Girl Out of Water

by Laura Silverman

  He leans forward on the table and clasps his hands together. “Now I don’t want you to worry,” he says, “because she’s going to be perfectly all right, but—”

  My mouth goes dry. I struggle to swallow a bit of apple stuck in my throat. She. He must be talking about my mom. Something happened to my mom. I fight the urge to jump off the counter and grab her postcard. I will myself to not care. This is the woman who abandoned us and who still repeatedly abandons us. The woman who took off before I started walking to follow a band no one had ever heard of around the country. The woman who came back full of presents and apologies when I was three. The woman who left again weeks later because she wanted to work on some fucking riverboat casino in Louisiana. The woman who has been in and out of my life so many times that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if she exists at all.

  “—Aunt Jackie was in a car accident earlier today.”

  Oh. Oh. A confusing mixture of relief and anxiety floods through me. “Honey, are you okay?” Dad asks.

  “Umm, yeah.” My fingers tap rapid beats against my legs. I need out of my wet suit. The tight fabric constricts. I jump from the counter and peel it off. “What happened? Was it serious? Is she okay?”

  “She’ll be okay,” Dad says. “But it was serious. Both her legs were crushed. Severely. She’ll be in the hospital for weeks for surgery and recovery and then in a wheelchair when she comes home.”

  “Fuck,” I breathe out the word slowly. Dad doesn’t mind when I curse. He says if his teenage daughter is going to have one vice, it might as well be a sailor’s mouth. “That sucks. Shit, that sucks.”

  And it really does. I’m closer to Aunt Jackie, my shit-excuse-for-a-mom’s sister, than I am to my actual shit-excuse-for-a-mom. I sure as hell see a lot more of her. She has three young kids—twin boys and a girl—and every summer they scavenge up the cheapest tickets they can find and come stay with us at the beach for a couple of weeks. Money is tight for them because Aunt Jackie’s husband passed away about six years ago from a heart attack, but they always make the summer trip a priority.

  Even though it interrupts my summer surf time, I love having my little cousins around. We trail up and down the beach, hunt for seashells, build sandcastles, and ride boogie boards. Since they only come once a year, the ocean is still magical to them. I love seeing it through their eyes as opposed to the eyes of Santa Cruz locals.

  “Is she okay?” I ask. “Like awake and stuff? Can I call her or should I wait until tomorrow? How’s Emery? And the boys? Do you have her number? I always forget to save it in my phone.”

  Dad doesn’t answer right away. Oh god, what if the kids were involved? Dread knots my stomach. “Honey,” he continues, “you know how I said Aunt Jackie will be in a hospital and then a wheelchair?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, it’s summer, so your cousins are home. And Jacks will be in the hospital for a few weeks and then in a wheelchair for even longer. She won’t be able to take care of them on her own.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh…”

  “We’re going to spend the summer in Nebraska helping out your cousins and Aunt Jackie. I’m going to have to pick up some work while I’m there, so I’ll need your help with the kids during the day.”

  Spend the summer in Nebraska? I’ve never left California, much less spent weeks away. Why would I, when everything I love—my friends, Dad, the ocean—are all within a half mile of my bedroom? But of course I want to help. Of course I want to be there for my aunt and little cousins, even if the idea of being that far away from home makes me wish I could take my wet suit off a second time.

  “O-kay,” I say slowly.

  Dad clears his throat. “Sweetheart, when I say we’re going to spend the summer in Nebraska, I mean…all summer.”

  “All summer?” I pause. “Like what part of all summer do you mean?”

  He rushes out the next words. “We leave tomorrow, and we’ll be back a week before school starts.”

  “A week before?”

  He nods.

  And then it hits me. Coming home a week before school starts means I’ll miss the entire summer. It means I’ll miss Surf Break, my last chance to spend three nonstop days with some of my closest friends. By the time I get back home to start my senior year, half of my friends will already be on their way out of town.

  I stare down at my wet suit. It’s crumpled in a pile on the kitchen floor. Tomorrow I’ll yank it back on and head out to the surf with the sun rising behind me. Tomorrow I’ll meet up with friends. Catch wave after wave. Make bets on the best ride. Eat veggie burgers and plantain chips at the Shak. Tomorrow I’ll have salt in my hair and sand between my toes.

  “You should probably pack tonight,” Dad says, though I can barely hear him. Through the open window, the ocean’s amplified. It’s calling to me. It won’t let me leave. It won’t let this happen. I cannot spend the entire summer in Nebraska. “Flight’s tomorrow morning at eleven.”

  Two

  I slump in my chair at the kitchen table and stare out the window at the beach. The ocean looks distorted through the old and mottled glass. Before Dad left the room, he promised the summer would be okay—good, even. I want to believe him. After all, this was the man who promised there weren’t any monsters hiding under my bed, and he was right. But the thought of being away from my friends for the entire summer is a lot scarier than hiding monsters.

  I pull out my phone and send a mass text:

  Code red. Being shipped out to Nebraska tomorrow for ENTIRE SUMMER. Meet at the Litchfield Dunes at midnight.

  The Litchfield Dunes are half a mile from my house, behind the Litchfield Estate, which has been empty for five years now due to a case of rich people spending money they don’t have, making it a particularly excellent spot for us to gather late at night. My stomach twists with anxiety or hunger or both. I’ve only left Santa Cruz a handful of times, excursions including the sorry your mom is trash, let’s go to Disneyland trip when I was eight and the sorry your mom is still trash, let’s go surfing in San Diego trip when I was eleven. I didn’t even go to my uncle’s funeral because I had my first serious surfing injuries at the time—a broken arm and a sliced leg that needed a dozen stitches.

  The idea that tomorrow I’ll be boarding a plane to Nebraska for the entire summer seems so absurd, so far from reality, that I actually start to feel quite calm. After all, there’s no reason to get upset about something that can’t actually happen.

  My stomach grumbles. Dad is an amateur chef and cooks dinner for us most nights, but he had something more important on his mind today. I stand up and scour the kitchen for food, finding a couple of cold slices of veggie pizza, another apple that I slather with chunky peanut butter, and a giant bag of trail mix I eat by the handful. All the M&M’s are gone because Dad loves chocolate but doesn’t buy junk food, which is how I always end up with a bag of just raisins and nuts. I finish everything off with a bowl of my favorite cereal combination: Cap’n Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Cocoa Puffs. It took years of hard cereal munching to concoct this perfection. This is a typical evening for me: consuming an entire day’s worth of food in about twenty minutes.

  Then the text messages flood in, reminding me that today is anything but typical.

  WHAT? DETAILS

  I’ll bring some brews

  Dude. Not okay. Also I’ve got the lighter fluid.

  Marshmallows. More marshmallows.

  You are NOT allowed to go

  I don’t respond and put my phone on silent. I’ll give everyone the full story when I see them. I spend another half hour scarfing down whatever other food I can find: carrots and hummus, turkey jerky, and a handful of grapes. Then I stuff my ragged tote bag with more snacks and water bottles, yank on my damp wet suit, leaving it half-unzipped, and head toward the garage for my surfboard. I pause by the junk drawer where my mom
’s postcard hides. It’s a weird coincidence that the first time I’ve heard from her in almost two years also happens to be the day her sister gets into a car accident. Too weird. I yank open the drawer and pull out the card.

  My heart thuds as I read it, ears alert in case Dad comes down the hallway. My hand shakes again, making the scrawled writing harder to read.

  Dear Anise,

  Hi, sweetie! I miss you, and I hope you and your dad are doing well! I’m thinking of swinging by for a visit this summer. I think we’re due for some mother/daughter time, don’t you? I’ll probably be there in June. Or maybe July! We’ll see!!!

  Love,

  Mom

  As always, she hasn’t included a phone number or address.

  My mom will be here this summer, and I’ll be in Nebraska. I tell myself this is good. I won’t have to see her. I don’t want to see her. I won’t have to sit here like I did when I was eight, ticking off the days until her arrival on some off-brand My Little Pony calendar, wondering when she’d finally show up. It’ll be a nice fuck you when she arrives with a mason jar of organic jam from some cooperative farm and three weeks of dirty laundry to find out that Dad and I aren’t here. A taste of her own abandonment cocktail.

  Dad never speaks badly of her, always makes excuses for her, and welcomes her back into our lives as if this behavior is normal. But as I’ve gotten older, I can see through his resilient act. I know he only does it for me. Every time she leaves it rips away at him too. Well, at least this summer we won’t be around for her to hurt.

  I take the card in both hands and start to rip it, but I hesitate half an inch in. Instead, I open the junk drawer, shift around spare keys and rubber bands and dead batteries, and bury her postcard at the bottom of it all.

  • • •

  I’m the first one out at the dunes. It’s nearing midnight, and the beach is silent, save the hum of the water lapping methodically against the craggy rocks and sand. The moon bathes the beach in a subdued glow more soothing than the piercing sun. I hug myself tight and close my eyes, breathing in the salted air, letting the familiar scents and sounds wrap around me.

  The frustration and anxiety is still there, but the sound of the water, the glow of the moon, lulls the unease. For now, I’ll pretend these problems aren’t mine. For now, I’ll let these few minutes of tranquility stretch out into an eternity. For now, the rest of the world can float away on the gently rocking water until nothing exists except the tide, the moon, and me.

  I inhale deeply. Once. Twice.

  And then my eyes flick open. A figure rushes down the beach, silhouetted legs pounding down the sand.

  “Anise!”

  Tess. My best friend who claims she never runs except when someone chases her. So unless there’s a man with an ax behind her, she must have made an exception. For a second I think she’s going to run into me and topple us both to the ground, but she stops short, bends over, and breathes with strained force.

  I move toward her, but she lifts her hand. “Hold on.” More panting. “Please don’t put me—” More panting. “—in the same vicinity—” More panting. “—of your disgusting level of athleticism.”

  I wait patiently for a few more seconds. Then Tess stands upright and says, “You are not allowed to leave me. I will hate you forever.” And then she does, in fact, launch herself at me, tackling me to the ground, obstructing my air supply. But I don’t care. I hug her back with the same ferocity.

  “I’ll hate me forever too.”

  Tess and I release each other but stay on the ground, backs against the coarse sand and eyes on the star-flecked sky. Our hands find each other and hold, like when we were little kids and always chained together. The feeling is reassuring.

  As we wait for the others to arrive, I tell her everything—everything except for the postcard because if I don’t tell her about it, then maybe it won’t exist.

  Tess suggests alternate solutions to Dad’s plan, ranging from moving in with her for the summer to flying Aunt Jackie to Santa Cruz to recover, anything to keep me from disappearing for months. But I know there’s no other solution because Dad loves me, and he knows I love home, and he wouldn’t move us out to Nebraska for the summer unless he had to. And beyond that, I know I should want to go, I should want to help my family.

  But knowing and wanting are two very different things.

  “Maybe I can visit,” Tess says. Her hand leaves mine as she sits up, jarring me more than it should. The longest we’ve ever been apart was when she visited her extended family in Samoa for two weeks last summer.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But what about work?”

  Tess works at her parents’ restaurant, a small café off one of the crowded tourist strips that serves up authentic Samoan dishes, like these sweet coconut buns so obnoxiously delicious they were featured on one of those Food Network shows.

  “The problem isn’t getting off work so much as not being able to afford a plane ticket. As much as my parents love you, I don’t think they’re going to foot the bill for a trip to Nebraska.”

  “Why? Don’t they know it’s a destination hot spot?”

  We both laugh, then fall silent.

  “Look.” Tess nudges my leg. “The others are coming. And I spy a very striking sir by the name of Eric.”

  Eric. I dig my fingers into the sand. I think of our bodies drawing nearer all afternoon and the way our eyes kept meeting. This summer could have changed everything for us. We could have pressed closer each day until there was no distance between us. Tomorrow, I’m not just leaving Santa Cruz—I’m leaving the possibility of us.

  No Eric, no Tess, no surfing, no Surf Break—the punishments continue to pile up for a crime I didn’t commit. Before I can give it more thought, Eric, Marie, and Cassie arrive, laden with surfboards, drinks, and food. Tess and I stand to greet them.

  “What’s happening with this Nebraska trip?” Eric asks. I imagine his eyes wide with panic. It’s hard to tell in the dark.

  I quickly relay the story once more. My friends look as devastated as I feel. “But dude,” Marie says. “It’s final summer. You can’t miss final summer.” Along with Cassie, Marie will be gone next year too, starting prelaw at Northeastern on the other side of the country. By the time I get back we’ll only have a couple of days together.

  Maybe this was a bad idea, inviting all my friends out tonight, giving myself a taste of what I’ll be missing for months…and then forever. Even though I still have another full year with Tess and Eric, they’re both applying out of state for college, and I’m staying here and applying to the University of Santa Cruz.

  I’m not ready to know what good-bye feels like.

  “Come on,” Cassie says. Her dark skin is luminous in the moonlight. Between her toned muscles and confidence, she always looks so strong. The navy should put her in one of their brochures. “Let’s get some driftwood and get this night started. If this is the only Anise I’m going to get all summer, I want to make it count.”

  We split off to hunt for whatever sticks and brush the sea has churned out for us, baked dry from a day under the blistering sun. Eric walks by my side. He seems to be nearer than usual. But the night does that to your senses, makes it feel like everything is closing in.

  We walk in silence, drifting down the coastline and occasionally picking up bits of wood. I want to say something, but the words don’t form. As we turn back toward the Litchfield Dunes, Eric reaches out and grabs my hand. The scraps of wood I’ve gathered almost fall to the ground as I turn to face him, my heart pounding in my ears, like that ten footer is staring me in the face all over again.

  He catches my gaze.

  This is it. He’s going to kiss me.

  But then he doesn’t.

  He takes a small object out of his pocket and hands it to me. My body tightens at the sight. I have to shift the pile of driftwood in
my arms to accept it.

  “I found it on the walk over here.” He takes a short breath. “Anise,” he says, his voice taut. “This summer won’t mean anything without you.”

  I look down at a milky-blue sea marble in my hand.

  When I glance back up, Eric is heading back to the dunes alone.

  • • •

  An hour later, more friends have arrived. A small campfire burns away, Motel/Hotel, our favorite electronica band, plays lightly from someone’s iPhone speakers, and marshmallows crisp by the flames. I’m sitting nestled between Eric and Tess, my two anchors. Conversation flows over me as my eyes flit between the fire and the waves.

  “Anise.” Tess pokes me in the shoulder. “Anise,” she repeats.

  “What?” I snap back to attention.

  “Truth or dare.”

  I laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Come on,” Spinner says, pulling his hair into a tangled ponytail. Spinner moved in across the street from me six years ago and has been using my boardwalk to access the beach ever since. “We haven’t played in forever. It’ll be fun.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” I say. “Remember the incident with Cassie and the sea bass and the annoyed paramedic?”

  “Yeah,” someone says. “Pretty sure that was their first and only distress call to help save a saltwater fish.”

  Everyone laughs, including Cassie.

  “Yes, but now we’re older and wiser,” Tess says. “Come on. It’ll be fun. One last hurrah and all that.”

  I eye her. “If you’re so into the idea, you go first. Truth or dare?” I ask. I’m not really into Truth or Dare, but Tess wants to play, and as she nestles deeper into the blanket we’re sharing, I realize I’m not the only one who’ll be spending the summer without my best friend.

  “Turning the tables, very nice,” Tess says. “Okay, truth.”