The Ethan I Was Before

by Ali Standish

  I hold on to Coralee and keep my eyes on the little squirming pups that were almost swept out to sea.

  Together, we wait for the storm to pass.

  Each Other

  IT’S ANOTHER HOUR, MAYBE two, before anyone speaks again. Coralee and I huddle together on the couch; Nima stays in her chair, her eyes mostly glued to Coralee; and Mack paces around the room. Zora and Zelda slink away from the desk and climb into the darkened stairwell that leads to Mack’s apartment. The pups take turns trying to sleep and crawl about.

  At one point, water begins seeping in from under the door between the store and the library, and I see Mack curse at it. There’s nothing we can do but tuck our feet up on the couch and move the pup crate onto the table.

  And then, suddenly, it’s like some giant hand in the sky turns a tap, and the rain stops. The wind dies down, and I can hear the dull ringing left in my ears by the noise of the storm.

  Mack moves to the window and puts her ear against the glass to listen.

  “Storm’s passing,” she says with a sigh of relief.

  “How do you know?” I ask. “Maybe it’s just the eye.”

  “You only get the eye if you’re in the center of the storm,” Mack replies. “The center’s out at sea. We got lucky.”

  “Lucky?” It’s hard to imagine the storm being any worse.

  “We’ll stay here a spell to make sure it’s passed,” Mack says, “and then we’ll figure out how to get you two home.”

  “Did you hear that?” I ask Coralee, who’s balled up with her head against my shoulder. “The storm’s almost over. We’re going to be okay.”

  “I need water,” she croaks. “Can I have some water?”

  My own lips are dry and cracked with salt too. But when I start to get up, Nima gestures for me to sit back down. “I’ll go,” she says. “Mack has some in the bathtub upstairs.”

  She stands and sloshes toward the stairway, with Mack following behind her, grumbling about damage assessment.

  “I’m sorry, Coralee,” I say when we are alone. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you called.”

  She sits up next to me and winces, rubbing her belly with her hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. The pups scratched me really hard.”

  “Me too.” I pull up my shirt and examine the red blotchy patches on my stomach. “Some thanks for saving them.”

  “There were six,” Coralee murmurs. “But I couldn’t save the other two. They’re probably dead now. But I had to try, Ethan. I couldn’t leave them out there all alone to die.”

  “Of course not,” I agree. “And you saved four lives today, which makes you pretty much the bravest person I know.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Sort of. Me and Nima together.”

  We listen to the sounds of the floorboards creaking above us.

  “Ethan?” Coralee says, turning to me, wiping her nose on her towel.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m really, really sorry about Kacey. After Roddie took you inside, your mom came out and told me everything.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’m sorry that I told Suzanne about it. I only did it because I heard her talking about some mean prank Daniel and Jonno were going to play on you, something about gym class and the flagpole. Daniel was mad about what you said about him being held back. So I told her they needed to quit doing stupid stuff like that. Then my big mouth just blurted it out. I thought it might make them stop. Suzanne used to be my friend, and I thought maybe she would just—”

  “You and Suzanne actually used to be friends?” I interrupt.

  Coralee nods. “Yeah. I was her best friend the summer her dad left. She hardly got out of bed in the morning, and then she spent the whole day eating cheese puffs in front of cartoon shows and crying. She wore the same onesie pajamas every day, and she wouldn’t even shower. There was other stuff, too, but . . . anyway, it was pretty ugly. I came over to her trailer every morning, but then when school started—”

  “Her trailer?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” says Coralee. “They moved into one for a while after her dad left. I was the only one who knew, and she swore me to secrecy.”

  I shake my head, thinking about how Suzanne made fun of Coralee’s house to everybody, but Coralee hasn’t said a word about Suzanne’s to anyone. “So that’s what she meant,” I say. “She told me not to believe anything you told me about her. She must have been afraid you would say something.”

  “I think that’s why she stopped being my friend,” says Coralee. “She didn’t want anyone around who had seen her at her worst.”

  “And you never told anyone.”

  “Except you. So you have to promise not to tell anyone either.”

  I feel an unexpected wave of sympathy for Suzanne, and a sudden rush of affection for Coralee, trying to protect Suzanne’s secrets even though she’s a bully.

  “I promise,” I say. “And I’m sorry for not giving you a chance to explain.”

  “It’s okay. But just so you know, I never said that you killed anybody. I just told Suzanne what I thought had happened. I thought Kacey had died that day. From the way you talked about her.”

  We fall silent for a moment.

  “At first, I made myself believe that she was going to be okay,” I say finally. “I kept thinking that if I could get to her, I could convince her to come back. But then someone made me realize that she wasn’t coming back. That she couldn’t.”

  Coralee sniffles.

  “Everyone just wanted me to move on, you know? So I tried. I tried to make myself believe that she was already gone. And it almost worked. Except that doesn’t explain why—why it still hurts so much now.”

  Coralee considers this.

  “Trying to destroy hope is like trying to clean sand out of your beach bag,” she says. “There’s always going to be a grain or two left.”

  I wonder how she knows so much about holding on to hope. Has she been hoping her mom will come back for her all this time?

  “So . . . Nima?” I say, desperate for a change of subject.

  Coralee shrugs. “I didn’t recognize her. We don’t keep any pictures of her in the house.”

  “Why did she leave? Why did you tell me Adina was your mom?” I want to ask Coralee about everything else, all the other lies. But not now.

  Coralee puts her hands on her cheeks and lets her face rest in her palms. “Adina says it was really complicated,” she says. “But I always kind of thought she just wanted something bigger for herself than a kid in a small town.” And I never said that Adina was my mom. You just assumed she was, and I guess it was easier for me to let you think that than to explain the truth.”

  “Are you happy she’s back?”

  Coralee doesn’t answer. She reaches a hand out to the box of pups and strokes one of them on the back with her pinkie. “Poor little guys,” she says. “They’re all alone in the world now.”

  “No they aren’t,” I say. “They’re together. They have each other.”

  Home

  CORALEE AND I GUZZLE down about four glasses of water each. We try to give the pups some too, but Mack says they’re too small to drink from a bowl, and that they need milk, anyway. She turns on her battery radio and listens while the news anchors confirm that the storm is passing. She thinks we should wait for another half hour to make sure that things have settled down before we venture outside. While she and Nima rustle up an extra raincoat for Coralee and tall rubber boots for both of us (Mack says there’s bound to be lots of snakes floating around), Coralee and I examine the pups.

  Now that the wind and rain have let up, they don’t seem as scared. They let us pick them up and ruffle their fur with the towel, and when I pet one of them along the ridge of its spine, it gives a contented sigh. Coralee snuggles one in the crook of her arm and rubs another behind the ears. When she’s playing with them, she doesn’t look like a girl who almost drowne
d, who has just seen her mother for the first time in years. She looks like a girl who just got a new puppy.

  Mack even manages to find two eyedroppers. “So you can feed them when you get home.”

  “Home?” I ask.

  “They may be cute, but those creatures can’t stay here,” Mack replies, wagging her finger at us. “It’s going to be a while before anyone will be able to come get them, and I’ll have enough to get on with trying to clean up this store. Plus, Zora and Zelda won’t have it.”

  Coralee and I agree to take two pups each, and Nima finds canvas bags to carry them in. She hasn’t said a word since she brought us the water, but now she unwraps a taffy and bites off half of it.

  I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Low blood sugar,” she says. “Do you want one?”

  I guess that explains all the taffy wrappers we found last time we were here. It must be hereditary.

  Mack opens the library window and unhooks the storm shutters. The light outside is weak and watery, but it still brightens the dark study.

  “Oh, Lord,” she sighs.

  Coralee and I get up and walk to the window. My boots squelch on the wet carpet.

  What we see through the windowpanes doesn’t look like Palm Knot. It looks like a water park where someone accidentally left the taps on all night. Main Street is completely flooded, and tree branches and palm fronds are floating everywhere like green rafts. Across the street, a telephone pole has fallen on the roof of the Sand Pit like a giant wooden slide, leaving a starburst hole in the shingles. The trees that hide Coralee Cove lean at absurd angles, and what’s left of their branches hangs down in defeat.

  An old motorboat has drifted against the rocky wall of the bay shore. Each time the water pushes in, the boat collides violently with the rocks.

  But the wind is only coming in sporadic, halfhearted gusts now, and the rain is a mere patter compared to what it was before. I crane my neck to look down toward the bridge. Waves no longer rollick over it.

  Mack throws a rain jacket on over her overalls and pulls on her boots. She hoists herself out of the window and lands with a splash.

  “How’s the water?” Coralee says, the shadow of a grin flashing across her face.

  Mack does not dignify this question with a response but wades out into the street and looks to the left, then the right. The water comes halfway up her calf.

  “You live up by the Blackwood house, right, Ethan?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. About two miles. I don’t like it, but we can manage. I don’t want your folks going out of their minds. I’ll take you, and Coralee can go with Nima. Once we get up on higher ground away from the sea, the flooding won’t be so bad.”

  I turn to Coralee. “Is that okay?” I ask, my eyes flitting toward Nima.

  “Yeah,” Coralee says. “I’ll be fine.”

  We squelch back to the coffee table, where Nima has laid out boots. I peel off my soaked snow boots and socks and pull the rubber boots on while Nima gingerly packs two pups and one eyedropper in each canvas bag. She hands the bags to us like a mom doling out school lunches. Coralee takes hers and lifts it over her shoulder, then marches toward the window.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking my pup bag.

  “No, thank you,” Nima says. “Thank you for caring so much about Coralee. You risked your own life to save her.”

  I shrug. “So did you.” Nima may not have cared about Coralee enough to be a mom to her for a long time, but she cared enough about her daughter to help save her life today, and that has to count for something.

  Mack helps Coralee and me out of the window and into the water. Nima follows us and closes the shutters behind her.

  “Keep an eye out,” Mack says. “Look for anything that might be dangerous. Snakes, gators, or downed power lines.”

  I do as Mack instructs, keeping my eyes trained on the water around us.

  Mack takes the lead, and we file behind her with Nima in the rear. It’s slow going. Every step takes ten times the effort a regular step would. It’s hardest for Coralee, who is shortest by far and is up to her knees in water.

  When we reach the bridge, she is out of breath already. I take the canvas bag from her shoulder. It’s been hovering dangerously close to the surface of the water, and I know it’s weighing her down. “I’ll take them,” I say.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t argue. I feel a tug on my shoulder and turn around. “Let me,” Nima says. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

  Coralee shrugs and keeps on wading.

  “Okay.” I hand the bag to Nima. She’s an inch or two taller than I am, so the pups are safely above water level, hanging from her shoulder.

  Once we cross the bridge, we’ll be able to walk in the yards of the houses farthest from the bay, where the flooding is less severe. That’s what I tell myself as I drag my legs through the soupy water, stopping every few steps to disentangle them from debris.

  “How did you get here?” Nima asks.

  Just then, we crest the bridge, and I see Grandpa Ike’s truck. Or what’s left of it, anyway. A huge tree branch is skewering the windshield, and another pierces the cabin roof. My heart sinks.

  I groan. “I’m going to be in So. Much. Trouble.”

  “What’s that?” Nima asks.

  “I drove,” I say, pointing at the truck.

  “Oh my.”

  Suddenly, I’m not looking forward to getting home at all.

  Things We Pass in the Water

  1. An ironing board

  2. A doghouse

  3. Two gardening rakes

  4. A tricycle

  5. Three tree saplings

  6. A bird’s nest

  7. Two garden flamingos

  8. A doorknob

  9. Lots of roof shingles

  10. The street sign that almost killed me getting to Mack’s

  11. A basketball

  12. Two water moccasins

  13. Lots and lots of fish

  Reunited

  BY THE TIME WE reach the strawberry farms, the flooding barely slows us, and our main challenge becomes finding ways over and around all the debris on the road. When we reach the turn that will take me to my house, I promise Coralee to call her as soon as the phone lines are back up.

  “Or come see me,” she says. “Whichever one you can do first.”

  To my surprise, Nima catches me in a quick but firm embrace. “Thank you again,” she whispers in my ear. “Thank you for being such a good friend to my Coralee.”

  Mack and I don’t walk for long before I hear someone shouting my name.

  “Ethan! Is that you?”

  I squint up the road and see a white truck parked a quarter mile or so away from us.

  “Roddie?” I yell back.

  Two tiny figures emerge from the truck. One of them sprints toward us, while the other lopes behind. I clutch the bag with the pups close to my body and jog toward them.

  “It’s me!” I shout. “I’m fine.”

  Roddie reaches me first.

  He glowers at me, raising his arms. I wince, ready for him to hit me, or push me. But the next second, he has enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I have to hold the pups in my arms and jut my elbows out so they won’t be crushed.

  “Um, Roddie?” I mutter. “You’re kind of squashing me.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. You have no idea how worried we were.” His voice sounds funny—it’s all quiet and quivery.

  When he finally lets me go, I see there are tears running down his cheeks. Grandpa Ike has caught up now and is standing to one side, his face drained of color. Neither he or Roddie are wearing their baseball caps, and it’s weird seeing them like that. They must have left the house in a hurry.

  Grandpa Ike takes an awkward step forward, like he can’t decide whether to hug me.

  “Are you all right?” he says. “You’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “We waite
d it out at Mack’s place.”

  Roddie and Grandpa Ike cut their eyes toward Mack, like they’ve just noticed her.

  “Hello, Ike,” she says.

  He reaches out to shake her hand. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for taking care of our boy.”

  “Thanks for getting my brother home safe,” Roddie says, pulling Mack into a hug.

  I have to smile at the surprised O of Mack’s lips as Roddie embraces her. I have to smile because I’m just as surprised as she is.

  I had no idea Roddie cared so much.

  “I would offer you a ride home,” Grandpa Ike says, “but the truck can’t get past the tree branch there in the road.”

  Mack shakes her head. “It’s too flooded to drive back anyway,” she says. “I’ll be fine. Not my first hurricane. We’re lucky the center missed us. This damage might look bad, but it’s nothing compared to what it could have been. Ethan’s a lucky boy.”

  “I guess we’re a lucky family,” Roddie says. “Thank you again.”

  “It’s no problem. Ike, I’ll still have your delivery in on time, storm or no storm,” she says. “Oh, and . . . sorry about your truck.”

  Grandpa Ike looks from Mack to me, but before he can say anything, my bag begins to move and I look down to see one of the pups trying to climb out.

  “Whoa,” says Roddie. “What is that?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way home. Come on, let’s go.”

  My Best Friends

  WHEN WE GET HOME, I see Mom and Dad climbing out of the Subaru. As they hear the truck turn into the driveway, they whip around and start running toward us. I hear Mom shriek. They’re both drenched and caked in mud.

  “They’ve been out searching too,” says Roddie. “We split up to cover more ground.”

  Mom flings the passenger door of the truck open before Grandpa Ike can even put it in park. Dad is right on her heels.

  “Oh my God!” she screams. “You’re okay! You’re okay!”

  I slide out of the car and am immediately wrapped in their arms.

  “Ethan!” says Dad. “We thought—we didn’t know what to think.”