I couldn’t look at him. It was unnerving and too familiar. “Lilly’s having fun,” he said.
“She is.” I garnered a smile. I laid my head against his warm chest. It seemed like the thing to do even though it was intimate, too intimate. He smelled like fabric softener and the earth. Jesse always smelled like the earth–musky and sweet.
His chin rested on my head. I could feel his warm breath blowing onto my hair. “I’m glad. I was worried,” he started.
“Me, too,” I answered before he could finish. “You’re so good to her.”
“She’s family,” he said matter of fact. We continued to sway back and forth to the soft melody. “This is nice,” he murmured.
“Uh hmm.” I wanted to stay there forever. Infinitely.
He loosed his grip from my waist and gently unwrapped my arms from around his neck. “Thanks for the dance,” he said. I hadn’t heard the music stop but could tell from the couples departing from the dance floor that it must have.
And just like that, our dance was over.
***
I could hear the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the tires swishing against the wet pavement. It was raining. Water continued to pound the windshield. I watched as the wipers moved back and forth, the rubber hitting the glass, squeaking against it.
Everett put the car in park, the engine still running, a romantic country tune played on his radio. “I had fun dancing with you tonight, Finn,” he said. He shifted his body so that we were facing each other.
“Thanks. Me, too.” I smiled at him. I did have fun with him. The only problem was, he wasn’t Jesse. He’d never be Jesse. I told myself to quit comparing, but I couldn’t help it. Jesse was all I knew about dating...and love.
“You’re a good dancer.” He stretched his arm out to touch my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t say “you, too,” because that would have been untrue.
His hand found its way to the back of my neck. The tips of his fingers grazed my neck. Even though it felt good, in the back of my mind, I knew it was wrong. “You’re really pretty, Finn,” he said.
“Thanks, you, too,” I said and then upon realizing what I had said, became embarrassed. Sometimes I could be so ridiculous.
He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve never been called pretty, but I like it.” He continued to massage the back of my neck. A part of me wanted him to continue, the other part, the one that knew my heart belonged to someone else, knew he needed to stop.
He leaned forward and placed his lips on mine. Even though he was handsome, nice and had all the qualities in a guy that most girls would love (and he could kiss really well), I didn’t feel anything. Not one thing. No chemical reaction. No goosebumps. No butterflies in my stomach. Nothing. Not like I did when I kissed Jesse.
He must have sensed my feelings, the one-sided chemistry. Was there something wrong with me? Most girls would welcome his soft lips on theirs. But not me; my heart belonged to someone else. Kissing him felt wrong.
His lips parted from mine. He gave me a half-hearted smile like he was about to say something but decided against it. Any girl would want to kiss Everett, any girl but me.
“Guess I shouldn’t have done that,” he said apologetically.
“It was nice,” I said to him, which sounded cliché and insulting. It’s what you say to someone when you’re talking about a wedding you went to or some event, but not when they’ve kissed you. Describing a kiss as “nice” is one of the worst things you can say. It’s almost as bad as saying the kiss itself was awful.
“I knew better.” He shook his head and sighed. “It was written all over your faces tonight, and I still kissed you. I guess I was just hoping that maybe a small part of you was attracted to me.” He looked at me earnestly. “But I can’t compete with someone you’re in love with and really, I don’t want to.” He touched the top of my hand and ran his fingers back and forth, then removed them. “Y’all are in love with each other. I don’t know what broke you up, but I’d try to fix it if I were you.”
My relationship with Jesse had been split at the seams. I just wondered if there was a way to sew it back together.
“I’m in love with him and always have been,” I admitted more to myself than to him. It was the first time I’d said it out loud to anyone since Jesse and I had broken up. Everett had that affect on me. For some reason, he had become my sounding board.
“Then go for what you want. I’ve seen too much death in my life, Finn. You gotta live while you can.”
Unabashed, I admitted my innermost feeling to him. “I’m afraid.”
“Then find the strength. Because you’ll regret it if you don’t do anything about it.”
“You’re a good friend to me,” I said. “Thank you.” I smiled.
“I would’ve liked to have been more, but I’ll settle for being friends,” he said.
“If I wasn’t in love with him, I know there’s no way I’d let a guy like you go,” I said.
I had admitted to my feelings about Jesse; I just didn’t know what I was going to do about it.
Chapter 21
Another week passed. Why do the long summer days move faster than the rest of the days in all the other seasons? When you want time to stand still, to slow down, it plays one of its twisted jokes on you and speeds up. The hands of time move faster and faster.
Within a few weeks, I’d be back on campus, taking classes, studying, living the life of a college student–the antithesis of all that I had grown to know this summer. I’d have to acclimate again. I just didn’t know if I was up for it. I didn’t know if it was what I wanted. To acclimate.
I sat in front of my grandfather’s computer tallying the books from the day’s sales. Business had been booming.
My dad stood at the threshold of the door watching me. “The kitchen is clean,” he said.
I took my eyes off the screen and peered up at him. “Thanks, Dad.”
He leaned against the door frame. “You’ve really got this place running like a smooth sailing ship.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said doubtfully.
“Aren’t you always telling me to take a compliment?”
“Yeah, but that’s different. You’re so talented, and you don’t know it,” I argued.
“I’d say running a business the way you have is true talent, Finn. You’ve got a lot of Dad in you.” He patted my head dotingly. He had gotten so affectionate, more than he had ever been. I welcomed it. He seemed so sure of himself, so at peace, like he knew which direction he was headed. I envied that because I still felt like I was going through life without a compass.
“That means a lot to me,” I told him. Being compared to my grandfather was the biggest compliment anyone could ever give me.
“Are you almost finished here?” he asked. “I can wait for you.”
“It’ll be a while. I need to finish this and then clean the bathroom. You can go on if you want.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” I answered. “Besides, don’t you have a painting to finish?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I sure do.”
After our visit to the folk art gallery, the owner had commissioned several of my dad’s paintings. It was a promising sign that he could earn a living from his art, which pleased all of us, especially him. He was a changed man. That surge in confidence made him see things differently. Even in the way he spoke, the way he walked, his actions–all of it, he wasn’t the same. It’s like he woke up from a long slumber and decided to take life by the reigns.
“I bet you’ll be doing a lot more, too.”
“You’re my biggest fan,” he said.
“That may be a tie between Nana and me. But I’ll take that title.”
“I
love you.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek before he left.
I finished entering the day’s sales and placed much needed orders. The bathroom needed to be cleaned. I got out of the chair and stretched a little. My back was aching. I bent over and touched my toes and came up suddenly, feeling a little light headed. I heard the jingling of the bell to the front door.
“Did you forget something, Dad?” I asked as I stepped out of the office and moved to the front of the diner.
I stopped still in my tracks. I couldn’t move, I was frozen with fear. I’d heard that statement a million times and now I knew exactly what it meant.
He swayed back and forth, barely standing on his own two feet. He looked worse than the last time I’d seen him, which wasn’t saying much. If someone asked me what rock bottom was, I’d tell them it was Hank Quinn. He was the epitome of it. His blue shirt was covered in dirt and grease and other indecipherable stains. His face was full of long, gray unkempt hair. All I could smell was the awful, reeking scent of alcohol and body odor and other things that brought the disgusting taste of bile to my throat.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him curtly.
“I’m hungry,” he said and started walking in zig zag formation toward me.
“You need to leave, Hank. We’re closed.” I stood my ground, although my hands were shaking. I placed them behind my back and continued to keep my stance.
“Just make me some bacon!” he ordered.
“The kitchen is closed. Go on now.” I could smell his terrible, rotten breath. His eyes were yellow, jaundiced like, and cloudy looking. Drinking that much was slowly killing him. It was eating him alive from the inside out.
He swayed a little to the side and almost fell over. He caught himself and stood back up, not upright. He gave me a confused expression like he had just realized where he was but didn’t remember how he got there, or what he wanted or why he was there. He scratched at his graying beard.
“You need to leave,” I said, trying to sound more assured, more confident, although on the inside, I was frightened. Hank had become someone I was scared of.
He turned around, stumbling toward the front door. I ran as fast as I could and locked it as soon as he stepped foot outside. My heart was racing; my palms were cold and damp. My breathing was unsteady. Still a little shaken, I sat down in my grandfather’s office and tried to pull myself together. It was unsettling. I knew Hank would never hurt me, at least the old Hank wouldn’t, but this Hank, the Hank that had been on a drinking binge for months and months, he was someone I didn’t trust and I didn’t know what he was capable of. My instincts told me to be afraid and to go home.
It took some time for me to calm down and pull myself together. I grabbed a bucket, mop and bottle of bleach. The bathroom needed to be cleaned and I couldn’t leave the diner without cleaning it. I went into the bathroom, turned on the light and poured bleach all over the floor and started to mop.
The fumes permeated the small room. I clicked the switch for the bathroom fan, its loud, humming noise blocking everything else out, and hoped that the blowing air would help the strong scent dissipate. The fan needed to be replaced. It was as old as the building. I continued to scrub away, cleaning the toilet and the sink. Once my job was finished, I emptied my bucket full of dirty bleach-filled water and turned the light and fan off.
All the noises and sounds that had been deafened by the noisy fan were now audible. It sounded like someone was humming, like footsteps were moving about, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I sometimes doubted the noises I heard in that diner when I was alone. It was an old building and I questioned if I spooked myself out because of its age.
I peered toward the front of the diner and saw that door had a huge gaping hole in it. Shattered glass was all over the floor. And then I heard the humming again. The voice was hauntingly familiar and coming from the kitchen.
Shaking, I crept slowly towards the kitchen. Droplets of blood fell from his hand and onto the tiled floor. He must have punched through the glass door with his bare hand.
“What are you doing?” I shouted angrily.
“Cookin,” Hank answered, still swaying back and forth, his feet unsteady. He took a bottle of cooking oil, drenching the inside of the hot frying pan with it. Before I could shout any sort of warning, flames rose from the burners.
I searched frantically all over the kitchen for baking soda so I could put the flames out before the fire spread. Everything else that transpired after that moment happened as if time had completely slowed down.
He grabbed a cup of water and showered it over the fire.
“No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs just as he did it.
An explosion of flames erupted, upward and over the back of the stove, catching onto the nearby towels and pot holders and a stack of packaged napkins that had just been delivered. The flames engulfed that part of the kitchen and continued to dance their way around the room. It was if they were in a race to the finish line. I found the box of baking soda and rushed to the stove, shoving a confused Hank out of my way. I poured all of its contents on top of the flames. It wasn’t enough–the fire had spread and was moving its way around the kitchen. A cloud of thick smoke and intense heat started to fill the room.
Hank held a cup of water in his shaking hand and tipped it on top of the flames that were beginning to surround him. It barely made a dent. The fire wasn’t going to stop now; it had taken control.
I coughed; the smoke settling into my lungs. My body profusely sweated. I felt like I was standing in front of the sun. Black smoke rose to the ceiling. I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning and needed air fast before my chest caved in, before I caved in.
“We have...” I coughed, “to get out of here,” I said and coughed again.
I took his bloodied hand, the plastic cup falling to the floor and burning within an instant, and blindly led him out of the kitchen. We fought our way through the smoke as it seeped through our noses and out of our mouths. I placed my hand in front of my mouth, trying to block it from encompassing me, but it was too powerful.
Hank tripped over something and fell to the floor. I felt his hand slip away from mine. In all of the darkness of the thick dark smoke, I couldn’t see him. I squatted to the floor and felt for his hand. I touched it and grabbed onto it. “Get up, Hank!” I ordered. His limp hand flopped to the floor the moment I let go. “Damn you, get up!” I shouted in vain. He was lifeless.
I had a firm hold of his hand and dragged his heavy body as I walked backwards trying to make my way through the maze of smoke. The front door was several feet away. I knew if I didn’t get to it in time, the fire would burn us both alive. It was coming our way. The entire kitchen was on fire and spreading its way all over the diner.
My muscles were working overtime. My breath was short and sporadic. Pulling a man Hank’s size was weakening me by the second. Given the state of my smoke-filled lungs, pulling a child would’ve been a feat. I continued to tread slower and slower toward the door. My arms were weak with pain. My entire body ached. I felt like I couldn’t go on. I told myself I was almost there. My heart pumped faster and faster. My pulse was rising but the rest of me felt weak. The room was spinning and out of control. I felt nauseous; my head pounded with pain.
The fire was chasing me, following me as I took each small step toward that door. My feet stepped onto the shattered glass. I had too much adrenaline for it to affect me. I knew it’d hurt later. Hank’s body was being pummeled by it; shards of glass struck him as his body dragged against the floor.
I tugged on the handle and pushed it open with all of my might, with the small amount of strength that my body had left to give. I leaned against the door, propping it open with my body, as I hauled Hank outside of the door. I continued to pull him onto the concrete pavement, through the parking lot and safely onto the gr
ass, far enough away from the diner.
My lungs felt as if they were collapsing. My chest rattled, and my breaths were becoming more shallow by the second. I felt like I was under water, holding my breath, and little by little, the water was creeping into my body and slowly drowning me.
All I could think about was getting something to drink. I was so thirsty. I wobbled across the road, ignoring the passing cars, and kept my eyes solely on that water fountain.
As I leaned my aching head forward, my lips opened, allowing the cool water to flow down my dry, scorched throat. I drank and drank and drank and continued to drink. Never had I ever been so thirsty.
I finally pulled my lips away from the fountain and stood up, my balance unsteady. A piercing sound buzzed through my ears and then everything faded to black.
***
Minutes later, I woke up to the screeching sounds of ambulance sirens hurrying down the road. I slowly got up off of the ground. Firetrucks surrounded the diner. Firefighters sprayed gallons of water from their long hoses, trying to put out the flames. The entire diner was on fire–all of it. There was no way it could be saved now.
I trudged through the grass, crossing onto the road, and pushing my way through the cluster of onlookers gawking at the fiery mess. The ambulance made a dash for the parking lot. Two paramedics exited, grabbing a gurney, wheeling it toward someone, but I couldn’t tell who. Was it Hank?
Within seconds, they rolled the gurney toward the ambulance with an injured man laying on top of it. It was Jesse. He was hurt. I ran as fast as I could toward him.
The Year I Almost Drowned Page 22
