by Julie Murphy
“Me too,” she says. “Me too.”
After another hour or so, we decide to let Hattie and Sara rest and get better acquainted with each other. I hate to leave my sister at the hospital by herself, but she’s not alone. Tyler is staying, too. Besides, how bad can he screw things up with all those nurses around?
FORTY-FOUR
Dad and I drive home, and I sit in the middle seat right beside him as if Hattie were in the truck with us. I know that whatever waits for us is all we have left. My stomach clenches into a fist, and I say a silent prayer that my chocolate box under my bed is intact.
Police officers are set up outside the trailer park, admitting emergency officials and residents only. We are instructed that no matter the state of our home, we must gather necessities and take a Red Cross voucher for a place to stay for the night, as the area has not yet been deemed safe.
There is no electricity in the trailer park, so Dad turns on his brights, lighting the road ahead as our neighbors roam through rubble in their nightgowns.
Some houses are completely untouched, while others look like they’ve been shredded in a blender. Emergency crews are slowly working their way through the trailer park as they set up huge generator-powered lights to illuminate the damage.
When we finally make it to our house, it’s too dark to see at first. Then my dad positions the truck with the headlights showcasing our home.
He gasps, and I hold a shaking hand to my lips.
It’s not the worst we’ve seen, but the roof has been peeled back like a can of tuna, and the half of the trailer containing my dad’s little closet of a room and the living room has collapsed.
I know it was a shitty little place to call home, but that’s what it was: home. My heart breaks piece by piece as I realize that now we have no place to call ours.
“Okay, let’s gather what we can into the back of the truck. Maybe we can get a room at the hotel, so we don’t need to stay in the shelter.” He says it in a determined yet downtrodden way that reminds me this is not the first time my father has been in this position. “Watch your step,” he adds. “Make sure the ground below you feels steady.”
As I walk up the steps to our crumbling home, my dad is called across the street to help cut down a tree that’s leaning on someone’s house. He tells me to go on and collect as much stuff as I can.
Using the huge industrial-strength flashlight my dad keeps in the back of his truck, I begin to fill laundry baskets, backpacks, trash bags, and whatever else can be filled with my and Hattie’s belongings. I’m careful to separate all of Sara’s diapers and clothing that can be salvaged, and I say a quiet prayer to whoever is listening for sparing the crib, which hasn’t even been delivered yet.
Lots of our stuff is soaked, but it can be washed, and most of Sara’s stuff from the shower is still in Agnes’s garage. I find one of my boots in the tub and the other in my closet. The mattress was torn off my bed and must be in someone’s yard somewhere, but tucked away in the far corner of my room under the frame and box spring is my chocolate box, containing every family photo and my meager life savings.
I clutch the box to my chest. It’s not even the money that I’m most concerned about. But the family photos, the notes, and all those childhood games of MASH. Those are things I can never replace no matter how many hours I work.
I search for my Wheaties box with Missy Franklin’s head on Michael Phelps’s body, but it’s destroyed. Pieces of it are scattered everywhere. I can’t believe that this is the thing that sends me over the edge, but I begin to cry. I sob and sob. No one rushes to my side, because everyone is crying. I can hear it all around me. So it’s just me, crying in my room with no roof because my stupid Wheaties box has been destroyed.
My goggles are gone, too, and the only swimsuit I can find is definitely not suitable for workouts.
I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I do it over and over again, reminding myself that I am alive. No one I love was injured, and I have a niece. I will survive, because I have survived.
I’m unable to reach my dad’s room, but he had a laundry basket full of dirty clothes in the bathroom and a few work shirts that he’d hung to dry in the hallway.
With the help of my dad, we pile what’s left of our lives into the back of the truck. I don’t know how we’re going to break this to Hattie and explain to her that the stability she’d counted on is no more and that there is no home to bring Sara back to.
With only a few hours until dawn, I text Charlie to let him know I won’t be able to run my paper route in the morning since my bike is currently missing. We head to the hotel where my dad works, and while I wait in the car, he speaks with his manager, who agrees to let us stay for a few nights to avoid whatever temporary housing situation the Red Cross is organizing.
FORTY-FIVE
After parking our car underground, where all the maintenance and catering vans park and where our belongings will be safe from the elements, we take the service elevator to the fourth floor, where we’ve been given a room with two queen beds.
The entire hotel is lush in black-and-white textured wallpaper with splashes of red orchids in extravagant vases, and if I were here under any other circumstances, I might take the time to appreciate it all. But instead I kick off my shoes as my dad pulls the blackout curtains tight against the rising sun, and we both pass out in the clothes we are wearing.
As I drift off to sleep, I wonder what it must be like for my dad to finally spend the night in the beautiful hotel he’s spent all these years cooking in and maintaining.
I wake a few hours later to find my dad snoring lightly. My entire body screams like I’ve been in a car crash as I push the blankets back and walk to the window. Bracing myself for the harsh sunlight, I open the curtains a sliver.
Once my eyes adjust, I’m greeted by a wet world, with branches and debris strewn everywhere, with lawn chairs and umbrellas littering the pool. There’s not much real damage here, but there are a few ancient trees that have been turned into nothing more than snapped twigs by the previous night’s storm.
If this had been a hurricane, she’d have a name, but instead we’ll just call her the storm. Or maybe she’ll be known as the Eulogy Prom Night Tornado, like some kind of horror movie. Last night will be remembered as many things for all of us, but for me, the first thing it will always be is the night I became an aunt.
In the bathroom, I find the box of toiletries I gathered from our trailer. It’s full of random things I’d never use on a daily basis.
I sit down at the vanity to sort through it and hopefully find some deodorant and a toothbrush when I come across the scissors Hattie always used to trim my hair. Heavy and sharp with an orange handle, they were technically kitchen scissors meant to be used to trim the fat and gristle off meat, but we’d found a better use for them.
My long dark-blond roots melt into a grayish blue. I reach for my brush to comb through a few knots that sit like speed bumps in my otherwise limp hair. But then I put it down and reach for the scissors. It’s been a while since Hattie’s colored my hair, and I can almost imagine myself without the blue hair. I can almost see what I must have looked like before.
I do it without thinking at first. And then once I’ve snipped one piece, I can’t stop. I don’t want to.
I try not to cut recklessly and instead concentrate on cutting the blue out of my hair as I snip close to the scalp. My roots have grown out by an inch and a half or two, so I keep cutting until all the blue is on the floor and free from my head.
Every time I hear the sharp sound of scissors snipping, I’m reminded of the thousands of hours Hattie and I spent maintaining my hair and keeping it that perfect shade of blue. I remember the night I broke things off with Freddie and I came home with my hair in tangles, and the only person who could loosen each knot was my sister.
I love Hattie. I will love her forever. But with every snip, I need her a little less, and somehow that allows me to love her a little
more. Last night, when she chose Tyler to join her in the operating room, I felt betrayed and lost.
I don’t know if Tyler will be there for her when she and Sara need him most. I don’t know if he will provide for them or if he’s even emotionally capable of being the father that Sara deserves. I don’t know if Hattie’s making a mistake or not, but whatever it is, it’s a decision that Hattie must make on her own.
I’m her sister. I will always be here to pick up the pieces, but it’s time I make some mistakes of my own.
MAY
FORTY-SIX
We stayed in the hotel for a few nights before my dad struck a deal with one of the local extended-stay hotels. I kicked in some of my money for the first two weeks until he got his paycheck, but he refused any other help, so I pitch in with things like groceries and other stuff he doesn’t so easily notice.
Hattie, Sara, and Tyler moved in with his mom. Tyler’s mom didn’t let him off the hook, though. She made him promise to ask for more hours at work and pitch in for utilities and groceries. At first Dad was hesitant for Hattie to move out, but Mrs. Porter showed up to the hospital the morning after the storm in a lavender T-shirt that said I’m the Grandma in Charge Here, allaying any of our doubts.
Once things have settled a little, I walk to Hall of Fame, the sporting-goods store downtown, one day after school.
Inside, I peruse the rack of women’s swimsuits. Coach Pru says that swimsuits made for actual swimmers are cut longer and that I should pick up one or two. I take a black one, a red one, and a blue one to try on.
After the clerk lets me into the fitting room stall, I slip on the blue one and am shocked to find that it fits. Now, if I were even half an inch taller, I might be in trouble, but it actually fits.
I step closer to the mirror and study the subtle pattern. The suit almost glistens, and the diamond design looks like the sun reflecting off the water, and I sort of like the idea of how this suit could be my own personal camouflage.
I check the tag and groan loudly.
“You okay in there?” the clerk asks over the sports radio broadcast.
“Fine,” I answer.
What Coach Pru failed to mention was that a suit like this is . . . an investment. I sit down on the bench.
I remember finding my chocolate box intact and what a relief that was. But what if it had been gone? What if my life savings had been torn to pieces and strewn across the entire trailer park? What good would it do me then?
I stand with my hands on my hips, examining myself in the dusty mirror. Aside from my dingy white socks, I look like a fierce competitor. Maybe this is more money than Ramona from last month would have ever spent on a swimsuit, but it is an investment. In myself.
I’ll never forget coming home with my first paycheck and my dad telling me to spend it on something foolish. As I walk to the register with my new swimsuit in hand, I grab a swimming cap and a fancy new pair of goggles. I think I’m ready to spend my little bit of savings on something completely foolish: the future.
Maybe I’m high on my recent purchase or maybe I’m an idiot, but as I’m walking out the door, I spot a bright-red bike in the window of Al’s Bikes across the street. USED! the sign says. WHAT A DEAL!
I flip through my cash and do some quick math on how much more I’ll make this month if I can pick up my route again.
As I’m walking through the door of Al’s, the bell rings overhead. I tell myself the bike will pay for itself in two weeks. And I’m really freaking tired of walking.
FORTY-SEVEN
With only three weeks of school to go, I’ve been running around doing things I’d never imagine actually happening to me, like picking up my graduation robe and cleaning out my locker.
Freddie, Adam, Ruthie, and I meet in the courtyard for lunch and to trade notes for various finals.
Freddie and I haven’t talked much since the hospital. It’s like that night was a safe zone, and nothing we said or did would count against us. And now I see him at lunch or in the hall. I’ll wave and he’ll smile back. But that night didn’t change things. Maybe if my life were a movie, the tornado would have driven us back to each other, but that wasn’t how it happened.
The intercom crackles for a moment, before the school secretary says, “Attention, students: yearbooks have arrived. They will be available in the yearbook room and at the front office.”
There are a few distant cheers. The school was only slightly damaged and ended up closing for two days following the tornado. The entire trailer park was condemned, like it should have been years ago.
“It doesn’t even matter what we get on these finals,” says Ruthie. “We’ve all already been accepted to colleges.”
“Almost,” I say. “I still have to mail in my final transcript.”
“Come on, Ramona! Hop to it.” She nudges me in the ribs. “You’re totally in, though. I mean, you’re basically on the swim team already.”
Freddie smiles but looks away quickly. I want to ask him if he decided to do the open tryouts at LSU, but I don’t want to put him on the spot.
When I told Ruth about Coach Pru’s offer and that I had decided to take her up on it, she cried. She cried actual human tears. And seeing Ruth cry made me cry. So the two of us sat there outside Boucher’s on our lunch break, hugging and crying.
I made the decision last week after swimming in my new suit for the first time. I did some weight lifting with Coach Pru as she sat there reading a copy of Sports Illustrated.
“I should charge you for this,” she said.
I laughed. “Couldn’t afford you anyway.”
She glanced up over the edge of her magazine, huffing out a laugh. A moment later, she stood and said, “I’m heading out early. That’s not an excuse to slack off.”
I groaned, knowing I’d finish my reps regardless. Afterward, I jumped into the pool to cool off. I let my body sink down to the bottom of the deep end. As I sat there, testing my lung capacity, I realized wherever I can find water, I can find home. I am home.
We all leave lunch early to line up for yearbooks. I didn’t shell out money for my own, but I wait with my friends still. After the bell rings, and we part ways with Freddie and Adam, Ruthie and I head to class.
“You mind if I look at that?” I ask as we take our seats, motioning to her yearbook.
She shrugs. “Sure.”
As Mr. Galvez goes over our Spanish final review, I flip to the back of the yearbook and search for the page bearing my name.
I tracked down Allyster a few days after we got settled into the extended-stay hotel. I was super late on the deadline, but he was surprisingly sympathetic. I may have guilted him with the whole losing-my-house-and-most-of-my-belongings-in-a-tornado thing.
Everyone’s senior page has one photo. Usually it’s a picture taken on the beach or in a field. The picture on my senior page is half a strip of black-and-white photo-booth pictures of Freddie and me from our day in New Orleans. It was an old photo booth—the kind that still uses chemicals. We took so many that day despite the line of couples waiting behind us.
In the first photo, he and I are still getting situated, not quite prepared for the first flash of the bulb. In the second photo, Freddie is holding me tight and we’re both laughing hysterically. You can even see his orange freckles splattered against his cheeks.
Next to the photos is a single quote.
You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.
—J. M. Barrie, PETER PAN
After school, I wait at the bike rack next to my new red Schwinn.
I wait for Freddie. For a second, I worry that he won’t come out this way or that he’s going to avoid me, but his bike is chained up right next to mine.
He’s walking with Adam across the courtyard when Freddie turns to him and says something. Adam nods and waves good-bye. I can see Freddie’s finger holding his place in the bac
k of the yearbook.
From across the courtyard, his eyes meet mine, and he walks directly to me.
My heart is thrashing against my rib cage. “I never said thank you for the senior page.”
He nods slowly. “I saw it.”
I take a deep breath. “It’s been—a lot has happened this year,” I say. I wish everything about this moment was perfect. I wish it was like that stupid movie we watched before school started. If we lived inside that movie, everything between us would be fixed with a kiss.
He laughs halfheartedly. “Yeah, not the year I expected. Definitely didn’t keep my promise to swear off girls.”
I grimace as I remember the two of us, driving back to Eulogy, completely heartbroken. “I’m sorry for ending things the way I did,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
He holds his jaw with one hand, thinking. “I was really mad at you. I still kind of am. I felt like we built this really amazing thing together—this connection that I’d never had with anyone else before—and then suddenly you decided it was over. It just—if we built it together, it didn’t seem fair that we couldn’t at least decide to end it together.”
I shake my head. “You were right.” I take a step closer to him. “You have every right to be mad. I’m mad at myself, too.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I was thinking that maybe when you’re done being mad you could forgive me?”
“Forgiving you isn’t the hard part.” He twists the ball of his foot into the dirt before looking up at me again. “I’ve got to trust that you won’t just cut me out of your life again without warning. And I think that’s going to take a little while.”
“That’s fair,” I tell him.
He half smiles. “So what does all this mean for us?”
I let out a deep sigh. “Listen,” I say, “our lives are about to change in really big ways. Neither of us has had much luck with long distance.”
