temperature had continued to drop since the storm, and she no longer had flesh to insulate her. She wasn’t sure how much weight she’d lost, but in the locker room mirror, she’d seen her skull: the white of her brow bone, the sockets of her eyes, her jaw and cheek. You’re buried deep down, Mrs. Vidal had said. And she had been. She’d started looking like her mother again, chasing the resemblance to death.

  She considered stopping at St. Theresa’s to warm up and ask Mrs. Vidal a million questions about hearing Celeste after she died, about whether Callie could expect to hear her own mother, or if her mom would be able to return in a storm to watch Callie like Mrs. Vidal had. But she was also afraid of the answer—that maybe that could never happen again. Who made the rules about which ghosts came back? Callie broke into a jog home. When she reached their driveway, the whir of the leaf blower alerted her that her father was in the backyard. A year ago, or even a few months ago, Callie would have walked around the house to say hello. Instead she headed into the house. All she wanted was a shower and her fleece-lined pajama pants.

  Midway upstairs, she heard mumbling. It was her mother’s voice.

  Callie paused and stood still for a moment, until a gut feeling that something was really wrong propelled her to the door.

  “I want to know when,” her mother seemed to be saying. Callie didn’t hear a response. Was her mother on the phone?

  Callie knocked lightly. “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  “Mom?” Callie tried again louder.

  “It’s the house,” her mother said. Or maybe: “It’s a ghost.”

  Callie shook her head, trying to understand what was going on. Her mother was clearly alive. Everything was okay. Callie grabbed the knob, turned it, and pushed the door open in one quick motion, like she might catch the talkers midsentence.

  The reek of shit slapped her. Sharp, sour, fungal. Her mother was on her side, eyes closed, a thin string of yellow liquid connecting the corner of her mouth to the pillow. Her skin was the color of putty.

  “Mom?” Callie repeated. She watched as her mother’s
eyelids struggled to open. “Are you okay?”

  Callie willed herself to enter the room. Gingerly, she lifted the corner of her mother’s comforter and gagged. A black stain blossomed beneath her mother’s hip. Callie heard sobbing and realized it was coming from her own throat. There were no tears—just loud gasping noises forcing their way up again and again, like hiccups.

  “Mom, wake up,” Callie pleaded. She imagined her mom laughing when she realized what had happened in her sleep, masking her embarrassment about the whole thing. She’d apologize profusely to Callie and tell her to take a shower while she cleaned up the mess herself.

  Instead her mother asked, “Where’s my lunch?” It was accusatory, like Callie had eaten it.

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask Dad.”

  Callie backed out the door and crossed the hallway to her bedroom. She shut herself in. Monty, her stuffed brontosaurus, watched her from his perch on her pillows with his plastic-bead eyes. Maybe this wasn’t an emergency. Maybe it was just the way things were now. She tried to slow her breathing, tried to swallow back the dry sobs, but they shook her like earthquakes. She wanted a moment of stillness in her room, a moment where she could pretend nothing had changed—that she was still a little child.

  Her mother wailed loudly from across the hall. Caaaa-llliieeee. Long and high, like a farmer calling in the pigs.

  Callie’s first instinct was to jog downstairs to tell her father, and then retreat to the cellar, letting the chill and silence seep into her, while he took care of the mess. Another wail, this one sounding more painful. Something was hurting her mom. Callie walked to the window and watched her father blow leaves from the base of the tree. He had already sacrificed so much of himself to care for Callie and her mom. Throughout Callie’s life, her parents had given her everything so that she could live a life rich with history and opportunities. For them, Callie could take responsibility. She would.

  Callie returned to her mom’s room. There was someone else in there, standing at the foot of the bed: Mrs. Vidal. Her blue eyes were glassy and her perm was loose, frizzed, her head a dandelion gone to seed. If it had been any other moment, Callie would have asked if she was okay, what she was doing here, and how she had gotten in. But this time Callie didn’t need to; she knew all the answers.

  “You can do this,” Mrs. Vidal said. “You’ll need to bring her to the bath.” Callie nodded. She removed the blanket and worked her arms under her mother’s thighs and shoulders, trying to ignore the wet and warm material on her skin. She clamped her teeth tightly, swallowing back bile. Her mother was straw-light, her head lolling back, eyes half-lidded. Even hollowed by hunger, Callie could carry her to the bathroom.

  “Yes, you’re doing just fine,” Mrs. Vidal murmured, steps behind Callie.

  Callie leaned in as she carried her mom, desperate to hear her words—even if they were nonsense—because she’d waited too long to listen. Her mom’s breath smelled surprisingly sweet, like butterscotch. She combed her fingers through Callie’s hair, snagging the ends, and then let her hand hang limply. As a child, Callie had loved the feeling of her mother doing her hair—standing in front of the mirror while her mom created fishtails and French twists, bobby pins clamped between her teeth, her own hair pulled back in a sloppy bun.

  “Prop her on the toilet so you can get her clothes off,” Mrs. Vidal said.

  Callie did so before tossing the clothes in the sink and starting the bath.

  It had been years since she’d seen her mother naked. Her breasts had flattened. The flesh beneath her armpits appeared too taut, like an imaginary hand was pulling it. But the sores on her mother’s belly, red and wet like open mouths, were the most disturbing part. No one had told her about them. But they’d been right not to. She would have pulled even farther away, would have failed at hiding her disgust.

  Callie wet the cloth, not worrying that the shower was raining on her, too, soaking her hair and clothes. She started with her mother’s face, blotting away the yellow crust on her lip and cheek. Her mother weakly slapped Callie’s wet neck.

  “Stop,” she gasped. “It’s hurting.”

  “You have to keep going,” Mrs. Vidal said. “Even if it hurts.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Callie whispered, and she meant for all of it, for her mother’s pain, for this inexpert bath, for shuddering at hugs, for holding her nose for the past few months so she wouldn’t breathe her own mother.

  Callie lifted her mom under the armpits, but she wailed and slid back against the wet tiles. Planting herself on her knees, Callie held her mother with one arm and used the other to clean. She realized she was out of breath, that tears were running down her face.

  She knew what to do next without needing to be told. She grabbed a towel and gently dried her mother’s skin.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Vidal said. “Then clean pj’s and clean sheets and you’re done.”

  Callie grimaced as she shifted her mother’s weight back onto her own shoulders. Her head lolled into Callie’s neck, and Callie could feel her breathing there, steady and deep like she’d fallen back asleep.

  Callie followed Mrs. Vidal’s instructions: resting her mother in the recliner, balling the soiled sheets, throwing them into the hamper, retrieving new ones, stretching them over the mattress and on and on. The steps were largely intuitive, but it was easier with someone guiding the way. Joshua had been right: Mrs. Vidal was what she needed.

  Callie lifted her mother one last time and placed her back on the clean sheets. Her mom’s nose crinkled—like she’d smelled something terrible—or, more likely, like she’d felt a bolt of pain.

  “You’ve done well,” Mrs. Vidal said. “Now. Where’s your father?”

  Outside, Callie’s father sat in the grass beneath the tree, the leaf blower across his thighs. He held a screwdriver—he was always repairing the thing—but now he seemed to be cradling it, exhausted.

  “Dad?” she called.

  “What?”

  “It’s Mom,” she managed.

  Her father looked up and Callie watched him take her in: the wet T-shirt and running shorts, shit stains, and tearstained face. He stood abruptly, the leaf blower rolling off his lap with a clatter.

  Upstairs, he swung open the bedroom door so it smacked the wall, and her mother’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled at him. Callie was close behind. Her father took in the scene: the open window, the basket of soiled laundry, his wife’s wet hair on the fresh pillowcase.

  Mrs. Vidal was gone.

  Her mother mumbled Callie’s name. Callie moved to the bed, leaning close, as though she could swallow every last word. Her mom didn’t say anything else—just gripped Callie’s hand to her chest with surprising strength and looked into her daughter’s face with what felt like understanding.

  FREDERIC VIDAL

  Frederic Vidal, who is ours too now, remembers his wife standing on the porch, glaring past the clock tower and band shell, watching the clouds form a shelf across the sky.

  Eleanor wanted Frederic to call Celeste’s boss and ask him to send her home. He could make up some sort of emergency. But he kept delaying, sure they were about to cancel the movie and she’d be on her way home to them in the Chevy. He didn’t want to make waves—not in a town that only tolerated him because he had married into its oldest family.

  His carefulness, his softness, was something we’d all observed. When we stopped into his shop for French chocolates, he’d lift the dome off the pyramid of candy with precision. If we were making a racket with Celeste, he’d smile and quietly retreat upstairs. We often wondered how someone whose whole town had been shelled, who’d hiked hundreds of miles to cross a border and survived off rotten mule meat in a barn for a winter, could be so gentle.

  That night, the rain stopped suddenly and it felt like all the air had been suctioned away. The sky was gray and green. The maple’s leaves were a slick black.
Even Frederic, who hadn’t grown up in the Midwest, knew how to read the signs.

  Of course, Frederic and Eleanor never saw it—not the actual tornado. Like many of our parents who found our beds empty that night, they simply understood.

  Frederic took the old spaniel under his arm and then grabbed Eleanor’s elbow, guiding her down to the storm cellar. She was shrieking, No, we have to find her! Digging her heels into the wet grass like a toddler, like she wanted the storm to take her to Celeste.

  When the storm cleared, Frederic borrowed the neighbor’s truck and went looking for their daughter—though it would take nearly three days before her body was distinguished from the others in the snack shack. Mrs. Vidal waited for him on the porch steps, scraping them with her fingernails—as though she could rid them of a century’s worth of dirt, atone for clinging to the old ways at the expense of her relationship with Celeste.

  But it was too late.

  Callie decided that she wouldn’t go back to school while her mother was still alive. She already felt the weight of regret for squandering the ten months she’d been given. Because she’d been selfish. Because she’d been afraid.

  She cracked her mother’s door and stuck her head in.

  “Come in,” her father said softly.

  The room smelled like warm bodies and sleep with a sourness lingering from the day before. Callie flipped on the frankincense diffuser, and her dad nodded at her appreciatively. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with a book in his lap. His eyes were sunken and tired. Her mother was curled up beside him, as small and tight as a cat. Her skin had a purplish hue. Callie sank into the nearby armchair.

  “I’m not going to school anymore.”

  She expected a protest, but her father just nodded again. “Okay. I’ll talk to your teachers about sending your work home.”