Girl Out of Water

by Laura Silverman

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Lincoln finishes. I continue to peer out over the 3-D fossilized remains, the rib cage of an ancient rhino tucked against the hoof of a three-toed horse. I’ve never seen anything like this. Maybe if I’d taken up Dad on that DC trip offer, I would have seen some dinosaurs at the Smithsonian. But not like this, not animals in their natural habitat, still preserved in the ground millions—millions—of years later.

  “When we moved here, I was sixteen and actually really upset about a move for the first time,” Lincoln says. He keeps his voice low, and our shoulders press together as we watch people cautiously brush ash off the unmoving animals. “I loved traveling and discovering, but I’d finally settled down in Raleigh. I’d made some great friends, and I wanted to graduate with them. Mom felt awful that I was so upset, so she did her research and brought me here. And I fell in love with the place. Kind of hard not to.”

  I wonder what it must be like to have a mom who cares you’re upset and tries to make it better.

  He points at the remains of one of the rhinos, leaning a bit closer to do so, providing more heat than the twenty-foot windows baking us with afternoon sunlight. “Some of these guys still had grass in their mouths. Just up and died midchew. This part of Nebraska used to look like the East African savannas. It’s surreal. There’s so much of the world I want to see. But here—here, I can see the past.”

  As Lincoln says this, I imagine myself back in Santa Cruz, out on the water, surfboard beneath me when a storm of ash sweeps in, a thick cloud of choking gray dust, suffocating me, sealing me in my own giant watering hole so that millions of years from now aliens will stare at my skeleton and talk about how amazing it is that I’ve been preserved so well.

  The immense power of the ash, the power to stick and unstick time and place—if I could harness that kind of power, I could do anything. If I wanted to, the next time my mom drops in town, I could bury her in it. Preserve her in powdered glass, mold her by our sides so she could never leave again.

  My own little fossilized Santa Cruz family.

  • • •

  The air feels cooler outside as I settle at one of the large, wood-planked picnic tables. Lincoln runs back to the car for our bags of food, promising not to peek at mine until we’re together. I glance at the rhino barn and think how odd it is that a few feet and some aluminum siding separates me from twelve million years ago, like if I blinked I could slip back to another time entirely. Did my mom know about this place? Probably not. If so, she probably would’ve tried to free the bones from their eternal homes.

  Lincoln returns and places the brown paper bags on the table. “You okay?” he asks.

  “Um, yeah,” I lie and then pause. I’m not okay. I was okay. At the beginning of the summer, I was great, but now I’m here in Nebraska, without my friends and in a place that constantly pulls my thoughts to my mom like a cruel geographical magnet. “Actually, no—I’m kind of…”

  “What is it?”

  It’s weird. I’ve never had to tell this story to anyone. Everyone in my life knows about my mom, how she left and came back and left and came back, how each time I was more upset and less interested in talking about it. I mean, I didn’t even tell Tess about the postcard.

  But Lincoln knows nothing about my mom and all she’s done to me and all she hasn’t done for me. I don’t know if it’s the centuries old animal bones or the way I feel when Lincoln locks eyes with me, but suddenly I want to tell him.

  So I do.

  I tell him about her many disappearances. The hurt, the disappointment, the anger. I tell him things I don’t even like to admit to myself—the way I still let her back in every time, the way I hate myself for doing so. How much I hate being here because an invisible piece of her hides around every corner. I tell him about the postcard, how my stomach tightens each time I get home from the park because there’s the slight chance I could find her watching TV in the living room.

  “I’m sorry, Anise,” Lincoln says when I finish.

  The three simple words make me want to cry, but I force those tears away. I’m a lucky person. I live in the most wonderful place in the world. Dad loves me. I have everything I need. I don’t need her.

  “I wonder what’s harder,” Lincoln says.

  I look at him. “What?”

  “I wonder what’s harder,” he repeats, thoughtfully. “Having a biological mom I’ll never know or having a mom who comes and goes without warning, like yours.”

  I chew my lip. I’m not sure which is harder either. I guess it’s impossible to know unless you’ve experienced both. All I know is how bad I feel for the woman, who for whatever reasons, never got to experience what a wonderful person Lincoln is.

  We sit in silence with our thoughts for a few minutes. I let the wind calm me, listening to the way it whistles through the dry grass. Then my stomach growls and completely evaporates the intense mood. Lincoln laughs, his dimple popping out. “Are you ready for our challenge?” he asks.

  “I’m always ready to win.”

  “Losers first.” He coughs. “I mean, you first.”

  I’m so confident in my food choices that I don’t even argue. I open my bag and place five items on the table—a baguette, cilantro, jalapeño, some chili sauce packets I may or may not have stolen from the fresh-made deli section, and though it makes my stomach churn—

  “SPAM!” Lincoln snatches the can from the table and stares at it and then the rest of the ingredients. “Bánh mì Spam! Okay, you won. You definitely won. How did you—”

  The only thing I love more than Lincoln’s smile is being the cause of Lincoln’s smile. “Well, obviously I didn’t have enough money for all the ingredients, but I saw the Spam and remembered your road trip story and figured I might as well give it a shot.”

  Lincoln glances at his bag and looks a bit deflated. “Now I’m ashamed of my purchase. Let’s just eat bánh mì Spam sandwiches for the rest of forever.”

  “I don’t think so.” I grab for his bag. “Let’s see… Oh my god.” I look up at him. “How did you—”

  “Your cousins shared your particularly eclectic taste in breakfast cereal combinations. Our mom was horrified when she found Austin eating it last week.”

  Inside the bag I find boxes of Cap’n Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Cocoa Puffs. My heart flutters like it does when I see a good wave forecast, and I can’t pull the smile from my face. I open the Lucky Charms and lift the box toward him. “Cheers, Lincoln.”

  He lifts his can of Spam and taps it with my cereal. “Cheers, Anise.”

  • • •

  It’s not until we’ve been back on the road for a few miles that I remember it’s been hours since I’ve checked my phone. I push aside my bag of souvenirs (fake animal bones made out of white chocolate for the family, postcards for my friends, and a little plush rhino for myself) and grab my tote. I pull out my phone. My mouth goes dry and my stomach churns.

  Ten missed calls.

  I might throw up my Cap’n Lucky Puffs.

  Ten missed calls and ten voice mails—six from Emery, two from Dad, and two from unknown callers.

  I press play and listen.

  And listen.

  And listen.

  Aunt Jackie…infection…where are you…hospital…emergency surgery…where are you…call us…where are you…where are you…where are you…

  “Anise? Anise, are you okay?” Lincoln asks.

  My phone shakes. No, my hand shakes.

  My throat is tight. “Hospital,” I manage. “We need to get to the hospital.”

  Twelve

  Surgical site infections apparently strike one to three percent of all surgical patients. Warning signs include tenderness, swelling, and pain—all symptoms you might consider normal if you’ve been in tender, swelling pain for more than a month. Emery checked on Aunt Jackie while I was gone, noticed she
was flushed and disoriented, and took her temperature: it was 103.

  The good news is she panicked and called for an ambulance right away. An hour later Aunt Jackie was in emergency surgery for a deep incisional infection. The doctor told me if they hadn’t caught it in time, it could’ve permanently damaged her leg—or worse.

  “Emery, is that you?” Aunt Jackie asks, her voice muffled.

  “It’s Anise,” I say and lean forward in the armchair. “The others went home to rest.”

  I spent last night in the hospital waiting room with Emery, Parker, Nash, and two of Aunt Jackie’s friends, piled on armchairs, using sweatshirts and hoodies as blankets. Lincoln stayed until almost two in the morning, going to the cafeteria on coffee and food runs, trying to nudge a smile out of my cousins, an impossible task since Aunt Jackie still hadn’t woken up from the surgery.

  He offered to come back this morning, once Aunt Jackie had woken up, and take the kids home and watch them all day. I accepted so Aunt Jackie’s friends wouldn’t have to take off work and since Dad couldn’t get a flight back until tomorrow. His worried phone calls kept me on the phone all night and morning. I think he blames himself that he wasn’t here…but I wasn’t there either. Just like my mom, I left home, left someone who needed me for something more exciting on the horizon. My eyes threaten to well every time I think of Emery going into Aunt Jackie’s room, taking her temperature, fingers trembling to call the ambulance. In that moment, with no information and Aunt Jackie incoherent from the high fever, Emery probably thought she was losing her mom, even faster than she lost her dad. I flew here to help her this summer, to take care of her, to protect her, and when she needed me most, I wasn’t there.

  I try to mask any shaking in my voice and ask Aunt Jackie, “How are you feeling?”

  I move over to her hospital bed, uncomfortable at how normal the scene feels. Aunt Jackie already spent a month here.

  She smiles weakly. “Guilty, mostly. Can’t believe I didn’t notice the fever myself. Emery…” Her voice cracks. “…She was so scared. I don’t remember much once the fever hit, but I remember those scared eyes.”

  “Emery is okay now,” I lie. I don’t want to put more stress on her when she needs to recover.

  In reality, Emery shut down last night, not even yelling at Nash when he tried to start a talent show in the waiting room. She just sat and stared at the wall—at the wall, not even her phone. I tried to talk to her, hug her like I kept hugging the boys, but she stayed unresponsive.

  Maybe I’m fucking this up. I should tell Aunt Jackie that Emery is hurting a lot more than she’s letting on. And yet, every time I go to do so, the words stick in my mouth. The doctor said Aunt Jackie needs a low-stress environment. I can handle this on my own. I don’t need to give Aunt Jackie a reason to worry.

  “You’ll be back home in a few days,” I say. “And everything will go back to normal.”

  I say these words with conviction, even though at this point, I’m not sure what normal is.

  • • •

  I end up dozing on the extra hospital bed in Aunt Jackie’s room. And by dozing, I mean I knock out for a solid two hours until Aunt Jackie’s friend, Blue Cardigan Claire, shows up to take over. “Let me give you a ride home,” she says.

  I nod, blinking with sleep-weighted lids, then crawl out of my hospital sheet cocoon.

  In the car, I press my head against the cool glass and watch the empty suburban streets slip by. It’s nine o’clock. Most people are probably in their beds, TVs and tablets softly glowing.

  When she drops me off, I thank Claire for the ride and mentally thank her for not bringing up my mom. The house looks silent. Almost all the lights are out. Are the kids already asleep? My phone battery died a bit ago, so I haven’t been able to text Lincoln for an update.

  I unlock the door. The living room light is on, but I don’t see anyone. “Hello?” I call out. “Emery? Lincoln?”

  No response.

  My heart thumps as a dozen scenarios flash through my mind:

  They went out to get ice cream at that little store a couple miles away.

  An axe murderer came into the house and killed them all!

  The stress exhausted them, and everyone went to bed early.

  Aliens abducted them and they’re never coming back!

  Then I notice light coming from the backyard. I walk through the living room and pull open the sliding glass door. Soft music thumps from portable speakers. The outdoor lighting basks the concrete in an artificial glow. A few people who are definitely too tall to be my cousins stand around the edge of the pool.

  What the hell?

  I step outside and count about ten people in the backyard, hanging out, skating around the pool, and skating in the pool like it’s the bowl at the skate park. Then I focus in on the music. It’s an old song made recently familiar to me.

  Bruce Springsteen. I narrow my eyes. “Lincoln.”

  And then he’s in front of me, wearing jean shorts as always, a straw hat, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with nothing underneath it but his dark, defined abs. He pulls me into a hug, his chest hard and warm, and tempting, but I shove him away. “What the hell is going on?”

  Anger rattles through me. My aunt is sick, and he took that as an opportunity to throw a party? This is so unlike him. I mean, not that I know him. I met him a month ago. And you can’t know anyone in a month. And yet, I would have never expected this from him. This is the guy who spent ten minutes consoling Parker after Nash nailed a kickflip better than him. That guy doesn’t throw parties at other people’s homes when they’re in the hospital.

  But—I guess he does.

  Before he has a chance to respond, I snap, “Get these people out now! And where are my cousins? What the hell were you even—”

  “Anise, calm down.” He tries to put a hand on my shoulder, but I back away.

  “Don’t patronize me. My aunt just had emergency surgery, and you’re throwing a fucking party in her backyard instead of watching my cousins. Where are my—”

  “Anise!” Nash bounds up to me and hugs me around the waist. A bit of chocolate rings the corner of his mouth, probably from the cookie in his right hand.

  Before I can respond, Parker runs up to wave at me and tug Nash away, saying, “You have to watch this guy.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lincoln says. “They’re strictly forbidden from going into the pool. No more broken limbs in the family, I promise.”

  “And Emery—”

  “Right there.” Lincoln points toward the back corner of yard, where Emery sits on a pool lounge, talking to Austin.

  Lincoln speaks again, quickly, probably so I can’t interrupt. “Look, they napped for a while and woke up in bad moods, like really bad moods.” He lowers his voice. “Like my mom almost died again moods, and so I brought them out here, and we cleaned all that sludge out of the bottom of the pool so I could show them a few tricks, and then Emery asked if Austin could come over, and then one thing led to another. I texted you to let you know, but you weren’t responding, and Parker and Nash were loving it so much, so a few more friends showed up. I’ll send everyone home now if you want. Maybe I fucked up, but they were upset, and I was trying to—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s fine.” I take a second to think it through, then nod. “Yeah, I mean this was pretty irresponsible and don’t think I’m still not totally pissed at you…but the kids seem happy.” Even Emery looks okay—maybe not happy but okay, a stark contrast to earlier at the hospital. “So it’s fine.”

  “Okay. And I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” Lincoln’s worried look transforms into a mischievous one. “Moving on though, I only have one question for you. Ever skate in a pool?”

  • • •

  An hour later, bruises, tiny scratches, and not-so-
tiny scratches splatter my body, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Adrenaline pumps hard and fast as I balance on the lip of the pool, shout, “Dropping in!” then lean forward and plummet into the rutted cement bowl. Air slaps me as my wheels rattle against the uneven terrain, my pulse accelerating with every bump and jolt. The pool has less length than the bowl at the skate park, but I have enough room to ollie before I gear down, kick hard against the pavement to regain speed, and burst out over the rim. I land in a tangle of my own limbs, but at least I’m outside of the pool, a giant success in itself.

  “You okay there?” Sofia leans down to lend me a hand. Her long hair flows over her shoulder, falling over her sleeveless white T-shirt.

  I grin and take her hand, standing up to assess the damage. Just more bruising. “Most definitely okay.”

  “Awesome.” She grins with infectious eagerness. “Watch this.” She turns and launches off into the pool with all the grace of someone who’s been skateboarding since birth.

  “I kind of hate her.” Lincoln comes up behind me, speaking so close to my ear that I can barely think of anything but how near his lips are to my skin.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because talented people make me look less awesome in comparison.”

  “Oh, I still think you look pretty awesome,” I say, trying to concentrate as Sofia lands trick after trick.

  “Oh, you do?” Lincoln asks. I turn to find a roguish—yes, roguish—smile playing on his lips. “I think you look pretty awesome too.”

  I don’t think we’re talking about skating any more, especially as Lincoln’s gaze flicks over me, making me all too conscious of my flimsy cotton shorts and tight-fitted tank.

  “Come on.” He nods at the house. “Let’s see if we can scavenge up some of your cousins’ old pads, otherwise when your dad gets back, he’s going to ask why his daughter is completely black and blue.”