Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (15 page)

“I have to go.” I ignore him. I can’t afford to add to my
list right now. I turn to run home, and he catches my arm.

“Wait.”

Every second is one second closer to boiling water. Bleeding
lips. Jesse crying. I need to go.

“I just want you to know...”  Lagan wants to talk. I am
already moving away. Backward. I can still see his face as he squeezes one last
thought past the caution tape. Into my heart. “I accept you. No matter how
little of you I can have. I accept you.”

I turn to sprint, and after running a hundred or so yards, I
reply over my shoulder, shaking my head and smiling, “ You’re crazy!” Then I
face forward to pick up speed in order to make up time.

“You’re right!” I can hear Lagan screaming. “I am crazy!
About you—Talia Grace Vanderbilt!
Crae-crae
, I
tell
ya
!”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

During
the last weeks of March, Dad accompanies me from college to home, to the
garden, back home several times on the “L” and buses in order to gauge when to
expect me on my volunteer days. Always in the business of control, Dad
surprises me when he allows me to navigate the train system alone from Loyola’s
campus and walk the final mile to Chicago Botanical Gardens for my orientation.

It’s Saturday, March 20, and based on travel times, I agree
to four-hour shifts once a week to fulfill my six month contract. Never having
done more than take the bus back and forth to school, I feel the thrill of
accomplishment before I even pick up a rake. Or do they call it a spade? Jason,
the grounds director, hands me a rake-like thingy and a roll of twine, then
tours me around the garden, pointing out the heaviest traffic zones that
require weekly maintenance. Jason reminds me of a shorter version of Liam
Hemsworth
. I guess the shaggy, full head of hair look is in
again. Then he guides me to my special project area, which will be my focus
during the last two hours of my four-hour shift.

We cross a sea of green as we approach a weeping willow, and
I stop in my tracks, stunned. I get it instantly, the moment I see this tree.
Like the clouds rolling away to make way for the sun, I know without a doubt
that I’m in this place for a reason bigger than landscaping. So many branches
drag their fading leaves on the earth below, and like the girl who hides her
deepest hurts behind chapped lips, under the canopy of the willow lies the bark
of the trunk, peeling and inaccessible to the sun. So many limbs lie half or
fully shattered, hidden from the eye of any distant viewer, that the garden
staff considered uprooting her or letting her die slowly. Most onlookers will
never see the irreparable damages underneath her branches. Most will never know
of her damaged heart, weighed down by the tornadoes in past days. Storms that
have left her wanting to sleep and weep no more.

Jason leaves me after instructing how to make reasonably
sized piles of debris. I listen silently, all the while merging with my
surroundings. I am the weeping willow. I know why I’ve been brought here. And
I’m not alone. Someone I never expected showed up today: the gardener from
The
Beautiful Fight
. He’s here
to tell me something.  

I lay my rake down and pull on my gardening gloves. Then I
reach down and begin gathering a pile of branches scattered all about the tree,
and with each drop of a limb, I find myself laying my hurts at the invisible
feet of the gardener. And instead of rejecting, resisting, judging, or wincing.
I sense his invisible hands asking for more. Of me. All of me. Every broken
branch. Every hurtful memory. Every lost moment. Every vanished dream.

I don’t know exactly why, especially why now, but I want to
try again. I’m the bleeding woman and I want to reach for him. Someone I cannot
see. Do not know for sure exists.

 
I
cannot do this alone. I want like I have never known want before. I want to be
wanted.

Like a puzzle with only the edge pieces fixed in place, I
see only part of the picture. I have time to put this puzzle together, one
piece after the other, and if the completed picture doesn’t sit well, I’ll just
collapse it and go back to same old, same cold.

I’m lost in thought as I gather and tie, rake and bundle.
When Jason returns to check on me, his smile affirms that I won’t be fired. At
least not today. He turns to visit his other new volunteers, and I’m reminded
of my question that I forgot to ask him earlier.

“Jason?”

He turns to listen, but only slows down his pace.

“Speak.” He walks backwards now. “I have to still check on a
few more zones. Can it wait?”

“I just... What time does the garden close at night?”

“Shortly after sunset.” And with that, he races off and out
of sight behind bushes of hydrangeas, purple and blue.

That explains why the wood plank with hours etched into it
only displays opening hours. It hangs at the end of the parking lot by the
entrance gate. But this is a garden, absent of walls or doors or locks. I like
this place more and more. A plan births in my head of a rendezvous with a
friend.

Lagan wanted to meet me here on my first day and pose as a
casual visitor in the garden. Disguised with sunglasses, hat and wig, he suggested.
I told him no. I asked him to wait. In time. I needed time. I need time. To
adjust to this nibble of freedom I’ve never known before. And, of course, to
assess Dad’s radar for this rare allowance. Give it a month. Give me a month.
By then, I will know how safe we will be if we meet here in the garden after
hours.

The first month, by myself, working under and around the
weeping willow, the gardener meets me. Like he is waiting for me there each
day. Little by little, he pours hope into the crevices of my broken lips. And
heart. And little by little, for the first time in my life, my dreams change.

The majority of my off-road daydreaming while weeding and
grafting leads me to Lagan. Recklessly, I veer toward an imaginary future of
wedding bells, kisses, and babies. Of pretty lips, flowing gowns, and flowers
in my hair. Of dancing toe-to-toe, sailing oceans, and watching sunsets.

Laboring under a blue canopy unleashes a momentum I cannot
contain, because no one can hear my thoughts in the garden. And Dad hasn’t
shown up since the first week, when he arrived unannounced every other day just
to “check in.” The dirt under my fingernails and tan on my shoulders seems
assurance enough that I clearly work during my shifts. He isn’t a fan of dirt
of any sort. The simple fact that flowers grow in dirt deters his return.
Making me love the dirt all the more.

A month into the job, and I am in love with mud. Springtime
in Chicago blooms all around me, the broken willow blossoms soft tiny yellow
petals, and the scent of lilacs fills the air. But it’s the earth that beckons
me. During each of my twenty-minute breaks, I sit on the floor under the
willow, burying my fingers into the ground. The aroma of the moist black soil
caffeinates my senses. My gardening boots and socks set nearby, I spread the
dirt over my legs, working my way up from my toes to my ankles to my knees. And
as I massage the dark grains into my skin, I’m back on the beach at Benton
Harbor. The dirt transforms into sand. Lost in my world of sand castles and
seashell hunting, I don’t hear the approaching footsteps.

“Starting an earth therapy clinic?” Lagan’s voice startles
me.

I shake off the dirt quickly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“How long have you been standing there watching me?”?” I ask
while frantically putting my socks and shoes on. “

“Oh...” Lagan looks up to his right. “Like ten minutes.”

My jaw drops.

“Kidding. More like thirty seconds. But I have to admit,
I’ve never seen you so...so...”

“Chillax?” I rescue his search for the perfect word.

“Yes.” Lagan approves of my choice.

“What are you doing here? How did you know I worked today?”

“I missed you.” Lagan makes a goofy, pouting face.

“I just saw you yesterday in school.”

“Exactly.” He points his index finger upward and continues.
“Twelve hours away from you feel like two hundred. So I took a chance and biked
over here, hoping that you might be working today. If wrong, I’d have a long
bike ride back to work off my disappointment. Instead, I have a picture of you,
more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you, to think about as I pedal back.”

My giggle turns to laughter as I rise and slap my hands
together to shake off the excess dirt. “Did you say beautiful?” I can’t stop
laughing. “Are we on the same planet?”

“You have laughed more in these few minutes than the entire
time I’ve known you.”

I shake my head, impossible, but even as I look down at my
legs covered with dark brown specks, I know he’s right. I realize he doesn’t
know. I haven’t told him.

“Are you jealous?” I tease.

“Only if some guy is the reason for the smile on your face.”
Lagan speaks steadily without smiling.

“Not exactly.”  

Lagan’s eyebrows raise and he backs up to lean against a
thick branch that has rooted into the ground.

Taking a deep breath, he snorts a nervous chuckle. “Okay.
What’s his name?”

I debate prolonging the torture. Never seen Lagan squirm
before. Satisfied, I erase any doubt in his mind with two words.

“The gardener.”

“What about the gardener?” Lagan’s wrinkled forehead
smoothes
out.

“He’s the reason I’m smiling.” I put it simply.

Lagan’s grin reaches for his ears, and then turns to a
playful frown. “So, I guess you don’t need me anymore?”

How do I answer that? Isn’t it obvious that...“I like you.”
I surprise myself when I speak these three little words.

He’s speechless. Dimple in full effect, he moves closer to
me and makes a funny request. “Can you say that again?”

“Seriously?”
You’re lucky I said it once.

“Please. This time I’ll empty my mind so I can hear every
sound, syllable, and word pronounced. I just want to hear it one more time, so
I can remember how you say it. And to know for sure that you did say it. Come
on! Cut this guy a break and grant him one tiny wish.”

His face inches closer to mine, only his clasped hands in a
childish begging gesture linger between us. I can feel his breath on my face.
Sweet peppermint intoxication.

I take a deep breath. Another. Then another. I turn to look
through the branches to the green expanse between the main gardens and us. No
one. Nothing but manicured emerald blades sparkling in the sun. I turn back.
Lagan’s eyes are waiting.

“I. Like. You.” I blink. And then look down at my boots.

“So....” Lagan tries to cash in while the jackpot cha-
chings
with unusual generosity. “You’ll come to my
graduation party?”

My heart sinks. I fall backward to plop down on a nearby
limb, Lagan’s request anchoring me back to my reality. A reality with a dad
that forbids normalcy. I’m a little ticked that he keeps asking. I don’t
answer.

“Just try.” He fills the silence. “If you can, just try.
Okay?”

“Okay.” I can accept that. My version of trying, of course.
“I’ll try.”

***

May
begins and the days whirl by. Within weeks, Lagan and I will no longer see each
other daily. Summer vacation will start. My hours at the garden will increase.
Lagan will leave for his summer internship overseas. Something about a water
well-digging project in some remote village. He plans to study International
Justice and dreams of the day he can represent those without a voice. Becoming
a lawyer is just a means to give him access to his ultimate dreams: to change
the world, for the better. Impending change threatens and entices me. Perhaps a
month will be enough to get over him. To say goodbye. To adjust back to life
alone. Minus the loneliness.

***

“My
break is over.” I remind us both one Saturday afternoon in May when Lagan turns
up at the garden during my first short rest. Dad happens to be working today,
but I can’t guarantee that will be the case every time he decides to pop in. I
tell him he has to stop with the spontaneous visits. If we get caught... “Plus,
I have work to do.”

“Of course.” He makes to leave. “Hey, when is your next
break?”

“I have a thirty minute break for lunch in two hours. Around
12:30. Why?” I know exactly why.

“No reason. I’ll let you get back.” He leans into my space
and whispers in my ear. “Can I take you out to lunch?”

“You know I can’t leave the grounds.” I make a fist and
playfully punch his arm nearest me. Which moves him back.
Breathe
. Now I can breathe again.

“Who said anything about leaving?” He shrugs his shoulders.
“This here is as out as out gets. I’m talking simple, private dining under a
weeping willow that needs a new name.”

“New name?” I lower my fist.
Did we just
change the subject?

“Definitely. How about ‘Waterfall Willow’? Weeping is just
too sad for the new, happy you that I’ve only seen under here. Under this...”
He motions around us with his arms. “This broken mess of a tree.”

I nod, tickled by Lagan’s naming quirk. “Waterfall Willow it
is.”

“Okay then.” He makes to really leave this time and finishes
his thought as he spreads branches to exit. “I’ll meet you under the waterfall
for lunch. I’ll bring the food. If you bring your smile?”

If I agree, I know I am inviting him. Back here. Again and
again. Opening up a gate with the posts that read
unknown
and
risk
all over them.

“Say yes.” Lagan slowly stretches out an open palm toward
me.

I swallow. Knowing I gave up choice when I repeated the
three words
I like you
the first time Lagan and I stood here
under the willow.

I pick up my rake as I silently promise myself to be super
careful. “I’ll see you at lunchtime.” Avoiding his eyes, I wonder if Lagan can
hear my heart pounding in this quiet place.

“Yes, you will.” Lagan rides off across the field. I watch
him bike away leisurely as I rake slowly at first, when he halts, and turns
around to yell one last thing. Go figure. “Oh, and don’t worry! I’ll bring
plenty of wipes!”

“Thanks!” I shout back, just as he turns and disappears past
the field.

I rake and rake until my arms ache all over. All the while
thinking of two firsts and a last.

The first time a boy asked me on a date.

The first time I ever told a boy that I like him.

And the last time I rake under a weeping willow.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Jason
arrives five minutes before my lunch break to dismiss me.
Okay,
Gale
, I think to myself,
half expecting him to pull out his bow and arrow.

Instead he says, “Get yourself cleaned up and get some
grub.” He takes the trash bag from my hands and tells me the work will be right
here waiting for me after lunch.

“Okay.” My tired body agrees easily. “Is it okay to eat out
here?”

“Eat wherever you like.” Jason shrugs. “Just remember to
throw out your trash.”

I walk back toward the closest ladies room to wash up. I
can’t help but gasp when I see the mirror above the sink. I look like a
three-year-old with smudge marks up and down. I am one muddy mess. I grab a
handful of paper towels, wet them, and go to work giving myself a sponge bath
of sorts. Too bad I don’t have a hairbrush. My wet fingertips will have to do.
Pleased with the results of warm water, I move close to the mirror to examine
my lips. As I run two fingers along the scabs, I silently vow not to kiss
anyone until my lips are healed. Fully. Not even certain that Lagan is thinking
along those lines, I giggle to myself as I mosey on back to the weeping—I
mean waterfall—willow.

I see Lagan’s bike from a distance. Of course he’d come
back. Still have to get used to this guy who keeps his word. The sun peeks
above, burning my cheeks, forehead, and eyelids. Sheesh. I forgot my shades in
the restroom. I debate running back to retrieve them. Then decide three extra
minutes with Lagan warrant a little squinting. I’ll get them on my next break.

Lagan empties a medium-sized paper bag as I enter the
welcoming shade of the willow.

“Hey!” I announce my arrival. “What’s cooking?”

“You forgot to say, ‘good-looking.’” Lagan turns his palms
open like he’s waiting to catch a beach ball. “You know... ‘What’s
cookin
’, good
lookin
’?’”

Not following, so I just say, “Sure,” and leave it at that.

I sit down on a nearby nice-sized branch to survey the
spread atop the brown paper bag. Saran-wrapped croissants filled with cold
cuts. Two clear plastic tins: one with fruit salad and the other with sliced
cucumbers. He’s also brought two iced coffees.
Yummy
.

I like this place. Sitting closer. Sharing words.
Face-to-face. “Thanks for bringing lunch.”

“Thank you.” Lagan looks over his sunglasses to correct me.
“For letting me come back with lunch. And, of course, for bringing your smile.
Sit here.” He points to the spot next to him. “Dig in.”

We munch for a bit in silence, and I love this place. Our
waterfall willow away from the world.

“Can I ask you a question?” Lagan pops his last bite in. I
haven’t made it through half my sandwich. “What is it about the gardener that
makes you smile?” Lagan is all about my smile these days.  

I want to show him rather than tell him. So I pop the
cucumber container open and munch away at four slices. Lagan stares at me, but
waits patiently. When I’m done, I lay my four reshaped cucumber slices down on
the paper bag. Each piece is now a light-green, wet letter.

L I S T

Lagan’s eyes sadden as I explain how my whole life I’ve had
lists from Dad that I fearfully complete with the clock ticking like a horse
rider’s switch. I don’t want to stay in this place of sadness. We no longer
dine under a weeping willow, after all. I rearrange the cucumber slices. Now
they spell a new word.

S T I L

“I know there’s an
L
missing.” I move us from weeping to a waterfall. “This is what the gardener
tells me he wants to give me in exchange. He has no lists for me to complete.
When I’m
still
, he
moves me. Well, more like he moves me out of the way. The part of me that
forgot how to search for...hmmm?” I’m searching for the right word. “Hope. It’s
all very new. But...I like this place. This place of
still
. More and more.” A sweet calm runs over
me.
Still
.

Lagan’s hands reach to cup my chin. As I blink, tiny
droplets escape, roll down my cheeks, and disappear into his palms. Just a
waterfall
kinda
day.

 
“You better eat
up.” Lagan starts to gather up and organize the spoils after wiping my tears.
“It’s already one. Only fifteen minutes before our date is over!”

“So this is our first date?” I want to hear him affirm it.
“What does that make us? Are we...,” and I’m not sure I want to finish my
thought.

“Eat up, I said.” Lagan ignores me. He’s munching on
cucumbers now. Facing slightly away so I can’t see what he’s spelling with the
slices.

I scarf down the
yumilicious
sandwich, washing down every bite with big gulps of watery ice coffee. I pick
at the fruit salad while looking around the grounds, determining realistic
goals for the remainder of my shift. If I can bag my piles and tie heavier
branches that hang too low back upward, the weaker ones will support their
weight with the strength of stronger more stable branches nearby.  

It’s 1:15 p.m. Lunch break is over. I rise up and Lagan
hands me the container of cucumbers while gathering up the rest of the garbage.

His instructions surprise me. “Read this after I’m gone,
okay?”

“K.” I can’t help but giggle. This is a first. I initiate a
non-verbal communication game, and Lagan plays along.

“Best get back home before my mom starts wondering if I
biked to Alaska. See
ya
Monday.”

I’m holding a rake in one hand and a plastic box of munched
cucumber letters in the other.

“How will I know the order of the letters?” I panic. What if
it’s a puzzle I can’t solve?

He leans forward and hugs me carefully, so as not to knock
the contents out of my hands.

A smile. A wave. And off he disappears, his tires leaving a
temporary crease in his grassy trail.

I lean the rake against a branch and open up the container.
There are only three cucumber slices in there. Two letters and one shape:
I
♥ U
.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Monday
arrives not soon enough. I anxiously count down the minutes till lunchtime to
tell Lagan that I ate his cucumber slices up. That they were yummy. That he
can’t take the letters back. The letter. Really. The letter to me telling me
that he
hearts
me.

We still sit seats apart. The end of the school year has
enough days that I’m not willing to risk being pulled out of school and missing
precious time with my prince. Gosh. That sounds so girly. I still have to watch
myself. Limiting my smiles around Jesse. Don’t want to gloat. Keeping my poker
face on when Dad is around.

Saturday streamed into Sunday, like any normal weekend.
Chores. More chores. Homework. More work. And broken eggshells everywhere as
Jess and I tiptoed around Dad’s cancerous anger. Well, I walked. Jess just lays
there, a charade that has to be getting old. Then Sunday evening brought about
the most unusual moment. As I carefully walked past Dad’s office to make my way
up to bed, I could have sworn I heard a muffled sound, coming from his desk. I
know that sound like I know the back of dad’s hand. He was crying.

I witnessed a similar incident a couple years back, but I
dismissed it as a fluke. About three months after Mom passed away when packing
our house up became top priority, I approached Dad in his office to ask whether
to save or donate several books from his college days. He looked through them
quickly, and after removing one from the stack, told me to toss the rest in the
donation bin. I left the room to continue sorting when I realized I forgot to
ask him about some jackets I found in the basement closet. As I turned the
corner toward the den, I stopped in my tracks. Dad gazed at the saved book and
turned page after page, one at a time. His eyes looked more tenderly at the
words than I’d ever seen him look at anything or anyone. I nearly choked as I
gulped back disbelief when I saw Dad’s hand wipe a tear from his cheek. He was
crying? Over a skinny book called
The Foundling
?

I didn’t think to pay attention to the author’s name, but I
looked up the word in a dictionary that night before I went to bed. Webster’s
defined
foundling
as “an abandoned infant, a stray, an outcast.” I will never know if the tears
were for Mom or for himself. That day marked the first and last time I ever saw
my father cry. Until yesterday. Last night. But I just moved from a weeping to
a waterfall willow. I can’t allow myself to dwell on Dad. I’d rather sleep and
dream of days past and days to come, with a boy who says, “I heart you!”