Sea

by Heidi Kling

  “Is it working?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “A little. It’s hard to change such a thing.”

  “I know.”

  He cocked his head. “You know?”

  “I have a horrible dream too ... night after night ... about my mother.”

  “Your ibu?”

  I nodded. “And the ocean. Do you really want to hear this?”

  “Yes. It is Another Day.” He held my eyes. “But if you do not want to, do not tell me.”

  I wiped my hands on my skirt. “No, it’s okay. It was a long time ago. I don’t talk about it very much. That’s all.”

  “She drowned?”

  “Well, her plane disappeared. Over the ocean. They never found the plane.”

  His eyes waited for me to tell him more.

  I took a deep breath. I never told that story. Ever.

  “I was almost twelve years old. Mom and Dad were not far from here. In Thailand. They were doing relief work at a camp where the people had been relocated after a typhoon. They were passing out malaria pills and stuff like that. Anyway, Dad was busy with his patients and Mom heard that kids in a town just over the mountain needed first aid supplies after a school collapsed. Dad said it was raining. A bad storm. She left in a single-engine plane and something happened—they don’t know what—pilot error or engine failure; all we know is that she, well, she never came back—and she never showed up at the village. The kids were waiting for her. They were waiting and she never came.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t want to cry. “They looked and looked. At first they thought the plane might have crashed in the jungle, but there was no evidence of that, so they just assumed it went down in the sea. That’s the reason I don’t surf or body board anymore. I have nightmares about her ... me ... drowning in the ocean.”

  Deni reached over and wrapped his fingers around mine. Right there in the restaurant. Right out in the open.

  “And to you now the ocean is an unhappy place,” he said, his eyes warm. “And so you dream of it that way.”

  I nodded, biting my lip. “Not that it compares to anything that happened to you—I mean, I can’t imagine what you went through ... I don’t know how you do it, how you stay so sure of yourself... and having nightmares on top of it.”

  He looked deeply into my eyes. “We do not choose what happens to us. We can only choose what we do after. What we do now. We can only choose to keep going.”

  “Well, your family didn’t have a choice. The wave came. You all ran. But my mother had a choice. She didn’t have to go up in that plane in a storm, so why did she go?” I looked at Deni for an answer. My hand looked so safe wrapped in his. “And Dad won’t talk to me about it. I used to ask all the time for more and more details, so I could find out what happened, so I could go find her, you know? But he just said, ‘She’s gone.”’

  “Your mother must have wanted to help. That was a choice you made too, to come here. You chose to come here to help. Even though you might think it was dangerous.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know if that’s the same thing. I mean, there was a storm and ...”

  “Maybe hers was not the choice you would have made. But you cannot go back and save her,” Deni said.

  I wiped the tears streaking down my cheek with the back of my hand.

  Deni set some paper money on the table.

  “We go,” he said, gently rubbing my thumb.

  Somehow, he got me out of the restaurant and back onto the busy street. When had it started to rain?

  This time he wrapped his whole arm around me, pulling me close to him. We walked for a bit in the hot downpour, Deni’s eyes darting around, looking for someplace to hide from the rain or a place to be alone.

  We ducked into a dirty alley filled with empty chicken cages and fell into each other against a wall. Rain splashed down. A tin overhang barely shielded us from the storm. And the drops pinged onto the metal.

  Deni wrapped his arms around my waist. His eyes asking me a question I knew the answer to. I pressed my chest to his, and his lips moved against mine.

  “Deni,” I whispered. And we clung to each other like we were drowning because, in a way, we were.

  THREE YEARS AGO

  THE DARE

  I kissed Spider once.

  We were playing truth or dare on Spider’s rooftop outside his second-story window.

  Bev was the one who dared us.

  “Truth or dare?” she said.

  “Dare,” I said. Why’d she even bother to ask? I always chose dare.

  Her eyes darkened with mischief. “I dare you to kiss Spider.”

  I shook my head quickly. “No way. Changed my mind. Truth!”

  Her hands flew in the air. “You said dare, you have to do it.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Bev pointed at me, shaking her finger. “No take backs, Sea.”

  Spider scratched his sandy hair. He looked nervous. “Bev, come on. Dare her to jump into the ocean without a wet suit or something,” he said.

  It was dark. Middle-of-winter cold. I would freeze for sure.

  But freezing or kissing?

  I’d take my chances. “That’s fine,” I said, agreeing with Spider’s idea. “Let’s go.”

  Bev shook her head smugly. “Nope. A kiss. That’s your dare.”

  I remembered looking at him. Brick red freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. His blond bangs hanging over his eyes.

  “Okay, fine.” I leaned over and kissed Spider, quick on the cheek, like he was Dad sitting in his easy chair.

  Bev wasn’t pleased. “Kiss means ON THE LIPS. Try again.”

  “Bev, come on,” I hissed frantically in her ear. “Don’t make me kiss your brother.”

  I glanced over at Spider, who was turning all shades of lobster.

  She rubbed her hands together. “Sorry. A dare’s a dare. What are you, Sea, chicken?”

  My eyes burned in the moonlight. “You’re so mean sometimes.”

  Bev shrugged. She knew how awful this was. SHE hadn’t kissed a boy yet either.

  I wouldn’t do this to her.

  “Leave her alone, Bev. This is lame anyway,” Spider said, picking at the roof tiles.

  Off the hook. Then why did I feel so disappointed?

  “It’s okay.” I shrugged, suddenly changing my mind. “I have to, Spider. A dare’s a dare. Just ... just close your eyes,” I prodded.

  “If you insist,” he said with a lopsided grin, his eyes closed.

  I scooted forward slightly, skidding my butt over the slanted rooftop, careful I wouldn’t slip off and tumble into the yard.

  When I was close enough to feel his breath on my face, I sat on my knees and leaned in.

  I’d never kissed anyone on the lips except Mom and Dad, and that was when I was a little kid. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and puckered up like a girl in a lipstick ad.

  A tingling softness spread over my mouth that tasted like salt, tasted like the sea. Was that kissing?

  “Spider! Beverly!” The twins’ mom’s voice suddenly filled the rooftop. My eyes flew open and I spun around. She was staring at me.

  “Sorry, we were just ... playing a game,” I said.

  “Truth or dare.” Spider leaned back a little, still flushed. I smiled at him and he smiled back.... It was like getting forced awake from a perfect dream.

  But Mrs. Adams didn’t look mad. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. “Sienna—sweetheart,” she said slowly.

  Her usual smiling face was sad, her lips quivering.

  It was just a kiss. Was it that big of a deal? “I’m sorry,” I said again. “Bev dared me! We won’t ever do it again. Pinky swear.”

  Spider laughed as Bev denied my accusation.

  “You need to come inside,” Mrs. Adams said.

  “Let’s go back in, you guys,” I said.

  I scratched up my knees crawling back toward the open window.

  Mrs. Adams had tears streaming down
her face. Her hands were shaking. She was holding a red cordless phone that was beeping loudly, like someone on the other end of the line had hung up a while ago.

  Why hadn’t she hung up her end?

  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  I never forgot that sound.

  “Sweetheart.” Mrs. Adams touched my thin shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how to s-say this. Your grandmother just called—”

  She hugged me like she was trying to protect me from her own words.

  “You need to go straight home” was all she could manage to say.

  SCARS

  It was still raining when we snuck back through the white gate, but not as hard.

  Deni let go of my hand when we got close to the dimly lit pesantren property.

  My hand felt naked without his.

  He turned and kissed a raindrop off my cheek. The half-moon reflected off the dark, grassy field.

  “What happened to your leg, Deni?”

  His shoulders hunched. “I walk crooked now. You noticed.”

  “No. I can barely notice. I just ... well ...”

  What? Admit I stared at him all the time? Had been watching him since I first arrived?

  He leaned back against the gatekeeper’s post. Glanced up at the moon before he started talking, like telling the sky was easier than telling me. “It happened the day the wave came. I was escaping on my motor; people were grabbing at me, trying to cling on to my back as I drove. To get a ride. But I had no more room. A group of boys jumped on, fearing for the water, and the motor crashed. It landed on my leg. I looked behind me and the water was coming close. The boys ran and I pushed the motor off my leg and got back on. But my leg, here, see?” He lifted the bottom of his pants to show me a thick, deep blue scar clear even in the shadows. “This is what happened.” He shrugged. “But I am still here.”

  “Did you go to a doctor? That scar looks deep ... Maybe my dad could look at it? He’s a psychiatrist, but he’s also a medical doctor.”

  He waved off the thought. “There were thousands drowning.... My cut was nothing. It is still nothing compared.” He scrunched his face as if trying to force the memory out of his mind forever.

  I imagined Deni, blood gushing from his leg, fleeing the tsunami.

  It was stupid, but I wished I could have been there to help him. I wished I could help him now.

  “Deni.” My fingers curled around his forearm. “You know I’m leaving in less than a week? I ... don’t want things to be weird for the rest of our stay. I mean, I want to be with you, but I don’t want us to get into trouble.” I gulped. “Especially you.”

  His eyes shut briefly as if he was trying to decide. Then his dark lashes fluttered open and he traced an invisible line down my cheek with his finger. “So we make sure we are not caught.”

  “When will I see you again?” I whispered, my face tilted up at him.

  “I will find you,” he said in my ear.

  And then, Deni started to slip away.

  “Deni, wait!” I called after him. I wouldn’t let him go that easily. Not after all this.

  He turned around quickly, as if he’d been hoping I wouldn’t let him go.

  He wrapped his arms around my waist. “Dawn is not for a while,” he said, “and no one can see us in the dark.”

  DAY SIX

  HOPE

  I’m not on a plane. I’m standing on a beach of white sand, staring out at a black sea. Except for larger-than-life gulls screeching above me, I’m alone. And then I’m not.

  A figure.

  Dressed in black with a veil covering her face, she floats above the waves.

  Calling out to me: Sienna.

  I try to run, but my feet won’t move. Cemented to the sand, I try to close my eyes, but they won’t close.

  The woman comes closer, skimming over the tops of the waves like she is flying. She stops. Hovering over the wet sand. Dead fish, cans, bottom-of-the-ocean debris cling to her torn black robe like barnacles. She reaches her arms out to me and the wind lifts the veil off her face. “Come, Sienna... come.”

  I choke on my scream when I see who it is: my mother. The skeleton of my mother. Trying to pull me into the sea.

  “Deni!” I screamed, tears pouring down my face. “Help me!”

  “Sienna, Sienna!” A child’s voice.

  I rolled over, orienting myself. Elli looked so scared, her hands on my arms, shaking me. “Sienna?”

  My ears rang from my own scream. “I’m okay, sweetie. Sorry, I ... had a bad dream.”

  Chills ran up my body. Shaking, I got off the bunk and helped Elli back to bed, soothing her and some of the other kids I had woken up with my night terror.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, kissing her cheek good night. “Terima kasih for waking me.”

  She still looked disturbed but squeezed my hand and closed her eyes. After a long time staring at the half-moon out my window, I fell back into a fitful sleep.

  Pink light floated through the room. Someone else was shaking me awake. Calling my name. “Sienna? Sienna?”

  Not again.

  “Wake up.” His voice was no more than a whisper. “My father is looking for me.”

  I sat up. Rubbing my eyes, I asked, “What time is it?”

  “Dawn,” Deni said. “Come?”

  The little girls were still asleep, but the call to prayer couldn’t be too far off. Glancing back at Deni, early sun rays washing over his excited face, I wondered what was worth the risk of sneaking over to the girls’ side in daylight.

  “My father is alive!”

  “What do you mean your father?” I whispered. “I thought your whole family was ... killed in the tsunami.”

  His shook his head and spoke in a low voice. “My father was a fisherman and was at sea the day the wave came. He fished his whole life. He knows the ocean like he knows his heart. I never believed that the sea took him. And now there is proof!”

  “Let me get dressed. I’ll meet you by the wall near the river.”

  Quickly I snuck off my bunk, slipped on a yellow sun-dress and practically flew down the path to meet him. Deni’s father was alive? The thought was incredible.

  When I spotted him waiting for me, an orange-tipped cigarette dangling from his lips, he was looking off in the distance. I stopped short and watched him, feeling weird, like maybe I shouldn’t interrupt. That whatever he was thinking about was important. But then he saw me, tossed the cigarette into the dirt and ground it to ashes.

  “I am not like them, Sienna,” he said, gesturing toward the street kids by the river. “I am not alone. Each week I wait to hear news, knowing if he is alive, he will come looking for me.”

  “So your father is really here at the pesantren? Where is he?”

  Deni’s face twitched. “No. He is not here. We have word from Aceh, my friend tells me, that someone is looking for a boy named Deni who came to a pesantren in Yogyakarta.”

  My excitement faded as I realized he didn’t have concrete proof. “Oh. And you think this person is your father?”

  Deni’s eyes hardened. “I do not think. I know.”

  We sat quietly for a while watching the Fudge Popsicle Haze rise over the river. I tugged a piece of my hair, not knowing what to say, feeling bad for bursting his bubble, but it could be anyone looking. It could be any boy named Deni.

  “But Deni, it’s been six months—”

  “Still,” he cut me off, “they are finding survivors.”

  Why was I being so negative? It wasn’t so strange that Deni thought his father might be alive. I read some of those amazing stories about relatives reconnecting after the tsunami.

  But I knew why Deni believed.

  Because it was easier.

  Easier than grieving.

  “Well, that would be amazing if it was him,” I said.

  He looked at me strangely, his eyes firm with conviction. “It is him, Sienna. You must believe.”

  I was being such a hypocrit
e.

  For a long time after her accident I thought my mom was alive too.

  I mean, here I was three years later, still clinging to some hope.

  That instead of dying when her plane crashed into the sea or drowning like in my nightmares, Mom was marooned on an untouched Thai island. That she spent her days picking bright yellow bananas and drinking sweet coconut juice out of green shells. That she walked along white sand in the moonlight, her long hair flowing down her tanned back, sending shiny glass bottles of rolled-up letters to Dad, Oma and me. That she was waiting to be rescued.

  That she was waiting for someone to find her and bring her home.

  I didn’t even cry at her memorial service.

  There was no casket, no ashes. To me it wasn’t a real funeral. I refused to believe she was gone.

  It was that phrase. That official phrase that somehow kept me hoping:

  No evidence of a plane crash.

  No wreckage found.

  No known survivors.

  So what about the unknown ones?

  I never got to grieve like Dad or Oma.

  Dad might still wear his wedding band, he might still appease my hope, but he knew she was gone.

  And I still hadn’t accepted it. That maybe she was never coming back. And now it was too late for me. They were better because they’d grieved. I was worse. Before this trip, I was so stuck and afraid.

  I didn’t want Deni to end up like me.

  I reached out and touched his hand. “I understand, Deni. Believe me, I really do. I”—I couldn’t believe I was using this word—“used to think my mother was alive too. And I didn’t even have a good enough reason to hope ...”

  Then the call to prayer cried out, and I sighed, frustrated, knowing our time was up.

  “Meet me here after?” I asked.

  “Okay,” he said. I watched him dash off.

  We both cut out halfway through breakfast and we were back by the wall.

  I brought Elli with me for a distraction, not wanting to encourage talk-talk. She was sitting next to me, coloring, while Deni hovered close, talking quietly.