I grip the bed. “He called you the other day…” I trail off, trying to remember when that was. “He told you he was coming here to talk to you. Today.”
She just stares at me.
“He called you,” I repeat.
“Yeah, he called me. But he never showed up.”
Blood whooshes behind my temples. I stare at the drooping wattle on the nightstand, thinking.
“He hasn’t messaged you since?”
“No.”
I get to my feet, vision blurring. Everything is moving and shifting, and none of it makes sense. I fumble for my car keys. “If he calls you, let me know. Please.”
My car is steaming hot. I sink into the seat, wincing when the belt buckle brands my hip. I swipe at the sweat trickling down my collarbone, wind the window down.
I’m heading home now.
I don’t wait for Colleen to message back. I call Chris again.
Straight to voicemail.
I end the call and ring again.
And again.
And again.
—
The sky is the ocean.Blue-black and roaring.
I race down the highway, watching the sky darken. Rain falls in scattered drops. There’s a stillness, an unnatural quiet. I clench my teeth and wait for my father. He’s in the wind, bending the branches of the blackwood trees. He’s the jagged streak of white-hot light. And he’s the roar that follows.
I stare at the sky, wondering how much of my father is in me.
My mother looked at the ocean and saw the hand of God. Shewas calm there in a way she never was at home.What a savior we have, Minnow. Before we even call him, He answers.
To my father, the ocean was violence. Death and life and death again. The dark heart of it calling and calling.You can hear it, too, can’t you, Min?
Sometimes I hear two calls.
I still wonder who I’ll follow.
The rain falls in torrents, drenching the sunburned fields. Sheep huddle together like bloated clouds as the wind howls around them. Some shelter under a lone ghost gum, heads lowered, wool dripping, bleating at the blackened horizon.
The road is flooding, and the windshield wipers struggle to keep up with the punishing downpour. I slow the car, squinting through the blurry glass, but I can barely make out the lane markings. I grip the wheel as the wind picks up, shoving the car from side to side as headlights glow faintly in the mist illuminating a road sign:
Violet Town 5 km
Rest Area 1 km
I pull slowly into the rest area—too slowly, apparently, because some asshole beeps me from behind. I flinch, heart thudding as I steer the car into the parking lot, tires lurching over puddled potholes. The air’s cooler, drying the sweat on my skin. I shudder when the breeze slips through the window crack.
I kill the engine. I’m still four hours away from Kangaroo Bay, and I feel it badly. Flashes of lightning split the sky. Rain hammers the roof, gushing down the windows. It’s so loud, you’d have to yell over it. I feel like I’m underwater.
I clench my jaw, remembering the dream.
