Swimming Through Clouds (A YA Contemporary Novel) (11 page)

Yet, I don’t want to send Lagan away. I know that this
opportunity might never... And just maybe, Jess and Lagan would become
friends, and... I am getting ahead of myself. First things first.

“Do you want to meet him?” I need his permission.

Jess stares down at his lap. I keep cutting and peeling.
Peeling and cutting. The words
forget it, another time
are on the tip of my tongue when Jess
raises his head and nods yes.

I put the knife down, wipe my hands on a paper towel, and
rush past my little brother. “I’ll be right back.”

Glancing at the wall clock as I first race to the front
door, I decide this will be a short visit. In and out. The driveway still lies
empty, and Dad’s car isn’t rolling down our street. I hightail it to the back
door and fling it open, finding Lagan just where I suggested. Sitting on the
bench, dribbling his ball, he seems so focused as the ball moves smoothly back
and forth between his hands. I think I startle him when I call out, because he
jumps up, letting the ball roll away, and then looks left and right. He points
to himself with both thumbs.

“Yes, you.” I laugh, all too aware that this is no laughing
matter.

Lagan gathers his book bag and ball, and when he stands a
foot away, he gives me another chance to pull a u-
ey
.
“Sure about this?”

“Not really, but come in. For a sec.” I grab his free hand,
and direct Lagan to the kitchen. He adjusts the grip and now our fingers
entwine. My heart takes flight at the sight and feel of our kissing palms. As
Lagan looks around, my eyes linger on our hands. Mine in his. His in mine. We
fit.

Not two minutes pass when my house of cards collapses before
we reach the kitchen opening. I hear a car door slam shut and wiggle my hand
loose to run to the front door to check the peephole, my heart sinking like
quicksand. As I peer out and gulp relief by the bucket, my stomach remains on
the floor.

“Just the mailman,” I say as I look back down the hallway.
Lagan stands frozen, unsure of what just occurred. I traipse back to him,
shaking my head, my heart’s decibels returning slowly to their original pace,
to stay alert-mode, rather than panic-mode. “Sorry. I thought my dad came
home.”

“Okay.” Lagan nods, putting his bag and ball down. His eyes
seem to ask, “Is there more?”  

I take a deep breath, not sure how much to peel back, my
hands still shaking from the false alarm. “And that would be bad.” That’s
enough. For now.

“Let’s go.” With my hand on his back, I direct him toward
the kitchen, shifting gears, still aware of the ticking clock. “I want you to
meet my brother.”

Lagan doesn’t budge. Instead, he reaches for my hand and
pulls me to himself in an unexpected embrace, my emotions ricocheting like a
copper ball bouncing through a pinball machine. His whispers tiptoe across the
top of my head. “It’s okay. Slow down. You don’t have to say anything. Just
know that I’m here. I’m here for you.”

I swallow as my arms slowly rise and circle his waist. I
have never known the strong arms of any man holding me. His squeeze pulls me in
closer still, and my arms don’t want to let go. His heartbeat pounds against
mine, and I am transported. To safety. Warmth. His heat forms a shield around
me, and I burrow my head into his chest, searching for a place to hide. A place
I know I can’t stay. Tears begin to slip down my cheeks, and my simple
plan—of a simple meeting—simply unfolds.

Time stops, and if touch launches, I’m somewhere in the
clouds, flying above storms. All the while, Lagan’s hold blankets me as I
inhale the sweet scent of peppermint-flavored Trident each time he exhales. My
breathing steadies just as the chime of the grandfather clock in the living
room jump-starts me back to earth. I loosen my hold and look up into Lagan’s
eyes.

“I…” My voice falters. I clear my throat and start again.
“You…umm. You should meet Jesse. And then you should probably go.”

Lagan nods okay.

I purposely avoid holding his hand, still dizzy from the
hug, and I swallow a spoonful of fear for the umpteenth time today as we enter
the kitchen. Jess’s back is to us until we circle around to him, and the fruit
salad sits on the granite countertop, untouched.

“Jesse.” I put my arm around my little brother. “This is
Lagan.”

Jesse manages a smile, but I see my reflection in his eyes.
It rains in Jess’s eyes too, and I begin to understand what Lagan means by the
clouds. Lagan crosses in front of me to move closer to Jess and puts his hand
on Jess’s arm.

“Hey. Great to meet you.” Lagan pats my little brother’s
shoulder and grips his arms in a typical guy to guy greeting.

Jesse nods, a small smile emerging.

“Man, check out those guns!” Lagan describes Jesse’s bulging
upper arm, and I’m cringing inside at the mention of the word.

Somehow I hadn’t paid attention.

“You make me want to get my butt to the gym ASAP.”

And we all laugh. Well, Lagan and I. Jess smiles.  

“Speaking of....” Lagan makes his exit. “I have basketball
practice in twenty minutes, so I have to jet.”

Eyeing the fruit on the counter, Lagan reaches over and pops
a strawberry in his mouth and mumbles, “Bye, guys! Thanks.
Gotta
go. See you ‘round.”

He beams us a smile, makes a beeline for the back door, and
lets himself out, locking the door behind him. I pull at the door to make sure
and then return to the front door again, still on edge. I watch Lagan’s back
disappear down the street, dribbling away, the driveway still empty. Exhale.

As I return to the kitchen, I remind myself about my vow to
help Jess. This will be our first day of rehab together. Passing the spot where
Lagan held me, I can’t help but stop, put my right hand on the wall, and search
for a pulse. After rewriting the memory on my mind, I swagger to the kitchen,
excited for new beginnings and avoided land mines.

Jesse waits for me, but today will be different—no
cake-walking—literally.

“Lift your left foot,” I say, pulling a stool up to face my
brother.

He shakes his head no.

“I didn’t ask you if you wanted to.” I’m putting on my
tough-love hat. I want to see Jesse rise. And run again. Walking comes first.
Strengthening his legs before that.

Jesse inhales a deep breath, then lifts his leg. An inch
maybe.

I grab an unpeeled apple and say, “Hit my hand.” My open
palm holds the fruit a few inches above his foot.

 
Jesse raises his
leg again, tapping my hand softly.

“Higher.” I nod, coaxing him with my smile.

Then Jess, gripping firmly to the sides of his wheelchair,
lifts his foot again, the contact with my hand sending the apple flying.

I bust out laughing. “Again.” I grab another apple. And he
does. And I jump off my stool to avoid getting sideswiped by an aerodynamic
Macintosh. Now both of us are laughing. I think we’re both enjoying the mess
that there is no hurry to clean up.

“Hold on. I have an idea.”

I leave and return from the garage with a large
ziplock
bag filled with sand secured into a second bag to
avoid even one grain from escaping onto Dad’s pristine kitchen floor. I sit
down to face Jess and slowly raise one of Jesse’s leg. Putting the bag of sand
on top of his ankle, I help him do leg lifts in sets of ten, allowing him to
use his own strength as far as he can go.  

His legs raise the weight, but not without the strain of
clenched teeth. Walking is out of the question, for now. I don’t want Jesse to
quit by pushing him too hard, too soon. He does a few sets on each leg until
beads of sweat form on his brow. I ignore his gritting teeth and heavy
breathing, because I have to think of the goal. Feeling sorry for himself, he
almost ended his life today. Together, we have to keep at it. Together.

When Jess grips my arm, his mouth forming the word
enough
, I pause.

“One last set.” I start over, knowing the sooner I push him,
the sooner he’ll get there. During the final set, I ask him what he thinks of
Lagan. Distraction always helps me. He smiles wider than ever before. I take
that as a like. Status update in order:
My little brother just gave a thumbs
up.

***

Dad
doesn’t return home till the next morning a little after six. I couldn’t sleep,
so I woke up before my alarm was set to ring at six. With last night’s chores
done, the house in order, and our secrets safely filed away under
never
happened
, I sit at the
kitchen table, eating oatmeal and reading Shakespeare when Dad waltzes in with
a stranger, perhaps a client or an associate. Instinctively, I lower my head
and hide my face behind
Othello
. Saturday morning chores await, but I have time. And Jess
still sleeps.

“Gerri!” Dad’s overweight, balding friend sounds like a
Texas cowboy. “You never told me your daughter was so darn
perty
.
Now you’d get a killing if you offered her
serv
—”

“Shut up, Jed.” Dad turns to me. “Go to your room. And close
your door. NOW!”

As I inch my way up the stairs, I hear the two exchange a
few more words before my right foot lifts off the top step. A conversation that
freezes me in my tracks.

“I pay you the big macaroons for clearing the paperwork on
the
pertiest
girls. Don’t get all wild buck and
kicking, because I can tell a
perty
one when I see
one.” Fat baldy again with the comments.

Creep
, I think to myself.

“I already told you that she’s...” I sense Dad pausing, as
if he’s searching for the right word. “Jeez, Jed, I don’t owe you a thing. So
don’t EVER ask again. You hear me? Now let’s get down to business. Tea?”

Hmm? What a joke! Dad actually sounded protective, sort of.
But protecting me from what? And I couldn’t care less. Dad’s business has
always been his business. The less I know, the less space in my mind I have to
waste on him. I rinse my mouth after flossing, sit at my desk, and open up
Othello
, noting that even
Iago
seems less scary to hang out with than Dad. Or any of his slimy friends.

The words blur as I recall last night’s events. Sleep didn’t
find me at all as I listened for the sound of Jesse rustling his sheets in the
next room, his breathing a bittersweet song in my ears. Goosebumps cover my
arms as my mind conjures images of Jesse’s scratched knees and the silver of
Dad’s gun.

I finally cave as my head lowers to the desk. The rough
pages of
Othello
don’t make the most comfortable pillow under my cheek, but exhaustion makes it
easy to not care. I close my eyes, gifting myself a few moments in another
room. The hallway where Lagan first held me. As I drift away from morning
shores, my senses awaken and I’m falling. Falling into strong arms, breathing
in sweet peppermint, and swimming through clouds.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Lagan
gives me my first Post-it notepad on Monday, an entire stack of empty, attached
sheets. It’s sea green to match the color of my eyes, he tells me.

“I want it back.” His eyes squint some kind of wonderful,
and I instinctively swallow.

I want to be
back too. In your arms.
Whenever
it’s
convenient
,
of
course
.

He’s looking at me glassy-eyed. Which means I didn’t speak
my thoughts.
Thank
God!
Swallow. Breathe.

“The notepad.” Lagan must sense my absence when he explains
the obvious.

“Okay.” My flight is over. I’m all ears...and heart too,
after his brief home visit.

“With your thoughts on each page.” Lagan gives specific
instructions. I should focus now. “And if you feel unsure or unable to write,
just give me blank ones. Knowing you’re returning each sheet to me is enough.”

“So you want me to write? Anything in particular?”

“Monday’s theme is childhood wish list. In as little as one
word or as many as you can fit on the tiny Sticky Note, share what you missed.
If you could have had anything as part of your little girl years, what would
you have wanted to own, know, or experience?”

Sounds like an English class assignment. Since the brief
visit home last Friday, in a sense I gave Lagan the green light to enter my
world, and let’s just say that his gas tank is full and his GPS programmed to
discover me, from the inside out. One word at a time.

Monday’s green notes fill with words that are fun and easy
to write at first. But with each word, a memory of Mom resurfaces. All that she
gave to me and Jess. All that she wanted to give. All that she couldn’t give.
Talk about a sneak attack from the back window into my heart. I feel like a
deflated balloon by the time lunch arrives. I hand over my completed notepad by
placing it on the table between us, not bothering to peel them off one sheet at
a time.