Beyond the Rising Tide (21 page)

he cab of Isadora’s truck sounds like a rolling snare drum and smells like diesel exhaust. She warned me it hadn’t been used in years and needed an oil change, but neglected to tell me I’d need a gas mask to drive it. I roll down the windows and let the clean night air rush in, and hope this ancient thing can at least make it ten miles to my aunt and uncle’s house. Because I don’t have time to make this trip twice.

Three days. That’s all Charles gave me to wrap things up. In exchange, I promised that when the three days were over, I would let go of Avery. Move on and never visit her again. It was the hardest bargain I’ve ever made, but the only way to get the time I still need to help her.

It feels like a bomb is ticking inside of me now, set to detonate in exactly sixty-seven hours. Every second counts, so I need to make the most of each one.

I’ve been to my aunt and uncle’s house only once before—not counting the times I dropped in on my sisters after my death—so it takes me a bit of wandering to find their neighborhood. It’s after midnight when I turn onto their street, and most of the one-story bungalows are dark. They all look the same—little clapboard boxes with double gables—so I look for the one with the big ash tree in front.

I slow down when I see it, making sure their lights are out before I get close. The windows are dark except a dim light in the kitchen window, probably a night-light. I park a couple houses down and get out, hoping no one is looking out their window. A teenage boy creeping behind someone’s house in the middle of the night is the very definition of suspicious, and the last thing I need is a patrol car showing up.

Their lawn is freshly cut and damp from sprinklers. As I sneak along the side of the house and through a creaky gate into the backyard, I can’t help thinking how this could have been my home too had my aunt and uncle taken me in seven years ago along with my sisters. I try not to be bitter about it, but even after all this time, the rejection stings.

At the back of the house, Helen and Jane’s bedroom window is dark. My chest aches at the thought of them being so near. Seven years have passed since my aunt and uncle brought them here from Michigan. Seven years without a hug or a face-to-face conversation.

I have the impulse to tap on their window so I can see them. So they can see
me
, and know I’m okay. At least,
believe
I’m okay. I’m sure they’ve been worried about me since my disappearance. But what good will it do for them to see me now? It will only give them false hope, delay and prolong their grieving process. So with a heavy heart, I pass their window and return to my original errand.

I edge along the wooden fence toward the shed, trying to stay in the shadows of the trees. When I get there, I’m relieved to see the shed’s metal door cracked open. It whines a bit as I swing it open, and I peer inside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the very back corner, behind bikes and camping gear, I can barely make out the tip of my guitar case. Exactly where I stashed it six months ago.

It took me a whole summer to save for my Gibson guitar. And since I can’t take it with me, I may as well do something useful with it. Like pawn it so I can repay the shop owner for the broken window and stolen items. Isadora has given me some money for the work I’ve done in her vineyard, but not enough to cover the damage. And no way am I asking for more after she’s sheltered and fed me.

I dig out my guitar case as quietly as I can. It feels lighter than it used to, so to make sure the guitar is still inside, I lay it on the shed’s concrete floor and open it. My guitar lies inside like a corpse in a coffin waiting to be resurrected. I run my hand over the smooth rosewood and deeply inhale the scent that brings back so many memories. I open the compartment under the neck of the guitar and find my picks and extra strings, and the pocket notebook with my lyrics scribbled inside.

Maybe I don’t need to be so hasty about pawning it. Maybe I’ll keep it for one more day so I can play it. I close the lid and secure the latches, then grip the handle to leave. But before I can lift it off the ground, I hear the scuff of a foot behind me.

I whip around to see a woman standing in the shed’s doorway, long dark hair silhouetted by the patio light. For a split second I think it’s my mom, and with a lurch in my chest, I think,
Finally. I’ve found her.
But then I notice the way she’s standing. I could never mistake my sister’s slouchy posture. I set down my guitar case and straighten.

“Helen.”

Her hand comes to her mouth, muffling her voice as she says my name and, “I knew it was you.” She closes the distance between us, hauling me into a hug. The top of her head comes to my chin, and her messy hair tickles my neck. It’s the best feeling in the world, and I let my arms fall around her skinny shoulders.

I suddenly wish we could go back seven years and do things differently. I wish I would have been a better kid so my aunt and uncle would have taken me in too, so my sisters and I could have grown up together. My childhood was stolen from me because I couldn’t share it with the people I love. But as I hold Helen now, it’s returned to me for a brief moment.

“I thought you were dead.” Her voice hitches on the last word, and I have to clench my jaw to endure the sting. The pain in her voice convinces me that it’s better for her not to know the truth. That it will be better to let her believe I’m alive and living abroad, and too busy to keep in touch.

She finally releases me and takes a small step back, though she still has part of my shirt clutched in her hand. “Where have you been?” she whispers.

For a second, I want to tell her the truth. I want to say, “Helen, I went to the ocean last winter, and I drowned. I received the power to save lives, but I still haven’t figured out how to salvage my own.” I imagine what her reaction would be if I said these things, and it isn’t pretty. So instead I say, “I’ve been all over the place, working here and there.”

She lets out a shaky breath, and her eyes shine with tears. “Were things that bad in Michigan?”

She’ll never know what I went through in my seven years in foster care. And I don’t want her to know. I don’t want her to hurt because of what I had to endure. Because I’m sure she has plenty of things she’s still hurting over.

“It was all right,” I lie. “But I felt like a prisoner. So I set myself free.”

Her hand comes up to wipe her cheek. “Jane and I have been counting down the months until you turn eighteen, hoping you’d come live nearby when you were finally free to.”

Her words strangle me, because as much as I want to be a part of my sisters’ lives, it is an absolute impossibility. “Helen,” I say in a choked whisper, “would you go wake up Jane? I want to see her too.”

She hesitates a second, and then nods. “Don’t go anywhere.” She disappears into the house and then comes out a few minutes later with Jane in tow. Jane is fourteen now, but almost as tall as Helen. Her hair is dark blonde like mine used to be, and it’s cropped to her chin. When she sees me, she races across the wet grass and throws herself into my arms. She asks all the same questions Helen did, and then with hope brimming in her eyes, she says, “So are you going to come and live nearby?”

“I’d love to,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “but I have other plans. You know how I’ve always wanted to backpack across Europe?”

They both look at me, and behind the pain in their eyes, there’s understanding that I need freedom. Helen smiles. “I wish we could come with you.”

I shake my head. “No, you don’t. You guys have a good life here.”

Helen’s smile fades. “I’m so sorry, Kai.” She shakes her head regretfully. “We tried so hard to convince Laurel and Gerald to take you in too. We begged and cried until they threatened to put us back in foster care.” She tears up again, and so does Jane.

“Hey,” I say, pulling them both into my arms. “No regrets. I’m glad you two get to be together, in a safe place.” For a few minutes, we say nothing else. Then I say, “Listen. I don’t want anyone to know where I am, okay? So don’t tell anyone you saw me tonight.”

“Why?” Helen leans back to look at me. “Are you in trouble?”

“No—not like criminal or anything. It’ll just … make things a lot harder if you tell anyone you saw me.”

“You know you’re a missing person, right?” Jane says.

“Sure, but you two are the only ones who really care. And now you know where I am. Besides, I turn eighteen in a few months. So what difference does it make? I’ll be on my own anyway.”

They both nod, wordlessly agreeing to say nothing about my visit. Helen notices the guitar at my feet and her brows pinch together. “Has that been here all this time?”

“Yeah. I came here last December, but no one was home. It was raining, so I stashed it here in the shed.”

She tips her head. “Why didn’t you wait for us to get home?”

“I did. For a couple days.” I point to the covered back patio with cushiony patio furniture. “I slept there.” And then I went to the ocean, where I drowned.

She releases a sad sigh. “It must have been when we went on the cruise. Prices are cheaper in December, so …” She waves it off. “Where are you staying now?”

“Around.”

Jane grabs my hand and holds it the way she used to when she was scared, when she was four and I was eight. “Kai—are you homeless?”

“No. I live at the place I work. And I’m getting fed and everything, okay?”

“Well,” Helen says, “I’m glad you’re being taken care of … or taking care of yourself. You always were good at that. And … always good at taking care of us.” Her chin quivers. “Thanks for that.”

I pull them both into a hug again, mostly so they can’t see the tears welling in my eyes. “I love you guys. Never forget it.”

“When will we see you again?” Jane asks.

I don’t reply for a long time, because I don’t have a clue of how to answer. There is no good answer. No answer that won’t leave them with false hope or no hope at all. “I don’t know,” I say. “But I will see you again.” They just won’t be able to see me.

he next morning, I pass row after row of vines at Isadora’s vineyard, peering down the alley between each one in search of Kai. The sun is peeking over the rolling horizon, and the tops of the vines are gilded with light. The air is crisp and clean, full of the possibilities of a new day.

I woke this morning with a surge of newfound courage to take back the life I discarded six months ago. Mom was still sleeping, so I left her a note, and then went to Dad’s where I put on a surf tee and board shorts, packed a beach bag, and strapped two surfboards to the top of my Cherokee. I’m not sure how this day is going to go, but I’m optimistically prepared.

Down at the end of one of the rows, I glimpse a wooden gate with a lavender field and a little cottage behind it. I pause, wondering if that’s where Kai is staying. And then I hear something. Faint music, coming from the direction of the cottage. I follow the sound down the row of vines, and it gets more distinct the closer I get to the cottage. Guitar strings, being plucked in a downpour of melancholy notes, and I don’t have to see Kai now to know exactly where he is.

The gate squeaks loudly as I pass through, but Kai must not hear because there’s no pause in his music. I approach the front of the cottage slowly, wanting to listen without him knowing I’m here. When I reach the bottom of the porch steps, I see him through the screen door. He’s sitting on the cottage floor, bent dejectedly over the guitar in his lap. His voice joins the guitar, the sounds entwining in a divine duet, and I hold my breath because the only thing I want to hear is him.