Read Online Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) by David Estes - Free Book Online
Authors: David Estes
Ads: Link
he doesn’t dare ask. Not now, not when his father looks like a cracked pane of glass. Not when his questions might make him cry again. Might make them both cry.
“I won’t forget it,” he says. “I love you, too.”
As the sky turns yellow, father and son make their way back up the weed-choked path, arms around each other, the boy barely feeling the sharp stones under his leathery, calloused feet.
~~~
The next night the boy’s head barely hits the pillow before his father’s hand gently shakes his shoulder. Or at least that’s how it feels. Did he even sleep at all?
“What time is it?” he mumbles.
“Two in the morning,” his father says, his grizzled face sharpening as the boy slowly wakes up. It’s two hours earlier than usual. Janice won’t be happy if he falls asleep during her lessons again.
In silence, he sleepwalks around, his father removing his sleep clothes and helping him squeeze into something tight and rubbery, starting at his feet and pulling it all the way to his head, where it covers his scalp but leaves a hole for his face. It’s too dark to see, but when he runs his hands over the material it’s smooth—almost like a second skin. “What is this?” the boy asks.
“Something to keep you warm in the water,” his father says.
The boy remembers how cold he used to be when he swam, but now… “I don’t need warmth,” he says.
“Better to be safe,” his father says.
Why now? Why after all the freezing cold mornings spent sojourning with the brown water of the River? But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask.
The suit seems to squash the air out of his lungs. “Too tight,” the boy says, struggling to get his breath.
“You’ll get used to it,” his father says. “It’s meant to be tight. So you can swim better, like a dolphin…or a sea lion.”
As good a swimmer as the boy is, he’s seen dolphins and sea lions swim out of the holo-screen, and he’ll never swim like that.
In the kitchen, his father forces him to eat three granola bars from the food-maker, even though he’s not hungry. What’s going on? Why is this morning so different to all the other ones?
Still chewing the last bar, he heads for the door, anxious to get out of the house and into the water. Funny that the water feels as much like home as the house now; the River used to be an insurmountable obstacle to him.
“No,” his father says. “Not yet. There’s one more thing to do.”
His father steers him to the couch, lays his head back. Lifts his feet up and rests them on a pillow, the way Janice sometimes sleeps.
In the tight, rubbery suit the boy feels too hot.
“Open your eyes, Son,” his father commands.
They’re already open, so it’s a weird thing to ask, but the boy opens them even wider. His father unscrews the cap from a silver canister, fishes around in it with a single finger, and plucks out a small, curved object. It almost looks like a shaving of glass, but he sees it flex when his father moves it. It’s too soft to be glass.
“Left eye first,” he says, aiming his finger—and the strange bauble—at the boy’s eye.
“What? No,” the boy says, closing both eyes tightly. He doesn’t want anything in his eye—particularly not his father’s finger. Or the strange thing from the silver canister.
“Son,” his father says. There’s a slight pressure on his arm—his father’s hand. “You have to trust me.”
But what are you doing to me? The urge to break his own no-questions rule is so powerful he almost blurts it out. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.
“Good,” his father says. “This will help you. Trust me.”
His father’s words trigger a memory, something Janice once said. “Trust should be natural, not forced. Do not give away your trust so easily, child.”
But this is his father, not some nobody. Surely he can trust him. He opens his eyes wide again, trying to go to another place, to pretend his father isn’t about to poke his eye
“I won’t forget it,” he says. “I love you, too.”
As the sky turns yellow, father and son make their way back up the weed-choked path, arms around each other, the boy barely feeling the sharp stones under his leathery, calloused feet.
~~~
The next night the boy’s head barely hits the pillow before his father’s hand gently shakes his shoulder. Or at least that’s how it feels. Did he even sleep at all?
“What time is it?” he mumbles.
“Two in the morning,” his father says, his grizzled face sharpening as the boy slowly wakes up. It’s two hours earlier than usual. Janice won’t be happy if he falls asleep during her lessons again.
In silence, he sleepwalks around, his father removing his sleep clothes and helping him squeeze into something tight and rubbery, starting at his feet and pulling it all the way to his head, where it covers his scalp but leaves a hole for his face. It’s too dark to see, but when he runs his hands over the material it’s smooth—almost like a second skin. “What is this?” the boy asks.
“Something to keep you warm in the water,” his father says.
The boy remembers how cold he used to be when he swam, but now… “I don’t need warmth,” he says.
“Better to be safe,” his father says.
Why now? Why after all the freezing cold mornings spent sojourning with the brown water of the River? But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask.
The suit seems to squash the air out of his lungs. “Too tight,” the boy says, struggling to get his breath.
“You’ll get used to it,” his father says. “It’s meant to be tight. So you can swim better, like a dolphin…or a sea lion.”
As good a swimmer as the boy is, he’s seen dolphins and sea lions swim out of the holo-screen, and he’ll never swim like that.
In the kitchen, his father forces him to eat three granola bars from the food-maker, even though he’s not hungry. What’s going on? Why is this morning so different to all the other ones?
Still chewing the last bar, he heads for the door, anxious to get out of the house and into the water. Funny that the water feels as much like home as the house now; the River used to be an insurmountable obstacle to him.
“No,” his father says. “Not yet. There’s one more thing to do.”
His father steers him to the couch, lays his head back. Lifts his feet up and rests them on a pillow, the way Janice sometimes sleeps.
In the tight, rubbery suit the boy feels too hot.
“Open your eyes, Son,” his father commands.
They’re already open, so it’s a weird thing to ask, but the boy opens them even wider. His father unscrews the cap from a silver canister, fishes around in it with a single finger, and plucks out a small, curved object. It almost looks like a shaving of glass, but he sees it flex when his father moves it. It’s too soft to be glass.
“Left eye first,” he says, aiming his finger—and the strange bauble—at the boy’s eye.
“What? No,” the boy says, closing both eyes tightly. He doesn’t want anything in his eye—particularly not his father’s finger. Or the strange thing from the silver canister.
“Son,” his father says. There’s a slight pressure on his arm—his father’s hand. “You have to trust me.”
But what are you doing to me? The urge to break his own no-questions rule is so powerful he almost blurts it out. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.
“Good,” his father says. “This will help you. Trust me.”
His father’s words trigger a memory, something Janice once said. “Trust should be natural, not forced. Do not give away your trust so easily, child.”
But this is his father, not some nobody. Surely he can trust him. He opens his eyes wide again, trying to go to another place, to pretend his father isn’t about to poke his eye
Similar Books
