The Year I Almost Drowned (40 page)

“Oh you do, do you?” she said in a haughty tone. “I guess your father and

grandmother don’t care if you’re a college drop-out, but I do.”

“They

believe

in

me

and

support

what

I

want.”

“You need to wake up. This is a crazy idea and you know it. What’s next? Are

you going to get married to Jesse within the next month, too? You might as well.

Just go ahead and throw your life away. I feel like I don’t even know you

anymore.”

She

breathed

heavily

into

the

phone.

I was speechless. I knew she’d be angry, but her reaction took me by surprise. I

didn’t expect her to be so bitter. “I’m not throwing my life away,” I said calmly.

“This

is

what

I

want.

I

thought

you’d

be

proud.”

“I’d

be

proud

if

you

stayed

in

school.”

My eyes started to water. I wiped a tear away and tried to keep my voice from

sounding

shaky–a

sign

that

she

had

gotten

to

me.

I clenched my hand into a fist, trying to muster the strength for what I was about

to say. It took all the courage I had left in me. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I

can’t change your mind about me, Mom. But I’m not about to do what you want

just so you’ll think good of me. This is my decision. It’s what I want and even

though

you

don’t

approve,

I’m

going

to

do

it.”

“I

guess

I

can’t

stop

you,”

she

said.

“No, Mom, you can’t.” I stood up and moved toward the porch rail, facing the

distant horizon. The sun had almost set. The sky was a perfect shade of orange

and blue. Mountain after beautiful mountain towered high in the sky. Birds flew

by as the trees blew from the gentle breeze. The ugly and hateful conversation I

had with my mother was almost forgotten as I cast my eyes on the stunning

landscape in front of me. I was home, and I was staying for good. “I love you,

Mom,” I said as I watched a momma bird feed its baby. The baby bird was so

dependent on the mother, needing it to survive. That used to be me. That wasn’t

me

now.

“I love you, too, but you’re making a mistake, Finn. We’ll discuss this later.” she

said,

before

hanging

up

the

phone.

Discussing it again wouldn’t change anything. I had made up my mind.

I took the pie out of the oven–the crust was golden and flaky–caramelized sugar

oozed its way out of the tiny poked holes. All I could smell was cinnamon and

apples. I wrapped the pie in a thick towel and carried it with me to the front door.

I grabbed my car keys and treaded quietly out the door. I didn’t want to wake

Nana. She was a light sleeper and any sound could stir her from her light state of

rest. The outside light flickered on as soon as I hit the front porch steps. It was on

a motion sensor and even though I knew that, it still startled me.

I knew it was late–too late to go over someone’s house–especially when they’re

not expecting you. But, when there’s that sense of urgency, like your heart is

going to explode, you don’t really care about social etiquette or logic. I threw logic

out the window the moment I got into my car and started driving. I needed to do

this. When you are one hundred percent sure about something and know it’s true

and

unfaltering,

you

don’t

care

about

following

protocol.

There’s something incredibly peaceful about being on the road when no one else

is. It’s like you own the road and have created your own special world. A low

hypnotic tune played on my radio. My window was rolled all the way down. My

hair blew from the gentle breeze. I checked the passenger seat. The pie sat

wrapped securely and hadn’t moved from the car swerving on the mountainous

roads.

I arrived into town and pulled to a close stop at the flashing red light. I kept driving,

passing all of downtown Graceville’s businesses, seeing the empty lot that was

once where Lilly’s Diner stood. It won’t be empty much longer, I thought. I drove

a few more blocks and turned left on Forrest Road, searching for his house in a

sea

of

bungalow

style

houses.

I pulled my car into his driveway. The number on the mailbox matched his

address, but I wasn’t sure this was where he lived. I had never been to his house

before. A light was on inside. I could see him peering at me from his window. I

knew he’d be up. It was late, but not that late. I turned my car off and got out. I

walked to the passenger’s side and picked up the pie, carrying it with me to his

front

door.

He met me at the door, opening it before I got the chance to knock. His expression

was perplexed. “Finn, what are you doing here?” He stood at the door, his right

arm completely covered in white bandages. He wore a blue t-shirt and a pair of

old

khaki

shorts

covered

in

paint

stains

and

tiny

holes.

“I

brought

you

a

pie,”

I

said,

glancing

down

at

it.

“At eleven o’clock at night?” he said with a strange expression.

“Can

I

come

in?”

I

asked.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, remembering his manners. He moved to the side and

allowed me to walk through. There wasn’t much furniture in the living room–just

a sofa, chair, coffee table and a light blue rug that lay underneath the oak table.

Music played in the background. A book laid face down on his sofa. The ceiling

fan continued to move round and round, emitting cool air into the room.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked. He picked up a pile of laundry off of the

sofa

and

motioned

to

the

now

empty

spot.

“Sure,”

I

answered

and

sat

down.

He carried the stack of clothes with him into another room. I looked around

noticing it all. A picture of his mother hung above the television set. A framed

picture of my grandparents sat on his coffee table. Racks and racks of CD’s

leaned

against

one

wall.

He walked out of his room and looked at my hands. “So, what kind of pie is that

you’re

holding?”

“Apple.”

His

grin

was

broad.

“My

favorite.”

“I

know,”

I

answered.

“But why?” he asked as he came toward me and took the pie out of my hands.

“Because.”

He shook his head. “That’s not an answer,” he said. “Let’s have a slice.”

I stood up and followed him. He flipped a light switch as we entered the kitchen.

His galley kitchen was merely big enough for the two of us. The cabinets were

oak with long wrought iron handles and the counter was a warm beige tile. I

glanced down at the old pine floors and then back at him, watching as he took

two red plates out of one of the cabinets. For a guy, Jesse was very meticulous.

His kitchen sparkled and was probably cleaned on a daily basis. In fact, besides

the pile of laundry that lay on his couch when I first entered, the rest of the place

was

immaculate.

“Red,

huh?”

I

said

to

him.

“Lilly got them for me when I moved in.” He unwrapped the towel and peeled the

aluminum foil back, exposing the pie. “Looks good.” He grabbed a knife from the

knife board and cut two large slices, and then placed one slice on each plate. “Ice

cream?”

he

asked.

“Sure.”

He opened his freezer door and took out a carton of vanilla ice cream. He grabbed

a spoon and gathered a large amount, placing a large scoop on top of each slice

of

pie.

“Coke?”

he

asked.

“Do

you

even

need

to

ask

me?”

He laughed–the familiar boisterous sound pleasing to my ears. I took the can of

Coke from his hands as he poured milk and squirted chocolate syrup into a glass.

The spoon clanked against it as he stirred, creating a chocolaty brown

consistency.

“You and your milk,” I said. We carried our plates and sat in his black colonial

style chairs that surrounded his round wood table. He sat across from me and

dug

into

the

pie.

He

gave

a

satisfactory

smile.

“This

is

good,”

he

said.

“I’m

glad

you

like

it,”

I

said

with

a

pleased

expression.

“It’s as good as Lilly’s.” He took another bite and chewed. Within a few minutes,

his entire slice of pie had been eaten. He was ravenous. “You can’t just have one

slice,

Finn.”

He

pushed

the

pie

toward

me.

“It’s

yours.”

I

pushed

it

back

to

him.

He rolled his eyes. “I wanna share it,” he said as he cut two more slices of pie

and

placed

them

on

our

plates.

“How’s your arm?” I asked, looking at the white bandages.

“It hurts, but it’ll be okay.” He frowned a little and said, “It’s being off of work that

sucks. I’m ready to go back, but they said I have to be out for two more months.”

“That

long?”

I

sipped

on

my

Coke.

He

nodded.

“Yeah,

it’s

going

to

take

a

while

to

heal.”

“I’m sorry, Jesse.” I took a small bite of my pie and swallowed the cinnamon apple

goodness.

The

pleasant

taste

of

sugar

lingered

in

my

mouth.

“It’s no biggie. Firefighters get burned all the time. There’s this one guy–we call

him Buzzer–he’s got scars up and down both his arms.” He took a bite of his slice

of pie, chewed and swallowed. “This is so good, Finn. It hit the spot.” He smiled

and

patted

his

stomach.

“I’m glad. I wanted to do something, I just didn’t know what to do.” I shrugged my

shoulders.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he said. “So tell me, why are you here at eleven

o’clock at night bringing me a pie? You could’ve brought this over tomorrow

morning.” He put his fork down on his empty plate and leaned forward, staring

into

my

eyes

as

if

he

were

trying

to

read

my

thoughts.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while,” I said nervously. I started to fidget and had

to

sit

on

my

hands

to

keep

myself

calm.

“I was kinda mean at the hospital. I’m sorry about that. I was just so upset at my

dad. I still am.” He shook his head slightly and pursed his lips. “I can’t believe he

put

you

in

so

much

danger.”

“It’s okay, Jesse. It’s all okay.” I bit on my lip and then said, “He’s in jail, did you

know

that?”

“Yeah.”

He

nodded.

“Cookie

told

me.”

“I didn’t press charges, but they still charged him with breaking and entering

anyway.”

“You should’ve pressed charges, Finn. He should stay locked up for a long time

for

what

he

did.”

His

lips

twisted

in

disgust.

“It was an accident, Jesse.” I moved my hand to his, the tips of our fingers barely

touched.

“He’ll

have

to

live

with

the

guilt.”

“Guilt,” he scoffed. “Please, he’s too drunk to remember what he did.”

“He

remembers.”

“You

talked

to

him?”

he

asked.

“When?”

“I went to see him yesterday. He’s going to be sentenced soon. Cookie thinks

he’ll

get

a

light

sentence,

though,”

I

said.

“That’s too bad,” Jesse grumbled. “He deserves a life sentence for the hell he put