by Jason Gurley
I looked up to see a guy leaning over the seat, holding out his phone. A little message floated there, above the game he’d been playing.
Emergency alert
Tsunami warning in this area. Avoid coast, find high ground ASAP. Check local media.—NWS
“I don’t have a phone,” I said. “NWS?”
“I don’t know, either,” the man said. He stood up, holding out his phone. “Hey, anybody else getting this?”
“National Weather Service,” answered a woman. “Did anyone tell the driver?”
But someone had. The driver steered off the highway and into a filling station. “Ten minutes,” he announced on the loudspeaker. The door hissed open, and people disembarked quickly, rushing into the convenience store.
I shoved my sketchbook into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. The driver was circling the bus, headed for the pumps, when I approached and asked, “Are we going back?”
“I’ve got to call it in,” he said. “I’ll make an announcement when everybody’s back on.”
Inside the store, the passengers had gathered around the register. Behind the cashier was a TV, where a somber-faced woman reported an earthquake in the Sea of Okhotsk. “That’s about a hundred miles off the Hokkaido coast,” she said. “USGS is reporting the magnitude as nine point two. The Tohoku earthquake, just a few years ago, was a nine point oh.” She paused, listening to someone’s voice in her ear, then continued: “We’re waiting for confirmation from the ground. The event occurred forty minutes ago. This could mean the island is experiencing high waves or tsunami activity at this moment.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, it was confirmed by an expert from the United States Geological Survey. Tsunami. The newscaster and the expert recalled the previous earthquake in Japan and the subsequent wave and critical damage it had caused.
“In that quake,” she said, “warnings and advisories were declared for the western coast of the United States. Should US residents expect the same today?”
I felt the crowd of travelers lean forward, straining to hear the answer.
“Absolutely,” the expert said, and several people exhaled in a nervous rush. “Coastal states have already been put on alert. Any waves generated by this seismic event would be expected to make landfall in a matter of hours.”
The newscaster turned back to the camera and said, “The USGS has declared a tsunami warning, we can now confirm, for residents of Alaska, Washington, Oregon, California, and Hawaii. People should immediately seek shelter as far inland, and as high above sea level, as possible. Let me repeat this—”
CNN was replaced then by the haunting image of colorful vertical bars and a high-pitched tone. It repeated several urgent beeps, and a calm but firm voice stated, “This is not a test. Attention. Attention. This is the Emergency Broadcast System. Repeat: This is not a test…”
“Oh, Jesus,” said the man who’d shown me his phone. He was transfixed by the screen, swiping through a news article. “It says nine point two is twice as powerful as the last big quake. Guys, it says it might not even be hours.”
Nobody was listening to him. People were on their own phones; some charged toward the antique-looking pay phone outside. I wondered if it even worked anymore. Twice as powerful as the last quake, the guy had said. The last time I’d seen the Emergency Broadcast System message was 2011, when the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami caused warnings here, too. Orilly had been untouched, then.
But I couldn’t help thinking about 2008, and that damned surprise storm. That storm had been a warning to me and Mama, but Dad didn’t take it seriously. Hell, the storm had essentially given him a gift: an affordable boat.
But that was then. This was now, and now was going to be worse. Much worse.
I never should have left.
Over the incessant beeping of the television alert, I heard the cashier shouting into a phone. “My sister’s stranded at the aquarium. I have to get her,” he said. “I have to close up. You’re going to want the pumps off.” I presumed he was talking to his employer. He listened a moment, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
“The Monterey aquarium?” I asked him.
He ignored me. To the remaining customers in the store, he called, “Folks, I’m shutting down. Make your final purchases, get yourself safely on the road and to high ground.”
“If you’re driving to Monterey,” I said, “I’ll cover your gas if you can drop me on the way.”
The cashier finally looked at me. “Where?”
“Orilly.”
He blinked. “Where?”
“Orilla del Cielo,” I clarified. “That crappy little oil town north of Big Sur, on the way to Monterey.”
I waited outside as the cashier finished closing the store. Everyone else filed onto the bus. The driver spotted me waiting and jogged over to ask if I was coming or what.
I nodded toward the cashier. “I’m catching a ride back the way we came,” I said. “My family’s there.”
“You sure, kid?” he asked. “I’m going to turn inland to Bakersfield. We’ll get there well ahead of any bad weather.”
I didn’t point out that an approaching tsunami was a hell of a lot more worrisome than mere bad weather. “I can’t.”
He nodded. “Yeah, all right. You be safe.” Then he dashed back to the bus and shut the doors. I watched as the bus rumbled away from the pumps and onto the highway. It caught the sun, glinting gold as it receded.
As I waited, I pulled out Dad’s compass. The S still leaned toward San Diego, but now all I could see was the needle pointing toward Orilly. I hadn’t been gone more than a few hours, I realized, and already that damned town was dragging me right back. Just like it had done to Derek.
The cashier finished closing up, then waved me over to an old Honda Civic. I stared at it a moment, this chariot that would sweep me backward in time, unraveling those precious few hours of my future.
In the car, he thrust out a hand. “Edgar, man.”
“Zach.”
“You don’t have to pay gas,” he said as I buckled in. “Nice of you, but I’m goin’ anyway.” His phone rang before I could protest, and he snapped it up: “Yeah? Yeah. No. Yeah, no, I am.” He listened for a moment. “No, you shouldn’t do that.” Another pause. “Right. No, I didn’t think about that. Fast as I can.”
He flipped the phone shut—one of the old clamshell models—then held it out to me. “You got people to call?”
Leah answered breathlessly on the fourth ring. She said, “Did you hear that, Z? Listen.” There was silence for a moment, then she came back. “I held the phone up so you could hear, but they just went off.”
“What did?”
“The emergency sirens,” she said. “They started five minutes ago, but they just stopped.” She paused, and I heard a low wail rise until it soared. “They’re back.” Before I could say anything, she rushed on: “You don’t worry about us. I’ve got the girls, and your Mama’s here, too. My brother and his family are loading up at his house right now. Going to Dad’s place in Paso. They’ll be here any minute to pick us up. They’ve got room.” She lowered her voice, presumably so the girls wouldn’t hear. “Are you okay? Are you someplace safe?”
“Are they scared?” I asked.
Leah released a shaky breath. “They saw the news already,” she confessed. “Zach, they’re saying this time is bigger than the last one. Way bigger.”
“Distract them,” I said. “When you’re on the road. Play punch buggy; they know how now. And tell them to watch out for a black Civic. I’ll be waving.”
“Z, a Civic? You don’t—” She stopped. “Marcus is here. We’ve gotta go.”
“Kiss them for me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Mama, too.”
“Z,” Leah said. She didn’t have to say more.
“I know,” I said. I closed the phone and sat there quietly. Derek would have come back from San Luis Obispo, dropped the girls with Leah, then gone straight to the rigs. He was on shift toni
ght. I looked out Edgar’s window, toward the horizon, but of course I couldn’t see Derek’s rig from so far south.
“Heavy stuff, man,” Edgar said. “Water.”
The trip north seemed elastic; time stretched, sagged in the middle. The highway began to jam up with other vehicles, drivers fleeing the coastline. Somewhere among them, I knew, was Leah’s brother’s van, carrying the people I loved. My heart had already left my body, soaring ahead over the roads, searching for them. I hoped they reached safety. I knew Leah would do everything she could.
In the meantime, I needed to focus.
I had to reach Derek.
And Vanessa.
“Edgar,” I said. “Can I borrow your phone again?”
I called 411, asked for some numbers, and wrote them down in my sketchbook. I called DepthKor first, listened to the automated instructions, pressed numbers, and at last got connected to the rig Derek was assigned to.
But nobody there picked up the phone.
I ended the call, then took a deep breath and dialed the second number. It rang four times, then a recorded message said, “You’ve reached Aaron and Elise and Vanessa. Please leave a message, and—”
I hung up. Then I gritted my teeth and dialed the Bartlett house again. I hadn’t wanted anyone to answer—no answer meant maybe they were already safely out of town, or at least on their way. But I needed to let Vanessa know I wasn’t gone. That I was there. For her. And for my family.
The line rang twice, then was interrupted by a sharp triple tone. A recorded voice intoned, “We’re sorry. All circuits are busy. Please disconnect and try your call again.”
Shit.
By the time Orilly was in sight, the highway lanes had filled. Cars had spilled onto the shoulder, and speeds had slowed to a near crawl. Highway 1 was like a busy New York street from a movie, soundtracked with shouts and honking horns. Edgar swung off the highway at the first exit. I watched through the window as we rolled past a credit union. Its lighted sign read CONGRADULATIONS CLASS OF 2013, and it hit me: It was graduation day.
“Change of plans,” I said, and pointed. “Take me there.”
A few turns later, Edgar paused at the bottom of the hill. Through his rain-spattered windshield, I could see that this road, too, was clogged with vehicles. Anyone who hadn’t left town, I knew, would be headed here: Costa Celeste, the half-completed resort on the highest hill in town. And, conveniently, the site of Palmer Rankin’s graduation ceremony.
“So, uh,” Edgar said, “I don’t think I can get up there.” He looked at his watch anxiously. “I really gotta keep moving, you know?”
“I can pay for gas,” I offered again, but he waved me off.
“Here, wait. Give me your drawing pad.” He scribbled a telephone number down. “I don’t know you, and who knows, maybe you’re a shitty human being, but still, you know? Just call me when this is all done and let me know you didn’t get drowned here.”
“I will,” I said. Then I started climbing the hill toward the resort.
I hoped Vanessa would be there.
And I hoped desperately that she wouldn’t be.
36
Vanessa
After I left the diner, I drove straight to the city impound lot in my father’s stupid van-bus thing. Being arrested for driving without a license would have undermined the impact of my dramatic exit. I hadn’t driven more than three blocks before I noticed another driver turn to stare. I felt enormously conspicuous, rolling through town inside this blue monstrosity.
Sneaking into the lot in broad daylight wasn’t the dangerous adventure I might have imagined. It should have been thrilling, but the place was abandoned. I could have driven the van right through the gate, and nobody would have noticed.
I crossed the lot toward Zach’s father’s boat. This had been one hell of a year. I’d turned on my mother. I’d betrayed Zach, shoved Cece out of my life. Cornell was gone, and nothing I’d worked for mattered. Tonight was graduation. Cece would give the valedictory address, a better one than I ever could have. I wouldn’t be there to see it, but she didn’t need me. Didn’t want me. She had Ada now.
One hell of a year. One hell of a day, for that matter. I didn’t know how I’d tell Mom about my father’s abrupt appearance, or his goddamned telescope-on-wheels. For that matter, I still hadn’t told her I intended to skip graduation. The whole event seemed meaningless, given how things had gone. And now, discovering that Cornell was little more than a veil for how I really felt about my father …
I boarded the boat and slipped into the wheelhouse. It was strange to be there without Zach. And now he was gone. He moved, the busboy had said. But when? Where? He hadn’t taken any of his art. Every sketch still hung from the wall, like the residue of failed sorcery, as if Zach had attempted to resurrect his father and succeeded only in conjuring these paper ghosts. He wouldn’t have left these behind.
And I knew, then, where he’d gone. He’d gotten into art school. He’d gone to San Diego. He’d escaped. Zach had won.
I stared through the open wheelhouse door at the blue Volkswagen. I’d lost my friends, burned bridges with Mom, and for what? I thought I’d done it for Cornell. For a dream.
But no. I’d done it all for a goddamned bus.
I felt hollowed out. Gutted.
I texted Cece.
She wouldn’t answer, I knew. But I texted her anyway.
hi. it’s your shittiest friend. are you there?
I waited, but the three little dots didn’t appear. A minute passed, then two. My phone went dark in my palm, and I sighed and shoved it into my pocket. I leaned against the doorframe and squinted up at the sky. It was going to be a disappointing day for a graduation, I thought, studying the swelling gray clouds lumbering toward Orilly.
Then my phone thrummed gently in my pocket. I pressed a button and it lit up, and there she was, back in my life.
i deleted your number.
I started to type, and then I didn’t want to anymore. I swiped to my contacts and dialed her number and agonized with each ring of the phone. There was the faintest little click on the line, and the ringing stopped.
“Hello?” I asked. A moment passed, during which I thought I heard a whisper of a sigh. “Cece?”
Silence. But the line was open. She was there. Listening.
“You were right,” I said. She didn’t respond to that, either, so I just lurched on. “You’ve always been right, about everything. You were right about what I did to Zach. You were right about the stupid college thing. I’m such an idiot—” I almost said without you, but I knew that would just set her off. I’m not your damn sidekick, she’d have shouted. I’m not the Robin to your Batman. I paused, recalibrated. “I’m sorry, Cece. That’s all. Just … sorry.”
More silence.
“I just saw my father,” I said quietly. “I understand why I’m such a fuckup now.”
The quiet persisted, but then my phone vibrated. She’d texted me. I tapped the message, and a photo appeared. A selfie: her starry green eyes beneath her graduation cap. A braided tassel, out of focus against her skin.
Her voice, tinny in my hand: “Did you get it?”
I put the phone to my ear again. “Cece? Yes, I got it.”
“I look like a doofus.”
Like that, we were back.
“You look beautiful. And smart.”
“I just threw up. Twice.”
“You’re going to say all the right things.”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Ada convinced me to bury some subtext in my speech. To make it easier on my family later, if I ever—you know.”
“Trust me, when they see Ada, they’ll immediately understand.” I didn’t know how to say the next part, so I just said it: “I’m not coming. To graduation.”
Things had changed between us. They weren’t irreparable—we were talking again, at least—but they were different now. Just a couple of months ago, she might have argued with me over attending graduation
. But now she didn’t react at all. She said, “I’ll pick up your diploma for you. If you want.”
I sank into the captain’s chair and tugged one of Zach’s blankets around my shoulders. “You’re not mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Cece,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’m a bad friend.”
“I know.”
That made me laugh.
“Well, as long as we both know, I guess.”
“I mean, we both know now,” she said. “One of us has known this for a long time.”
“It’s why you’re valedictorian.”
“You threw the match.”
“You’re really not mad?” I asked.
“I saw the news. About your mom. About all of them.”
“You said his bad luck might rub off on me.”
“It didn’t.”
“Cece.”
“It didn’t.” She lowered her voice. “It was a mean thing to say. And dumb, and wrong. Anyway. The worst is over now. Right?”
I thought again about the Cornell email waiting in my inbox. I wasn’t sure Cece was right about that.
“No,” I said. All the things that had gone sideways recently—they were only getting worse. Every thing was bigger than the thing before. “No. I don’t think so. I don’t want to know what happens next.”
* * *
This is what happened next:
I fell asleep in the captain’s chair, wrapped in Zach’s blanket. When I woke, it was to the soaring cries of sirens. I knew those sirens. Every month, on a Saturday, they were tested for five straight minutes, waking me too early from sleep. But today wasn’t Saturday. Today was Friday.
Oh god.
I stepped out onto the deck, still wrapped in the blanket. While I was asleep, it had begun to rain. I could see the glowing husks of the oil rigs in the distance, but where the horizon was usually sharp, now it was smeary and indistinct.
My phone vibrated, and I glanced at it to find a notification I’d never seen before. The National Weather Service. Find high ground.
Above the notification, my phone displayed the time and date.
