Blue
ii
On the morning that we’re set to leave, I wake up with a headache.
Gram rubs the tears from my cheeks and kisses me three times, her arms shaking and her eyes reading nothing but sorrow. She does the same to Chris, and then Dad, who she whispers something to that I can’t hear. He nods and picks up one of the suitcases that sits by his feet, moving toward the car without another word. I can see her reflection in the rearview mirror as we pull out of the driveway, waving and holding one hand to her heart. She’s just as scared as we are, though she doesn’t show it. Her bravery makes me feel all the more hopeless. Beside me, Chris leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. There are unfamiliar dark circles under his eyes and bruises on his fists and he looks older, much older, than he did before. The man that sits in the front seat—Dad—watches us with careful eyes. He looks older than I remember, too.
He has our hair and wide, mahogany colored eyes that look pained and empty most of the time. On the day he arrived, he gathered Chris and I in his arms and didn’t let go. He smells like wood smoke and rain and his arms strong and safe and comforting, though my heart aches when I see him. If he had loved her like we did, why did he let her go?
From New York, our plane travels west to Seattle, where we board another, smaller plane that takes us to Port Angeles. Rain is coming down hard when we get there, pooling on the sidewalks and flooding the roads. His car is parked in one of the parking lots three blocks from the airport, weighed down with parking tickets and threats from the city of Port Angeles to tow. As we drive, he speaks quietly of La Push and everyone who lives there—“The Clearwaters are around,” he says. “Harry passed away nearly four years ago, and Sue and Billy Swan got together. The kids are nice, Seth and Leah. You remember them?”
Beside me, Chris nods slowly, staring out the window.
“I only have this truck,” Dad says, slowing to a stop at a red light. He turns to look at us. “La Push isn’t that big, though. You can walk pretty much everywhere from the house. Might be a bit of a hike to school once it starts up again, but I’m sure you can find a ride with someone. Everyone’s pretty generous.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I wish you two could have come under better circumstances. It’s…it’s a damn shame.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, my eyebrows drawing together.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Chris mumbles, though I can see that he doesn’t believe it.
Dad nods. “Doesn’t take the hurt out of things.”
Gram rubs the tears from my cheeks and kisses me three times, her arms shaking and her eyes reading nothing but sorrow. She does the same to Chris, and then Dad, who she whispers something to that I can’t hear. He nods and picks up one of the suitcases that sits by his feet, moving toward the car without another word. I can see her reflection in the rearview mirror as we pull out of the driveway, waving and holding one hand to her heart. She’s just as scared as we are, though she doesn’t show it. Her bravery makes me feel all the more hopeless. Beside me, Chris leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. There are unfamiliar dark circles under his eyes and bruises on his fists and he looks older, much older, than he did before. The man that sits in the front seat—Dad—watches us with careful eyes. He looks older than I remember, too.
He has our hair and wide, mahogany colored eyes that look pained and empty most of the time. On the day he arrived, he gathered Chris and I in his arms and didn’t let go. He smells like wood smoke and rain and his arms strong and safe and comforting, though my heart aches when I see him. If he had loved her like we did, why did he let her go?
From New York, our plane travels west to Seattle, where we board another, smaller plane that takes us to Port Angeles. Rain is coming down hard when we get there, pooling on the sidewalks and flooding the roads. His car is parked in one of the parking lots three blocks from the airport, weighed down with parking tickets and threats from the city of Port Angeles to tow. As we drive, he speaks quietly of La Push and everyone who lives there—“The Clearwaters are around,” he says. “Harry passed away nearly four years ago, and Sue and Billy Swan got together. The kids are nice, Seth and Leah. You remember them?”
Beside me, Chris nods slowly, staring out the window.
“I only have this truck,” Dad says, slowing to a stop at a red light. He turns to look at us. “La Push isn’t that big, though. You can walk pretty much everywhere from the house. Might be a bit of a hike to school once it starts up again, but I’m sure you can find a ride with someone. Everyone’s pretty generous.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I wish you two could have come under better circumstances. It’s…it’s a damn shame.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, my eyebrows drawing together.
“Everything happens for a reason,” Chris mumbles, though I can see that he doesn’t believe it.
Dad nods. “Doesn’t take the hurt out of things.”