by Cyn Balog
I nod slowly. “So it was a lie, about you and her?”
“Hell yeah. Who do you think I am? I have standards.” His voice is low. “Gwen, people are going to say things to you about me. About the way I act. But don’t believe them. It’s not true. You know me. You know me better than anyone. Right?”
“I guess.”
“No, look at me,” he says. I try to meet his eyes but I can’t get any higher than his chin, since he’s so serious. “You do.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He looks up at the dark apartment. “Speaking of your sister, where is she? And your mom?”
“Evie’s sick. Really sick. She has a fever.”
“A fever?”
I look at his face, ready to gauge his expression. “Do you know anything about that?”
And I see it, in the second he averts his eyes from mine: a momentary flash of guilt, or fear, or something. Something not right. “What do you mean?”
At that moment, I know. I know that everything Christian has said is true. I know because this is the boy I spent years and years with, sharing just about everything two kids could share, from germs to stories to desserts to fears. And he, without a doubt, is afraid. Afraid of something. I spend a full minute staring him down. “Tell me,” I urge. “If she dies …”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, he says, “Why would I?”
I guess I do know him. And I know that while he may be telling the truth about Erica, he’s lying about this. “Please stop,” I tell him. “Please. You can stop it. I can help you.”
He lets out a nervous laugh. “Stop what?”
So this is the way he’s going to play it. Selfish, conceited, superficial, not the Wish I knew. “I’m really tired,” I say. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“I thought maybe … I was going for a walk on the beach. Look at the stars. Want to come? Play a rousing game of Gone with the Wind?”
I shake my head. It was the stars, the stars and him, that got us into this mess. “Sorry.”
He starts to say something, but then nods and heads for his truck. “All right. Sleep tight.”
As I trudge upstairs, feeling like someone beat the crap out of me, the phone rings. I run to answer it and it’s my mom, giving me the update on Evie. She says that she’s stable and that she’ll be leaving her there overnight and coming home to get me.
“Get me?” I ask.
“Yeah, hon. There’s a big storm coming. I just saw it on the Weather Channel.”
“Huh?” I say, flipping on the television. There, just like before, is a cheery blond weather girl chattering on about another surprise storm that just reversed direction and is heading our way. On the map, it looks like a huge swirling mass of white clouds is about to swallow all of South Jersey. “Oh.”
“This one is bigger than the last one.”
I stare at the screen, motionless. Wish, Wish, Wish … what are you doing? “You’re not going to … You don’t mean we’re going to evacuate?”
“Evacuate? Never. I can’t very well leave you alone on the island during the storm. And I don’t want to leave Evie, either. So I’m going to come and get you, and bring you to the hospital. Okeydokey?”
I say goodbye to her and I hear a rapping on the door. Between the lace curtains, I see Christian’s dreads. For once, I’m glad to see him. “Hey,” he says when I open the door; then his eyes trail to my pink shirt. “Cutie.”
I try to slam the door in his face but he holds it open. “There’s a big storm headed this way.”
I let go of the door and bury my face in my hands. “And Wish caused it!” I sob, crumpling like a used tissue. “He’s in total denial about the whole thing!”
He stands there, stiff. “Um. I just … I knew you were alone. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Does this look okay?” I ask, leaving him in the open door and flopping down on the sofa. Then I quickly realize I am acting like a drama queen in front of a guy I don’t even know that well, and sit up. “No. I guess I am fine. How are you?”
He looks confused. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “My mom’s coming back to pick me up and take me to the hospital,” I say. “She doesn’t want to leave Evie all by herself in the hospital and she doesn’t want me to be here alone during the storm. So I guess I’m okay.”
He nods, then makes a move to leave.
“Your girlfriend …,” I say softly. “You said she had a fever? Like Evie? How did she get it?”
He comes inside and sits down on the sofa beside me. “Yeah. We dated for a year, even before I found out about the Luminati. She didn’t like it. She didn’t understand why I had to be a part of it. I tried to get her to do it with me, but she said that it was stupid. That if someone didn’t love her as she was, it was their problem, not hers. But she spent a lot of time with me, and she was a really tiny girl … and somehow just being near me, she got a fever. I never saw her. She got sick, her parents took her to the hospital, but by the time I found out what was going on, she was dead.”
“That’s horrible,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“I spent a long time beating myself up over it. Then I convinced my mom to send me back here, to live with Grams. I needed new scenery. I thought it would help me to forget the Luminati. Forget her.” He shakes out his dreads and laughs. “Little did I know …”
“Sorry,” I say, watching the big white blob of weather on the television slowly inching forward, preparing to swallow the coast. “But I’m glad you were here to warn me. Not that it’s doing much good. I finally got up the nerve to ask him about it and he denied it. I don’t know what else to do. What would you do?”
He doesn’t even think. “Break up with him.”
My eyes narrow.
“He’s clearly an idiot.”
“How can you say that? You were Luminati, too.”
“I didn’t mean just because he’s Luminati.”
So he probably means because he’s dating me. Jerk. I smack him on the shoulder. He gives me an innocent “what did I say?” look, but by then I’m dragging him toward the door by the hood of his jacket. “Go home.” Finally, he stops digging his heels into the floor, shrugs, and obeys.
When Christian leaves, I think about the old days with Wish. How easy things were with him. I think about how we used to tell each other everything, and sometimes we didn’t even have to. We’d just know. But this is clearly not the old Wish, because I have no idea what he’s thinking. Why he won’t just trust me. And when I think about that, I begin to cry. A few tears become sobs. Soon I’m curled in a ball on my bed, weeping and shaking with every noisy breath. Nobody is around to hear me, so I let go, and the tears fall all over my pillow and sheets until they’re soaked. After a bit, with the first raindrops lulling me off, I fall asleep.
Soon I’m dreaming of storms and being close to Wish but unable to reach out and touch him. Every step takes me farther from him. I stretch my fingers out and grab him and his skin is so hot he bursts into flame, and begins to scream in agony. It turns into this long, low, dull moan, like that of a person whose life is slowly being drained away. It goes on and on, buzzing in my ears until my head begins to throb. When my eyes flicker open, I don’t know where I am, what time it is. It might be only a few minutes later, or a few hours. My neck aches from being pressed against the headboard of my bed at an odd angle, which tells me I must have been in that position for a long time. But how long?
I try to sit up and I realize that though the dream has ended, though Wish is gone, his moan is still humming in my ears. It’s not him, after all. It’s actually the firehouse siren on the other side of the island. It blares, rising and falling, and though it’s usually so loud it makes me cringe, the rain is pounding loudly enough against the roof to nearly drown it out.
“Mom?” I call out.
No answer. Instead, something crashes inside the house. I jump to my feet in the darkness, jarred into action. What
is going on?
I stumble across my room and flick the light switch a few times, but nothing happens. We must have lost power. The wind tears through the curtains, whistling fiercely. I fight it to close the window, and at the same time a bolt of lightning flashes and a boom of thunder crashes, throwing me back to the bed.
Lights flash outside, on the road. I crawl to the window and peek over the ledge. A line of three or four cars is slowly making its way through the rain, toward the bridge. The cars cut through the rushing water, and in the headlights, I see it’s already spilling over the curbs.
Where is my mother? She was supposed to come home. She was supposed to come and wake me and take me to the hospital.
Then I realize something. The siren. How many times did it sound? It seemed like it went on forever. And forever means …
My mom told me that. It sounds once every day at noon. Three times for a fire. And seven times … Seven times is the call to evacuate.
Evacuation. The cars are heading toward the bridge because there is an evacuation effort under way. I wonder how long it has been going on. I couldn’t have slept through the siren’s sounding … could I have? I rush to the window again. The houses in the distance are barely visible. There are no more cars on the road, no lights cutting through the darkness. It’s as if I’m the only one on the island.
I remind myself what my mom said. They always call to evacuate when it’s not really necessary. They always play it safe. I’m sure it’s not a problem.
Still …
I reach for the phone. Who do I call? My mom doesn’t have a cell. Wish. I’ll call Wish. So what if he’s different? He’s all I have.
I bring the receiver up to my ear. No dial tone.
Not good.
Stumbling around as the wind pummels the side of the building, I manage to close all the windows and find the flashlight in a kitchen drawer. I sit down on the couch for a minute, wondering what I should do. The only thing that comes to mind is curling into a ball again, but this time, sobbing for my mommy. I start imagining the worst: the water rising steadily until all the furniture in our second-floor apartment floats out to sea, a huge tsunami engulfing the island, giant sea turtles coming ashore to eat me.
No, be calm, Dough. This storm will pass and everything will be fine.
A light flickers outside. I run to the window; outside the hotel, someone is helping Melinda into the passenger side of her ancient Lincoln Town Car. Christian!
Moving quickly, I grab the flashlight, aim it in his direction, and turn it on and off a few times in Morse code fashion. Not that I know Morse code, but whatever. Then I run to the door. I’m nearly drenched before it slams shut behind me. I cup my hands around my mouth. “Christian!” I scream. Then I wave my hands.
He tilts his chin up toward me. I think he sees me.
“Wait for me!” I turn back to the apartment. I’m sure he’ll wait. Okay, do I need to take anything with me? I’m still wearing my pink Cutie tee. I look down. My nipples are standing at attention. The fabric of the shirt is so sheer I can almost see the tiny goose bumps surrounding my nipples, peeking through the fabric.
I cannot leave the house looking like this.
“One second!” I shout down to him as he wades—wades?—to the driver’s side of the car. The water is over his knees. How can that be? How long was I asleep? Is this a dream? “I have to get something!”
I rush inside, feeling my way, then stub my toe on the kitchen table. Cursing and hopping like a demented rabbit, I find my lingerie drawer and manage to untangle a bra from the panties and socks in there. Then I pull off my wet tee, strap in the girls, and throw on the only shirt I can find, shorts, a Windbreaker, and flip-flops. Anything else? Anything else? I can’t think.
I trip over that same evil leg of the kitchen table on the way out. Cursing and hopping some more, I open up the screen door and run out into the driving rain. And before I can make it down two or three steps, I realize something.
Everything is dark. The Town Car isn’t idling in the driveway as I expected, with its two headlights cutting through the weather. Lightning flashes, making the street bright as day, but it’s empty. There is no sign of life outside, no cars approaching on the road, nothing. Nothing on the island but the rising storm, and me.
He left me.
34
OKAY, maybe he went down the street to get gas or something. Maybe he’ll be right back.
Now I can’t even be sure he did see me. I thought he did, but maybe he didn’t. I was in such a rush to grab a bra and save myself from the embarrassment of nipple exposure I didn’t make sure he knew I was here. And if he didn’t see me, then …
I am screwed.
No, no. They’re always evacuating this island. This is nothing! No big deal!
I keep repeating No big deal! as I make my way down the staircase at the side of the building, hoping that when I peek around the corner, the car will be waiting for me in front. Christian will laugh and say, “What took you so long?” and in two seconds I will have the hot air from the Town Car’s heater aimed right at my face, roasting my cheeks a sunny red. At the third step from the bottom, though, the staircase disappears into black water. Cringing, I step down until it laps at my ankles. It’s not entirely cold, but it’s not a nice, warm, toasty heater. The next step, it’s up to my knees. I slide off the staircase into water that’s up to my thighs, then wade out onto the sidewalk, or where the sidewalk used to be. The gusts of wind make waves in the water, and the force nearly pushes me back against the crumbling brick wall of the bakery, but slowly I manage to fight it. But the street is empty, and now it’s just a river, not a place where cars could safely travel. In the distance, the one stoplight on the island is swaying in the wind, blinking red and taunting me. I stop chanting No big deal, and stifle a sob.
All right, I tell myself, trying to push down the ugly head of fear that keeps intervening. Concentrate. But all I can think of is the look Christian gave me when I called to him. It was blank; he was blinking away the raindrops that were falling in his face. Of course he didn’t see me. If he had, he would have helped me. Or maybe he would have laughed at me. After all, what was it I had told him? Something like, “Stop overreacting. We never evacuate.”
I am a total dumb ass.
The siren begins again. Oh, you want me to evacuate, Mr. Noisy Siren? That’s what I’m trying to do. Big help you are. My face is soaked with rain, and I’m crying. And shivering. And doing all those things one isn’t supposed to do in a crisis.
When the siren ebbs, I hear something. Ringing. The phone.
It must be working again. Or I’m hallucinating in my hysteria. I start to run up the stairs, but the sound fades. Then I realize it’s not the phone in the apartment that’s ringing. It’s the one in the bakery.
I quickly reverse direction, tripping over my own feet and nearly launching myself right into the floodwater. I catch myself and wade slowly back in, pulling open the side door to the bakery. Compared to outside, it’s graveyard quiet here, except for the ringing of the phone. The water in here is stagnant, black, and I splash through it up to my knees. It smells like cinnamon sugar laced with salt water. Some empty milk jugs and other debris are bobbing happily in it. I push past them and grab the receiver. “Hello?” I say, my voice squeaky and not at all calm.
But I’m speaking to a dial tone.
It’s okay, I think, pounding on the hook a few times. I’ll just call 911.
Fingers shaking, I find the buttons, then curse when I hear “All circuits are busy.” How can that be? Isn’t 911 supposed to work no matter what?
The phone rings again. I pick it up immediately. “Hello?”
“Gwen?”
“Wish?”
The siren starts up again. Inside, it sounds quieter, but it still rattles in my eardrums.
“Yeah. Are you okay? What’s that noise?”
I can’t help it: I start to bawl. “No!” I blubber, but I sound like a weepy
Santa Claus: No-ho-ho-ho-ho. “It’s the evacuation signal! Everything’s flooding! My mom was supposed to come and pick me up but she never showed up and I must have slept through the evacuation! I’m here all alone and there’s no power and I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay, calm down. Call 911.”
“I tried. It won’t let me through.”
“Can you wave down a police officer or something?”
I sniff. “There’s nobody here. Everyone’s gone!”
He exhales. “There’s a fire on the other side of the island. I bet all the emergency workers are there.”
“Can you …” My voice is small. “Can you stop it?”
There’s a pause. “Me?” His voice is smaller yet.
I know how stupid it sounds. Like Wish could just flip a switch, and all this will be gone. But he did it before. At least, he knew when the last storm was going to end. He knows things. Maybe he knows how to end this. “Then can you come get me?”
“Well, I saw on the news that they’re not letting anyone on the island.…”
At that, I start to cry again. He can’t save me. Of course he can’t. He’s only human, after all. “What am I going to do? I can’t swim, and—”
“Gwen, listen to me,” he says, his voice firm. “Go upstairs to the apartment. If the water comes in there, try to get onto the roof. Okay?”
“But what if—”
“Listen to me,” he repeats, his voice calm. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it. I’m on my way.”
“But you said they weren’t letting anyone on the island.”
“I’m on my way,” he repeats. “Go up to your apartment. I’ll see you soon.”
And then he hangs up, before I can turn any of the thousands of thought fragments buzzing through my head into words. Out in the storm again, I wade to the staircase leading to the apartment. The rain is falling harder than ever, and water is now over the first five steps, up to my waist. I don’t care how manly Wish’s truck is—it can’t cut through this. Is he planning on swimming here? Still, he’s a man of his word, and right now, it’s all I have.