Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (27 page)

I awake sweaty and exhausted. When did sleep find me, I
wonder? I dodged the demons of possibility all night. Jesse’s demons. They
taunted me with images of his falling from the roof. Broken fingers clutching
to the list that pushed him over. Bloody knees from crawling across the floor.
I take my shower before the sunrise, my pounding heart still fighting to find
still.

Jesse lies in bed when I begin my morning chores, Dad
already off to work for the day. My little brother with the big plans is not in
the mood to help me today. Perhaps he hasn’t slept well either. I hug him
tightly, his head turned from my face. Just as I reach his bedroom doorway, I
hear Jesse’s first words since last night: “You’re right.”

“What?” My hand catches the doorframe as I catch a curse
before it leaves my lips. “What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘You’re right.’ In fact, you’ve been right all
along.” Jesse swings his legs off the side of the bed and sits up, then stares
at his hands, cracking his knuckles like a boxer about to enter the ring.

Dropping my bag to the floor, I return to Jess’s bedside,
giving him the green light to say more. I’m still not sure what we’re talking
about, but I know my brother well enough to wait it out.

“Fire.” Jess says a word—the one word that has
penetrated my life most deeply. If hell is made of fire...

“I’m
gonna
set the house on fire.”
Jess lays out his plan like he’s reading the directions on the back of a Betty
Crocker cake mix. “I’m
gonna
burn Dad’s perfect world
to the ground for all the times he burned you. And Mom. And me.”

“Jess.” I actually don’t know what to say. I close my eyes
and envision the bed sheets below me engulfed in embers. Orange dances in my
eyes. And maybe I imagine it, but a sensation of heat rises over my ears.
Wallpaper peels, spreads out, and patterns erase like a fading dream. Tea
kettles blacken, melt, and vanish. And just before Jesse and I flee the house
of fire, I rip up the list. Then every list ever written. Into hundreds of
pieces and throw the shreds up into the air. Lashing flames lick them up before
one scrap hits the ground. Then we run. And run and run. Never looking back.

“It’s the perfect plan, really.” Jesse’s words tell me this
daydream is about to become reality. “You leave the house. Don’t show up to
work. Take nothing with you. Not even the shoes you usually wear every day. You
can’t let anyone see you either.”

“When?” I know now where he’s going with this. “Because...”
And I know he’s right. The only way we can truly escape Dad is death. Or
rather, the appearance of. But I can’t leave without saying goodbye. And Jesse
knows this.

“I was
gonna
say now. I’m ready. I
was ready yesterday. Heck, the day Mom died. Why didn’t I think of this
sooner?” Jesse shakes his head and punches his hand. Time is something we can
never take back. But we have tomorrow, if—and that’s a huge if—we
can pull this off.

“Give me one day. Let me have one last day at the garden.
And say my goodbyes.” Really one goodbye. “And then. Then we can...” And my voice
fails to say the word
go
.
Because I’ve seen these crossroads a million times. In and out of my dreams.
Lagan and I never had a fighting chance at happily ever after. The fight has
always been between Dad and me. Jess and Dad. And even when we win, we lose. I
lose.  

 
“One day.”
Jess’s words linger in the air as I head out the front door. I have one last
day to live. To love. Then to let go.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

During
the commute to campus, I change my mind and stay on the train as it heads
downtown. I don’t know
Northwestern’s
campus at all,
but I know Lagan is there, somewhere. I can’t waste my last night
alive
staring at a whiteboard of quotes by
Thoreau and Emerson. Our own Walden Pond awaits out there, wherever Jesse and I
decide to run away to.  

Why would anyone attach the word
good
to
bye
puzzles me. Angers me. And then saddens me. Because,
ultimately, this sucks. But maybe it’s better this way. Jesse decided the
when
so I wouldn’t have to.

As soon as I exit the “L,” I walk several blocks, following
signs pointing to NU’s downtown campus. Finding a courtesy phone inside the
Northwestern Medical School Library, I stand nearby to wait my turn. A short
blond chick has the receiver to her ear. I can’t hear her conversation, but
anyone a mile away can see her chomping on bubble gum like it’s going out of
style.

I dial Lagan’s number from memory in my head. Over and over
again, so I won’t forget it. After that winter snow day, when the boys
snow-piled on top of me, and we feasted on cookies and cocoa, I learned all of
Lagan’s numbers—home, dorm, and cell by heart—for such a time as
this.  

As I wait in line for the blond, who leans against the wall
like she’s settling into a nice long chat with an old friend, I force myself to
stay calm by thinking about the snowball fight, the ridiculous tackle, hands
colliding in warm dishwater, and my first fingertip-delivered, peppermint kiss.
Jesse’s words, “Don’t take anything with you,” bring on new meaning when I
think about the kiss I will never know, because my lips never healed in time.
Running the back of my index finger along the scabs of my bottom lip, I clear
my throat loudly, hoping bubble-popping
blondie
takes
a hint.

She’s still chatting a mile a minute. I have no choice but
to continue waiting. I rewind to the winter scene in my mind, Jesse and I
dressed from head to toe in snow gear. Jess’s legs strong and ready to live
again. Silently planning who would make the first brave move to the front of
the house, we stood motionless, dazed and confused by deep slopes of snow
mounded up against the siding.

“Step on top. Think light!” Jesse muffled the words from
under his scarf-covered mouth. “Try to step over it.” But the moment he took
his third step, he sank. Right to the ground.

I wanted to laugh. But I knew I was next. And there was no
way around it. If I wanted to play, I had to go
through
it.

“Through,” I said as Jess plowed onward. “That’s the only
way to get there.” And even as
blondie
hangs up and
saunters off, I stare at the phone for a second before picking it up. Because I
know it like my frostbitten fingers on that winter snow day. There’s no way
around this. Jess’s plan is foolproof and the best shot we have of being truly
free from Dad and his iron clutches.
Through
. I have to go
through
with it.

“Hello?” Lagan’s voice works like a tranquilizer, sending a
wave of peace straight into my pounding heart.

Followed by a second set of waves, and in flood the how’s:
How
much do I tell him? How much is safe for him to know? How much will help him to
let me go?

“Hi. I’m sort of in the neighborhood. Can I stop by for a
minute?”

“Talia? Are you okay? Sure. Of course. I’m at work. Where
are you?”

“Just tell me the cross streets where you’re at. I figured
if you weren’t in class, you might be at your uncle’s office today. Do you get
a lunch break or something like that?” I recall how Lagan asked me the same
question the first time he snuck up on me at the garden.

“Are you asking me out on a date? To what special occasion
do I owe this surprise visit? Did Christmas come early this year? Hold on a
sec. I have another call coming in on the office line...”

As I think about how to answer Lagan’s questions, I realize
that another student has lined up behind me, waiting for the use of the phone.
I motion to her with one finger and hope that Lagan will keep me waiting less
than a minute.

“So, as you were saying...” Lagan’s voice comes back on the
line.

“You were about to tell me the cross streets. I’ll meet you
at your uncle’s office, and we can talk when I get there. There’s someone
waiting to use this phone.”

“I’m near the corner of La Salle and Michigan Ave., 258
Clark Street to be exact. Sure you don’t want me to meet you where you’re at? I
can clock out early today.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll be there soon.” I’m moving the
phone away from my ear.

“K, I’ll see...”

Click.

I look on a wall map of downtown near the library exit to
decide if walking makes sense. It does. I find the law office just as Lagan
described, in the heart of Chicago’s financial district. I wonder if Lagan
wears high tops with his shirt and tie. Not sure if I should knock or just walk
in.

The doormat displays the age-old law symbol of the balance
scale. The two trays are labeled
Justice
and
Mercy
, and they are almost perfectly balanced. Mercy tips the
scale to the right. Too bad there isn’t a third choice. The choice of
impossible
.  

The door sounds a stilted chime of dysfunctional bells when
I turn the knob and push. An attractive Indian woman wearing a purple, silk,
button-down blouse with a black, pleated skirt swings around from behind her
desk to greet me.

“Welcome to the law offices of Justice and Mercy. How can I
help you?” she says properly with a tone suggesting memorized words that she
greets every visitor with. She can’t be much older than me. “Do you have an
appointment today, Miss?”

“I’m sorry.” I stare at her perfectly manicured lilac nails.
“I’m looking for someone. Does Lag—”

“Lagan does indeed work here.” I see Lagan’s face pop up
from behind a nearby cubicle. “I thought I recognized that voice. Come into my
office. Rani, she’s cool. She’s with me.”

“With you?” Rani glances at me suspiciously. “Is there
something you forgot to tell me,
Cuz
?”

Lagan looks at me, waiting for me to say my name, maybe. But
I can’t. “I’m just getting some homework help. I can come back...”

“No, no, it’s cool. You’ll have to excuse my cousin. She’s
just...” Lagan waves me over.

“Getting back to studying for midterms. Nice to meet you.”
Rani finishes Lagan’s sentence, stretches a hand forward to shake mine, and
says, “Any friend of Lagan’s is a friend of mine.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but instead of taking her
hand, I move forward and give Rani a quick hug. “Really nice to meet you too.”

Lagan stands speechless for a second. “I’ll take my lunch
break now and wrap up my correspondence on this case afterward. If that’s
okay?”

Rani smiles warmly to me before folding her arms across her
waist and shaking her head toward Lagan like she’s heard that one before.
Wonder
how different things might have been if I wasn’t leaving.
Is she the one who will comfort him when
I’m gone?

“Sure.” She shrugs her shoulders and
clickity
-clicks
back to her seat. “Dad calls the shots around here, so if you miss a deadline,
Cuz
, the cost will be off your brown-skinned back.”

“Lagan.” He points to the seat opposite his desk. “Can we
take a short walk? I need to talk.”

“Of course.” He looks up from his computer. “What if I
introduce you to Rani? Tell her you are. With me. She’s so cool. You could hang
with her while I finish up.”

“Today’s not good.” I say honestly. Or any other day, ever,
I think, aware of every passing minute.

“Is everything okay?” Lagan stops typing to search my face
for answers. “I’ll tell her another day. No worries. Only when you’re ready.
Give me two minutes. Let me finish this e-mail to a client, and I’ll take an
early break. Hang tight. I’ll make this quick.”

“Should I wait outside?”

“Nope. Take a seat. I’m just proofing the message to make
sure I fix any silly typos. Be with you in five, four, three...”

“You don’t have to count.” I sit down. “I can wait two
minutes.”

Two minutes stretch to five. Not until my eyes begin to span
my surroundings do I realize the gift before me: a first and final peek into
Lagan’s world. I spend the long seconds memorizing every detail of Lagan’s
cubicle. There are funny little doodles of stick figures on Post-its
everywhere. Pinned to his corkboard. One is two figures sitting side by side
next to a willow tree, watching a sunrise. Or is that a sunset? Hmm. Another is
of two stick figures dancing under an umbrella, next to a waterfall. A third
doodle confirms my suspicions: two stick figures swimming through clouds,
hand-in-hand, the sky a mix of rain and sunshine. In addition, photographs of
dew drops on the tip of autumn leaves fill in spaces.
National
Geographic
perhaps. The only
other significant details to his cubicle are the quotes everywhere. Some
printed out on postcards. Others handwritten on three-by-five card stock. Still
others on, of course, Post-it notes.

I can’t read the fine print, except for the one taped across
the top of his computer monitor, bearing typed letters in huge font: “
The
Beautiful Fight
:
Life is a battle you don’t fight
alone.
” I recognize the
title and reread the words over and over again, until the letters blur. I don’t
know if the tears evidence that I believe the words, or if they foreshadow the
battles ahead. Maybe both. I peel off a blank Post-it from Lagan’s desk,
scribble two short words and slip it into my back pocket while Lagan continues
to tap away on his laptop.