Tempest Rising
Page 60

It took me a couple of minutes to absorb the news that someone else had been taking care of my family while I was gone, that things really weren’t exactly the way I’d left them. But then, why should they be? I wasn’t the same either.
Eventually the boys tired of telling me about their lives and started asking questions about what I’d been doing.
“What was it like down there?”
“Did you see any sharks?”
“How far away did you go?”
“Did you see the ocean floor?”
“Did you bring us presents?”
I answered all the questions, including the fact that I had forgotten to bring gifts. Moku looked so disappointed that I promised him I would take him out shopping later that day and buy him whatever he wanted. As he whooped in delight, I berated myself—how could I have been so wrapped up in my own traumas that I’d forgotten to scoop up a couple of shells for Moku? He didn’t ask for much, wasn’t hard to please, and it would have taken such little effort on my part. It was just one more thing that I hadn’t managed to get right.
And then Rio asked the question I’d been waiting for, the one I’d been dreading since I’d fallen, hysterical, into my father’s arms the night before.
“Did you see Mom?”
My dad didn’t move, but I could sense the subtle tension in him, the need to know everything he could about the woman he loved. And I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer, knew I had to tell him. But when I looked at my brothers’ bright, happy eyes, I couldn’t force the words past my throat. I just couldn’t.
My father must have figured out that something was wrong, because he quickly herded my brothers from the room with promises that their own lunch—complete with milk shakes—was on the kitchen counter downstairs.
Moku ran out right away, happy as a bug. But then he didn’t remember Mom at all. It took a little longer to get Rio out of the room and the look he shot me as he left promised that he would be asking more questions again soon.
My dad waited until he heard my brothers’ footsteps on the stairs before turning to me and saying, “Tell me.” His hands were clenched into fists and I could tell he was bracing himself for the worst.
I thought about trying to break the news to him easily, but the truth was there was no easy way to say it. And besides, it seemed more merciful to just get it out there.
“She’s dead, Dad. Mom’s dead.”
He jerked as if the words were bullets slamming into him and his eyes closed, like he couldn’t even stand to look at me. Not that I blamed him—I couldn’t look at myself.
We sat that way for a long time, both of us lost in our own little worlds. I wondered if he was thinking of what things had been like before she’d run off, of what it had been like to love—and be loved—by her. I couldn’t remember those times anymore, couldn’t remember anything but what it had felt like to watch that thing rip my mother apart like she was nothing.
Just when I was sure that my father wasn’t going to say anything—that he wasn’t ever going to talk to me again—he opened his eyes. There was a sheen of tears covering them, turning them darker, but they were calm, resolute. Accepting.
“After a few years of not hearing from her, I started wondering if something had happened to her. If that was why she’d never returned.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck, shook his head. “I guess I was right.”
It would have been so easy to let him go on believing that, to let him think she had died long ago and that was why she’d never returned to him. But that didn’t seem fair, especially since it would hide my own responsibility for the mess.
“It wasn’t like that, Dad.”
He didn’t answer and I realized he hadn’t heard me. He was lost in thought, far gone from my bedroom with its violet walls and glow-in-the-dark stars.
“Dad.” I called his name again, waited until his slightly dazed eyes focused on me.
“What, Tempest?”
I killed her. I killed Mom. The words were right there on the tip of my tongue and I wanted to say them. I really did. But he looked almost peaceful, as if all the years of waiting for Mom to come back weren’t so hard to bear. And I realized that maybe that was exactly how he did feel. Maybe it was easier for him to believe that she hadn’t left him voluntarily, that she would have eventually come back to him if she hadn’t died.
I knew better, but what had that gotten me? Nothing, except enough anger and guilt to fill a football stadium. Maybe what my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“Nothing. I just wanted to say thank you for lunch. It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“So, do you feel up to getting dressed?” His smile was warm when he looked at me, his eyes focused. He was back from whatever strange side trip he’d gone on. “We can get the boys ready, go to the park. Catch a movie. I’ll even spring for pizza afterward.”
“Right. Pizza.” I forced a smile. “I think I’d like that.”
“Good.” He leaned over, dropped a quick kiss on the top of my head. “I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes.” It was easy to fall into the rhythm of the old game.
“Twenty-five minutes—and that’s my final offer.”
“I’ll take it.”
It was a good day. Better, certainly, than I deserved.
I spent the early afternoon chasing Moku and Rio in the park—it was nearly empty because everyone else was in school, but Dad had let the boys stay home to celebrate my return. After I’d tired them out, I had taken to the swings, pumping my legs as hard and as fast as I could, looking for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I hadn’t found it, and it wasn’t until I was sitting in the movie theater, a big tub of buttered popcorn balanced on the armrest between Rio’s chair and my own, that it hit me. I’d been trying to fly, trying to recapture those blissful moments when I was wrapped in Kona’s arms, speeding through the ocean. Before all hell had broken loose.
After that, the movie lost its flavor. I was too busy trying to fight off the memories of Kona and my mother, of Malu and Oliwa. Even so, there was something comforting about sitting in the dark with my family, Moku’s little hand resting so innocently in mine. Of all the things I’d missed in the time that I’d been gone, I had definitely missed my youngest brother the most.
When the movie was finished, both my brothers came out of it pretending to be robots like the kind we’d seen in the theater—of course Rio was a lot more subtle about it because we were in public, and at thirteen, he was far too cool to indulge in such “childish behavior.” Or so he said, right before he “shot” Moku between the eyes.
Watching them made me smile—something I hadn’t been sure I’d ever be able to do again just twenty-four hours before—and by the time the four of us made it home, I’d found myself drafted to play the bad robot, bent on mayhem and destruction.
I barely made it out of the car before I was riddled with holes from Rio’s and Moku’s pretend guns. After roaring in a bad imitation of the robot in the movie I chased them through the house, my own cannon blaster blazing. Before too long, my dad joined in and the war that followed was the most fun I’d had in a long time. The four of us ran around the house like crazy people, firing pretend blasters at each other and scoring points for every hit.