Rooms - James L. Rubart [66]
“I’m so all by myself. Have been since Mom went away during Memorial Day weekend.”
Wake up!
No. He had to face it, finish it.
In that instant every infinitesimal detail of the day erupted out of the deepest vault of his heart. Not the day he was seeing now, the day the horror started.
The baseball diamond vanished, and he stood on the beach watching his nine-year-old self beg his mom to save his beach ball.
“Mom! Wind’s got it! It’s going into the ocean!”
“I’ll get it.”
“But those waves are big monster waves—”
“They’re much bigger to you than they are to me.”
“But what if—?”
His mom stopped and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Really.”
They ran up to the edge of the water as the wind shoved the ball farther out into the ocean.
Micah tried to smile.
“Don’t worry, honey, it’s just a few strokes away.” His mom jogged into the water, and the waves were soon up to her waist. “Stay there; I’ll be with you again in two shakes of Peter Rabbit’s fluffy tail.”
But she didn’t come back. Ever.
“No,” Micah whimpered as his mom struggled against the riptide that dragged her out faster than he could believe. “Mom, where are you going? Mommy, come back!”
Once more Micah watched himself scream up and down the beach, “Help her! Help my mom!” He took two halting steps toward the houses behind him. A step north. One south. Then he froze, not knowing which way to go. What to do. He stood on the beach shaking, moaning.
Time seemed to slow as his dad appeared over the crest of the tiny dune his brother, Mick, and he had parked behind. A moment later his dad dropped the bag of groceries and sprinted down the sand, past Micah, out into the surf.
Micah bounced on his toes, trying to keep the sound of his whimpers inside his throat.
Faster! Why couldn’t his dad get to her faster? She’d be okay. She’d be fine. She’d promised.
Twenty-five minutes later paramedics carried his mom’s lifeless body off the beach toward the ambulance parked next to his dad’s car, the gray blanket they’d placed over her fluttering in the breeze.
His dad turned to him, his face white and full of disbelief. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me!”
“Mom and I were playing and . . . my beach ball . . . it went into . . .” Micah looked at the sky, the sand, back to the sky. “And . . . and . . . and I asked Mom if she could get it, and she said . . . so she went into the ocean . . . and—”
“Why didn’t you—?”
“I didn’t know what to—”
“Why didn’t you go for help?”
“I tried to, Daddy, I tried, but . . . I was scared.”
“You should have found someone!”
“I wanted to . . . but I couldn’t move . . .”
“What have you done?” His dad took Micah’s shoulders and shook him hard. “What have you done?”
Tears rushed up, filled his eyes, and ran in little rivulets down Micah’s cheeks.
A few moments later his father turned and walked away.
“Daddy?” Micah stumbled after him. “Daddy!”
“Leave me alone.” His father didn’t look back; the only sound was a slight swish of his feet through the sand.
Micah ran; it didn’t matter where, tears blinding his vision.
His foot caught on a twisted piece of driftwood just below the surface of the sand, sending him hurtling through the air. A lone cluster of jagged rocks stuck up a few inches out of the sand.
He threw out his hands to break the fall and was silent as the sharp point of one of the rocks sliced into his left palm.
The scream came an instant later as pain surged into his hand and blood oozed into the miniature canyon that started at the base of his forefinger and ran down his palm to the start of his wrist.
He found his father ten minutes later, sitting with his back to the front tire of the family van, his eyes vacant.
“I hurt myself, Daddy.”
His father looked at Micah’s hand for a long time. Thirty seconds, maybe a full minute, then out toward the ocean. “Sorry, but you’ll have to figure it out yourself.” He stood and opened the van door. “I’m going to the hospital.”
Micah sat and watched his dad and brother drive off, the blood on his