Taken by Storm (8 page)

Authors: Angela Morrison

Tags: #Social Issues, #Dating & Sex, #Christian, #Friendship, #Juvenile Fiction, #Sports & Recreation, #General, #Religious, #Water Sports, #Death & Dying

She parks the pickup on a strip of grass. “There’s a toilet in the shed. You have to dump a bucket of water down it to make it flush.” That reminds me of the heads on the first live-aboard we tried. Mom was ready to leave after day one. Dad and i teased her the whole week, but she stuck it out. Always did. No matter how hard we pushed her. That sad, paralyzing feeling engulfs me again.

“This way.” Leesie scrambles down a bluff about six feet high to a narrow strip of sand fifty feet long. “How do you like our beach? This is the only stretch of sand on all of Windy Bay.” i mime impressed.

“It washes away in the winter, but Dad hauls up a fresh load every spring.”

i stand on her sand and stare at her lake. Midnight blue. Calling me.

“Pretty, huh?”

i don’t answer—can’t answer. i bend down and touch the water. Maybe 40 degrees F. Way too cold—even with my seven mil.

Leesie leaves, returns with an armload of dry driftwood. “Still lukewarm? You—not the lake. Coeur d’Alene never warms up.”

The wood clatters when she drops it. i don’t look around. i’m entranced by the soft, pulsing water. “So what do you do here?”

She walks over to me. “You up for marshmallows?”

i shake my head.

She squats down and digs a flat rock out of the sand. “We used to have a sailboat, but Dad sold it a couple of years ago to fix the tractor.”

“Swim much?”

“Not anymore. I used to be a fish.” She brushes the sand off the rock and hands it to me. “My baby sister, Stephie, is like that now. Totally fearless. When I was eight, I got tangled up in a bunch of seaweed—”

“This is a lake.”

“Lakeweed, then. I couldn’t get free. Kicked. Thrashed. I swear something pulled me under. I couldn’t get back to the surface. Dad got me out. I had this nasty rash on my legs. I canoe these days. Anything touches me in the water and I kind of lose it.”

“That’s too bad.” i chuck the stone. It doesn’t skip. “Anything to see down there? Wrecks? Cool fish?”

She laughs. “There’s a healthy crop of lakeweed.” She stands, walks to the end of their cement dock, and leans against a piling. Her hair catches the setting sun. “We lost some fishing poles last summer. It drops off just past the dock. Gets deep fast.”

i join her, stare at the space between two log pilings where they used to tie up their sailboat. “How deep is it here?”

“Comes up to about—” She rotates to face me, draws a line across my chest with the side of her hand. She lets the edge of her hand rest on my chest a few seconds longer than she needs to make her point. i’m pretty sure she’s making another point. Her head tips back, and she’s staring again.

i try not to flinch.

The old me would have taken the invitation and stepped right into it, but i stand there with her hand light and small on my chest and all i can do is control the urge to flick it away. i can’t follow up the touch, lean down and kiss her, or even take hold of her hand. Maybe that would be strong, but i just can’t do it.

She pulls her hand away with a jerk. It’s too awkward to keep looking at her and pretend that didn’t just happen, so i focus on the far shore, clear my throat. “Can we take your canoe out?” If i can’t get in the water, at least i can float on it, caress it with the paddle, force it to obey me.

“Sure.” She sounds relieved. i thought she’d be mad. Did i misread the whole thing?

We paddle to the middle of the lake. Leesie steering, me in the front. i’m not so bad with the paddle. She’s great. Stronger than she looks.

i’m loving it—could stay out here forever.

Leesie spots some dark clouds in the distance. “Shoot. We should head in.”

“Not yet.” i trail my fingers in the water. They’re going numb. It feels so good to touch it that i don’t even care. “How deep is it here?”

“Really deep.” She turns away from the clouds and rests her paddle on her knees.

“Fifty feet? A hundred feet? What?”

She frowns and shrugs. “Who knows.”

i unzip my club jacket and rip off my hoodie. “Want me to find out?” My T-shirt goes next.

“What are you doing?” She’s freaked.

i’m fighting my belt buckle. Stupid numb fingers. “i free dive—like pearl divers.”

“Don’t be crazy.” She holds her paddle in front of her like a weapon. “Stop it. Now!”

i kick my shoes off, finally get the belt, and slide my jeans off. Leesie’s staring and red-faced. It’s just boxers. She said she has a brother.

She’s scowling for real now. “The water’s freezing.” She waves her paddle at me.

“i’ll be right back.” i roll over the side, gasp as needles of cold prick every pore, gulp air.

“Get in here,” Leesie yells in my face, and grabs at me.

i push off and dive. i keep my eyes wide open, but all i can see is a blurry smudge. i don’t have any fins and no weights so i have to fight to get down—only make it to about forty. No sign of the bottom. No sign of anything. It’s creepy and black and oh, so empty. No coral. No fish. No sunshine. No parents. Only Isadore lurking deep beneath me. Brooding. Heavy. Crushing.

i tear to the surface with my lungs screaming for air. i break through twenty feet from the canoe. The sky looks darker already. My body’s numb.

Leesie paddles over. i even let her help me in. “Thanks for scaring the life out of me.” Her face looks as dark as the sky. She drives her oar blade into the water.

I’m dripping wet, shivering, and useless. Fresh freezing pain mounts in waves as the air warms me into sensation. i mumble a lame apology through chattering teeth.

“There’re towels in the shed. I’ll find you one in a minute.”She kicks me a paddle. “So how deep is it?”

“Pretty deep. i couldn’t see the bottom.”

“The bottom’s muck. You don’t want to see it.”

Muck.

Mangrove toes claw out of soft swamp mud and swirling salt water. i’m not at the lake with Leesie anymore. i stand in the swamp’s silt, gulp air, up to my ankles in
muck
. The wind and water knock me flat, carry me farther downstream until i hook a mangrove root. i pull myself along the bottom, grasping the twisted toes, find a mature tree, and wrap my arms around her, shivering in the stagnant murk that slaps at my waist. The wind pulls. The water rips. i hold my mangrove buddy tight, start talking to her, willing her to stand against the storm. Dizziness washes over me. i start free-dive vent cycles to fight it off. My stomach churns into an anguished mass of seawater and crab. The pain in my gut is real. i double over, retch.

“You okay?” Leesie’s quavering voice stops the scene. Her hand is on my shoulder, shaking me, touching me again.

i wipe my mouth, shrug away from her grasp. “i need to go home.” i’m freaked, jittery, but not from the cold. i expect the nightmares by now, but this was vivid. There. For real. Totally transported.

Drops splatter fat on the windshield as Leesie drives up the rough track through the pines. She doesn’t look over at me or try to make small talk. We make the highway before the full storm hits. She pumps the headlights up to bright and leans back into the seat, her arms straight out like a race car driver. Her foot presses heavy on the accelerator. She senses me staring at her. A glance. She’s wearing her Ice Queen face. Our eyes lock and then hers go back to the road. “Feeling better?”

No, but at least i’m dry, and she’s got the heater cranked.

The pickup roars down the highway. My fingers clutch the armrest beside me. Lightning flashes. Thunder rocks the truck, and Isadore starts to blow.

i sneak out of the
Dive Festiva
’s dining salon, where the captain tells everyone to be calm and my waitress cries. i race to our cabin, grab the camera and strobe. Then i’m out in the storm.

Darkness edged with a yellow-green glow envelopes the lagoon. Rain falls in sheets driven slantways by the wind. i shelter in the lee, filming chaos, drinking in the power. Palm fronds and broken boards shoot through the air. Sand and gravel pelt the deck, falling like hail. Isadore beats me flat against the bulkhead.

Mom calls from the stairs, “Michael! Get down here.”

No way am i leaving. Mom yells something about taking cover. i inch around the bulkhead and get a face full of muddy grit.

“Michael!” Mom screams. “Michael!”

Isadore twists her voice and blows it away.

The
Festiva
’s engines roar. Isadore slams into the boat and keeps right on going. She takes me along for the ride. i figure Mom’s safe back on the
Festiva
and the storm just got me. She drags me under, and i fight to breathe, get a mouthful of her, choke. My free-dive training takes over, and i hold my breath.

Then rain, cold and fresh, hits my face. i stand by a white pickup. Leesie holds an orange emergency blanket over my head. She hands me a half-full bottle of water. i gulp and spit. Gulp, swallow. “Did i hurl all over?”

She wrinkles up her nose. “You just made nasty sounds.” She pushes me back into the pickup, fishes around under the seat, and finds a plastic grocery bag. “Just in case.”

The engine revs, and we’re hurtling down the country highway through the rain—again.

i think maybe i could tell Leesie about the hurricane dinner, the mounds of crab Dad and i downed, my crying waitress with three kids, tell her about Mom trying to wipe off the butter that dripped down my chin. Tell her how i pulled away. i’m so full of Isadore. The shrink said i should talk.

“So you’re all right now?” Leesie steers the pickup around a wicked curve, one hand on the wheel, one small hand lightly touching my arm.

“Sure.” i ease my arm away from her warm fingertips.

And i don’t tell her a thing.

chapter 10

UNFUDDLED

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 10/03 11:14 P.M.