Dad’s arm falls from my shoulders. He gets up, walks to a canyon wall, facing away from me. He presses one hand to the stone, leans forward, head down, his shaggy hair falling in his face. He breathes in and out as if it’s a tremendous effort, then slowly begins to shake his head. He turns to me, not even a trace of smile left. “No.”
NINE
My heart pounds and rage swells. That’s how my emotions work since Mom died. I go from fine to anxious to depressed to angry to numb in split-second bursts. I grit my teeth. “Can’t we even talk about it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You know why. You read the news, even though I tell you not to.”
“So is this how it’s going to be? Just me and you, hiding forever?”
“We’re not hiding.”
“Then what would you call it?” I snap.
“Staying safe.”
“Staying safe alone.”
“We’re not alone,” Dad pleads. “We have each other.”
“I need more than just you.” Dad looks hurt at my words, but he must, he must, understand that I can love him and still need more than him in my life. “I want to have friends again.”
“I told you you should have invited Danielle,” he says, voice rising, accusing.
“Danielle doesn’t want to be my friend anymore!” I cry. “I have to go where I can make new friends. Where people won’t just see the shooting when they look at me. I want to do more with my life than hide. I want things to go back to normal.”
“Normal, Nora?” He stares at the ground, his shoulders slumping. Then he lifts his eyes to mine. “How could things ever go back to normal?”
“Maybe if you let me go to school, then—”
“You are never going back to school!” Dad yells, making it clear that I have no say in any of this, that I’ve completely lost control over my own life.
Everything around me turns to a red blur as my eyes fill with tears. “Please, let’s—”
“Just stop!” he shouts, the words echoing through the canyon over and over again.
I’m shaking now. I feel my anger growing out of control, and I know what I’m supposed to do when that happens—take a walk or a shower, do some yoga, write poetry, tie my figure eights, knead my balloon of flour. And I know what I’m not supposed to do.
I stare at him, heart pounding, hands trembling, eyes spilling. I don’t want to take a walk or do some yoga. I want to fight and scream and cry and lash out. So I do. “I hate you.”
His face fills with anguish before he turns away from me, picking up his backpack and latching it to his body, making it clear he’s done with this discussion, which was hardly ever a discussion at all.
I’m not done. But when Dad whips around, his face stops me. The anger, the hurt has all drained out of it like the blood from his shot leg. His eyes widen. His mouth opens. All that’s left is fear. Tremendous fear.
I don’t understand.
Then I feel it.
The ground vibrates beneath our feet. Small pebbles and sheets of sand break free of cracks and crevices in the shuddering canyon walls. They tumble to the ground. It must be a stampede or an earthquake. But how could there be a stampede down here? And we don’t have earthquakes in the desert. Not like this.
It’s behind me. I’m terrified to look. But I need to know. I need to know what it is. And so I turn to face it.
My brain can barely understand what it’s seeing, and so
I
send
my
mind
to
another
place.
BLACK WATER
An enormous wall
of black water
heads straight for us.
It carries
all the desert:
uprooted ironwoods,
ocotillo wands,
cholla balls,
animals,
rock,
mud,
and death.
EIGHT SECONDS
Eight seconds
I am frozen again in fear.
Seven seconds
Dad screams at me to climb.
Six seconds
I reach for my backpack,
but he grabs me,
the strap slipping
from my fingers.
Five seconds
Dad throws me on top of the outcropping
where I lay a few minutes ago.
Four
I search for anything I can hang on to,
a crack, a small indent in the wall,
an embedded rock.
Three
Dad pulls himself on top of the outcropping
as I struggle to climb the wall.
Two
Dad pushes me up to where I find
a foothold above his head.
One
Dad grabs a crack in the wall
while I grip the same vertical crack above him
and brace myself.
HITTING
The water
hits like a
train
I grip
the
wall
not wanting
to fall
and get crushed
underneath its
wheels
the water
rises as quickly
as the
bile
shooting
up
my
throat
sweeps away
my backpack
and every supply
I look
for more
footholds
climb higher
and slip
and
nearly
plunge
down
into
the
foaming
water
I grip
any
hold
I can find
with my trembling
fingers
in my
panic
to get away
from the
water
splashing me
spraying in my
mouth
covering my
tongue
with its
salt
more like the
ocean
than a
river
TOO
Dad clings to the crack
below me, the water
now flowing over his legs,
stronger than the force of gravity
moving in the wrong direction,
doing everything in its power
to break him free of the wall.
I look down at his
tense, red face,
clenched teeth,
white knuckles
straining to hold on.
He can’t.
He doesn’t have the strength.
I’m going to lose him
too.
THE LAST THING
I love you
and
I’m sorry
and
Hold on
are the last things
he says to me,
though I barely
hear the words
over the
screeching
screaming
in my mind
over the
roaring,
rushing
black water,
which finally
accomplishes its goal
of tearing him
from the wall.
He’s carried away,
lying on his back,
floating on his backpack,
hands folded over his chest,
trying not to drown,