Read Online Red Sea by Diane Tullson - Free Book Online

fingers and the milk stops in my throat. Mom’s eyes are wide open.
    I swear, then say, “You startled me!” Her eyes swivel up to mine. “You’re awake. That’s very good.” I try to smile, but the ghostly color in her face makes it difficult. She doesn’t speak and her eyes seem fixed and glazed.
    â€œMom?”
    No response.
    I grab a water bottle and hold it to her lips. “You must be thirsty. Have some water.” I squirt a small stream into her mouth.
    Her eyes widen and she coughs, weakly at first, then she sucks a breath and coughs again. Her eyes fill; she draws one more interminably long breath, then finally clears the water from her throat.
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I gave you too much.” I hold the water bottle against her lips. “I’ll be more careful.” This time I dribble the water over her tongue and she swallows it. I hold my breath. Her forehead crinkles as if in pain, but she drinks slowly, fighting for every swallow, and she drinks the bottle down. Then her eyes close again.
    â€œMom?” I sweep the hair from her forehead. Louder this time, “Mom!” I press my hand against her forehead, willing her to open her eyes. Her head feels heavy, inert. She’s out again.
    My throat clenches and tears hit me so that I’m sobbing like a little kid.
“Mom!”
I want to crawl into the berth with her like I used to do a million years ago when I’d get into bed with her in the night and she’d put her arm around me and pull me against her, vanquishing whatever had sent me running in the dark.
    I wipe my eyes on my shirt, sniff my nose. This is like every Disney movie, with the mother or father always getting offed, leaving the young on their own to face the perils of the wilderness or the wicked witch or whatever. Of course they’re never all alone. Cinderella had the fairy godmother; Simba had the farting warthog. I’d take afarting warthog right now, anything other than this being alone.
    I climb out into the cockpit. The sun is directly over my head. Noon. There’s no wind, although the waves wrench the boom back and forth over the cockpit. The pirates used a fishing net to foul our propeller. I know something about this because once, before we left Australia, Duncan backed down on a dock line that I’d left trailing in the water. It took Duncan over an hour in the water, diving down to the propeller, hacking away the rope, coming back up for a gulp of air, before he could start the engine again. In Australia, the water was so clear you could see the bottom. It was just one rope, not an entire net. Now, we’re in the middle of the Red Sea. Goose bumps lift up on my arms.
    There is nothing left of the mainsail, but I could unfurl the headsail, maybe, except that there’s no wind.
    â€œWhat do you expect of me, anyway?” I slam my fist against the side of the boat. “I’m fourteen. I can still fit into clothes from the kids’ department.” My throat aches with fatigue and new tears threaten. “I could quit right now and no one would blame me. Not Dad, that’s for sure.” Dad can get lost in a parkade. Dad says we’re heroes for going on this trip. Especially me, he says, because I’m normal, not an adventure-crazed thrill-seeker. I’m not sure that Mom or Duncan fit that description either, but they definitely have more adventures than Dad. When we were together, Dad’s idea of a high-risk experience was staying at a two-star hotel. The first thing Mom did after the divorce was take me camping in Mexico to see the pyramids. Dad mademe pack water-purification tablets, not that he needed to worry. Mom wouldn’t let me even rinse my toothbrush with tap water.
    I wonder what he’s doing now, Dad? It’s the middle of the night where he is.
    I don’t even know which rope is for the headsail. I study the jumble of multicolored ropes