Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles Book 1)

by CL Walters

  “If you didn’t feel well, why weren't you home in bed?” My mother stops moving and levels a look on me of which I think only moms are capable. She has an unfolded shirt in her hands and just stares, no blinking.

  “I asked Seth to take me to the beach,” I add to the lie. "The ocean makes me feel better. Like at home." It is a half-truth.

  Her frenetic folding begins again. “I’m so angry with you, Abigail. This is the last thing I need with everything else going on.” Though she doesn’t say it, I know that she’s referring to whatever is happening with my dad. He’d missed the last counseling appointment.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I messed up.” I take a t-shirt from the pile. I fold it.

  “That is an understatement.”

  “I guess now's not the right time to ask if I can go surfing in the morning. Seth asked me.” I set the T-shirt on a colorful pile.

  “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I’m better, now. I think I just needed some perspective you know?”

  “From what?” She lines up the shoulders of a collared shirt.

  “Everything. Sometimes it feels like everything is pushing in on me and it's too much to handle.”

  She is quiet a moment and begins loading the folded laundry into the empty baskets to deliver. “This is strike number two, Abby. Three and you’re out.” She looks at me and allows that to settle in.

  "I'm sorry," I say again and mean it.

  “Speaking of surfing, there’s something for you in the bag on the table." She puts the basket on her hip and walks into the dining room. I follow her. "I was going to save it for your birthday, but you might be able to use it.”

  A wetsuit. “Mom! This is awesome!” I’m surprised.

  “Put these away,” she says handing me the basket.

  When Dad comes home, the tension mounts. Mom’s anger is a living being in the kitchen with her, the dinner dishes, the pots and pans, the utensils feeling the wrath. Even Matt, who usually has a smart-ass remark, is quiet. I don’t know how much of that is due to Kristin’s dumping him, the video feed of his stripping sister, or what’s happening before our eyes with my parents.

  When we sit down at the table for dinner, the tension finds its own seat, threading its arms around each of is. We eat in silence. Only the clinking of silverware on glass plates adds percussion to the quiet.

  Dad tries, “How was your days?”

  “Horrible,” Matt says and I hope he doesn’t say anything more, afraid that he will and my horrible secret will make everything worse. He glances at me, shakes his head and then looks down at his plate. I understand that even if I’ve hurt him, he won’t betray the code between siblings.

  “How come?” Dad asks.

  “I don’t feel like talking about it,” Matt says.

  “Talking can help.”

  “Oh. That’s rich,” my mom says and the anger in her voice is heavy like a wave folding under the volume of water behind it.

  “Excuse me?” My dad says. His brow bunches over his eyes as he looks at her.

  Mom leans back in her chair and cocks her head to the side looking at my dad. Her arms rest against the table, silverware in hand. “Talking helps? Really? But you couldn’t make it to the last appointment with the counselor?”

  I look from them to my brothers who are staring at their plates. I swallow the bite in my mouth that suddenly feels sharp and too dry. It has always been an unwritten rule in our house maybe not said but definitely followed that my parents didn’t fight in front of us. I think we knew they did disagree, but their struggles stayed between them. I’m not sure how to handle this. I freeze, hoping maybe I’ll disappear, or they will.

  Dad slams his utensils and his hands against the table rattling all of the dishes. My water glass jumps and sloshes water onto the table. He stands. “Want to do this now?”

  Mom stands, facing him, and I think maybe she is changing into Pele before my eyes, ready to go to war with Kamapuaʻa. “Yes.” She tosses her napkin onto the table. She looks at us and says, “You’re excused.”

  In a flurry of movement, Nate, Matt and I scurry from the room like animals fleeing the fire. Once in my room, I can’t find a way to calm myself. I can hear the tone of their voices even if I can’t hear the words. It’s as if Kilauea has open and lava spews out changing the landscape of our family.

  Someone knocks on my door. I just stare at it. I can feel the charge of change around me.

  "Abby?" It’s Nate.

  I open the door.

  My brother is pale, unsure. "May I come in?" He asks quietly. And I know what this is. His need for comfort, but his struggle with me.

  I move away from the door, leaving it open, and sit on my bed.

  He shuts the door and chooses the seat at my desk.

  “Do you want to talk?” he asks. I can see that he’s being ripped apart, my sensitive brother who seeks peace in any situation. The house is coming down around us and he’s trying to reorient himself to this chaos that he finds so disconcerting. I wish I could save him from it, but I can’t even save myself.

  “You do,” I say.

  “I’m just . . .I didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t want you to. I’m ashamed of it.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what? I fucked up,” I say.

  “It looked like you had help.”

  My words against myself lodge in my throat. I’d even considered something similar the other day, but in the midst of a storm it’s difficult to remember the logical in the pandemonium of the emotional. “I wish others thought like that. Yeah. And, no one forced me to drink.”

  “I get that, but you didn’t agree to be filmed. And it looked a lot like the guy did his fair share of manipulating you, the situation. God!” Nate stands up and runs his hands through his hair, pacing across the floor. “If I could get my hands on that guy, I’d pound him out.”

  I hang my head. I wish I could remember it completely, but it’s the video that I see. It’s hard to blame anyone else outside of the sphere of shame that holds me hostage when I see it. I wish I could accept that maybe I was a victim, but instead I struggle with the emotional tug-o-war.

  “Do people know back home?” He asks.

  I nod.

  “And were you treated at home like here?”

  I nod again and tears fill my eyes. My face drops into the palms of my hands. "I'm so sorry," I say. "So sorry. I didn't… I didn’t mean for it to affect you and Mattie." I want to tell him that I tried to keep it hidden. That I tried my hardest to be a perfect version of myself here, but in the next breath, a crash of breaking glass snaps our moment of drama into another.

  My mother’s high-pitched voice screams at my father followed by his angry yelling. By the time Nate and I, followed by Matt, make it down the stairs and into the living room, the front door has slammed. My mother is crying as she cleans up a vase in front of the fireplace, and my father's car reverses out of the driveway and disappears into the darkness. My brothers and I drop to our knees like a fortress around our crying mother and insulate her in our nest of overlapping arms.

  22

  THE FREAK AND THE SLUT

  Nothing in my life is going right. Nothing. Despite the afternoon I’d spent with Seth when I thought maybe, just maybe, the storm had finally turned in my favor; it is clear now that was actually just the eye of a hurricane. Now, the winds are just swirling in the opposite direction. My parents’ fight, my dad leaving, my brothers’ disappointment in me, and now, Seth. He didn’t pick me up to surf the following morning. He hasn’t called. He’s not answering my calls or texts and he hasn’t been to school. I’m sure something is wrong. The only one I have in my life is Hannah, and for her I’m so grateful, but she doesn’t know about Seth’s father. Only one other person does: Gabe. He’s the only one I can go to for help.

  I find him exactly where I think I will, in the junkyard, but the chill in the air is adamant about attention. Instead of sittin
g on top of the wreckage, Gabe is sitting in the car. He must see me walking across the lot but doesn’t make any indication. When I reach the passenger side, he watches me struggle to open the door and then smiles.

  “Funny?” I ask from the outside and shoot him a dirty look.

  He nods and reaches across to open the door. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I climb in and am pleasantly surprised about how warm it is in the interior of the car.

  “Anytime.”

  "It's so cold outside."

  “Is that why you came out all this way? To talk about the weather? Oh, wait. You’re a junkyard dog now too, right.”

  “You saw it, then?” I blush embarrassed.

  “Who hasn’t.” He says it so matter-of-factly, without judgement or rancor that any tension I might have felt is gone.

  “Looks like I have usurped your title. Jealous?” I joke.

  “Fat chance. You’ve got fifteen minutes. I’ve been running this game for three years, sister.”

  I laugh despite myself.

  He smiles too.

  “You okay, though?” He asks, suddenly serious. “For real.”

  “In what way?”

  He is confused by my response glancing at me and his brow creasing. “All?”

  “I don’t think you’re interested in that train wreck.”

  “Try me,” he says and then pulls food items from his bag. “But let me get my entertainment fodder together to enjoy the drama.”

  I laugh despite the blackness of it all. “Where to start? You already know that I’m the resident ho.”

  Gabe feigns a yawn. Then he smiles and takes a bite of his lunch.

  “Stop,” I laugh again. “Who knew you were a comedian?”

  He raises his eyebrows and watches me as he takes another bite urging me forward.

  “My dad’s moved out.”

  “Whoa. Wait,” he says and sits up. He swallows the bite. “What the… What happened?”

  “I think it has been happening for a while, but it was a couple of nights ago. He hasn’t been home since.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. But that is actually not why I hiked out here,” I say suddenly nervous. Whatever the history between Seth and Gabe, this could go very badly.

  He takes another bite of sandwich and looks at me sideways, waiting.

  I don’t know how to start it, how to say what I’m worried about. I need Gabe to help me. “It’s about Seth.”

  “Abby, that ships sailed. We will never be friends again no matter how much you try.”

  “It isn’t about that,” I say. “Just hear me out please. I think he’s in trouble.”

  Gabe sighs. “Seth is always in trouble. He is trouble. He’s not the guy you think he is.”

  “No. Not that kind of trouble. I think with his dad.” I tell him about the bruises I saw, and Seth’s response. Gabe listens staring straight out the windshield. I can see he’s affected as his jaw clenches and unclenches the more I talk. “Gabe it was bad, really bad. I haven’t seen him since he drove me home that day we skipped school.”

  “And the school would have called home.”

  “Right. I have a bad feeling and I don’t know what to do.”

  “And I’m not sure why you are coming to me with this.”

  “He was your friend at one time, and the only one he trusted with this secret.”

  “Again, I don’t know what I can do. If he isn’t answering you, he sure as hell won’t answer me. How do you see this going down: I show up on his doorstep and what? Kidnap him? Beat up his asshole dad? Tell the school so the cops show up and do what? Leave him there so something worse happens?”

  “How do we know the worst hasn’t happened?” I say and feel the tears pool in my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve.

  “Okay. Look. I’m going to do this for you, not for him. If it ever comes up, I will deny it. I will go with you to Mr. Robinson.”

  “The counselor?”

  “I think that’s the only move we have. Really. Seth’s not here, we don’t have any evidence. We can only report what we’ve heard and seen.”

  “Okay.”

  Once in the office of the counselor, Mr. Robinson listens, writes our beliefs on a notepad, and does his job making us feel like we are heard, but I’m not sure we are. I know this when Mr. Robinson says, “I will check in with Seth as soon as he returns to school.” He pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up his narrow nose.

  “Mr. Robinson,” I say. “What if he’s not at school because he’s-” I can’t say it.

  “He’s what?” Mr. Robinson asks.

  “Dead,” Gabe says. The tone of his voice expresses boredom rather than actual concern. I look at him, shocked.

  Mr. Robinson clears his throat. “Well, that’s a bit extreme. It if makes you feel better, I’ll check in with our attendance clerk.” He steps from the room.

  “Dead?” I ask.

  “That’s not what you were going to say?”

  “No! Hurt, maybe.”

  “Technically that could be dying.”

  “But not dead.”

  Mr. Robinson comes back into the office. “School spoke with Seth’s mom this morning. He’s home sick.” The rotund counselor with the skinny nose sits behind his desk. “Rest assured, I will check in with Seth as soon as he returns to school.”

  And like that, it’s over. Play made.

  “Abby,” Gabe says from outside the office. “He’ll be okay. He always is.”

  “Oh look, a match made in heaven,” someone says when they pass us in the hall. “The Freak and the Slut.”

  I flip him the bird.

  “The key is not to react,” Gabe says.

  “Yeah. Cause that’s been working for you so well.”

  He ignores me. “Lunch tomorrow?” Gabe asks.

  “See you then,” I say and leave for English with my late pass in hand.

  After school, after the name calling, the jibes, the runaround from Mr. Robinson, I’m able to make it home with every intention of crawling into my bed and drowning my hurt with sleep. I throw my keys into the dish near the refrigerator, and head toward the stairs. When I look up to make that first step, my dad is at the top of the staircase looking down at me. He’s carrying a bag.

  "Abby." He says and comes down the stairs. He looks the same, but his face is weighted with his feelings. He isn’t shining like he usually does.

  "Hi," I back down the stairs to let him pass.

  "What are you doing home?" He asks.

  “School’s done," I answer and follow him into the kitchen.

  “Already?” He glances at the clock on the stove. “Oh. I didn’t know it was so late.”

  “Where’s mom?”

  He glances at me, drops his bag and then leans against the counter near the kitchen sink. “She had an appointment with Dr. Jensen.”

  "Why aren’t you there with her?” I ask. I know that is the counselor they were seeing, together. “Where have you been?"

  He sighs and runs a hand through his short hair and over his face. There is the beginnings of a beard. "At a hotel in Newport. Close to work."

  "Why?"

  "It's between your mother and I."

  "Well, no. It kind of isn't. You share kids. Us. Me."

  "Abigail. There are some things that have nothing to do with the kids."

  "What happened to the wa’a? Making this journey together? You telling me that our ancestors jumped ship when it got tough? Don't we matter?"

  He’s looking down at the floor, his hands on either side of his hips holding the counter. I want to go to him and put my arms around him, tell him how much I need him, how scared I am for Seth, how bad I messed up, but I don’t. I can’t. Not now. "Sometimes, things just don’t work like we expect," he finally says. His usually full lips are thinned out with tension.

  The disappointment I feel is sharp and deep. I have always looked up to my father. He’s always
been strong but, in this moment, I have never felt such sadness when thinking about him, about this fallibility I have never seen. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” he says.

  I feel my lip quiver and don’t trust myself to speak. What does a seventeen-year-old tell her forty-two-year-old father? I take a step away from him shaking my head side to side. “You’re giving up on us.”

  “No,” he says and then more strongly with a shake of his head, “No!”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what you just said. What happened to discovering something new like our ancestors?” I turn away from him and walk up the stairs.

  “Abby,” I hear him call after me but I don’t turn around. I can’t.

  I watch him from the window of my room leave the house and walk to his car parked on the side of the road. A story Poppa told me runs through my mind when the fire goddess, Pele, tells the shape shifting god Kamapua’a that if he were to stay with her he will die, and if he leaves her, he will die. It isn’t the story that lingers in my mind but Pele’s words are indicative of my father in that moment: Stay and die, leave and die. Either. Or. Can there be no other way? He looks back at the house, hesitates a moment before getting into his car and driving away.

  I lean my forehead against the cold window pane and allow the tears to fall.

  I try texting Seth. No answer.

  I have never felt more alone.

  The next day, I return to the junkyard for lunch searching for solace in my hectic life. Hannah is working on her project and I can’t bare the cafeteria alone.

  Gabe opens the door for me today, though.

  “Thanks,” I say and sit down.

  “Hear from Seth yet?”

  I shake my head. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  Gabe’s quiet for a while and then asks, “How’s things at home?”

  “He left. My dad.” Tears sting my eyes. I get them under control staring at my hands and wishing that things were different.

  “When I was a kid, my dad would go for weeks at a time,” Gabe says.

  “Like travelling? For work?” I ask.

  “No. Like on benders. I think that’s what initially drew Seth and I together as friends. We had fathers in common - his an alcoholic and mine a drug addict. I mean, not that your dad is like that. You guys have a great family.”