Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel)

by Paulus, Rajdeep

  “How’s the chocolate milk?” he asks, drawing attention away from the past.

  That’s when I know he’s different. And different has potential.

  “Fine.” A minuscule snort escapes me, and I feel something loosen—around my heart. “Are you still buying?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Wow. That dimple again. As he walks back to the drinks section of the cafeteria line, I survey the room, always aware that everything can change, for the worse, in a fraction of a second. Nothing but noisy students eating lunches and oblivious monitors walking around. We are safe—for now. When Lagan returns with a carton, he hesitates. Then he places it caddy-corner from me rather than on my tray. I fold my bottom lip inside my top, and wait for him to take his place.

  “Thanks.” My whispered word falls onto the lunch tray, but Lagan hears it.

  He coughs, “YW,” into his right fist, and we both giggle.

  I reach over and drag the carton closer. I lift it up to open it and find a Sticky Note on the bottom. The guy must keep them in his back pocket. I peel it off and smile. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is smiling too.

  I reread it to myself:

  If I ask you yes/no questions, you can answer yes by nodding to your food and no by looking at the exit sign. Is that cool?

  I flip the note over and there’s more:

  And don’t worry about me. I’m always talking to myself. No one will suspect a thing!

  I resist the urge to bust out laughing when I reread the last line. I shake my head and nod to my tray, but before he can ask the first question, the bell rings. Lunch is over. It’s a B schedule today, so my next class is not the same as Lagan’s. We both stand at the same time. Remembering my manners, I fish a pen out of my book bag, write ty on the last Sticky Note, tack it to my tray, and head to gym.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I walk home that day, I squeeze my backpack to my chest in an attempt to drum down the new voice inside me. Time is ticking. Opening the door, I silently wish for wrong things. Things a teenage girl should not be thinking of. Things I should be imprisoned for.

  A family portrait graces the wall across from the front door. I was three, and it’s the last picture ever taken of the four of us, because it was the last time Mom was healthy enough to express her wants. And she wanted a memory. One that could stop time. If only for a moment. Mom still had her beautiful, flowing, dark black hair in the photo.

  Dad rarely called her by her name Gita, but on the day the photographer came to our house, I remember Dad sliding the blue and white stoned barrette into her hair, and saying, “A gift for my Gita.” The glitter of her matching blue sari fades with each day, like my memories of her, no matter how hard I try to keep them intact. Wish I could say the same for Dad.

  Gerard, my father, grew up in South Africa before he crossed the ocean to spend seven years studying political science and law at the University of Michigan. As far as I know, he never went back. But we’re allowed to ask about our family history as often as we’re allowed to have seconds. Never. We refers to me and my younger brother, Jesse. He’s a year younger and looks a lot more like Mom with skin like caramel, silky straight black hair, and a mouth that curls down ever so subtly around the edges. In the portrait, Jess’s two-year-old head has almost as much hair as mine. But things have changed. Once a month, Dad pulls the clippers out and gives him a cookie-cutter buzz. To this day, I wonder if he does it to remind us that Mom is gone—and never coming back.

  I lower my eyes to focus on my blue, little girl, daisy-printed dress, which matches Mom’s sari. And even though I get my definitive cheekbones, arching eyebrows, and hazelnut eyes from Dad, my mother gifted me my long, straight, chestnut-brown hair; a soft, rounded jaw line; and perfectly shaped feet.

  My strongest memory of Mom when I was a little girl is from the summer before kindergarten. Mom pushed me and Jess to the beach in a double stroller almost every day after Dad left for work. While my little brother slept on a blanket next to her, Mom would bury my feet in the sand and rehearse her own mixed-up version of “This Little Piggy” as she unearthed each little toe, one at a time. Then she’d scoot around to face me, push the bottoms of our feet together, dig her heels deep into the sand until our big toes aligned, and say with a beaming smile, “Look, we match!” As luck would have it, the only attractive feature I bear remains hidden until I come home, take off my shoes, and put on my flip-flops, or chappals, as I grew up calling them.

  Dad, on the other hand, looks like a Hollywood cutout, from head to toe. He’s technically Dutch Afrikaner, tall and brawny, with dirty-blond hair that he wears short on top and shaved close on the sides, the consummate professional in his navy blue Armani suit, solid red tie, and polished Rockports. I know it’s just a photograph, but I feel like Dad can see right through me, exposing my every thought. Chills race down my arms.

  Oh shnap! How long have I been daydreaming? I turn my attention to a precisely creased, half sheet of paper placed on the small wooden table inside the doorway—always waiting for me on top of the etched marching elephants with painted flowers on their backs. Maybe someday the parade of hathis will carry my burdens away. For now, atop the paper, the list, numbered one to ten with Dad’s perfectly printed handwriting, beckons me. I look into the mirror above the table before reading it.

  A smile slips over my face each time I think about the day, the Sticky Notes, the chocolate milk, and his smile. Lagan—my little secret. I indulge for only a moment longer, and then put on my best poker face before walking upstairs to my brother’s room.

  Jesse’s lying in his bed watching Ellen. Maybe he dropped the remote again. Did Dad not make it home for lunch today to check on him? Standing in the doorway, I knock to announce my arrival.

  “Hey, Jess.” I pick up the remote and place it back in his right hand. Under his hand really. The accident left Jesse with little lower muscular control. Doctors warned he might never walk again. His arms are his only fully functioning limbs, but without his legs, Jesse has little to no motivation to do anything. And most days he doesn’t speak. Maybe the shock never wore off. Maybe he chooses not to. I’ll never know.

  Number one on the list is the same every day: Check on your brother, make his bed, and give him something to drink.

  I don’t think twice about it. Pulling out fresh pinstriped sheets from the second drawer, I start my daily routine. After I raise Jesse’s hospital bed and scoot his legs over the edge, he guides himself into his wheelchair. As I toss old sheets into the bathroom hamper, I instinctively peek into the shower. Wet scrubs in the shower let me know Dad gave Jesse a shower at lunch. Next I pull on new bed sheets, clear the incense ashes from the night table into the trash, and wheel Jess over to the kitchen, all the while wondering if he can tell something is different. Wondering if I should tell him. Worried that the walls have ears.

  As I peel and cut up two apples to throw into a blender with a banana, yogurt, and orange juice, the sound of the front door opening sends a shiver down my spine, and I nearly drop the knife. Every day this week, Dad’s been on time. Why today? Why’d he have to come home twenty minutes early today? I lay the knife down like a sword, accepting defeat, my heart pounding to an army drum beat announcing the arrival of the enemy. The army that never shows up to rescue me. Because no one can rescue me.

  On autopilot, I retrieve the stainless steel teapot hanging from a ceiling hook, fill it with water, and dial the temperature to high. My hands will not stop shaking. Opening up the canister to retrieve three tea bags, the mugs are clean, but I haven’t emptied the dishwasher yet, number four on the list.

  I can hear Dad’s footsteps walking first to his office where he drops off his briefcase, then to the bathroom near the back door. The faucet turns on. Then off. His hands are clean, a daily reminder that he likes all things clean. Next comes his walk throughout the house, inspecting every detail. My insides retract. The list.

  The teakettle hisses softly as Dad
enters the kitchen. As if on cue, the hiss rises in pitch. Without hesitation, he walks over to me, grabs my left arm, pulls it over the kitchen sink and slams my hand against the tap. I hold on tight, swallow, and bite down on my lower lip. I am not going to cry this time.

  “Don’t even want to know what you wasted your time on today.” Dad speaks calmly, void of any sign of emotion.

  There’s no “Hi. How are you? How was school?” It’s straight to business. The business of destroying me.

  “You know the rules.” His voice drones, sounding almost bored with the whole proceeding. “If you don’t get at least half the list done by the time I walk in the door, I’ll give you something to think about for the next time.”

  The bowl of apples tips on the counter, and several slices fall to the ground. I never finished making Jesse’s smoothie. After seeing his fingers tighten their grip on his wheel chair armrests, I turn away. It’s not his fault. He’s just stuck—in his chair—in this house.

  Dad plucks a pen out of his shirt pocket, and as he writes, he speaks, his voice unwavering. “So, we’re going to add sweep, mop, and wax kitchen floor to your list.”

  I hope that he somehow forgets what he is about to do next. I wish foolishly. I am the fool. Dad never forgets.

  Examining the thermostat on the kettle, impatience expedites Dad's routine. His map to punish me. Enough to hurt me but never enough to warrant an ambulance. One ER visit was more than enough. For all of us.

  Like a mad scientist brewing the perfect concoction, Dad adds tap water to the kettle, radiating heat from the metal vessel taunting the flesh on my arm. He takes one last glance at the gauge to verify the desired degrees before Dad says, “Don’t move.”

  “Yes, sir.” I speak without raising my eyes.

  The list on the countertop, numbered one to ten, now eleven, mocks me. I only finished number one. Translation: I earn ten seconds. Ten. Long. Seconds.

  “Okay. Straighten your arm and start counting. Slowly, like I taught you.” Dad sounds like a dance instructor, except no applause will follow this show.

  I will not cry, I tell myself. I will not cry this time.

  “One thousand...” Dad tilts the teakettle, and hot water splashes and spreads across my lower arm, burning trails down to my wrist. I bite down on my bottom lip, and my fingertips nearly rip the tap off the sink. “And one.”

  Jesse’s fists pound his thighs.

  “One thousand...” I bite harder. “And two.” I taste blood.

  “One thousand...” Nausea rises up my chest. “And three.” I swallow my vomit.

  “One thousand... ” The sound of sizzling confuses me. “And four.” It’s my skin—cooking.

  “One thousand...” I bite my tongue. “And five.” More blood in my mouth.

  “One thousand...” The colors on the wallpaper blend. “And six.” My right knee buckles.

  “One thousand...” The ceiling fan spins. “And seven.” Or is it my head?

  Jesse moans, swinging his head side to side.

  “One thousand...” The tiles blur. “And eight.” My eyes burn.

  “One thousand...” No, not again. “And nine.”

  My. “One...” Arm. “Thousand...” Is. “And...” On. “TEN!”

  Fire!

  The dropped kettle clangs into the sink, an exclamation point ringing in the air. Then Dad turns and simply walks out of the kitchen leaving behind two words: or else.

  I collapse to the ground, where I wish I could stay and continue to cry. But there’s no time for that. Somehow I manage to crawl to Jesse, hugging my wet, ignited arm. I hold his legs with my good arm, lay my head on his lap to sob. I hold him, because he won’t hold me.

  My homework remains untouched till the morning. But I complete the list after I pile on the aloe until my arm is covered with green slime. Then I swallow six Tylenol that I stashed away weeks ago, help Jesse to get into bed, and climb in next to him. I don’t want to sleep alone.

  All night long.

  All I know. All I feel. All I see. All I dream. Are five little words: My arm is on fire!

  CHAPTER THREE

  That night the house is on fire. In my dreams. Then I wake up, realizing that the house is my arm. Tucking my arm underneath me, I fall asleep again, listening to the sound of Jesse breathing, a song that almost faded to silence last winter.

  Shortly after Jesse turned fifteen, he broke the rules. Jesse stood on the roof. The roof of our old house. He was not allowed on the roof. Dad had two rules. Number one: No going on the roof or in his office. Number two: Do as I say. Or else. When Jesse and I were three and four years old respectively, Jesse couldn’t say the word else. Instead, he said, “Or elf.” If Dad were an elf, Santa would fire him. Santa didn’t visit our house on Christmas Eve, anyway. December 25 passed by, just like any other day of the year. Same old. Same cold.

  It was a cold night before Christmas, and Jesse stood on the roof. Snow fell. Nothing unusual about that. Benton Harbor lies in the snowy part of the mitten state. Both Jesse and I were born in the bedroom of our harbor town home, in our little house about half a mile from the water where we both learned to swim. Mom taught me the doggy paddle, back when she was halfway healthy and occasionally engaged. Jess never got the hang of it. Because he loved clinging to mom’s neck and riding her back like a superhero cape. Mom was his hero. I loved Mom, but when things got rough, she left. A hero isn’t supposed to leave. Not like that.

  Before she ever forced Jess to let go and learn to float, Dad put an end to our beach days. “Beach days are for beach bums,” he used to say. He hated anything or anyone that suggested laziness. Didn’t help that he despised sand entering his palace too.

  Those days were long gone. During her last days, Mom slept a lot. And moaned. And cried. Her beautiful, long black hair all gone when she died. She wore a beige woolen cap on her head, a maroon turtleneck, and a tassel-edged red shawl too.

  Our lists doubled after Mom’s death, and with our homework increasing each year, we both struggled to do it all. That night—the night before Christmas—Dad finished his 8:00 p.m. rounds. My list passed. Jesse’s did not. As a junior, I mastered the art of doing my homework while my teachers taught. Jesse didn’t multitask well, and sometimes he dropped the ball. This would be the last day he ever ran to catch a ball. He forgot to empty the garbage from the wastebasket under his desk when he took the rest of the trash out. Only one piece of crumpled up paper remained. The point? The basket was not empty.

  When I heard the boom of the wastebasket hitting Jesse’s bedroom door, I ran upstairs to see if someone had fallen. My first thought was, Oh crap, Dad saw something unacceptable on his computer screen. Earlier that month, Jess convinced Dad that we needed e-mail accounts to keep in touch with teachers and homework partners. As a result, we never had to go to our classmates’ houses, a nonexistent option regardless. Dad hesitantly agreed but carefully kept tabs on all our Internet activity. At least we communicated with a few people online, even if we could never go out with them. But we knew to be ultra-careful, always aware of Dad’s watchful eye. Jesse and I both remembered to erase our e-mails, delete our histories, and empty the trash every few minutes anytime either of us used the computer.

  Then one winter afternoon Jess forgot to empty his trashcan. And now, it was too late. As I reached the top of the stairs, Dad left Jesse’s room, shaking his head. I held onto the banister until Dad passed me to descend the steps. When I heard his feet step off the bottom stair, I ran to Jesse’s room. He knelt by the foot of his bed, his back to the door, and his waste paper basket lay on the floor nearby, mangled and empty. The computer keyboard on his desk looked as irreparable as the trashcan.

  “Jesse?” I said his name to let him know I was here. Too late. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t say a word. I approached him and placed my arms around his shoulders. I knew not to ask. We had been in this place too many times to know that asking never helped. Asking could not turn back the clock.
Diminish the blow. Change things. Asking just made us relive it. And forgetting was already hard enough.

  I sat on the bed before I first saw his eyes. Fear didn’t fill them anymore. Nor anger. Not even sadness. Instead, a hollow gaze stared past me. Empty caves of lifeless defeat. At the age of fourteen, Jesse had seen enough. Now he stared at the wall, and for the first time ever, I couldn’t read him.

  We sat there awhile in silence. The sounds of snow pelting his window and the ticking of the wall clock were our only companions. Jesse’s revised list lay on the bed, and when I read it, his eyes reflected the words. Madness. Madness walled us in without a fire escape. Dad’s precise penmanship made out seven new words that, at first glance, could easily have been mistaken for a grocery list. Instead, it stacked seven words that Jesse could not carry nor accept.

  So a little past midnight, when everyone was asleep, Jesse pried open his window and pulled himself up to the roof of the house. Without a hat. Without a scarf. Without a coat. With only one thing crumpled in his left hand. The list.

  A nightmare startled me awake, and I dreaded closing my eyes and returning to it. So I wandered to the bathroom, hoping to steal a minute of unnoticed privacy. A frigid draft snatched my naked toes, changing my route, and I headed to my brother’s room. When I opened the door, I saw a lumpy mess on his bed and the window wide open, the screen nowhere in sight. I ran over to it and looked out, up, and all around. Then I noticed the fresh footprints on the fire escape. The roof! No! Not the roof!

  I didn’t have time to think as I climbed out and followed the footprints up to the roof where I found Jesse, straddling the highest visible peak. His back faced me as he shivered in his pajamas, his left foot, bare and sprinkled with snow.

  “Jesse?” I whispered, hoping not to startle him and praying that I didn’t wake up Dad with the creaking of my tread.

  “Jesse.” A little louder this time.

  “What?” His back to me, his voice sounded cold, matching the chill in the air.