Page 68 of Under the Waves

“Mom—” I choked out, barring my arms in front of my face. “Please, listen to me!”

I begged her.

Pleaded with her.

But she couldn’t hear me.

She didn’t want to hear me.

I wasn’t a pill bottle so why would she notice me?

I caught her arm before she could hit me again and pressed her head so she laid against my chest. Brushing a strand of hair from her face, gently soothing her, I whispered, “You’re okay, mom. You’re okay.”

It took everything in me to keep my rage quiet, and my self-destructive thoughts even quieter. Her sobs racked through her small, malnourished frame, tears slowly sliding down my stomach.

“You’re okay,” I breathed, over and over again until she tiptoed to the edge of exhaustion.

It was around two the next morning when she finally picked herself off the floor and locked herself in her room.

Three when she stopped screaming and sobbing.

Four when everything went quiet again.

My limbs were sluggish, my eyes burned. I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until it looked like a home again. I washed away any trace of what happened like it never existed in the firstplace. She’d wake up and forget. She’d go along with her day without wondering why the house was miraculouslyfixedagain.

I wished someone could fix me like that.

Golden sunlight filtered through the worn-out, gray blinds covering the windows. Padding down the hall to my room, I turned on the little lamp but it did very little to light up the room. The bulb was probably on its last legs.

Just like me.

I threw off my hoodie, my favorite worn-in red marvel hoodie, and chucked over the side of bed. It was a small, single bed I think they got from a garage sale many years ago. There was a little, wooden bedside table next to it by the door with a small, dainty lamp on it. I had a moderate sized closet filled with a few hoodies, tops, and an empty hanger for my wetsuit, and there in the corner, was a little black box filled with cash and seashells and Polaroid photos my mom took of us ages ago. They remind me of the happy times—times when we were all together, and although we might not have been happy, we were all alive, and that used to be enough for me.

Sometimes, I just wanted it all back. I wanted my life back. When me and my dad went to comps out of state, I picked out a seashell from each beach. There were a few from beaches in California, Washington state, but most of them were from here in Oregon. I took one each time I surfed down at Hollows Beach. They all looked similar but each one told a different story, and I think that was what I liked most about them—that each one allowed me to escape from this suffocating town. That I had a chance to see more of the world than I would’ve been able to see.

By the time I finished sorting out my room, I’d gotten a total of two hours sleep before I had to wake up for the guys first surfing comp of the new season. I could’ve just skipped it, but it meant a lot to Jasper, and how would it look if his (fake) girlfriend missed his first competition? I didn’t want to embarrass him, he didn’t deserve that after what he did for me yesterday.

Tugging on the same hoodie and shorts from yesterday, a small sigh escaped my lips. I’d do the washing when I got back at around lunch time. Taking out a post-it note from my bedside table, I scribbled down a note to my mom letting her know I’dbe back at midday.

She never read them. I didn’t know why I bothered.

I skipped out on breakfast, heading straight to the door after I’d cleaned myself up a bit. I needed to look at least a little bit presentable today. It was a big day for them both, and it would’ve been for me too.

No. Don’t think about that Poppy. Not today.

Beads of sweat ran down the back of my neck as I tugged at my hoodie, trying to cool myself down. It was just about reaching ninety degrees outside today, the mid-afternoon sun blazing down from above me.

You could’ve just worn your bathing suit.

No, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let them see.

See what?

Seeme.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the sunlight and the voices. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to remember all that she did to me. All that she said to me last night. Living through it was one thing, being trapped by the memories of it was another. Sit there and tell me to get over this, to stop being a pathetic little girl throwing a temper tantrum just because her mom hated her and her dad left her. Go on.I dare you.

Think, Poppy. Think of something else. Think of the waves crashing against the shore and returning to sea. Think of the ocean, your home. Think of Jasper, your—