Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (16 page)

School staff shortens lunch fifteen minutes early for a
Monday afternoon assembly. Seniors shuffle into the auditorium, Lagan walking
behind me. We both feel shafted. The talk is titled “Power Hour” by Principal
Jenners
. She wants seniors to powerfully transition from
high school to their next stages in life, whether that includes college or
employment. About ninety-five per cent of us will attend some type of continued
education. That’s what the stats suggest. Lagan comes prepared with two pens
and two Sticky notepads. He hands me one and writes me the first message.

Cucumber slice
for your thoughts?

I write back:

You know we
can’t eat in here.

He responds:

Lol
.
Just wanted to know what you thought of my cucumber message, actually?

I scribble:

Oh that!
Refresh my brain. What letters did you
munch out?

He shakes his head and smirks. He scans the aisle, making
sure the roaming teachers don’t catch him ignoring the talk. No one near our
row, he scrawls:

There were
only three letters. Do you really need me to write it? Again?

I write:

Funny you ask!
Three letters is all I’m asking ;)!

I look up to see if he’s reading over my shoulder. I know a
guy who asked me to repeat three words not too long ago.

Lagan chuckles quietly. Busted.

His next note reads:

Okay. I’ll be
happy to rewrite my three letters. If you’ll tell me which way you read them?

“Fair enough,” I say, nearly under my breath.

Lagan rips off the last three sheets to expose a clean
sheet, and in crinkly bubble letters, he draws three cucumber-
wanna
-be letters. The two letters
I
and
U
and a heart.

I smile. Big. Then scrawl quickly:

Does the order
really matter?

He shakes his head no as he shrugs his shoulders. My smile
tells him I approved. And I approve. Now.
Here.

When can I see
you again at the garden?

Lagan moves from mush to business.

I write honestly:

I don’t know
.

He scribbles:

How often are
you there?

He wants a date. Something to look forward to. I understand.
All my life, I’ve wanted to know when, for sure, I would be safe and when I could
begin to live.

I scrawl:

Let me look
into Dad’s schedule and get back to you. Okay?

Then I blacken out each word completely. Not taking any
chances.

***

When I
arrive home, I check in on Jesse and complete the checklist at record speed.
Since Jesse’s muscles have gained strength daily, he’s been less and less of a
burden on me, making my list shorter. I tear up each time I come home and see
him doing leg exercises on his own. His legs have also developed flexibility,
and I see his quads have nearly doubled in the last month. How he hides from
Dad daily by lying in bed or sitting in the wheelchair is dually disturbing and
calming. Dad wants predictability. So that is what we give him.

I find Jesse feeding himself fruit with a fork at the
kitchen counter while sitting in his wheelchair. I must ask him something,
carefully.

“Jess? Do you know if Dad keeps his monthly work calendar
anywhere specific? I’ve watched him type appointments into his Blackberry, but
does he have his schedule anywhere else? Maybe in his den somewhere?”

“Why?” Jesse has been saying simple, one-syllable words
clearly, too.

“I...” How do I explain without revealing too much? I don’t
want to get Jesse in trouble for knowing too much. “I just want to know which
nights he works late so I can plan my work hours. Request late days when he
won’t be around to be mad that I work late. That way I can start to make money
when my volunteer hours are done and save up faster for…for…I don’t know. For a
rainy day.”

“Check. His. Comp. U. Ter.” Jess’s broken words breathe
criminal suggestions.

Dad’s computer is strictly off limits. I nod to Jess. We
simultaneously glance at the microwave clock. Dad could be home as early as ten
minutes. Or late. Later. He has been inconsistent lately. Apparently the practice
is growing, and the increased overseas client load falls on his shoulders. We
overhear him on his business line in the evenings more and more. That’s what
happens with the time change across the ocean. I make a quick decision and head
to the den. Jess will cover me, when or if Dad comes home early.

Dad has yet to lock his den. But the desk and shelves and
even the chair remain in meticulous order like a floor model. Perfect. I
memorize the angles of the chair. The laptop. Even the door’s openness. Everything
must return as is. I hope I can pull this off.

As I reach for his chair to sit down, I half expect to be
shocked at the touch. I’m aware of every passing second by the clock tick-
tocking
faintly on his desk. I wipe my sweaty palms on my
jeans and pull out the keyboard on top. As the screen comes to life, I realize
that I need a password. Duh. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

I try
Gita
, Mom’s name. Doesn’t work. Then I try my name. Nothing. I
have one last shot before I get locked out. Running my fingers through my hair,
I ask myself, what one word sums up Dad. I can think of several, but one stands
out:
control
.
It seems too obvious. Too easy. But I imagine him sitting behind the desk,
daily reminding himself that he is in CONTROL. I choose all capitals with the
shift key locked in place. As I press the enter key, imagining the computer
will spit the saliva of rejection in my face, my heart sinks as the screen goes
blank. Suddenly, the open prompt sounds, and several icons line the right a
screensaver of a renovated stone castle with a white stretch limo parked in
front. A tall, curved wall of stone-embedded bricks surrounds the expansive
green grounds edges, like a scene taken out of somewhere in Europe. Probably a
daily reminder that Dad is king of his castle, but I don’t have time to worry
about that.

I quickly scan the icons to see if one might suggest a
schedule. There’s an iCal app in the bottom left corner. That would be too
easy. I click on it, having to start somewhere. Shocked when the month of May
pops up, my eyes fill with notes entered in almost every box. Meetings,
appointments, client names, time durations. A lot of hotel names in major
cities. New York comes up a lot. And L.A. and Las Vegas, too. Interspersed with
several female names. Immigration cases up the
ying
-yang,
I’m guessing. Details galore paint my eyes like dollar signs. Jackpot! I
quickly scan the weeks, looking for repetition. But do not find any. In fact,
there are also blocks on the board with blank spaces. Which indicate that Dad
either doesn’t write everything down or he could pop up out of nowhere at any
moment.  

I shake my head in disbelief and disappointment. I almost
shut everything down, when my right hand scrolls up to the arrow. Sure. I guess
it makes sense to check the next month. But it looks the same. All over the
place. Nothing consistent weekly. I skim quickly to see if I see any repeating
names. A few do appear on May and June. I scan July and August as well, a
sleuth without a clue. One overseas appointment with a client from Mumbai
appears about mid-month on each of the spreadsheets. Dad works late when
international business partners visit. Hmm. “8:00 p.m. Meeting with John Brown”
appears on the...May 17. Then on...June 17.

Wait. Is it possible? Yes! July 17 and August 17 too!
Jackpot, for
shizzle
. It’s time to cash in and
skedaddle before my snooping gets me in boiling water, literally. I close out
of each month, and then out of iCal. Then I put the computer back to sleep
before carefully placing Dad’s keyboard under the sliding middle drawer after
wiping the keys down with my sleeve. As I move away to examine the angle of his
chair, I twist it slightly to the left, making a perfect right angle between
the seat and the front of the desk. I second guess my memory and pull it out a
centimeter. Then push it back. My heart pounds against my chest so loudly, I
might have a heart attack over this one centimeter until Dad sits down in his
chair. I wipe the top of the chair with my shirt to erase my fingerprints. Almost
done.

“Hello?” Dad’s voice calls when he opens the door.

I move quickly to the door. Too quickly. My swinging arm
knocks a stack of letters off Dad’s desk. Before I can rearrange the stack,
definitely out of order, I see Dad’s shiny black leather shoes tapping in the
doorway. My streak of luck runs out. My hands shake as I think a mile a minute
as to how I will explain my entering his sacred domain. Like it even matters.
The scent of burnt flesh pushes out the aroma of moist earth like a bully not
waiting in line to use the playground slide. Except that he not only pushes me
out of line. He pushes me off the slide—to my death—once again.

“Dad.” I choke on my first word. When the coughing ceases, I
say, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

“Can I explain?” I beg, not sure why I feel the need to try.

“In order to explain? Not following you, Talia.” He speaks
while reading his newspaper as if nothing unusual is happening. “If you think
you’ll get out of your due punishment, you’re simply wasting my time. And
yours.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze my holding hands to steady
the shaking. I rise, place the pile of letters back where they started, and
look Dad in the eyes and say in my best brave voice, “I needed to find Loyola’s
acceptance letter from Professor Deans. Mr.
Donatelli
reminded me that it was imperative that I call her and thank her personally, as
well as send her a formal thank you letter. I didn’t know if you would get home
before she leaves her office at five, so I thought…”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Talia!” Dad screams out his
words, and I start shaking like a flickering strip of paper in a spinning fan.
“You did not think! Get out of my sight! Get to the kitchen. Put the teakettle
on. Ten seconds for disobeying. Ten more for foolishly wasting my time with
your pathetic excuse. I’ll give you a reason or two to never try that stupid
idea again.”

“Y-y-yes, D-d-d-dad.” I move past him, careful not to brush
his side. Jesse pounds his thigh. He didn’t warn me in time. He heard the car.
His voice wouldn’t project loud enough. I couldn’t hear him silently screaming.
Fear seized his vocal chords, and now I reach for the kettle.

I instinctively put two fingers on my lips.
Almost
healed
. I rip off a tiny
scab to punch back. To taste blood. I don’t care anymore. I accept that I will
never have beautiful lips. The tears puddle along the edges of my eyes, and I
swat them away before they stain trail marks on my face. The water overflows
out of the kettle, jabbing me with a reminder that only one thing floods my
life: loss. I gambled. And I lost. Again.

I turn off the tap and bump into Jesse who has wheeled up
behind me. After I turn on the burner and drop the kettle on top, I collapse
into Jesse’s arms for fifteen seconds of surrender. His arms hold me tightly.
And before I can own the strength, he pushes me away and moves back to his spot
by the counter. I double over the sink, the tremor in my hands unstoppable,
even by gripping the granite top. The kettle whistles so soon. Even the hot
water seems to taunt me today. I hear Dad’s footsteps enter the kitchen, and
his cell phone ring tone alarms all of us. Dad stops in mid-stride to take the
call.

“Who is this? Ah, yes, Professor Deans from Loyola. Yes, we
received the acceptance letter and financial package. Yes, we are very pleased
with it. Talia? Yes, she’s doing fine. Yes. Yes. She’s...”

About to have
her arm burned for her own good,
I think to myself.

“She’s right here. Yes. She started her volunteer hours at
the Botanical Gardens. She’s working very hard over there. Yes. As a matter of
fact, she was about to call you herself to thank you for everything. Here, let
me pass her the phone.”

Dad has the phone covered with his other hand when he
approaches me. “Keep it short and sweet. Professor Deans from Loyola.”

I take the phone and thank Professor Deans, hoping she can’t
hear the fear in my stutter. I press end and return the phone to Dad’s palm.

He has three teacups on the counter. He pulls three tea bags
out of the canister and asks nonchalantly, “Tea anyone?”

Seriously?
I don’t know if he’s playing a different
kind of mind game. Quench the prisoner’s thirst before kicking her in the guts
to make her choke on her spit? I look at Dad blankly and put my arm across the
kitchen sink.
Proceed, please. The sooner you burn
me, the sooner I can start healing.
My whole body resumes shaking as I wait. And in the reflection of the tap
metal, I see my eyes. And they’re not the same. It’s raining. But there’s a
small glint of something I never saw before. Like a single ray of the sun
breaking through. Just a sliver. Just enough to form a tiny rainbow.