Page 52 of Exiled

Oh, the ocean.

The soft, steady crash of waves on sand. The way the blue ripples endlessly, curling into white and breaking on the shore. The wheeling of gulls, tipping on a wing to flutter to the sand, scooping up some prize, yipping in triumph, defending against other thieving gulls.

The flicker in my mind brightens.

Whiteness.

The sun is hot, blazing hot. Baking my shoulders and the top of my head. My feet are cool, though. The waves crash and wash up over my feet and calves, licking up to my knees. I am sitting in the dark brown wet sand at the water’s edge, digging a hole. Digging, digging, digging. It’s futile, of course. The ocean rushes up and over me, into the hole, filling it and caving in the edges, smoothing away the hole so there’s barely even a divot remaining. And then I dig, dig, dig all over again, watch the hole vanish as if by magic. Behind me, a sand castle sits half ruined, partially obliterated by my own feet, after an hour of careful, painstaking construction. I was a giant, of course, and the castle was full of nasty little mortals. They had to be crushed, of course. I am hot enough to consider going in the water now. It will be cold, and the salt will sting my eyes and crust my skin when I get out, but it’s worth it to cool off.

Behind me, I hear a giggle. It’s a low, soft sound. Happy, delighted, amused. Mama. I stand up, brushing sand off my butt and hands. Turn, watch Mama and Papa. She is lying on her back. She is lovely, so elegant. Sexy. I learned this word at school recently, and I think my mama is sexy. Her bathing suit is rather small. I would never wear anything like that, I would be too afraid of people seeing me in my underwear. That’s all it really is, Mama’s bikini. She looks like a supermodel, I think. Her hair is loose, because it’s always loose unless she’s washing dishes. It’s so long it comes down to nearly her bottom, and it’s black as a crow’s wing. Straight, thick, glossy. Her tummy is flat, but her boobies are big, and so is her butt. I’ve heard kids talking at school, and that’s how women are supposed to look, they say. I wonder if I will look that way? Probably not. I’ll never be as beautiful as Mama.

She’s laughing because Papa is kissing her. She’s lying on the big blanket Abuela made by knitting. Or crocheting? I don’t know. She made it before I was born, and we always bring it to the beach with us. Mama is on her back, one knee up, the other leg straight out on the blanket. Papa is lying almost totally on top of her, like I saw them doing that one time by accident, only this time they have their clothes on. He’s kissing her, all over. All over. Her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She’s laughing and laughing, telling him to stop, but not really. She doesn’t actually want him to stop, I can tell, so I’m not sure why she’s saying so. She’s slapping his shoulder with one hand, but her other hand is in his hair. Adults are confusing. She tells him people are watching, that I’m watching.

He just says, “Let her watch, then, my love. She will see that her parents are in love.”

More laughing, more kissing.

Yuck. But it’s not yuck. I used to think it was gross when they kissed like that, but I’m old enough now to know that it is supposed to be romantic. Luisa’s mama and papa don’t kiss at all, she said. Sometimes they even sleep in separate rooms, because they argue so much. So maybe I’m lucky, because my mama and papa are in love and kiss each other and make each other laugh, and sleep in one room every night, and sometimes I hear them laughing and making lots of weird sounds late at night. I think that’s having sex. Luisa said she saw her mama doing that with a man who wasn’t her papa, and that’s just weird. I’m not sure what sex is, but I know men and women do it together when they are in love, and maybe when they aren’t, too. I’m not sure.

I am very hot now. Too hot. And Mama and Papa are just kissing now. No laughing. No sayingstop. Just kissing, their faces so close, tilting their heads this way and that, Mama’sfingers in Papa’s hair, as if she’s afraid he’ll stop and she doesn’t want him to get away.

So I go in the water. Tread out through the waves, up to my hips, and that’s where I stop. I have to jump in now. But it’s cold, and I always have to tell myself I’m brave enough to do it. Sometimes Papa will run up behind me when I’m not paying attention and throw me in, and laugh, and tell me I have to just do it, or I’ll think myself out of jumping in.

I look back, and Papa is still kissing Mama. But now she has her foot around his leg, and I think they will be kissing for a very long time.

So I jump in. Just jump. Deep breath, and jump. The water is cold, shockingly cold at first. But then I’m swimming under the water and I’m already used to it, and it feels wonderful.

I swim for a long time, chasing waves and pretending I’m a surfer like I saw on TV. I don’t notice anything, forget everything but the water and the waves and the sun. I glance back at Mama and Papa, but they’re sleeping. Under a blanket, even, which is weird considering how hot it is. But we’re totally alone on this part of the beach, so who cares? Adults are weird, and I don’t bother trying to figure out why they need a blanket in the summer.

It isn’t until I feel the water start to surge and pull that I notice anything is amiss. I look up, and suddenly the sky is gray, and it looks heavy, as if the clouds are full of pencil lead and might break open. It is windy, too, and the waves are big. Too big. They crash over me, push and pull me, knock me under. I surface, kicking and pulling with my hands as hard as I can. I am a good swimmer, a regular old fish, like Papa says. But the waves are so strong, and I’m getting farther and farther from shore. A riptide, I think.

I finally get a breath, manage to spit out the salty water, and scream.

But I only get a little scream out before another wave pounds onto my head and spins me in a somersault, twisting me under the water until I don’t know which way is up. I surface again, flailing now. I am very afraid, suddenly. I am having trouble breathing, and my legs and arms are tired, and the glimpse of shore I get through the smashing waves is far, far, far. I try to scream. Choke on water, spit it out, coughing, and scream again. Kick, kick, try to move with the waves, like a surfer. Like a fish, or dolphin. But the waves hit me like fists, over and over, and I am struggling, but weakness is like a heavy blanket tangling me up. Making it hard to kick, to pull with my hands.

To stay above the waves.

I can’t. I am under. Not breathing. Trying to swim, but I can’t. Fear is a knife in my heart. I’m not going to make it back up this time.

And then I feel a hand. It wraps around my hair and pulls HARD. My head breaks up over the surface, and then there’s an arm under my armpits and a shoulder against my face.

“I’ve got you,mija,” Papa says. It’s Papa. “I’ve got you. You’re all right. Kick your feet, okay? Kick with me.”

I kick. I’m choking on the water, but now Papa’s arm has me lifted up above the water, so I can finally catch my breath. I’m so tired. I try to kick, but my legs won’t work.

“I can’t, Papa.” I sound small, and weak, and afraid.

“You have to, Isabel. The storm is coming. You have to kick... you have to help.” He sounds out of breath too.

I look around and see that we are very far from shore, still. The sky is so dark it is almost like night, and there is rain pattering and pitting on the water, tickling my face, warm, and blowing in sheets by the wind. The wind, it is angry. The waves are like mountains.

I kick. I kick as hard as I can, to help Papa save us both.

“That’s good,mija. Keep... kicking. We’ll make it. Just keep—keep kicking.”

It seems like we swim forever, Papa’s strong arm under me, keeping me above the waves. I feel his legs kicking hard, tirelessly, ceaselessly, scissoring over and over and over. His other arm pulls, stabs out, pulls. He’s gasping rhythmically, breathing hard. He’s tired, too.

And then I feel sand under my toes. I put my feet down. “Papa, we made it. I can walk now.”