Girl Out of Water

by Laura Silverman

  They crash into us with energetic, small-armed hugs. “Hey guys.” I smile down at my younger cousins, hugging them back. Parker and Nash are nine-year-old twins. Technically they’re fraternal, but if it weren’t for Parker’s jet black hair and Nash’s lighter brown, it’d be impossible to tell them apart.

  Emery emerges from the house, trailing behind her brothers. I falter when I see her. This is definitely not the kid I played with last summer. Emery is almost thirteen and seems to be a few inches taller than she was last year. She’s wearing a flower-print romper, and her dark hair is pulled back into some fancy braid that puts my plain ponytail to shame.

  After getting over my shock, I walk over and give her a hug. “Hey, you.”

  She hugs me back, kind of, and then quickly steps away and mumbles, “Hey, Anise.” Her gaze lingers on me, maybe taking in my outfit—worn-out jean shorts and a cotton tank top.

  “Come on,” Dad says to everyone. “Let’s get our things inside so we can go see your mom. How’s she doing?”

  Aunt Jackie is still at the hospital, where she’ll be for her second surgery and several weeks after that for recovery. One of her friends stayed over with the kids last night, and a neighbor has been checking in all day until we could get here to take over.

  The cousins lead us inside the house. Parker and Nash even help grab the bags. I hold back from saying anything as they struggle with the weight.

  “She’s okay,” Parker answers Dad, panting.

  “No, she’s not!” Nash says.

  “Yes, she is!” Parker repeats.

  “Guys! Shut. Up.” Emery bites out the words, low and sharp.

  The boys quiet immediately, and Dad and I exchange worried looks. Emery has always played her big sister role but never with a sharp tone. I wonder if she’s always like this now or if she’s just freaked out. She was seven when her dad passed away, and her remaining parent was just in a near-fatal car accident. I tense, remembering a few years ago when Dad fell off a roof at a construction job and was one wrong angle away from breaking his neck. I was so scared of losing him, of having no one left. I want to say something to Emery, but I can’t think of the right words, so instead I wrap an arm around her skinny, freckled shoulder as we head to the house. She looks up at me with a small smile. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll show you guys your rooms.”

  Parker and Nash drop our bags at the foot of the staircase and veer left into the living room where I can hear a television on. Dad and I follow Emery up the carpeted stairs. It’s weird to walk on the soft fabric when I’m so used to the familiar creaks and groans of our wooden floors. Family photographs line the beige wall. I focus on a black-and-white one of Uncle Scott with the twins as newborns. They only visited once as an entire family before he passed away. I was eleven that summer, and for a few weeks, my whole family, including my mom, was together. But the night before Aunt Jackie, Uncle Scott, and my cousins were supposed to leave, my mom disappeared again. She stayed fewer days than ever that visit, almost like with more family there, the more she wanted to leave.

  I’m both disappointed and relieved there aren’t any older pictures, none of my mom, no indication she grew up in this house. I’m not too surprised, though. There are so few pictures of her to begin with. Aunt Jackie once told me that even as a kid my mom rarely sat still long enough for someone to snap her photo. It must be strange to disappear so completely from your own home. I imagine my bed with the crocheted quilt Tess made me, the living room with my old, cracked surfboard on the wall, the kitchen with the pictures of Dad and me stuck to the fridge. If I disappeared, left home and traveled far away for college, would all proof of my existence eventually disappear too?

  Once upstairs, Emery leads us down the hall and opens the door to the master bedroom, which must be Aunt Jackie’s. The bed is made, the linens turned down neatly, like in a hotel room. A pair of running shoes sits by the door. My eyes focus on them. Aunt Jackie runs daily, religiously, like Dad. It’ll be months until she can lace up those shoes again.

  “Mom said to put you here,” Emery tells Dad. “When she gets back home, she’ll stay in the downstairs guest room because of her…her legs.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Dad brushes a hand against Emery’s shoulder before dropping his canvas backpack in the middle of the room.

  Emery nods and then turns back down the hallway. “This way, Anise.” I follow her and end up at her room. Band posters and art—most of which looks like album covers—plaster the walls. An outdated Mac sits on a desk, which is covered with pens and markers and crumpled paper. Two twin beds press against opposite walls, one with a bare mattress and one neatly made, corners tucked in and everything. Emery flops down on the made bed and gestures to the other one. “When Mom gets home you’ll sleep here with me. I can help you set up the bed and stuff. Until then, you can have your own space in the guest room downstairs. Want me to show you?”

  “I think I can find it. Thanks, Emery.”

  I smile at her and she gives another small smile back, one that doesn’t really hit her eyes. Then she pulls on a pair of chunky green headphones and opens a magazine, settling more deeply into the bed.

  “Aren’t you coming to the hospital with us?” I ask.

  She doesn’t look up, just softly says, “No, I went yesterday.” I decide not to push it. Even though I’m sure Aunt Jackie would love to see her again, hospitals can’t be on Emery’s list of favorite places.

  I leave her room and take a slow inventory of the rest of the house. The twins’ room is also upstairs, complete with bunk beds and those glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Downstairs in a corner is the guest room. I drop off my tote bag and then head to the kitchen, an old layout with laminate countertops but, unlike ours, appliances that actually came out of this century. It’ll be nice to make toast without worrying about blowing up the house. It’s a running joke between Dad and me that he runs a construction company, yet our own home probably breaks every building code in the book.

  I wonder which room my mom grew up in, and if I scavenged through it, would I be able to find anything she left behind? It’s strange to brush my hands against the same walls she did as a child. I swore off thinking about her last time she left me, but avoiding her here feels impossible. Even without her pictures and things, I can feel her presence, a living ghost haunting its old home.

  I can’t believe I left a note telling her we’re here. This summer is already enough of a disaster. The last thing anyone needs is for her to show up and wield her particular brand of devastation.

  I step into the living room. The twins are splayed out on the carpet, playing some video game with gunfire and green alien splatter. “Wanna play?” Nash asks, his eyes glued to the screen and fingers rapidly pressing the controller buttons.

  “Yeah, wanna play?” Parker asks, glancing at me for half a second before turning back to the screen to blow off some alien’s head.

  “Next time,” I say. I almost never play video games. Some of my friends like playing this old surfing game on Xbox, but I never really understood the point with an actual ocean steps away.

  A sliding glass door opens the living room to the backyard. I walk outside. My skin immediately misses the cool blast of AC. There’s a pool out here, which would be great if it had any water in it. I pad across the cracked cement, my flip-flops smacking the backs of my feet. The pool probably hasn’t seen anything but rainwater for years. I guess that’s what happens when you have three kids in three years and then your husband passes away before two of them are even in kindergarten. Time and money for things like fixing pools don’t exist.

  Sighing, I sit down at the lip of the bowl and dangle my feet into the empty space. I grab my phone from my pocket and play “No Night to Sleep,” my favorite Motel/Hotel song. I start to text Tess but stop. What’s there to say? Nebraska sucks. See you in two months?

  I tell myself
to be positive, to be happy that I can help my family, family I love.

  But that positivity feels difficult to grasp when I look up and see rows of asphalt-shingled roofs instead of lines of lush saltwater waves, when my friends are almost two thousand miles away, when my family is hurting, when I’m stuck here all summer—trapped in the home of a woman who broke free.

  • • •

  I have a lot of experience with hospitals. Between dislocated shoulders, lacerations, and common yet dangerous dehydration, at least one of my friends lands in the ER every few months. It’s pretty easy to get hurt out on the water, especially during tourist season when there are crowded breaks and too many distractions. So entering through the automatic double doors into the distinct, recirculated hospital air is, in an admittedly strange way, comforting.

  Dad starts toward the help desk to ask for directions, but Parker tugs his arm. “I know where to go,” he says. “She’s in the same room as yesterday.”

  “Oh, okay. Great,” Dad says, and then we all follow the four-and-a-half-foot boy through the labyrinth of hospital halls. Parker maneuvers through about a dozen twists and turns with confidence. I wish I’d inherited the same memory. As we walk, Nash zigzags back and forth across the hallway, knocking on every closed door until I catch him by the shoulders. He grins up at me like I should find his behavior endearing.

  Eventually Parker stops in front of room 1109. The door is slightly ajar, but Dad knocks anyway. No response.

  “Let’s go in,” Nash says, then pushes open the door and enters without further thought. Nash doesn’t seem to put further thought into most of his decisions.

  I hesitate before entering the room, suddenly realizing my mom could be inside. Maybe she somehow heard her sister was injured and flew straight here instead of going to Santa Cruz. Maybe she’s standing by Aunt Jackie’s bedside, a flower from a get well bouquet tucked in her hair and a small Styrofoam cup of tea in her hand. Maybe she’ll turn to me and smile, and maybe I’ll—

  She isn’t here.

  But I’m fixed in shock in the doorway anyway.

  Aunt Jackie is rigged up in so many contraptions, threaded with so many tubes and wires, that she looks like an illustration out of my paperback copy of Frankenstein. I’ve seen a lot of injuries, but this is by far the worst. Her left leg is slung in a metal gurney with some kind of weird plastic wrapping around it, and cuts and bruises cover every inch of exposed skin. Tears prick at my eyes as I realize I actually could have lost my aunt, one of the most important and caring people in my life.

  “Fuck,” I say.

  “Anise said a bad word!” Nash shouts.

  “Shh,” Dad whispers. “Don’t wake up your mom.”

  “But we’re here to see her,” Parker says.

  “I know,” Dad answers, “but…”

  “Cole, Anise? Is that you?” Aunt Jackie mumbles and shifts slightly in the bed, leaning her head toward us and cracking open her eyes. Her dark brown hair is pressed in tangles against the pillow, and I think of how patients on hospital TV shows always look so groomed, like they stepped right out of a beauty parlor and into the ER.

  We all scoot forward. Well, Dad and I do, while Parker and Nash launch themselves onto the armchairs by the bed. “Hi, Mom!” they both say.

  “Hey, Jacks. How you feeling?” Dad asks.

  “Hi, boys.” Her eyes open more fully, scanning the room. “Where’s Emery?” she asks, her voice hoarse from medicated sleep.

  I rub my arms and wait for Dad to answer because I can’t think of a positive way to say your daughter’s at home because your life-threatening accident traumatized her.

  “She’s just tired, Jacks,” Dad says.

  Aunt Jackie’s eyes flicker and she swallows. “Hey boys—” she stops to clear her throat. “Why don’t you run and get some sodas—caffeine-free sodas. Cole, do you have any change?”

  Dad nods and hands Parker and Nash a few dollars, which they grab and then run from the room, their sneakered feet pounding down the hallway at a pace much too fast for an establishment of sick and dying people.

  Through the stitches and bruises, Aunt Jackie manages half a smile. “They’re pretty cute, aren’t they?”

  I nod. “Pretty fucking cute.”

  Her gaze lingers on the doorway. Then she blinks a few times. “Sorry,” she says. “The meds they have me on are strong. I’m feeling a bit toasted.”

  “Toasted?” I ask.

  Aunt Jackie nods. “Oh, you know—stoned, high, baked, riding the green—”

  “Okay, okay, word defined,” Dad cuts her off.

  She rolls her eyes at him. “Please, Cole. Your daughter is seventeen and lives in California. I think she knows what marijuana is.”

  I do know what marijuana is. When I was fifteen, Cassie said I had to try it for this concert we were going to. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a great time at that show, but I’ve only smoked a couple of times since because I’m not really into messing with my lung capacity and edibles are too strong. Still, Dad doesn’t need to know about those rare occasions. Before I have to defend myself, Aunt Jackie speaks again, “Is she okay?”

  For a second, I think she’s talking about me.

  “Emery will be fine,” Dad assures her. “I think she’s a little shocked, a little scared. She’s still digesting it all.”

  Dad would make a great counselor if he ever got sick of construction. He’s very direct and Zen. Apparently back in the day he used to be a bit of a mess. His parents were both elderly and sick when he left for college. His sophomore year, they went downhill fast, so he left school and came home to take care of them. They died within a year of each other, and he never went back to college. Instead, he spent his days drinking and smoking and surfing. My mom told me that’s how she met him, with a can of Bud Light in one hand and a joint in the other. They spent an entire year enjoying the bliss of nothing until my mom found out she was pregnant. Dad knew she was a wanderer from her tales, but she said I was a sign to put down roots, that her family had found her. So my parents got married, and I was born, and everything was picture-perfect. That is, until my mom couldn’t deal, ripped out those roots, and ran.

  Dad became an adult real fast. He quit drinking, quit smoking, and worked in construction until he could open his own business. As the years went on, he found ways to decompress from all the stress in his life—running and green tea and yoga. He not only was a parent to me but also a counterbalance to my mom’s instability. Saying I love him is like saying the Beatles had a decent career.

  “I’m sure you’re right. I hope she’ll come around soon,” Aunt Jackie says. Her hand plays with the edge of the comforter, smoothing it and crinkling it again and again. Her eyes drift closed, and she speaks once more, the words slurred, half-spoken in sleep. “A girl needs her mother.”

  • • •

  I can’t sleep. The guest room, with its white paint, white comforter, and white curtains, has less personality and warmth than a chain motel. I crave my room—the crocheted quilt Tess made me, the walls plastered with posters of my favorite surfers, the shelves stacked with tangled medals from surfing competitions, books and magazines, odd-looking shells and sea marbles. It’s hard to think of my room without me in it, my things just sitting there, hoping I’ll come back for them.

  As I toss and turn at one in the morning, it occurs to me I’ve never experienced complete silence before. My entire life has been filled with the crash of waves, the squawk of seagulls, the humming conversations of people walking the beach. Never once have I experienced this terrible buzzing silence. Every time I close my eyes, it eats at me, and I yank them back open in mute anxiety.

  Giving up, I grab my phone from the nightstand and scroll through my texts, opening the one from Eric I didn’t have time to read earlier:

  Wish we could repeat last night all summer. Hope
everyone is okay. Call me if you have time.

  His words flush my skin. I bite my lip, but it doesn’t compare to the feel of his touch. I wish we could repeat last night all summer too—exhausting our limbs from surfing, exhausting our lips from each other. I can’t believe I kissed him last night. But I kissed him and left. This summer could have been everything, and now—

  I press Eric’s number, heart thumping slow and hard as I wait. He picks up on the second ring. “Anise?” His voice sounds different over the phone, and for a second his face blanks out of my mind, as if I were talking to a complete stranger and not one of my closest friends. I can’t remember ever talking to him on the phone before. Why would we when we could just text or walk to each other’s houses?

  “Anise?” he repeats.

  “Hey!” My voice comes out squeaky. “Hey. Hi. How are you? What’d you do today?”

  “I’m okay. I did the usual, you know, surfed and stuff. It’s not the same without you showing me up. How’s your aunt?”

  I sink into my pillows and clutch the comforter to my chest. Sleep presses more heavily now, my eyes blinking from the frenzy-induced exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours. “Um, not great, but she’ll be okay…”

  “That’s good.”

  There’s a long pause, and that terrible buzzing silence fills the room again. “Hey Eric, can I ask you something weird?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “It’s really weird.”

  “Try me.” I can almost hear him smiling over the phone. Throughout the many years of our friendship, he usually does the weird things, while I watch and laugh and judge only a little.

  “Um, will you go out on your deck and put the phone on speaker? I miss the sound. You know, of the ocean.”

  After a short pause, Eric says, “I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you right to the waves.”

  And he does.