Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel)

by Paulus, Rajdeep

  My favorite class is Intro to Shakespeare, because the playwright didn’t shy away from tragedy—the one thing I can relate to. I find myself daydreaming about Lagan any time I read about a hero, and then suddenly start wondering if my modern day prince has a flaw. Even a tiny one?

  Autumn willow dates bring early sunsets and chilly nights. Frost canopies Chicago, and by October 17, the garden stands void of flowers but not of color. Reds, yellows, oranges, and browns paint every tree, and our waterfall willow glitters a perfect blend of Crayola’s mango tango and laser lemon. After raking the fallen leaves into a cushiony pile, Lagan and I sit side by side to watch the sun dip behind the horizon.

  When the ground grows frigid, we move to the bike rack after brushing the leaves off our clothes. I miss one.

  Lagan reaches over and slips a tiny leaf out from under my sleeve. “Saving this one as a memento?” he asks, holding the thin, yellow leaf up in the air.

  “If you only knew what else is up my sleeve.” I lob back, eyebrows raised.

  “Are you offering a peek?”

  Hold up. How did we get here? Instinctively, I pull my sleeves down, and refrain from responding. I’m tempted to hide behind the pink and purple clouds overhead, the sunset inviting me away from Lagan. And his question.

  But my promise dictates my response. No more secrets. With the absence of fresh wounds, I slowly pull up my sleeve, just an inch or two, and reveal scars that I’d never shown anyone. I watch his eyes move up and down my wrist. He instinctively reaches in my direction, but I pull back. I don’t want him to touch my splotchy, rough skin.

  His hand retracts, and Lagan’s eyes moisten as he exhales one word: “Why?”

  I guess by now he’s figured out the who in this irrational equation. “Remember the lists I mentioned to you once?” I preface my explanation.

  He nods, still unable to take his eyes off my arm.

  “Dad.” I wince at the sound of his name. “My dad doesn’t like it when the lists don’t get done. On time.”

  Lagan’s concern turns to anger in the pitch of his voice. “So why haven’t you left? Called the cops? Run away? Why do you stay?”

  I hear his pleas, but asking implies that answers exist.

  “I can’t leave Jesse. Plus, when I, we, do leave, I want it to be for good. Forever. No looking back and no way that Dad can ever find us. Disappear. But...”

  “If you’re thinking of me,” Lagan answers, “don’t.”

  It’s not his fault I choose to stay. I just haven’t figured out all the side effects. The one side effect, really. The one I can’t accept. Losing him. I want both. And I don’t want to settle. Hope keeps me thinking someday an escape offering both will materialize, and a burn here and there is worth the price of waiting, if waiting means both. Jesse and Lagan. I want to keep both. I plan to keep both.

  “Forget it. I’ll be fine. Let’s talk about something else.” I’m ready to think about anything else.

  “Talia, I’m not looking away. I did that once. I can’t. I won’t make that mistake again. I’m calling the cops.” Lagan pushes his resolve on me, but I’m not ready. Don’t you see? A tiny corner of a picture fails to reveal the entire story.

  Pushing myself off the bike rack, anger heats my ears. “You can’t.” I burst his bubble. “I never asked you to fix my life. Or me.”

  “So you want to tell me if and how and when I can help? Did it ever occur to you that you’re not that different from him?” Lagan’s questions don’t just sting. I feel ripped in half.

  “I’m sorry,” Lagan says when I don’t respond. “That was uncool. Stupid. Uncalled for.”

  He reaches for my hand, but my clenched fist refuses to open as I turn from him and face the willow, my mirror.

  How dare you? Cuss words torpedo to the tip of my tongue, bracing for takeoff like divers unable to control their fall. Instinct wins when my teeth bite down on my lower lip. Minutes pass in silence, my emotions duking it out inside me. Lagan’s response pierces me where I didn’t know I could hurt. In the space between us. Spreading like the darkness of the night. Each time I think I’m ready...

  “Right now,” I say, my voice barely audible. “I need a friend. Not a hero.” That’s the best I can do. He has no choice to put his sword away, because this is my fight.

  That’s all I share, and Lagan goes quiet when I step on the brakes. Sitting side by side on the cool, metal bar, again—we watch the sky change shades and the faint twinkle of emerging stars brighten. Staring at the painted clouds as they roll by, the faint honk from passing geese reminds me that winter fast approaches. Silently we leave the garden that evening, hand in hand, together and alone.

  Lagan drives me a few blocks from my house, then he stops the car to let me out. But not before he reaches over, tenderly circling my wrist with his hand. This time I let his fingertips trail down the length of my covered arm. Leaning across the gear shift, his lips place quiet kisses over the back of my hand—the shoreline to my ocean of scars.

  Then he wipes his face on my sleeve. I hadn’t noticed his tears in the dark. Our combined sadness weighs down my already heavy heart, so I briskly exit his car and jog home, my scars throbbing with the rain. My rainy world.

  Like a branch plunged into deep waters, Lagan means to rescue me.

  He does, even if he doesn’t see it. Each moment with Lagan is a moment I don’t drown in my pain.

  And he kissed me. Imperfect me.

  If he meant to kiss it better, he did. He does. More than he knows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Winter term of my freshman year of college whirls in, and I witness Jesse birthing unfamiliar courage as he accesses our neighbor’s unsecured wireless Internet and renews his relationship with the outside world via the Web. He spends hours upon hours reading and researching, steering clear of any traceable social networks. If he isn’t reading, he’s working out, strengthening and relearning, stretching and lifting, building and rebuilding. The wonder of escaping Dad’s preying claws eludes both of us. In fact, each narrow victory, whether by hours or seconds, fuels us to do the forbidden: live.

  Jesse helps me with his list more and more these days as his mobility increases and he can hold himself up longer, even helping with dishes without his legs giving way. His new abilities give us both more time. Jess uses the time to learn. He starts by reading through all my high school notes and workbooks from senior year. I help him when he gets stuck with a math equation or a physics formula. We work at the dining room table. Jess sits in his wheelchair, always prepared for Dad’s surprise arrivals.

  My brother’s perseverance births miraculous results. The doctors predicted Jess’s complex hip fracture and head trauma would cause immobility and speech delay, possibly for a lifetime. Jesse’s will begs to differ. His self-rehab results in slow but definite ambulatory progress, his academic skills sharpen, and he develops a ravenous hunger for knowledge.

  But Jesse’s definitive goals elude me. We both crave freedom. That’s a given. But another hunger burns inside the intensity I find in his stare. Afraid to ask, the busyness of my new schedule pushes worry to the sidelines as I justify that Jess is no longer a boy. I keep meaning to ask Lagan to speak with him. Do the big brother thing or something like that. If he’s up to it, of course. And Jesse would have to agree to it, too.

  With my job hours at the garden and my professors who add extra assignments when least expected, every second seems accounted for. During most winter work days, I desk job it alongside Jason in the office as we prepare for spring planting plans. More pressing than gardening, Jason and I spend many hours shoveling walkways for winter visitors. Dad receives my paychecks and funnels them straight toward my tuition—the portion the scholarship does not cover. Once in a while, when Jess or I bring up the notion of running away, the combination of finances and the fear of being caught and returning to our very own Alcatraz roadblocks each conceivable plan.

  One particular Friday morning in February, Loy
ola campus’ switchboard rings our house early enough that Dad hasn’t left for work yet. Dad knocks on my door, mumbles that my school cancelled classes due to an incoming snowstorm, and to make sure I finish weekend chores today instead. I nod my robotic sign of obedience and resist falling back asleep to begin the long list ahead of me. I’m thankful that as soon as Dad’s car leaves the driveway, Jess can and will help me tackle the house.

  Dad’s practice never closes due to inclement weather. When he has a meeting downtown, he usually parks and takes the “L” into the city. Financial gain seem to dictate his drive. I can honestly only remember one canceled trial in all these years, the day of Mom’s funeral. Apart from that I can’t recall a sick day, a vacation day, or even a personal day taken by Dad. Even if he was under the weather, he preferred to be in his office. Dad makes the average workaholic look like a sluggard.

  Dad wasn’t always a lawyer. I only know this because my fifth grade teacher called to ask if Dad wanted to speak at the school Career Day. Mom answered the phone. She made a lot of excuses for Dad, then gave Mrs. Nox her two minute rundown of Dad’s rise to fame as one of the top immigration lawyers in the country.

  According to the little I overheard Mom say, he started out as a volunteer in the Federal Visa department located at the Detroit-Windsor border while in undergrad at U of M. Mom and Dad got married when he was just a paralegal who pretty much wrote the documents the lawyers were too busy or too lazy to write. As higher ups recognized his talent and relentless spirit, they promoted him to manager, then paid for his law school on the condition he returned to work for them. Somewhere along the line, Jesse and I were born, and with the growing expenses, Dad opened up his own firm in Benton Harbor.

  Before we knew it, the Law Office of Gerard Vanderbilt quickly attracted high profile clients that poured in like a fresh pot of coffee. When Dad called to tell us about an impending visitor, he’s instruct us to stay in our rooms. Dad clearly had no intention of showing off his kids to his colleagues. More like blowing off. If only those fellows sporting three-piece suits knew what kind of man he really is. I wonder how many would consider stripping Dad of his power and putting him on trial. A girl can dream.

  Shortly before Mom died, Dad’s clients flew in from all over, willing to come to him, making the decision to move to Chicago all the easier, with access to O’Hare and Midway saving time and money for everyone. When a windy city nor’easter blew in, it didn’t make a difference how close we were to any airport. O’Hare and Midway would both shut down today if the predicted snow actually showed up.

  This particular snow day seems a hoax at six in the morning. A few flakes swirl here and there. By nine in the morning, the air is empty and still. I rethink my decision to call Jason to change shifts, because I can’t foresee not making it home. Not if the weather stays this calm. I postpone my final decision until I cross off the final item on the list, and I proof, print, and pack away my English essays.

  By noon, Jesse and I complete double-checking every inch of every room. The house looks impeccable. Time to play. I open the front door first, and the sky resembles a herd of polar bears charging with their eyes closed. The sea of white blanks out everything more than five feet away, and the lawn is covered by at least three inches already. The weatherman’s Doppler radar functioned correctly after all, and I close the door to prevent more snow from blowing indoors.

  Jess stands behind me, and we shake our heads at each other. The speedy accumulation demands shoveling. Without a snow blower, we both know the futility of a manual attempt. Layers will reappear on our heels. And if the threat of frostbite doesn’t deter us, the gift of stolen time does.

  “Or not.” Jess stares at the sea of white outside the kitchen window defiantly, reading my mind. “I mean...it wasn’t on the list. Right?”

  “Good point.” Possibility boomerangs between our nods. “What do you want to do then?”

  “Break into Dad’s office.” No hesitation in Jess’s words. He’s thought about this for some time.

  “Not funny. What do you want to do that won’t get us in trouble?”

  He repeats the response, his face set in grim lines. “Break into Dad’s office. You can go off and meet lover boy Lagan if you like. I’ll make sure I put the door back on before Dad gets home.”

  “You’re serious?” A chill of fear coats my arms with goose bumps. “What’s the point anyway? What do you want with Dad’s office?”

  “More clues about our MIA grandparents, why Mom came to America, how Dad tricked her. If there’s any way to contact Mom’s parents? If we run away to India, I doubt Dad would come look for us. It could be our ticket out. It’s worth a shot.”

  Jess’s mind unravels a foolproof plan of escape that he’s determined to carry out. “With or without you.”

  I can’t let him risk this alone. We’re a team. “With me, of course. I’ll get the toolbox from the garage.”

  “I’ve been reading up on breaking computer codes in order to hack Dad’s e-mail. I’ll bet Dad’s business files hold clues. Just remind me to erase our activity history. He notices every little change. Are you sure you want to do this with me? If I get caught, I have nothing to lose. If you get caught...you know what I’m saying. You have to think about...”

  “Lagan.” I fill in the blank. “We stick together. So if you found an escape route, we work for it together. And we escape together. Maybe...maybe Lagan can help us.”

  “No,” Jess says without blinking. “We can’t risk that.”

  “I just mean, if the door is heavy or you think you need a tool that we don’t have, I know Lagan will do whatever he can to help us. He wants to help. He understands.”

  Jess stops in his tracks. “What do you mean by ‘he understands’? Did you tell him about Dad? Are you nuts? How much did you tell him?”

  I look down. Lagan’s arrival into my life broke more than one unspoken pact. He entered the house. Our hornet’s nest. And inevitably, my heart. Other than that one peek at a tiny section of my arm, when it was more healed than burnt, Lagan knows nothing, really.

  I return from a short detour down that October evening under the willow back to today. “He doesn’t know much. Just that life isn’t perfect. Only perfectly hard. For me. For us.”

  “And he still wants to be friends?” Jesse’s voice softens and his stare is wanting.

  “I know, right? He’s not like the rest. Lagan doesn’t see it like I thought he would.” I had dismissed the conversation, filing it away like I did everything else. “He doesn’t see me like...I see myself.”

  Jess hmm’s my conclusions and turns away, like he’s looking into the future. Or maybe it’s the past. Was there someone who saw him like Lagan sees me?

  “Know what I’m talking about?” I fish. Baiting my little brother with the option to open up about the mystery girl from Benton Harbor. Knowing he probably won’t.

  “Sure.” He shrugs his shoulder matter-of-factly. “Did I forget to mention how the ladies lined up outside the door when I made cover of Hot Teen Male Gimp of the Year?”

  “All it takes is one.” I throw my line out one last time. Time might never be on my side again.

  “The one that got away.” Jesse sings the words, sounding nothing like Katy Perry. “Enough chit-chat. We have a crime to commit. Let’s roll.”

  Jess shifts gears and wheels toward the garage, his legs tired from cleaning. I follow, wondering if Jesse will ever tell me her name. The girl who chased his heart. A friend he once ran to. If we run away tonight, we both know that Dad will hunt until he finds us. And then, the words or else would result in unthinkable consequences.

  How would a life in India alter the future? In my mind, the story always ends with both Jess and me ensnared in Dad’s poisonous web. Maybe Jess hopes to build a spaceship and shuttle us to the moon with affordable materials found overseas. Doubt muddies my hope. I shake my head. Focus on Jesse’s mission to open the office door. First things first.

  A
fter finding straight and Phillips screwdrivers, along with a hammer and wrenches of various sizes, we return to the den. The view out the kitchen window reveals about a foot of snow accumulation. Woah! The wind is whipping, and a growing snow mountain leans against our front door. Jess dials Dad’s cell and hands me the phone.

  Dad’s voice is immediately demanding. “Talia, make it quick. I have a meeting in five minutes, and I just made it downtown with the cab driver cursing me out for asking him to do his job.”

  “Dad.” I steady my voice. “The snow is really bad. Are you sure you shouldn’t just postpone work and drive home before the storm gets worse?”

  “Is that it?” He sounds annoyed. “I’ll worry about myself. Just finish your chores and stay indoors. I’ll cab it home if the “L” stops running. Okay? By the way, my five o’clock was moved back due the client’s flight delay, so you and Jess have dinner without me. And don’t wait up.”

  “Okay, Dad.” I try to sound disappointed while fireworks launch inside me. “Will do.”

  “Yes!” Jess says, pulling himself up and steadying his weight on his right leg.

  His right arm also seems stronger than his left. I work on Jess’s left side, so he can use my shoulder for balance. Since he demonstrates knowledge if not experience, I make like an OR nurse, handing Jesse tools while he operates on the doorknob, then the door hinges. After popping out pins, the door begins to fall toward us, but we push together and ease it toward the wall on our side.

  We have a short window in which to explore, invade, reassemble, and clean up. With the plan of attack in conjunction with our decoy assignments, each task depends on the prior one’s success. We decide on a five-minute turnover when we hit a roadblock. And we expect to hit roadblocks. After five minutes of trying to maneuver around or through any setback, we have to move forward to the next task. The entire process should take no longer than an hour, and if we do this right, everything will be back in its place long before Dad’s return.