Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (23 page)

“I know, right? He’s not like the rest. Lagan doesn’t see it
like I thought he would.” I had dismissed the conversation, filing it away like
I did everything else. “He doesn’t see me like...I see myself.”

Jess
hmm’s
my conclusions and
turns away, like he’s looking into the future. Or maybe it’s the past. Was
there someone who saw him like Lagan sees me?

“Know what I’m talking about?” I fish. Baiting my little
brother with the option to open up about the mystery girl from Benton Harbor.
Knowing he probably won’t.

“Sure.” He shrugs his shoulder matter-of-factly. “Did I
forget to mention how the ladies lined up outside the door when I made cover of
Hot Teen Male Gimp of the Year
?”

“All it takes is one.” I throw my line out one last time.
Time might never be on my side again.

“The one that got away.” Jesse sings the words, sounding
nothing like Katy Perry. “Enough chit-chat. We have a crime to commit. Let’s
roll.”

Jess shifts gears and wheels toward the garage, his legs
tired from cleaning. I follow, wondering if Jesse will ever tell me her name.
The girl who chased his heart. A friend he once ran to. If we run away tonight,
we both know that Dad will hunt until he finds us. And then, the words
or
else
would result in
unthinkable consequences.

How would a life in India alter the future? In my mind, the
story always ends with both Jess and me ensnared in Dad’s poisonous web. Maybe
Jess hopes to build a spaceship and shuttle us to the moon with affordable
materials found overseas. Doubt muddies my hope. I shake my head. Focus on Jesse’s
mission to open the office door.
First things first.

After finding straight and Phillips screwdrivers, along with
a hammer and wrenches of various sizes, we return to the den. The view out the
kitchen window reveals about a foot of snow accumulation.
Woah
!
The wind is whipping, and a growing snow mountain leans against our front door.
Jess dials Dad’s cell and hands me the phone.

Dad’s voice is immediately demanding. “Talia, make it quick.
I have a meeting in five minutes, and I just made it downtown with the cab
driver cursing me out for asking him to do his job.”

“Dad.” I steady my voice. “The snow is really bad. Are you
sure you shouldn’t just postpone work and drive home before the storm gets
worse?”

“Is that it?” He sounds annoyed. “I’ll worry about myself.
Just finish your chores and stay indoors. I’ll cab it home if the “L” stops
running. Okay? By the way, my five o’clock was moved back due the client’s
flight delay, so you and Jess have dinner without me. And don’t wait up.”

“Okay, Dad.” I try to sound disappointed while fireworks
launch inside me. “Will do.”

“Yes!” Jess says, pulling himself up and steadying his
weight on his right leg.

His right arm also seems stronger than his left. I work on
Jess’s left side, so he can use my shoulder for balance. Since he demonstrates
knowledge if not experience, I make like an OR nurse, handing Jesse tools while
he operates on the doorknob, then the door hinges. After popping out pins, the
door begins to fall toward us, but we push together and ease it toward the wall
on our side.

We have a short window in which to explore, invade,
reassemble, and clean up. With the plan of attack in conjunction with our decoy
assignments, each task depends on the prior one’s success. We decide on a
five-minute turnover when we hit a roadblock. And we expect to hit roadblocks.
After five minutes of trying to maneuver around or through any setback, we have
to move forward to the next task. The entire process should take no longer than
an hour, and if we do this right, everything will be back in its place long
before Dad’s return.

Jess pulls out latex gloves for both of us as if we’re
members of
Ocean’s Eleven
minus nine. “Not a trace, all right? Not even a fingerprint can prove we were
here.”

“And I’ll keep my clumsy factor in check today.” I swat away
images of swirling files in the air with my imaginary bat. I can handle this.

Door removed, I follow Jesse into Dad’s lair. The desk
proves void of further clues regarding our mom or grandparents. When I pull the
bottom right handle toward me, the sight of Dad’s gun startles me. It’s still
here. Flashbacks of that afternoon finding Jess in here floods my thoughts, and
I sense the urgency of our mission. I slam the drawer shut and move toward the
file cabinet. Seated in Dad’s chair now, Jess looks over from the monitor. He
knows what I saw in the drawer. Silently, he returns to tapping on the
keyboard, scrolling through screens, and searching Dad’s saved files and
documents for clues. Any clue.

I move to the drawers of Dad’s file cabinet against the
furthest wall to find letters in the middle drawer. Memorizing their position
in the drawer, as well as the top address, I pick each envelope up and begin to
meticulously sort through them, looking for any overseas stamps or labels,
especially those from India. Sheesh.
There are so many from India.
I return them and move to the next
drawer. Same thing. File upon file with female names that read “
Joyti
,
Kavitha
,
Sagel
,
Manisha
, Mali,” and on and
on.
Does Dad only deal with female clients?

Pulling open the last section, my fingers almost flick past
a file that sends a shiver down my spine. I back up the manila folder to read
the name under my breath. “Gita Shah.”
That’s Mom’s name.

“Jesse?” I’m afraid to remove it as if lifting it could
detonate a bomb.

“Find something?”

“Mom’s name.” I turn to see him moving toward me. “There’s a
file with Mom’s name on it.”

Jesse could care less about bombs exploding. He yanks the
file out without giving me a chance to memorize which name it belonged after.
Thankfully a small space remains between the names Farah and Henna. I’m still
thinking about how Dad filed alphabetically when Jess let’s out an emphatic
string of cuss words.

“Jesse?” Cursing could only mean one thing.

“It’s useless. The file has one sheet of paper with a bunch
of law jargon all over it.” I’m looking at the paper too now. There’s that word
Mom told me was misspelled on the magazine, saying the word was skirt.
“Escort.”
Mom lied to me.  

Trying to decipher the legal jargon, it seems like an official
document giving Mom permission to work for a one year period in the States.
Did
Dad hire Mom to escort him to places?
That
might explain how she ended up with him. I mean, you couldn’t pay me enough to
stay with the man if I had a choice. Dad’s handwriting runs atop the line
marked for the representing attorney, although it’s another lawyer’s
name—Michael Meyers, Esq. I’d recognize his handwriting anywhere. I shake
my head in disbelief.

Mom never worked a day in her life as far as I could
remember. My mind scripts a hundred more questions of what I’ve always assumed
to be true. I begin to wonder whether my parents even wanted children. Maybe I
was an accident. And Dad’s treatment, or should I say mistreatment of me, is
his punishment for me showing up. Like it’s all my fault.

I’m lost in thought over this deeper level of rejection that
I contrive with the slightest suggestion of Mom’s mistake—Mom’s foolish
choice to pick Dad as her lover.
Now look at me.
I’m as bad as my father, blaming Mom for
everything. Maybe Lagan was right. Repulsed by the comparison, my foot kicks
the drawer shut. The loud ting of metal hitting metal punctuates our attempt.
It’s over.

Just like that. No further clue regarding our grandparents
or Mom’s history or our heritage exists in Dad’s office. Perhaps he just hadn’t
had a chance to toss the most recent letter that I stumbled upon. Wish I had
taken the time to memorize the return address. Add that to my long list of
coulda
,
shoulda
,
woulda’s
.

Another plan dissipates into oblivion, and it’s time to
reassemble and clean up. Jesse’s eyes express loss beyond words. Without seeing
the original letter, it feels like a hoax. To both of us. We go back to being
alone. Together. Unwanted and alone. Neither of us speaks as we return every
item perfectly and finish by reinstalling the door and its lock. The door seems
heavier as we align the angles in order to replace the hinges.
Why
did we have to remove the hinges if we removed the doorknob?
Does it matter now? We found what we
were looking for. Although neither of us expected to find out this. I guess
we’ll never meet our grandparents, after all.

“I’ll put the tools back if you want to rest a bit.” I feel
terrible. “Your legs must be exhausted.”

Jess complies by wheeling to the stairwell, dragging himself
up to his room and pulling the covers over his head. He’s more disappointed
than me. I return the tools, shut the garage door, and decide to start dinner.
My stomach’s growling reminds me that we skipped lunch. When I see the snow
whisked up to the kitchen window, I’m shocked at the volume. And it’s still
coming down. I don’t see any snow plows. They’re probably busy trying to keep
the highways clear. There has to be over a foot of snow out there. I turn on
the radio on the counter to listen for the latest weather update.

“Jess!” I run to tell him the news. “Jesse! The weatherman
says that sixteen inches of snow have fallen, and they’re expecting three or
four more before midnight when it will finally slow down!”

“So?” Jess responds from under the covers.

“That means, I hope, that Dad cannot get home! There’s no
way! Not even cabs can drive in this insane weather. The radio guy advised
everyone to stay indoors. Even a lot of the “L” lines stopped running due to
ice on the tracks. This is insane! Insanely awesome!”

“What are you so excited about?” Jess sits up in bed and
looks at me curiously. “One day of freedom doesn’t cut it for me. I want out. I
want to get out of this hell for good. Are you so clueless that you missed the
bit about no info? No grandparents’ address? No way to get to the two people
who might exist that actually want us? I’m going back to sleep. Wake me up if
you get some real good news. Like the police find Dad in the storm. Frozen to
death. Until then, leave me alone, okay?”

I swallow.
Okay.
I return to boiling water to make rice. Salty rice soup
appeals to me on cold wintry days. Any soup really. I fish through the fridge
for what else I can throw into the soup and find green onions, leftover
chicken, spinach, and fresh basil. I chop each item up, toss in some paprika,
salt, and black pepper, and hope the warm aromas of basil and spice might lure
Jess out of bed to eat with me.

Dad calls while I slurp my soup, trying not to burn my
tongue. “I’m stuck at work.” I bite my tongue to keep from squealing aloud.
“The cab companies aren’t driving to the suburbs until the snowplows make their
rounds, and they might not get to it till the morning. I’ll crash on my couch
here in my downtown office for the night if I can’t make it home. You two
behave, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening after work. Even if I manage to fetch
a cab in the morning, I’ll waste time commuting right back through the mess. If
anything changes, I’ll call.”

Will this qualify as good news to Jess? I don’t care. I run
back to Jesse’s room and announce Dad’s message. “Maybe it’s just one day, but
let’s make the best of it! Let’s go and play in the snow! Let’s build a
snowman! Let’s goof off! Come on already!” I pester Jesse until he finally
rolls out of bed.

Jess whines, but gets up. “Fine, but if my legs collapse in
the snow, you’re responsible for carrying me inside. Deal?”

“
Dealio
! Can I get help?” I press
my hands together. “Can I ask Lagan to come over?”

Jess points out the obvious. “How do you plan to call him without
getting the call traced or tracked by Dad? And second of all, how do you think
Lagan would manage to get here through the snow when Dad can’t get home?”

“Hmm.” He makes two very good points. “For the first
question, I’ll tell Dad that I needed homework help. He won’t see the number
again. He’ll forget about it. For the second problem. I just have a feeling
that if Lagan could find a way to get here, he would. Maybe he owns a
snowmobile? He only lives a few blocks away. It’s worth a shot!”

“You’re
gonna
do what you
wanna
do.” Jesse shakes his head as he plops down into the
wheelchair. “Do
whacha
gotta
do.”

I follow my brother as he shuttles down the steps on the
conveyer he rarely uses these days and then rolls into the kitchen where I
ladle a bowl of soup for him. Staring at the phone, I realize that I don’t know
Lagan’s number. Another grand idea swirls down the drain.

Dishing up another helping of steamy soup, I join Jesse to
wash down another serving of warm goodness. Next, I dig out winter wear and
snow boots for my brother and myself, reminding him to layer up before we go
out. We exit our house from the back door resembling Eskimos, every inch
besides our eyes covered. At first Jesse lightly steps atop the close to two
feet of snow, but too quickly. His feet sink deep into the snow. I have no
choice but to follow, and I’m out of breath just trekking to the front of the
house.