Read Online Operation Oleander (9780547534213) by Valerie O. Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Valerie O. Patterson
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words pummel my body.
âOkay,â I say. âIâll go. If you really want me to.â I wait, hoping Meriwether will say something else.
She just sits there, protected by her pillows.
âI didnât know this would happen. I love your mom too.â I donât tell her my dadâs condition, how he might still die.
I slip out and close the door behind me. I feel my heart stabbed through like an insect pinned to a board.
Outside, my eyes blurry, I walk past the flower beds. Where Meriwether removed the day lilies, a bare spot of earth lies exposed, a gaping wound.
Ten
T HIS TIME of the day, heat builds over land. Later, an afternoon thunderstorm will crackle, and rain will pour down out of the sky as if a dam holding it back has given way. But right now itâs just hot and sticky, and the sunlight hurts my eyes. I walk to the beach anyway.
Away from Meriwetherâs house. Away from the pond with its two frightened goldfish and the flower bed that looks like a war zone. And my best friend who says her mother wouldnât have been at the orphanage that morning except for me.
When the news of the bombing broke, I only thought about Dad. It hadnât come to my mind that Meriwetherâs mother might be hurt, or that others I knew would be killed.
No, it was Dad and the orphanage I thought about first. And Warda. And, if sheâs alive, whether her eyes now hold more pain in them than Iâd already seen in the photos. The newscasters donât report on the orphanage. Maybe they think thereâs no story in that here.
I follow the beach road until it curves like the scar created by the water. Then I slip off my flip-flops and run onto the sand, toward the gulf. The whiteness of the sun reflecting off the beach burns my eyes.
Because of Operation Oleander.
Everything is whiteness. Hot whiteness.
I dash toward the surf, but I donât dive in.
Donât swim alone,
my dadâs voice reminds me. Instead I run through the surf, kicking up water and sand. Water courses down my legs. One wave surges toward me, and water splashes up to my thighs. The edges of my shorts turn damp. Later theyâll dry stiff from all the salt water.
This morning thereâs no one here except for one old man. He wears a faded green army cap and fishes in the surf. Iâve seen him before. I think heâs retired. Heâs so dark and wrinkled that itâs as if heâs turned to seaweed that washes up on the sand at high tide.
The sunâs overhead. I keep running. My feet push off. Digging into the wet sand, trying to release myself, tugging against the wet sand pulling me down, holding me back.
I fight. Push harder. Run faster.
And then I am finally flying, tripping, and soaring until I dive into the water.
When youâre in it, water has a sound of its own. I am underneath, and it washes over me. Close my eyes because it stings. But I hear the gush of it, the gurgle all around me, almost as if the gulf is breathing. I listen to it gather and swell toward land.
I hold my breath until my chest aches.
Then I bellow out of the water like a breaching whale, gasping for air.
Beyond the point, the old man whoâs fishing raises his hat to wave at me. Heâs checking on me. He must think Iâm crazy or drowning.
I am both.
In the water, no one can see my tears.
In the water, I am not even sure I am crying.
I wave back once and trudge out of the surf so he doesnât think I need rescuing. Water streams down my face and my neck, into the folds of my T-shirt, my shorts. I squeeze out my hair and find my flip-flops in the white, hot sand.
Â
By the time I get home, I am half-dry and my skin itches with salt.
In the time Iâve been gone, someone has tied red, white, and blue ribbons to the front porch of our house. A couple of smaller ribbons trim the branches of the gardenia like ornaments.
For the first time, our house appears different from others on the
âOkay,â I say. âIâll go. If you really want me to.â I wait, hoping Meriwether will say something else.
She just sits there, protected by her pillows.
âI didnât know this would happen. I love your mom too.â I donât tell her my dadâs condition, how he might still die.
I slip out and close the door behind me. I feel my heart stabbed through like an insect pinned to a board.
Outside, my eyes blurry, I walk past the flower beds. Where Meriwether removed the day lilies, a bare spot of earth lies exposed, a gaping wound.
Ten
T HIS TIME of the day, heat builds over land. Later, an afternoon thunderstorm will crackle, and rain will pour down out of the sky as if a dam holding it back has given way. But right now itâs just hot and sticky, and the sunlight hurts my eyes. I walk to the beach anyway.
Away from Meriwetherâs house. Away from the pond with its two frightened goldfish and the flower bed that looks like a war zone. And my best friend who says her mother wouldnât have been at the orphanage that morning except for me.
When the news of the bombing broke, I only thought about Dad. It hadnât come to my mind that Meriwetherâs mother might be hurt, or that others I knew would be killed.
No, it was Dad and the orphanage I thought about first. And Warda. And, if sheâs alive, whether her eyes now hold more pain in them than Iâd already seen in the photos. The newscasters donât report on the orphanage. Maybe they think thereâs no story in that here.
I follow the beach road until it curves like the scar created by the water. Then I slip off my flip-flops and run onto the sand, toward the gulf. The whiteness of the sun reflecting off the beach burns my eyes.
Because of Operation Oleander.
Everything is whiteness. Hot whiteness.
I dash toward the surf, but I donât dive in.
Donât swim alone,
my dadâs voice reminds me. Instead I run through the surf, kicking up water and sand. Water courses down my legs. One wave surges toward me, and water splashes up to my thighs. The edges of my shorts turn damp. Later theyâll dry stiff from all the salt water.
This morning thereâs no one here except for one old man. He wears a faded green army cap and fishes in the surf. Iâve seen him before. I think heâs retired. Heâs so dark and wrinkled that itâs as if heâs turned to seaweed that washes up on the sand at high tide.
The sunâs overhead. I keep running. My feet push off. Digging into the wet sand, trying to release myself, tugging against the wet sand pulling me down, holding me back.
I fight. Push harder. Run faster.
And then I am finally flying, tripping, and soaring until I dive into the water.
When youâre in it, water has a sound of its own. I am underneath, and it washes over me. Close my eyes because it stings. But I hear the gush of it, the gurgle all around me, almost as if the gulf is breathing. I listen to it gather and swell toward land.
I hold my breath until my chest aches.
Then I bellow out of the water like a breaching whale, gasping for air.
Beyond the point, the old man whoâs fishing raises his hat to wave at me. Heâs checking on me. He must think Iâm crazy or drowning.
I am both.
In the water, no one can see my tears.
In the water, I am not even sure I am crying.
I wave back once and trudge out of the surf so he doesnât think I need rescuing. Water streams down my face and my neck, into the folds of my T-shirt, my shorts. I squeeze out my hair and find my flip-flops in the white, hot sand.
Â
By the time I get home, I am half-dry and my skin itches with salt.
In the time Iâve been gone, someone has tied red, white, and blue ribbons to the front porch of our house. A couple of smaller ribbons trim the branches of the gardenia like ornaments.
For the first time, our house appears different from others on the
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