Cards, a short story
May 24, 1987
It’s so warm.
I can feel the beads of sweat trailing down my face, not bringing any relief with them. The heat is just as intense, wrapped around me with the sensation of a second skin. I can’t seem to escape from it.
Opening the window doesn’t do anything; all that happens is that the smell of smoke is drifting into the house. Groaning, I slam the window closed. The sound reverberates through the house.
From downstairs, I hear a crashing noise. The resulting swears only cement my certainty of the culprit. It’s my brother, John, like always. He’s always the same. John works downstairs with his projects all the time, claiming they’re delicate operations and nothing is more important.
I hold my breath as my brother appears at the top of the basement stairs, holding something rectangular and gray in his hand. The unpleasant smell of paint is permanently engraved in my memory within seconds.
“What was that?” John asked, his eyes landing on me. “You ruined my project, and it’s a-“
“A very delicate operation, I know,” I interrupted. My eyes, the same dull steel blue as his, roll. “And all that I did was open the window; you know how hot it is! The weatherman said that today was supposed to be the hottest day of May since 1962.”
John is wearing a bandanna around his forehead. I see a bead of sweat roll down his face and into the folds of it. “I heard that,” he admitted grudgingly. “Trust me, I’m just as eager to cool off as you are. If you let me go back to work for another ten minutes or so, then I promise that we can go to the beach.”
The town beach is actually kind of disgusting, but it’s better than just having the fan full blast, and we both know it. “Okay, ten minutes it is,” I said happily. Running upstairs, I dash into my room for the swim bag. It technically belonged to the entire family, but with mom and dad away on a business trip together, it was only mine right now. And my mark was all over it, too.
“Did you bring your sunscreen?” John asked, looking me up and down when I came downstairs twenty minutes later. “And your sunglasses and flip-flops?”
The lime green bag hung over my left shoulder is filled with everything that he listed- and more- but I can’t bring myself to reply back. Instead, I just nod and slap the bag with my hand. The stuff fabric leaves an impression against my palm.
My father’s convertible is parked in the driveway, underneath the white garage door that seems to permanently be stuck open. John finds the keys and makes a big presentation of turning the car on; instead of responding, I climb into the passenger seat, placing the beach bag in between our feet. He doesn’t say anything for the 15-minute ride, simply keeping his sunglasses on at all times.
“I can smell the ocean from here,” I said with surprise when we pulled into the lot. This part of the parking lot is a distance from the beach, but every space around us is filled.
John turns the car off, tucking the keys into our beach bag. “It’s the wind,” he explained, lifting the bag out like he can’t bear letting me do it. Rolling my eyes, I snatch the bag back from him.
“I know that much. I’ve taken a science class or two.”
The road to the beach is populated with a mixture of sand and rocks. Several times, I had to pick stones out of my shoes and throw them into a nearby bush. Somehow, my brother managed to avoid this problem. He simply tapped my shoulder when we arrived at the beach, and my jaw dropped.
The sand stretched out into the distance, seemingly going on forever in one large expanse. Colorful figures dot the landscape, and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to go in.
“Race you there!” I said with a laugh. The sound rippled, mixing with the constant laughter of the other beach goers. I put on sunscreen before, so now I just slip on my flip-flops and dive into the water.
The ocean was saltier than I remembered. Even with my eyes and mouth closed, I could feel the saltwater against my lips. I could almost taste it, and suddenly I felt like that taste is too much. I tried to surface.
I couldn’t.
There was something above me. I couldn’t see what it was, but I couldn’t breathe. Everything was turning white. Faintly, I remembered calling out my brother’s name.
Then everything turned black.
When I woke up, the process was slow. I could just barely hear the beep-beep of a machine. I would have gone back to sleep, except I heard my brother’s voice.
“Baby, please. Please, can you hear me? Open your eyes.” His voice was soft, pleading, and I felt myself responding to it.
“John?” I asked weakly. My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a minute to realize who else was standing around my bed. “Mom? Dad? What’s going on?”
“You almost drowned, honey,” my dad said. His voice was shaking, and suddenly I vaguely noticed his clothes. He was wearing a loud tropical shirt that made me want to laugh. “It was a near thing, but you’re going to be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
My hands flew up to my face. I felt my heartbeat speed up, and the machine reacted to my distress. It began to beep rapidly until a nurse walked into the room wearing a pale blue uniform.
“She’ll be able to go home tomorrow,” the nurse explained. “But no more swimming for at least six months, doctor’s orders.”
No one had an objection to that. Not even me. I could feel the fear that was now rooted inside my body, but I didn’t say anything.
One year later
My brother asked if I wanted to go swimming. I told him no. When he asked me why, I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to admit just how afraid I was now.
I never would, not until the day he died.
Fin.
It’s so warm.
I can feel the beads of sweat trailing down my face, not bringing any relief with them. The heat is just as intense, wrapped around me with the sensation of a second skin. I can’t seem to escape from it.
Opening the window doesn’t do anything; all that happens is that the smell of smoke is drifting into the house. Groaning, I slam the window closed. The sound reverberates through the house.
From downstairs, I hear a crashing noise. The resulting swears only cement my certainty of the culprit. It’s my brother, John, like always. He’s always the same. John works downstairs with his projects all the time, claiming they’re delicate operations and nothing is more important.
I hold my breath as my brother appears at the top of the basement stairs, holding something rectangular and gray in his hand. The unpleasant smell of paint is permanently engraved in my memory within seconds.
“What was that?” John asked, his eyes landing on me. “You ruined my project, and it’s a-“
“A very delicate operation, I know,” I interrupted. My eyes, the same dull steel blue as his, roll. “And all that I did was open the window; you know how hot it is! The weatherman said that today was supposed to be the hottest day of May since 1962.”
John is wearing a bandanna around his forehead. I see a bead of sweat roll down his face and into the folds of it. “I heard that,” he admitted grudgingly. “Trust me, I’m just as eager to cool off as you are. If you let me go back to work for another ten minutes or so, then I promise that we can go to the beach.”
The town beach is actually kind of disgusting, but it’s better than just having the fan full blast, and we both know it. “Okay, ten minutes it is,” I said happily. Running upstairs, I dash into my room for the swim bag. It technically belonged to the entire family, but with mom and dad away on a business trip together, it was only mine right now. And my mark was all over it, too.
“Did you bring your sunscreen?” John asked, looking me up and down when I came downstairs twenty minutes later. “And your sunglasses and flip-flops?”
The lime green bag hung over my left shoulder is filled with everything that he listed- and more- but I can’t bring myself to reply back. Instead, I just nod and slap the bag with my hand. The stuff fabric leaves an impression against my palm.
My father’s convertible is parked in the driveway, underneath the white garage door that seems to permanently be stuck open. John finds the keys and makes a big presentation of turning the car on; instead of responding, I climb into the passenger seat, placing the beach bag in between our feet. He doesn’t say anything for the 15-minute ride, simply keeping his sunglasses on at all times.
“I can smell the ocean from here,” I said with surprise when we pulled into the lot. This part of the parking lot is a distance from the beach, but every space around us is filled.
John turns the car off, tucking the keys into our beach bag. “It’s the wind,” he explained, lifting the bag out like he can’t bear letting me do it. Rolling my eyes, I snatch the bag back from him.
“I know that much. I’ve taken a science class or two.”
The road to the beach is populated with a mixture of sand and rocks. Several times, I had to pick stones out of my shoes and throw them into a nearby bush. Somehow, my brother managed to avoid this problem. He simply tapped my shoulder when we arrived at the beach, and my jaw dropped.
The sand stretched out into the distance, seemingly going on forever in one large expanse. Colorful figures dot the landscape, and suddenly, I couldn’t wait to go in.
“Race you there!” I said with a laugh. The sound rippled, mixing with the constant laughter of the other beach goers. I put on sunscreen before, so now I just slip on my flip-flops and dive into the water.
The ocean was saltier than I remembered. Even with my eyes and mouth closed, I could feel the saltwater against my lips. I could almost taste it, and suddenly I felt like that taste is too much. I tried to surface.
I couldn’t.
There was something above me. I couldn’t see what it was, but I couldn’t breathe. Everything was turning white. Faintly, I remembered calling out my brother’s name.
Then everything turned black.
When I woke up, the process was slow. I could just barely hear the beep-beep of a machine. I would have gone back to sleep, except I heard my brother’s voice.
“Baby, please. Please, can you hear me? Open your eyes.” His voice was soft, pleading, and I felt myself responding to it.
“John?” I asked weakly. My eyes fluttered open, and it took me a minute to realize who else was standing around my bed. “Mom? Dad? What’s going on?”
“You almost drowned, honey,” my dad said. His voice was shaking, and suddenly I vaguely noticed his clothes. He was wearing a loud tropical shirt that made me want to laugh. “It was a near thing, but you’re going to be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
My hands flew up to my face. I felt my heartbeat speed up, and the machine reacted to my distress. It began to beep rapidly until a nurse walked into the room wearing a pale blue uniform.
“She’ll be able to go home tomorrow,” the nurse explained. “But no more swimming for at least six months, doctor’s orders.”
No one had an objection to that. Not even me. I could feel the fear that was now rooted inside my body, but I didn’t say anything.
One year later
My brother asked if I wanted to go swimming. I told him no. When he asked me why, I didn’t tell him. I didn’t want to admit just how afraid I was now.
I never would, not until the day he died.
Fin.
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