Strong Like the Sea, стр. 27
Reports of a super typhoon in the Pacific pour from stone-faced reporters across the web, their alarms and images flickering across my glasses.
8:30 p.m.
Meteorologists warn . . .
Could grow to rival the strongest super typhoon ever recorded, Typhoon Tip of 1979 . . .
Catastrophic for anyone caught in its wake—on land or at sea . . .
Every click, every new screen pierces and cankers inside my head like venomous urchin spines. Barbed words and reports hook in tender skin and won’t let go.
Super storm.
Waves pound my heart against the rocks.
Destructive wind speeds.
I try to surface, to connect. I hit refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
Category four, category five.
Maybe she’s not there. Maybe I understood wrong. Maybe Dad was upset about something else.
New tabs with windows pop up across the top of the screen.
9:00 p.m.
I try to lie to myself, pretend everything’s fine and this is all a mistake . . . but I know who Dad was arguing about. I know he’s worried.
I know, and I can’t hide. Not from him. Not from the reports. And there are so, so many reports. With the sound on the computer turned way down, I turn off the light like I’ve gone to bed. Dad would want me to go to bed, I think. But the reports surge across the screen and I can’t look away.
Huge waves wash over sea walls and flood streets. Reporters in raincoats hang on to their plastic rain hats and clutch microphones tight as they talk through rain and wind.
I grip my desk as the storm reaches through the computer and captures me. I hear the rain, imagine the wet, and watch the destruction with wide eyes as news reports drag me under.
Super typhoon.
Sea-level pressure dropping dramatically.
Casualty reports.
Missing people.
Search for higher ground.
Someone clings to a tree surrounded by churning water as rescuers push to reach them. More people stand ready with ropes to pull lost souls to safety should they fall to the torrent.
What country? I can’t tell. There’s so much, it feels like the storm has swallowed the whole world. Worry steals my breath and fills my lungs until I choke.
I’m drowning.
I click on tab
And I
. . . after tab
can’t
. . . after tab.
breathe.
I dream of ciphers, of spirals, of shipwrecks and shells.
There’s laughter too. But it’s cruel.
Hidden beneath the surface beyond the shore, eely-black ripples weave back and forth, watching, waiting for me to step back into the ocean so it can finish what it started all those years ago—except I won’t go in.
I know better.
But I’m not the only one close to the ocean; Mom’s there too.
And the ocean, tired of lying in wait for me, looks to Typhoon and lends strength to the winds. And the laughter builds and roars as Typhoon grows and pushes Mom’s submarine down
and down
and down,
deep into the black.
It rolls and spins, and seaweed tangles fast round my legs as I scream, take me instead!
I’ll go in.
I’ll jump, I’ll swim, anything—just leave her alone. But laughter rumbles on and on, and I wake with the taste of salt on my lips.
With a breath so deep it chokes me, I kick the blanket wrapped around my legs off my bed. It slides to the floor, and I run to the desk.
Maybe it all was a nightmare; maybe none of it was real.
But there are the blinking dots above the line that used to say, “Waiting for host to join video chat.” Now it reads, “Meeting time expired. Failure Code: 103. No host detected.”
She never logged on.
Not once.
I waited for hours and hours, and I should still be in the chair now—except Dad must’ve carried me to bed in the middle of the night and covered me.
I spin in the chair and try not to think.
Sunrise slices through my window blinds to pry shadows from their hiding places and paint the bellies of my origami creatures pink. Each folded creation speaks to time with Dad or Mom.
The dragon Mom gave me when I won the science fair, the fox Dad folded when I solved Mom’s last challenge. A lot of kids take time with parents for granted, but my time with both of them together is numbered by folded papers like imitation stars.
I turn away, but gold rays slide down the wall till my notes begin to glow fiery orange, and I can’t help but look at the screen again.
Meeting time expired.
I should turn the computer off. Except, I can’t turn it off.
What if she calls?
I shake my head at the false logic of that idea. She’s not calling. Think about it. She can’t, or she would’ve done it already. Something big wouldn’t let her call home. The meeting is expired and the link won’t work anymore. But turning it off? I won’t do it.
I can’t.
It’d be like shutting Dad’s oxygen tank off while he’s still on a dive.
I leave the screen on, a life preserver floating out to sea.
Sleep is impossible, but so is sitting still—and if I look at the screen even one more time, I’ll go mad.
I tiptoe down the hall, over woven grass mats and across cool tile where Dad snores softly on the couch, the muted TV flickering with weather channel images of a giant white swirl rotating far to the west over the Pacific.
Seems Dad can’t turn the screen off either.
I step out onto the lanai and keep going. Faster and faster. With legs pumping, feet churning over concrete and gravel, I cling to a life-vest of speed.
As long as I’m moving, I don’t have to think of storms, or submarines, or empty screens. So I run uphill because my heart isn’t strong enough to endure the gloating sea—not when its cruel laughter still lingers from my dream.
When I run out of road, I cut sideways across perfect gardens, past fountains, palm trees, and white stone walls set on the hill, then back onto roads again until cement gives way to soft grass.
Sharp as a centipede sting, my side aches so hard I gasp. One hand on my ribs, I limp past Tree