Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (22 page)

He nods, still unable to take his eyes off my arm.

“Dad.” I wince at the sound of his name. “My dad doesn’t
like it when the lists don’t get done. On time.”

Lagan’s concern turns to anger in the pitch of his voice.
“So why haven’t you left? Called the cops? Run away? Why do you stay?”

I hear his pleas, but asking implies that answers
exist.
 

“I can’t leave Jesse. Plus, when I,
we
, do leave, I want it to be for good.
Forever. No looking back and no way that Dad can ever find us. Disappear.
But...”

“If you’re thinking of me,” Lagan answers, “don’t.”

It’s not his fault I choose to stay. I just haven’t figured
out all the side effects. The one side effect, really. The one I can’t accept.
Losing him. I want both. And I don’t want to settle. Hope keeps me thinking
someday an escape offering both will materialize, and a burn here and there is
worth the price of waiting, if waiting means both. Jesse and Lagan. I want to
keep both. I plan to keep both.

“Forget it. I’ll be fine. Let’s talk about something else.”
I’m ready to think about anything else.

“Talia, I’m not looking away. I did that once. I can’t. I
won’t make that mistake again. I’m calling the cops.” Lagan pushes his resolve
on me, but I’m not ready.
Don’t you see?
A tiny corner of a picture fails to
reveal the entire story.  

Pushing myself off the bike rack, anger heats my ears. “You
can’t.” I burst his bubble. “I never asked you to fix my life. Or me.”

“So you want to tell me
if
and
how
and
when
I can help? Did it ever occur to you
that you’re not that different from him?”
Lagan’s questions don’t just sting. I
feel ripped in half.

“I’m sorry,” Lagan says when I don’t respond. “That was
uncool. Stupid. Uncalled for.”

He reaches for my hand, but my clenched fist refuses to open
as I turn from him and face the willow, my mirror.

How dare you?
Cuss words torpedo to the tip of my
tongue, bracing for takeoff like divers unable to control their fall. Instinct
wins when my teeth bite down on my lower lip. Minutes pass in silence, my
emotions duking it out inside me. Lagan’s response pierces me where I didn’t
know I could hurt. In the space between us. Spreading like the darkness of the
night. Each time I think I’m ready...

 
“Right now,” I
say, my voice barely audible. “I need a friend. Not a hero.” That’s the best I
can do. He has no choice to put his sword away, because this is my fight.

That’s all I share, and Lagan goes quiet when I step on the
brakes. Sitting side by side on the cool, metal bar, again—we watch the
sky change shades and the faint twinkle of emerging stars brighten. Staring at
the painted clouds as they roll by, the faint honk from passing geese reminds
me that winter fast approaches. Silently we leave the garden that evening, hand
in hand, together and alone.

Lagan drives me a few blocks from my house, then he stops
the car to let me out. But not before he reaches over, tenderly circling my
wrist with his hand. This time I let his fingertips trail down the length of my
covered arm. Leaning across the gear shift, his lips place quiet kisses over
the back of my hand—the shoreline to my ocean of scars.

Then he wipes his face on my sleeve. I hadn’t noticed his
tears in the dark. Our combined sadness weighs down my already heavy heart, so
I briskly exit his car and jog home, my scars throbbing with the rain. My rainy
world.

Like a branch plunged into deep waters, Lagan means to
rescue me.

He does, even if he doesn’t see it. Each moment with Lagan
is a moment I don’t drown in my pain.

And he kissed me. Imperfect me.

If he meant to kiss it better, he did. He does. More than he
knows.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Winter
term of my freshman year of college whirls in, and I witness Jesse birthing
unfamiliar courage as he accesses our neighbor’s unsecured wireless Internet
and renews his relationship with the outside world via the Web. He spends hours
upon hours reading and researching, steering clear of any traceable social
networks. If he isn’t reading, he’s working out, strengthening and relearning,
stretching and lifting, building and rebuilding. The wonder of escaping Dad’s
preying claws eludes both of us. In fact, each narrow victory, whether by hours
or seconds, fuels us to do the forbidden:
live
.

Jesse helps me with his list more and more these days as his
mobility increases and he can hold himself up longer, even helping with dishes
without his legs giving way. His new abilities give us both more time. Jess
uses the time to learn. He starts by reading through all my high school notes
and workbooks from senior year. I help him when he gets stuck with a math
equation or a physics formula. We work at the dining room table. Jess sits in
his wheelchair, always prepared for Dad’s surprise arrivals.

My brother’s perseverance births miraculous results. The
doctors predicted Jess’s complex hip fracture and head trauma would cause
immobility and speech delay, possibly for a lifetime. Jesse’s will begs to
differ. His self-rehab results in slow but definite ambulatory progress, his
academic skills sharpen, and he develops a ravenous hunger for knowledge.

But Jesse’s definitive goals elude me. We both crave
freedom. That’s a given. But another hunger burns inside the intensity I find
in his stare. Afraid to ask, the busyness of my new schedule pushes worry to
the sidelines as I justify that Jess is no longer a boy. I keep meaning to ask
Lagan to speak with him. Do the big brother thing or something like that. If
he’s up to it, of course. And Jesse would have to agree to it, too.

With my job hours at the garden and my professors who add extra
assignments when least expected, every second seems accounted for. During most
winter work days, I desk job it alongside Jason in the office as we prepare for
spring planting plans. More pressing than gardening, Jason and I spend many
hours shoveling walkways for winter visitors. Dad receives my paychecks and
funnels them straight toward my tuition—the portion the scholarship does
not cover. Once in a while, when Jess or I bring up the notion of running away,
the combination of finances and the fear of being caught and returning to our
very own Alcatraz roadblocks each conceivable plan.

One particular Friday morning in February, Loyola campus’
switchboard rings our house early enough that Dad hasn’t left for work yet. Dad
knocks on my door, mumbles that my school cancelled classes due to an incoming
snowstorm, and to make sure I finish weekend chores today instead. I nod my
robotic sign of obedience and resist falling back asleep to begin the long list
ahead of me. I’m thankful that as soon as Dad’s car leaves the driveway, Jess
can and will help me tackle the house.

Dad’s practice never closes due to inclement weather. When
he has a meeting downtown, he usually parks and takes the “L” into the city.
Financial gain seem to dictate his drive. I can honestly only remember one
canceled trial in all these years, the day of Mom’s funeral. Apart from that I
can’t recall a sick day, a vacation day, or even a personal day taken by Dad.
Even if he was under the weather, he preferred to be in his office. Dad makes the
average workaholic look like a sluggard.

Dad wasn’t always a lawyer. I only know this because my
fifth grade teacher called to ask if Dad wanted to speak at the school Career
Day. Mom answered the phone. She made a lot of excuses for Dad, then gave Mrs.
Nox
her two minute rundown of Dad’s rise to fame as one of
the top immigration lawyers in the country.  

According to the little I overheard Mom say, he started out
as a volunteer in the Federal Visa department located at the Detroit-Windsor
border while in undergrad at U of M. Mom and Dad got married when he was just a
paralegal who pretty much wrote the documents the lawyers were too busy or too
lazy to write. As higher ups recognized his talent and relentless spirit, they
promoted him to manager, then paid for his law school on the condition he
returned to work for them. Somewhere along the line, Jesse and I were born, and
with the growing expenses, Dad opened up his own firm in Benton Harbor.

Before we knew it, the Law Office of Gerard Vanderbilt
quickly attracted high profile clients that poured in like a fresh pot of
coffee. When Dad called to tell us about an impending visitor, he’s instruct us
to stay in our rooms. Dad clearly had no intention of showing off his kids to
his colleagues. More like blowing off. If only those fellows sporting
three-piece suits knew what kind of man he really is. I wonder how many would
consider stripping Dad of his power and putting him on trial. A girl can dream.

Shortly before Mom died, Dad’s clients flew in from all over,
willing to come to him, making the decision to move to Chicago all the easier,
with access to O’Hare and Midway saving time and money for everyone. When a
windy city nor’easter blew in, it didn’t make a difference how close we were to
any airport. O’Hare and Midway would both shut down today if the predicted snow
actually showed up.

This particular snow day seems a hoax at six in the morning.
A few flakes swirl here and there. By nine in the morning, the air is empty and
still. I rethink my decision to call Jason to change shifts, because I can’t
foresee not making it home. Not if the weather stays this calm. I postpone my
final decision until I cross off the final item on the list, and I proof,
print, and pack away my English essays.

By noon, Jesse and I complete double-checking every inch of
every room. The house looks impeccable. Time to play. I open the front door
first, and the sky resembles a herd of polar bears charging with their eyes
closed. The sea of white blanks out everything more than five feet away, and
the lawn is covered by at least three inches already. The weatherman’s Doppler
radar functioned correctly after all, and I close the door to prevent more snow
from blowing indoors.

Jess stands behind me, and we shake our heads at each other.
The speedy accumulation demands shoveling. Without a snow blower, we both know
the futility of a manual attempt. Layers will reappear on our heels. And if the
threat of frostbite doesn’t deter us, the gift of stolen time does.

“Or not.” Jess stares at the sea of white outside the
kitchen window defiantly, reading my mind. “I mean...it wasn’t on the list.
Right?”

“Good point.” Possibility boomerangs between our nods. “What
do you want to do then?”

“Break into Dad’s office.” No hesitation in Jess’s words.
He’s thought about this for some time.

“Not funny. What do you want to do that
won’t
get us in trouble?”

He repeats the response, his face set in grim lines. “Break
into Dad’s office. You can go off and meet lover boy Lagan if you like. I’ll
make sure I put the door back on before Dad gets home.”

“You’re serious?” A chill of fear coats my arms with goose
bumps. “What’s the point anyway? What do you want with Dad’s office?”

“More clues about our MIA grandparents, why Mom came to
America, how Dad tricked her. If there’s any way to contact Mom’s parents? If
we run away to India, I doubt Dad would come look for us. It could be our
ticket out. It’s worth a shot.”

Jess’s mind unravels a foolproof plan of escape that he’s
determined to carry out. “With or without you.”

I can’t let him risk this alone. We’re a team. “With me, of
course. I’ll get the toolbox from the garage.”

“I’ve been reading up on breaking computer codes in order to
hack Dad’s e-mail. I’ll bet  Dad’s business files hold clues. Just remind
me to erase our activity history. He notices every little change. Are you sure
you want to do this with me? If I get caught, I have nothing to lose. If you
get caught...you know what I’m saying. You have to think about...”

“Lagan.” I fill in the blank. “We stick together. So if you
found an escape route, we work for it together. And we escape together.
Maybe...maybe Lagan can help us.”

“No,” Jess says without blinking. “We can’t risk that.”

“I just mean, if the door is heavy or you think you need a
tool that we don’t have, I know Lagan will do whatever he can to help us. He
wants to help. He understands.”

Jess stops in his tracks. “What do you mean by ‘he
understands’? Did you tell him about Dad? Are you nuts? How much did you tell
him?”

I look down. Lagan’s arrival into my life broke more than
one unspoken pact. He entered the house. Our hornet’s nest. And inevitably, my
heart. Other than that one peek at a tiny section of my arm, when it was more
healed than burnt, Lagan knows nothing, really.

I return from a short detour down that October evening under
the willow back to today. “He doesn’t know much. Just that life isn’t perfect.
Only perfectly hard. For me. For us.”

“And he still wants to be friends?” Jesse’s voice softens
and his stare is wanting.