Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel)

by Paulus, Rajdeep

  Glancing at the wall clock as I first race to the front door, I decide this will be a short visit. In and out. The driveway still lies empty, and Dad’s car isn’t rolling down our street. I hightail it to the back door and fling it open, finding Lagan just where I suggested. Sitting on the bench, dribbling his ball, he seems so focused as the ball moves smoothly back and forth between his hands. I think I startle him when I call out, because he jumps up, letting the ball roll away, and then looks left and right. He points to himself with both thumbs.

  “Yes, you.” I laugh, all too aware that this is no laughing matter.

  Lagan gathers his book bag and ball, and when he stands a foot away, he gives me another chance to pull a u-ey. “Sure about this?”

  “Not really, but come in. For a sec.” I grab his free hand, and direct Lagan to the kitchen. He adjusts the grip and now our fingers entwine. My heart takes flight at the sight and feel of our kissing palms. As Lagan looks around, my eyes linger on our hands. Mine in his. His in mine. We fit.

  Not two minutes pass when my house of cards collapses before we reach the kitchen opening. I hear a car door slam shut and wiggle my hand loose to run to the front door to check the peephole, my heart sinking like quicksand. As I peer out and gulp relief by the bucket, my stomach remains on the floor.

  “Just the mailman,” I say as I look back down the hallway. Lagan stands frozen, unsure of what just occurred. I traipse back to him, shaking my head, my heart’s decibels returning slowly to their original pace, to stay alert-mode, rather than panic-mode. “Sorry. I thought my dad came home.”

  “Okay.” Lagan nods, putting his bag and ball down. His eyes seem to ask, “Is there more?”

  I take a deep breath, not sure how much to peel back, my hands still shaking from the false alarm. “And that would be bad.” That’s enough. For now.

  “Let’s go.” With my hand on his back, I direct him toward the kitchen, shifting gears, still aware of the ticking clock. “I want you to meet my brother.”

  Lagan doesn’t budge. Instead, he reaches for my hand and pulls me to himself in an unexpected embrace, my emotions ricocheting like a copper ball bouncing through a pinball machine. His whispers tiptoe across the top of my head. “It’s okay. Slow down. You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I’m here. I’m here for you.”

  I swallow as my arms slowly rise and circle his waist. I have never known the strong arms of any man holding me. His squeeze pulls me in closer still, and my arms don’t want to let go. His heartbeat pounds against mine, and I am transported. To safety. Warmth. His heat forms a shield around me, and I burrow my head into his chest, searching for a place to hide. A place I know I can’t stay. Tears begin to slip down my cheeks, and my simple plan—of a simple meeting—simply unfolds.

  Time stops, and if touch launches, I’m somewhere in the clouds, flying above storms. All the while, Lagan’s hold blankets me as I inhale the sweet scent of peppermint-flavored Trident each time he exhales. My breathing steadies just as the chime of the grandfather clock in the living room jump-starts me back to earth. I loosen my hold and look up into Lagan’s eyes.

  “I…” My voice falters. I clear my throat and start again. “You…umm. You should meet Jesse. And then you should probably go.”

  Lagan nods okay.

  I purposely avoid holding his hand, still dizzy from the hug, and I swallow a spoonful of fear for the umpteenth time today as we enter the kitchen. Jess’s back is to us until we circle around to him, and the fruit salad sits on the granite countertop, untouched.

  “Jesse.” I put my arm around my little brother. “This is Lagan.”

  Jesse manages a smile, but I see my reflection in his eyes. It rains in Jess’s eyes too, and I begin to understand what Lagan means by the clouds. Lagan crosses in front of me to move closer to Jess and puts his hand on Jess’s arm.

  “Hey. Great to meet you.” Lagan pats my little brother’s shoulder and grips his arms in a typical guy to guy greeting.

  Jesse nods, a small smile emerging.

  “Man, check out those guns!” Lagan describes Jesse’s bulging upper arm, and I’m cringing inside at the mention of the word.

  Somehow I hadn’t paid attention.

  “You make me want to get my butt to the gym ASAP.”

  And we all laugh. Well, Lagan and I. Jess smiles.

  “Speaking of....” Lagan makes his exit. “I have basketball practice in twenty minutes, so I have to jet.”

  Eyeing the fruit on the counter, Lagan reaches over and pops a strawberry in his mouth and mumbles, “Bye, guys! Thanks. Gotta go. See you ‘round.”

  He beams us a smile, makes a beeline for the back door, and lets himself out, locking the door behind him. I pull at the door to make sure and then return to the front door again, still on edge. I watch Lagan’s back disappear down the street, dribbling away, the driveway still empty. Exhale.

  As I return to the kitchen, I remind myself about my vow to help Jess. This will be our first day of rehab together. Passing the spot where Lagan held me, I can’t help but stop, put my right hand on the wall, and search for a pulse. After rewriting the memory on my mind, I swagger to the kitchen, excited for new beginnings and avoided land mines.

  Jesse waits for me, but today will be different—no cake-walking—literally.

  “Lift your left foot,” I say, pulling a stool up to face my brother.

  He shakes his head no.

  “I didn’t ask you if you wanted to.” I’m putting on my tough-love hat. I want to see Jesse rise. And run again. Walking comes first. Strengthening his legs before that.

  Jesse inhales a deep breath, then lifts his leg. An inch maybe.

  I grab an unpeeled apple and say, “Hit my hand.” My open palm holds the fruit a few inches above his foot.

  Jesse raises his leg again, tapping my hand softly.

  “Higher.” I nod, coaxing him with my smile.

  Then Jess, gripping firmly to the sides of his wheelchair, lifts his foot again, the contact with my hand sending the apple flying.

  I bust out laughing. “Again.” I grab another apple. And he does. And I jump off my stool to avoid getting sideswiped by an aerodynamic Macintosh. Now both of us are laughing. I think we’re both enjoying the mess that there is no hurry to clean up.

  “Hold on. I have an idea.”

  I leave and return from the garage with a large ziplock bag filled with sand secured into a second bag to avoid even one grain from escaping onto Dad’s pristine kitchen floor. I sit down to face Jess and slowly raise one of Jesse’s leg. Putting the bag of sand on top of his ankle, I help him do leg lifts in sets of ten, allowing him to use his own strength as far as he can go.

  His legs raise the weight, but not without the strain of clenched teeth. Walking is out of the question, for now. I don’t want Jesse to quit by pushing him too hard, too soon. He does a few sets on each leg until beads of sweat form on his brow. I ignore his gritting teeth and heavy breathing, because I have to think of the goal. Feeling sorry for himself, he almost ended his life today. Together, we have to keep at it. Together.

  When Jess grips my arm, his mouth forming the word enough, I pause.

  “One last set.” I start over, knowing the sooner I push him, the sooner he’ll get there. During the final set, I ask him what he thinks of Lagan. Distraction always helps me. He smiles wider than ever before. I take that as a like. Status update in order: My little brother just gave a thumbs up.

  ***

  Dad doesn’t return home till the next morning a little after six. I couldn’t sleep, so I woke up before my alarm was set to ring at six. With last night’s chores done, the house in order, and our secrets safely filed away under never happened, I sit at the kitchen table, eating oatmeal and reading Shakespeare when Dad waltzes in with a stranger, perhaps a client or an associate. Instinctively, I lower my head and hide my face behind Othello. Saturday morning chores await, but I have time. And Jess still sleeps.

  “Gerri!”
Dad’s overweight, balding friend sounds like a Texas cowboy. “You never told me your daughter was so darn perty. Now you’d get a killing if you offered her serv—”

  “Shut up, Jed.” Dad turns to me. “Go to your room. And close your door. NOW!”

  As I inch my way up the stairs, I hear the two exchange a few more words before my right foot lifts off the top step. A conversation that freezes me in my tracks.

  “I pay you the big macaroons for clearing the paperwork on the pertiest girls. Don’t get all wild buck and kicking, because I can tell a perty one when I see one.” Fat baldy again with the comments.

  Creep, I think to myself.

  “I already told you that she’s...” I sense Dad pausing, as if he’s searching for the right word. “Jeez, Jed, I don’t owe you a thing. So don’t EVER ask again. You hear me? Now let’s get down to business. Tea?”

  Hmm? What a joke! Dad actually sounded protective, sort of. But protecting me from what? And I couldn’t care less. Dad’s business has always been his business. The less I know, the less space in my mind I have to waste on him. I rinse my mouth after flossing, sit at my desk, and open up Othello, noting that even Iago seems less scary to hang out with than Dad. Or any of his slimy friends.

  The words blur as I recall last night’s events. Sleep didn’t find me at all as I listened for the sound of Jesse rustling his sheets in the next room, his breathing a bittersweet song in my ears. Goosebumps cover my arms as my mind conjures images of Jesse’s scratched knees and the silver of Dad’s gun.

  I finally cave as my head lowers to the desk. The rough pages of Othello don’t make the most comfortable pillow under my cheek, but exhaustion makes it easy to not care. I close my eyes, gifting myself a few moments in another room. The hallway where Lagan first held me. As I drift away from morning shores, my senses awaken and I’m falling. Falling into strong arms, breathing in sweet peppermint, and swimming through clouds.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lagan gives me my first Post-it notepad on Monday, an entire stack of empty, attached sheets. It’s sea green to match the color of my eyes, he tells me.

  “I want it back.” His eyes squint some kind of wonderful, and I instinctively swallow.

  I want to be back too. In your arms. Whenever it’s convenient, of course.

  He’s looking at me glassy-eyed. Which means I didn’t speak my thoughts. Thank God! Swallow. Breathe.

  “The notepad.” Lagan must sense my absence when he explains the obvious.

  “Okay.” My flight is over. I’m all ears...and heart too, after his brief home visit.

  “With your thoughts on each page.” Lagan gives specific instructions. I should focus now. “And if you feel unsure or unable to write, just give me blank ones. Knowing you’re returning each sheet to me is enough.”

  “So you want me to write? Anything in particular?”

  “Monday’s theme is childhood wish list. In as little as one word or as many as you can fit on the tiny Sticky Note, share what you missed. If you could have had anything as part of your little girl years, what would you have wanted to own, know, or experience?”

  Sounds like an English class assignment. Since the brief visit home last Friday, in a sense I gave Lagan the green light to enter my world, and let’s just say that his gas tank is full and his GPS programmed to discover me, from the inside out. One word at a time.

  Monday’s green notes fill with words that are fun and easy to write at first. But with each word, a memory of Mom resurfaces. All that she gave to me and Jess. All that she wanted to give. All that she couldn’t give. Talk about a sneak attack from the back window into my heart. I feel like a deflated balloon by the time lunch arrives. I hand over my completed notepad by placing it on the table between us, not bothering to peel them off one sheet at a time.

  Lagan slides the tiny gift back to himself with the suspicion of a drug deal. He rolls over a Chap Stick with a label that reads Natural Lime-scented with Aloe and Beeswax.

  “Wappy Walentine’s Week.” He smirks and waits a beat. “That’s code for...”

  “I know.” I cut him off. “I might be a little out of touch, but everyone knows what February 14 means.”

  I hesitate, then indulge since my radar reads clear. “Are you asking me to be your...Walentine?”

  Lagan chuckles, but his laughing ceases instantaneously. He’s flipping through my words on the green Sticky Notes. His dimple disappears under downcast eyes.

  I must have left... “Wait.” I reach over to retrieve the Post-it pad. “I think I put something down I meant to cross out.”

  But it’s too late. He’s already read it. The one I meant to tear up and flush down the toilet. Darn it. Lagan takes the notepad and puts it into his book bag under the table. Silence lingers between us for a bit. He’s forming his words carefully. I’m rehearsing a lie. He knows too much. How could I have been so careless?

  During the last ten minutes of American Government, Mr. Mason gave all the students free time in order to practice AP questions. Less than six weeks remain till the exam, and he wants us all to rock it. We all pulled out our heavy prep books, and I positioned mine in front of me like a shield. Then I went to town, knocking out the green Sticky Notes in a matter of a few minutes. It was almost too easy to compile a childhood wish list. Such few pleasant memories existed that the words spewed out of me like a leaky faucet no pipe wrench could shut.

  Dolls. Tea Parties. Play Dates. Princess dress-up clothes.

  I flipped four pages and kept writing.

  Crayola markers. Teddy Bears. Disneyland. Pretty shoes.

  And on and on I listed. No reservations. Wishes I had never before voiced. Nor breathed. Stored up inside, under my cobweb-covered heart, labeled “Oh well.”

  Presents. Christmas trees. Chocolate Easter bunnies. Ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

  Cartoons. Swings. Slides. Monkey bars.

  Friends. Fun. Field trips. Cotton Candy.

  And before I knew what my pen transferred from my vault, phrases of sadness seeped out from under my locked closet of lost time.

  The Happy in Happy Birthday. The Good in Good Morning. The Sweet in Sweet dreams.

  And that’s when I let the words that altered Lagan’s smile slip out of my heart—onto a Post-it note.

  The Love in I Love You.

  I hesitated as soon as my pen lifted from the page. I choked on my spit as if the words were bile. It would take more than an Altoid to mask this bitterness. I started to tear the page out when I thought to myself, Let me just finish writing. I’ll come back to it. The words were still flowing, and I wanted to get them all out as if washing utensils. I just wanted the sink to be empty. Then I’d throw away the chipped mug. The one I dropped while daydreaming. In the business of evidence elimination, I got promoted to CEO when Mom passed away and Jess sailed off the roof.

  Cartwheels. Ballet slippers. Flowers in my hair. Flowers anywhere.

  Tag. Red Light, Green Light. Hopscotch. Hide and seek.

  No more green sheets. Shivers ran down my spine as I stared at the last three words. In our house, Dad familiarized us with a different version of hide and seek. We hide nothing. And we seek only his approval. And yet we hide everything. If Dad ever discovered my true thoughts, dreams, or intentions, I would be thrown into maximum security, locking shut the one window I’ve been permitted to look out. School. The bell rang and I tucked my green Post-it pad into my back pocket. If Dad showed up, it would be easy enough to drop behind me. No name. No trace.

  I wait now, sitting caddy corner from Lagan, holding my breath. A million scenarios zip through my mind. If Lagan doesn’t think I’m some sort of freak yet, he has no reason to doubt now. My appetite wanes. My whims of being someone’s walentine vanish. My...

  “Can I ask you a question?” Lagan interrupts my downward spiral.

  “If I have the choice not to answer, ask away.”

  One trip to the house has changed nothing of consequence in my mind. My lif
e of fear is as present as the empty tables behind me. My future without Lagan remains as sure as the cafeteria tray in front of me.

  “Okay.” Lagan begins after a long pause. “Actually, it’s more of an observation than a question. I already have my answer, I think.”

  Confused as to where this line of conversation is headed, I nod slowly and wait silently.

  “I notice...”

  Lagan’s tone is serious when he continues, void of the thespian animation I’ve grown accustomed to. I don’t know if I have any energy left today for serious. I sigh and hold on to both sides of my tray, fighting the urge to run away, both mentally and physically. By now, Lagan has to have noticed that this—me—I’m not worth it.

  Lagan starts again. “I notice that although your name suggests the delicacy of a dew drop, you remind me more of a waterfall. A powerful, roaring, rippling rapid that is rarely, perhaps never, visited. Because, well, because before anyone reaches you, there are a ton of downed trees. But lucky for you...,” Lagan’s right eyebrow raises and his dimple reappears, “I never sign up for easy. I prefer Frost’s road less travelled.”

  I look at him with a Come again? blank stare before saying, “Now that you know what my names means, I think it’s only fair if you tell me about yours. I heard once that if you really want to know about a person, find out about their middle name. What did you say it was again?”

  “Kumar.” Lagan’s smile turns down at the corners, and his eyes dart off to the side, like he might be avoiding mine. “My middle name is Kumar. And it means...” Lagan clears his throat and lowers his voice to barely a whisper, “Prince.”

  As in Prince Charming? That’s so goofy. And precious. At the same time. “Your mom took one look in your eyes and knew, huh?”

  “Well, all jokes aside about Indian parents and how they name their kids, I want you to know something. There’s something I need you to know.” Lagan’s eyes darken with the shadow of his lashes. “I might not wear a crown or own a sword, but I don’t give up easily.”