phone from his pocket. “I want to show my girlfriend. She thinks
you’re like awesome, man.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” I say. He doesn’t hear it, because he
shouts toward the kitchen, “’Ey, Dad, it’s the Perfect Storm guy!”
A round man in an apron stained with tomato sauce, giving him the
look of an all-too-happy butcher, comes out. His thick, smiling
mustache reminds me of Super Mario. “Oh, my boy!” He comes around the
table, leans over Maddy, and kisses me on both cheeks. “The pizza is
on the house! Brave boy.”
Dad slaps the waiter on the arm like they’re buddies and says,
“Mike, no more pictures. You understand.”
“No problem, my man.” Mike puts away his phone, and they return to
the kitchen.
“I really hope that’s the last time that happens,” I say, laughing
despite myself.
“At least you got kissed by an Italian guy,” Layla says. “How many
guys do you know who have that street cred?”
“What about that time you and Angelo-” Maddy starts, but I cut her
off.
“Whoa, hey. So anything else I need to know? As in, I don’t have
to go to class for the rest of the month?”
“You really must’ve hit your head on something,” Dad says.
“Great. Good, I’m glad we’re laughing at my tragedy so soon.” More
garlic knots. It’s not like I’ll be kissing anyone later, I think.
“Listen, you kids can hang out at the house, stay up all night.”
Mom fidgets with her necklace. “Just don’t touch my strawberry ice
cream.”
“Oh, actually, I have to go home, if that’s okay,” Maddy whispers.
For a second I forgot she was there. “Do you care if I bring some
friends to your party?” She looks at me with her big blue eyes and
sort of reminds me of a lost kitten.
“What friends?”
She scoffs. “I have friends.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did. You just don’t know it.”
“How can I do something without knowing it?”
She stands up from the table, her chair sliding back and falling
with a thud. “You do everything without knowing , don’t you?” She
looks at my mom, her lips trembling, and I know she’s going to cry and
everyone is going to blame it on me. “I’m sorry,” she says, looking
down at her feet because she can’t seem to look at my parents. “Thank
you for the pizza.”
“ Maddy ,” Layla and I call after her. But she’s already out the
jingling door.
Dad picks up the chair and sets it straight. “Am I to understand
that you two are no longer going out ?” He says going out in quotation
marks.
“No, we’re not going out anymore.”
My parents trade sly glances.
“What?”
They shrug together, but they don’t answer. They look at Layla,
who makes a zipper motion over her lips.
“If we’d known, we wouldn’t have invited her to the hospital. Poor
girl.” Mom folds a napkin into an accordion.
“By we, your mom means she ,” Dad says in a whisper that’s meant
to be heard.
“Yeah, well, I was kind of lost at sea.” I sit back and leave the
piece of crust I was nibbling on alone.
Outside, the thunder breaks through the darkening sky. It starts
to rain. I really do hope Maddy gets home safely. She only lives a few
blocks away. I picture her answering my mom’s call telling her I was
alive. Maybe she was wishing I’d stay gone. I slump lower against my
seat, feeling a little bit like the pieces of crust on my greasy
plate.
No matter what they say on the news and in the papers, I’m not a
hero. I didn’t save the person I meant to save. I’m not even sure
anyone was out there.
From the moment that wave crashed over me, I’ve felt different. I
smell things differently. I hear differently. I know that there’s
something I can’t remember. It’s taking shape in my head, but it’s
like looking at a picture that’s out of focus.
I throw the covers off and go to the living room. My mother has
owned our apartment since before she met my dad. It is technically two
apartments now with a few walls broken down to make one huge place.
Two bathrooms, my room, my parents’ room, Dad’s office, a dining room,
and a living room with huge windows looking out to the Coney Island
shore. The walls are gray blue with white trim, except for the
kitchen, which is yellow.
I lie across the chocolate leather sofa, and when I can’t find a
soft spot, I lie on the giant, furry sheepskin rug. I remember being
little when my mother bought this rug. I thought she’d gone out
hunting and killed the abominable snowman. I used to stretch out
reading a book, picking out tortilla chips and popcorn from the hairs
before my mother noticed.
I push myself up and stand in front of our entertainment center,
which my dad built from pieces of an ancient shipwreck. We call it the
public library because books cover the whole wall, from floor to
ceiling. I run a finger along their spines, leather-bound books older
than this apartment building and slick new paperbacks.
I feel like I’m looking for something but I don’t know what. I
shut my eyes and stop at a black leather-bound book with a worn spine.
Fairy Tales and Other Stories by Hans Christian Andersen. We have
everything he ever wrote and everything everyone has written about
him. Mom’s always wanted me to read fairy tales. Sometimes I’d tell
her she and Dad should’ve tried for a daughter, and then I realized I
was telling my parents to keep having sex. That’s why I think she
loves Layla so much. She’s like the daughter Mom probably wanted me to
be. Even though I never want to think of Layla as my sister, I never
want her to go away either.
I flip through the black leather-bound book and notice something I
never have before. It’s signed. It says, “Maia, ever drifting,
drifting, drifting.” Followed by a signature scrawl I can’t quite make
out.
I shut the book and put it back in place.
My head is throbbing. A steady dull pulse at my temples. I drink a
cup of water and take it back into Dad’s study, where electronic parts
go to die. I step on a little silver rectangle with green wires
sticking out and bite my tongue to keep from yelling out. Dad likes
taking things apart to see how they work, and then he tries to put
them back together. Tries .
The Apple desktop computer is on screen saver, a stream of
pictures from our lives. Us on the Wonder Wheel, me eating a corn dog,
Mom holding me on the beach, me and Layla at Six Flags, me holding my
swimming trophies, my elementary-school graduation, Mom jumping in the
air at the park.
It’s like all these things happened to a different guy in a
different life.
I wonder if something happened to me in the water. I trace the
cuts on my neck, which are already scabbing over. What happened to me?
I can keep asking myself that, but I might as well be asking the ocean
itself. And maybe I have to snap out of it, because I might never
know.
I give the mouse a little shake, and the pictures go away. I click
on the Internet icon and type “near-death body changes” into Google.
It’s all a bunch of white lights and tunnels, angels and the voice of
God, and waking up with the ability to get radio signals in your
brain.
I don’t have that. At least I hope I don’t start getting radio
signals in my head. Then again, that might make sitting through class
more entertaining. But what if I only ever get one station?
My headache gets worse. The computer screen bothers my eyes. I