Waylaid (16 page)

I felt like a giant sea turtle in a science-class film, flailing in the sand, struggling to get far enough away from high tide to make a nest and lay eggs that I could never turn my neck far enough to see.

I kept crawling until I was under the boardwalk. It smelled like piss and booze down there. Cracks of dim light shone through the boards above me. I was still crying, and my eyes were blurry.

I saw a lot of scary things under there.

First I saw Vincent fucking me. And then I was fucking Vincent. Then it wasn't Vincent. It was my father. And then it was me.

I was ready to die. If I'd been a girl, I think I would have killed myself already. A girl renting out rooms at the hotel would have been raped before she was 11 or so. Gang-raped by drunk Bennys. Right in the office. My father wouldn't hear from the basement, and my mother would be out cleaning rooms.

Thank God I wasn't a girl. I howled with laughter. I couldn't remember the last time I'd thought, “Thank God.”

I found a univalve seashell by one of the columns, and I put it up to my ear. I wanted to hear the ocean, but it sounded like some little boy laughing at me.

Two days later, I was riding with my mother to the airport in Newark. When I leaned my head against the window pane, I could feel the vibrations behind my eyeballs.

My father's older sister's family was coming to take over the hotel. They were going to get the living quarters, and we were going to live in Room 3, which was a nice room. My father was going to be in rehabilitation for another few months or so, but he was going to stay in Room 3, too.

My mother and I were going to teach the family the business and help with their English. God knew what my father was going to do around the hotel. There was no way he was ever going to make it down the stairs to the workshop again.

My grandparents in Taiwan, my father's parents, were paying the mortgage. They said they'd take care of my college costs, too, as long as I worked at the hotel at night.

I met my cousins by the baggage claim. Suitcases moved around on the winding conveyor belt like slow slot-cars on a track.

The boy was about my age. The girl was a year or two younger.

I climbed into the back of the station wagon with the suitcases as the boy, the girl, and the mother fell asleep in the back seat. The father sat in the front talking with my mother. They nodded their heads a lot.

It was cramped where I was sitting, and my back was already sore from having boxed up most of our stuff and piling it into the attic. What we needed most was already in our hotel room — some clothes and some pans, bowls and spoons to go with our hotplate and tiny fridge.

Our relatives really wanted my mother and me to eat dinner with them, so we pulled into the Chinese place off the exit. It was a nice offer, since cooking anything beyond macaroni and cheese was a stretch in our hotel room.

“Make sure we buy enough for your father,” said the man my mother had told me to call Uncle.

“Have to buy him sweet-and-sour pork,” said my mother, pointing to me. “He doesn't eat anything Chinese.”

“What!” Uncle said.

While we waited for our food to cook, the guy at the counter talked on the phone, with his back to us. Once in a while, he'd look over his shoulder at us and frown.

“What's wrong?” I asked my mother.

“They don't like people from Taiwan,” she whispered. “They from Hong Kong.”

Back at the hotel, I helped Uncle carry in the heavy suitcases.

“Strong! Very strong!” he said. Then I helped him carry some boxes down into the basement. I picked up my bike from the bottom of the stairs to clear a path. The little boy followed us down, gawking like he'd never seen a basement before. Uncle rubbed the baseball cap on the boy's head and said something in Chinese. We went back up.

“Aunty” set our old table quickly and opened every carton. The smell of all that Chinese food made me sick. She put the sweet-and-sour pork in front of me and smiled.

The two kids were sitting down already. They didn't make a sound. They looked like aliens, with skin much darker than mine. The boy took off his cap and I saw that his hair was shaved close to the scalp. The girl's hair was down to her chin, and it was thick and greasy and stuck to her cheeks.

My mother told me their names, but I was so mad at them, I couldn't hear her. These assholes were moving in, forcing us to live in a hotel room.

The kids were so tired, they left the kitchen without eating and slept on the sofa.

When dinner was over, my mother got together some rice and tofu for my father to eat back in the hotel room.

“You stay here. Watch office tonight,” she told me. I was tired, but happy to still have an important position.

I told Uncle and Aunty to go to sleep. It was a pretty slow night. I only rented about three rooms. Around 5 a.m., I closed up the office. I figured my mother would come in around seven or so.

As I came in, my mother turned on her side and put her arm over my father. I'd never seen them that close before. It made me glad that I had my own bed, even though it was just a flimsy cot.

I was almost asleep when I heard a familiar sound from the hotel driveway.

No, it couldn't be, I thought. I put on a pair of sweatpants and slipped outside to investigate.

The boy was on my bike, riding around the driveway. He was barefoot, with one foot on the left pedal and the other awkwardly on the shaft where the right pedal had been.

It wasn't night anymore, and it wasn't yet day. There weren't any shadows on the ground. The boy was wearing a bright white t-shirt and a pair of navy shorts. His dark legs were surprisingly muscular. He was beautiful.

I sat down on the step in the doorway and watched him go.

How long would it be before something terrible happened, I wondered. Lightning could strike him right now. He could hit a rock and go flying. Or maybe a parked car could back up into him.

But then I thought about that little boy pushing that broken bike all the way up the stairs from the basement. He must have wanted to ride that bike pretty bad.

Maybe life would be okay for that boy. After all, he had a sister. That was one more set of hands to help. He also had me.

The boy passed by, and I saw that his ankle had scraped against the bike chain and was bleeding. He smiled and waved to me while holding the bike steady. He was sitting back in the seat, pedaling slow like he was the only one in the race and all he had to do was finish.

I got up and got a soda from the machine. I drank some and shivered.

Then he came over, and I let him have some, too.