by E. R. Frank
24
ELLEN’S BACK IN FLORIDA WITH HER PARENTS FOR THE FIRST week of Christmas break. Lisa went to Cancún with her family, and Rob’s visiting cousins in Chicago. That leaves Seth, Jason, and us. Usually my family goes skiing, but not this year. It’s not like we discuss it or anything. It’s just that it doesn’t happen. Instead my father’s taking only three days off at Christmas, and my mom’s doing a lot of shopping and grading.
Seth brings over a bunch of wrinkled envelopes and a family pack of Hershey’s Kisses. We count his send-a-dollar money and eat the whole bag of chocolate and fool around a little. Well, a lot. But somehow I start feeling nervous, and then I get bitchy.
Right as I’m kicking him out of my room, my father’s walking up the stairs. He doesn’t even wait until Seth’s through the front door before he starts.
“What was that boy doing in your room?” my father goes. I’m in the second-floor hallway, and my dad has one foot on the top stair and one foot on the carpeted landing.
“That’s Seth,” I say. He’s a guy. Not a boy. “You’ve met him before.”
“What was he doing in your room?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
“You know exactly what I mean,” my dad goes.
I haven’t had a nightmare for four nights, and I’m driving fine, and the shaking is gone. Plus, I haven’t had any more panic attacks. Thank God. According to my father’s initial orders, I have only one session left with Frances, but lately he hasn’t mentioned anything about ending my therapy, so that’s sort of in limbo.
I guess I thought maybe things wouldn’t go back to as bad as they used to be, but now, with this old black knot in my brain, I figure I might be wrong. So I stand here, wondering what he wants me to say.
“Harvey?” my mother calls from their bedroom. She’s wrapping presents, I think.
“What!”
“We weren’t doing anything,” I finally say, thinking about when Seth’s hand slid up my shirt.
“Leave her alone!” my mom yells.
And then when that same hand slid down my pants.
“What were you doing in there?” my father asks me again, ignoring my mother.
Sometime between the shirt and the pants Seth placed a chocolate Kiss in my belly button with his mouth.
“We were just hanging out,” I say. “Eating chocolate. And um … working on a project.”
“You’re not supposed to have food in your room,” my dad says. “Bugs.”
“We didn’t make any crumbs.”
“Or boys in your room.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” he tells my mother, who’s stepping into the hallway. She has a stray piece of Scotch tape stuck to her sleeve.
“I can’t have a guy in my room now?” I ask.
“Harvey,” my mom says. “Let’s discuss this before we lay down any laws.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” my father says. “No boys in Anna’s room.”
“What about Jason?” I ask.
“Who the hell is Jason?” my dad goes. “And no.”
“Jason’s gay!” we all hear Jack yell from behind his closed door. A second later it opens. “Jason’s probably safe, Dad,” Jack points out.
My father still has one foot on the top stair and one on the carpet. “Don’t get smart,” my dad tells Jack. Then to me, “No boys in your room. Period.”
“You let Cameron in Jack’s room,” I argue before I can stop myself.
My insides nose-dive with shame while my father’s face goes purple. Jack’s staring at the wood floor, smirking, of all things, instead of glaring with disgust at his despicable sister. While I’m trying to figure out how that’s possible, my father is looking back and forth at Jack and then at me. “God damn it!” he says. He lifts his back leg and advances. His hand is raised.
“Stop it, Harvey!” My mom steps between us, and I dodge around both of them, down the stairs, to the kitchen, through the mudroom, to the garage, into the new Honda.
And then I just sit here. Because the last time something like this happened … well.
I turn the car on for the heat. I didn’t grab a coat, and even though it’s only three steps away, I’m not going back into the house for one. If I’d thought to bring my cell, I’d call Ellen, but I didn’t, so I can’t. I think about driving to Seth’s, only I’m not up for facing him so soon after he’s nibbled a Hershey’s Kiss out of my navel. I could go to Jason’s, only I don’t even know if he’s home, and what if he is and Sweatshirt is over there and they’re in the middle of their own bag of candy? Or worse, what if he’s home and Sweatshirt isn’t there, but Grandma is? So I sit here with the engine idling, hating my father and hating myself more and shaking. And then I remember about planting my feet and breathing, and that helps a little.
About fifteen minutes go by. My brother walks out the mudroom door. He’s holding my coat and wearing his, and he climbs into the passenger’s seat.
“I’m sorry about bringing Cameron into it,” I tell him right away. I wiggle my arms into the coat sleeves.
“It’s because I’m a guy,” Jack goes, completely ignoring the whole Cameron thing. Which makes me feel better. I can feel my gut relaxing a little bit.
“What do you mean, because you’re a guy?”
“I’m not going to be getting pregnant.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “Neither am I.”
“He gets scared,” Jack says.
“Where do you people get that from?” I ask.
“What ‘you people’?”
“You and Mom,” I say. “She says he’s scared too.”
“Well, he is,” Jack tells me. “That’s why he’s such a mess all the time.”
“A mess?” I go. “He’s not a mess. He’s a dick.”
“He’s that, too,” Jack says. “But it’s because he’s such a mess.”
‘You always say I’m the one who’s scared and a mess,” I remind Jack. “If we’re both so scared, how come he gets to be a dick and I don’t?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Jack goes. “Do you really want to be a dick?”
“He was going to hit me,” I say. “That’s abuse. I could call the police on him.”
“He didn’t hit you,” Jack points out. “Mom stopped him.”
But I’m too mad at my father to let what my mother did sink in yet. “Are you defending him?”
“It’s not about defending anyone,” Jack goes. “It just is what it is.”
“Since when did you get so Zen?” I ask.
“Since Cameron,” he goes.
‘You mean, since you knew her, or since she died?” I say it as respectfully as possible so he’ll know I’m genuinely wondering and not just being sarcastic.
“Both.”
His phone rings. You’d think, him being Jack and all, that he’d have it set on some awful song downloaded from the Internet, but he doesn’t. It’s just a regular ring. He glances at the number, presses on the cell, and goes, “Hi, Ellen.” Ellen? ‘Yeah. She’s right here.”
He passes the phone to me.
“I tried you first, so don’t get all weird,” Ellen says. “Did you know Jason has a boyfriend?” She sounds strange. Not tired exactly, but something.
“Um …”
“I just called him, and I heard someone in the background, and I thought it was you or Seth or something, but it wasn’t.”
“Maybe it was his mom,” I say. Lame. How can I lie to Ellen?
“How can you lie to me?” Ellen goes. “I know you know something.”
“I thought you just said you knew …,” I start.
“I wasn’t sure,” Ellen goes, and she starts to cry. “Now I am.”
“It’s a guy from Taylor.” I’m a little surprised she’s crying. It’s not like Ellen to be this emotional over someone who was never even her boyfriend. “Jason just told me, and he didn’t want you to feel bad, so
he asked me not to …”
I hear Ellen kind of stop crying, and then I hear the slurp and swallow of her drinking. Drinking. Next to me Jack starts to get out of the car, but I grab his shoulder.
“Are you drunk?” I ask. Jack sits still.
“No,” Ellen says after I hear her swallow. “I’m just having a couple of beers.”
“Where are you?” I ask.
“In my hotel room,” she says.
“You sound sort of drunk,” I say. Jack looks at his watch. I look at the clock on the dash. It’s 4:16.
“Don’t tell Jason I even cared,” Ellen goes.
“Were you drinking when you called him?”
“What’s the difference, Anna?” Ellen goes. “My cell’s dying. I have to find the charger.”
“Wait,” I say, but the phone’s gone dead.
“She was drinking?” Jack asks.
“Do you think I should worry?”
“It’s four in the afternoon,” Jack says.
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” Jack’s staring at me. ‘Your eye looks pretty cool. The pupil is vertical, you know. Sort of like a snake’s eye.”
“I prefer cat,” I tell him.
The mudroom door opens again. It’s my mom. She walks down the steps. I roll down my window, but instead of leaning in to say something, she gets into the backseat.
Jack and I look at each other.
“Um …,” I go. I’ve been reduced to um way too much lately.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks her.
“I have absolutely no idea,” my mom says.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“Oh.” She waves her hand, weary. “Ranting and raving somewhere on the second floor.”
“He really needs some therapy,” Jack mutters.
“Look who’s talking,” my mother says.
“What about you?” I ask her, and I sound mad. “You look who’s talking.”
“I am, Anna.” She leans her head back on the fresh leather. And then she actually smiles at me.
“Oh,” I go.
The mudroom door swings open a third time.
“What the hell are you all doing in there?” my father shouts.
We don’t answer. He glares down at us. We look back. It feels like we’re in one of those drive-through animal parks, and he’s some strange monkey specimen. Usually the animals are in packs, though. Munching on something or rolling around or relaxed in a group squat, grooming one another. The thing is, my dad is just standing there. One person. All alone.
“Amanda?” he goes. “Jack?” He’s squinting into the car at us, and for just a second I see something on his face. Worry or curiosity. “Anna?”
Maybe it’s fear.
It was a striped-umbrella day, with slippery rafts and gentle undertow and the glinty sun reflecting off wet bathing suits. That morning there was a sandbar far out in the water, separated from the beach by green, lakelike ocean. So calm that my father said he’d swim Jack and me out there. Other parents were doing the same. Already the billowy swim trunks of fathers and the seal-slick backs of small kids decorated the water.
My father moved slowly between Jack and me, coaching Jack’s seven-year-old crawl and my six-year-old breast stroke.
“Can I stand here, Dad?” I gurgled, halfway to the sandbar, arms and legs frogging madly.
“Not here,” he said. “Too deep.”
“Can you stand here, Dad?” Jack spluttered.
“Let me see.” We stopped stroking and started treading while my dad went vertical and then sank straight down. I squealed, and my father’s head popped up.
“Nope,” he said. “Over my head here too. Swim.”
So we kicked and paddled, the three of us side by side by side, until first my dad could stand on the sharp incline of sand, and then Jack and I could, and we were all on top of the bar.
“Neat,” Jack said.
The water reached only to my knees, to my father’s shins. It was like we were on an island. With our backs to shore, we could be smack in the middle of the sea.
“Look!” I pointed. Girls about my age had found a spot that seemed only top-of-the-feet deep. They were sitting on their behinds, making drip castles.
“Pretty unusual,” another father said to mine.
“Anna,” Jack went. “Let’s find the edge.”
“Never seen anything like this,” my father answered. He caught a fugitive swim tube on his foot and held it there until a kid in a tie-dyed T-shirt and navy blue trunks plucked it off him.
Jack and I splashed farther toward the horizon, looking for the edge.
“It’s there,” some other kid said, pointing. She was older than we were. Ten or eleven maybe, and she was wearing a pretty yellow bikini.
“The edge?” Jack asked her. “Is that the edge?”
“I think,” the girl said. She called over her shoulder. “Mom? Is that the edge?”
I looked where the girl was looking, to a woman who must have been her mother, standing not far from my dad. I saw the mother’s mouth loosen and open, and then I saw my dad’s eyes widen and his body straighten.
“Jack,” he called. “Anna.” His voice was sharp. “Come here.” Jack and I glanced at each other and then back at my father. “Come here. Now.” His face was pink. Was it the sun, or was it him mad?
“Come on,” Jack muttered.
We turned back. Then we heard a gasp. And another. The father who had been talking to mine started running. It’s hard to run in shallow water. You have to sort of step high, and you splash a lot. As he grabbed his son other parents began to step high too.
“Matteo!” a woman yelled.
“Claire!”
“Lily! Catherine!”
My father grabbed my hand on one side and Jack’s on the other. He held on hard. It hurt. Why was he mad? What had I done? My head began to fill with black fuzz.
“Now, listen.” His voice was deep and like nothing I’d ever heard. “There’s a very, very big wave coming.” Parents were running and yelling and snatching up their kids. My father kept us still. He was crushing my fingers. “It’s going to break on us. That means crash, Anna. It’s going to crash on top of us. Hold my wrist as tightly as you know how.”
The steadiness of his voice helped the fuzz clear. My fingers hurt, but he wasn’t mad. I looked up and out. We were facing the open ocean. And in the distance was a curl. It seemed small to me. Long and low.
“Do not let go of me. Do. Not. Let. Go.” My father’s big hand shifted to latch below my palm to my wrist. The way trapeze artists hold each other, flying through the air. I clutched back. “Spread your feet apart and lean forward a little bit,” my father said. I felt the sand suck at my ankles as I did what I was told. The curl was gliding closer and rising bigger.
Most of the other parents were clasping their kids to their chests and making for the shore. When I twisted to look, I could see frantic heads bobbing, arms reaching, legs kicking. “There may be more waves after this one that we can’t see,” my father said as it rushed toward us. His voice wasn’t angry. It was patient. “I’m not going to let go of you.” I heard more calls and screams and saw glimmers of color and flashes of bodies as parents lurched and kids scrambled. “You are not to let go of me. Hold on tight. Hold on. Hold on.”
The wave was now directly in front of us, rearing and looming like some sort of sea monster with foam breath and a freezing roar. It was the biggest wave I’d ever seen. Bigger than five of my father stacked up. Louder than a thousand of him.
“Hold on!” my father shouted.
The weight of it blew my feet out from under me in an instant, the wet howling engulfed my head and body with weight, pressure. I held on as hard as I could. I held on and held on and held on, while the wave tried to rip us apart. My father gripped me so tightly that it felt as if my palm might tear off the stem of my wrist. So tightly that his hand and arm were shaking with the strain. Shaking and shaking and shaking against
a wet force blasting down and around and through me.
And then the force was gone, and my father’s shaking hand was yanking my wrist hard and high, and my body followed in a kind of jerk, sail, and drop, and I was on my feet, drenched and gasping for air, still gripping his wrist. I caught a glimpse of Jack, naked, and of my father’s gray hair pasted sideways to his head as he spun us around, finally letting go of our hands, throwing us, hurling us in front of him, off the sandbar and into the water toward shore.
“Swim!” my father shouted.
There was yelling and a yellow bikini top floating quietly in my path. Adult bodies crashing through the water past me to the sounds of kids crying and lifeguard whistles.
“Keep swimming,” I heard my father breathing from my left, my brother kicking hard on the other side of him. “Keep swimming.”
My mother was at the shoreline, pushing aside another mother to get to us and with a towel to hide Jack’s middle, and the edge of the ocean was filled with people hugging and scanning and crying and calling, while my mom hustled us to our spot, with our low-slung chairs and red-striped umbrella and sandy books, and Jack and I blew our noses into our towels, and so did my dad, and it made me and Jack giggle because it was gross to do that and we were never allowed, plus the commotion on the sand and in the water of all the people and lifeguards yelling and running, with the ocean so calm and peaceful now, seemed funny, like a sped-up cartoon, and then I stopped giggling, stopped short, because my father was huddled against my mother, and she was holding his big, wet head tightly against her neck with one hand and stroking his shuddering back with the other, crooning, “I know, I know,” and I could see his entire body—legs, arms, back, bottom—shaking, shaking, shaking.
25
SETH AND JASON AND I GO TO THE MALL. IT’S THE DRY BEFORE Christmas, and ridiculously, we all have a ton of presents to buy. As we’re walking past the insanely long Santa line I hear someone calling my name.
“Anna!”
I look around. So do Seth and Jason.
“Anna.” It’s an Ashley. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one without the other.
“Is she talking to me?” I whisper to Seth. He catches my hand and slows down. So does Jason. So do I.