What I Saw and How I Lied

Chapter 25

Twyla Deary was a thin woman in a housedress, with a skinny auburn braid that ran down her back. She had a thick Southern accent and a habit of repeating part of what she'd just said. She had set up a pot of coffee and had made plates and plates of sandwiches, and after clucking over me and saying "Don't you worry, dearie, things have a way of turning out just fine, now don't you worry now" and hand­ing me a sandwich with her homemade marmalade and cream cheese, she ran back to the kitchen to make more food.

She put me to work, too, because "idle hands make twice the worry." I was happy to cut bread into slices and make more coffee and lemonade for the barefoot children who came shyly knocking on the frame of the open back door.

Their house had survived better than many I'd seen

("Because my Bud made sure we were snug and tight, he went through the 1928 hurricane when he was a boy, so Bud is the only living soul who's prepared for Armageddon. Prepared for Armageddon, I tell you"), but there was a river running outside the front door. I'd had to take off my shoes to wade to the porch with Officer Deary.

I had a marmalade sandwich on a flowered plate for comfort, and people I didn't know coming in and out the door saying "Now, how did you fare, Twyla?" while they couldn't wait to tell their own hurricane stories. Then came the whispers about "that poor child, parents lost at sea, maybe," and finally I had to double over, grab fistfuls of my skirt in my hands and do what I'd forgot­ten to do during the whole last night: pray.

A few hours later, Sheriff Bud Deary waded through the water and arrived, grimy and wet and exhausted, to tell me my parents had been found. Joe and Bev had been blown off-course, had brought the boat into the man­groves near Munyon Island, wherever that was, and left the boat in a hurricane hole. They'd gotten ashore by wading and swimming, tying themselves together with rope. They couldn't make it back, so they broke into a restaurant and rode out the storm there.

"A hurricane hole?" I shook my head, remembering the night Peter had mentioned it.

You and me should find ourselves a hurricane hole.

"Your parents stumbled on it, I guess. They were lucky to get to shore."

They were alive. Alive. Mom. I felt her invade me, and I let her in. I started laughing and crying, the relief was so real. I felt Twyla patting me on the back, saying there, there over and over.

And then I stopped on a dime. There was something wrong. Something I wasn't hearing.

I was so breathless I could only get out one word. "Peter?"

"A family friend, I understand." The way his voice went so gentle then — I knew.

"He went overboard when they were in the ocean. The engine died, he was trying to fix it below, in the engine well. There was a rogue wave. According to your parents, he got hit in the head by something — a wrench, they think — and he came up topside. He seemed okay, but he must have been dizzy, because he went over. They said it happened so quick. One minute he was there, they could see him, and the next minute a swell came — the wind was gusting about that time, maybe forty miles per hour — and he got knocked off his feet. They tried to get him in the boat, your mother took the helm, your dad threw him all the life preservers, but they saw him go down."

"But he's a good swimmer," I said.

"Jesus is merciful,"Twyla said. "Jesus is merciful, child. Your parents are safe."

"He's not dead, no matter what you think," I said. "He grew up around the water. Maybe he swam to shore, maybe he'll turn up, just the way they did. Things are crazy everywhere, you said."

The sheriff exchanged a glance with his Twyla.

"Your parents are trying to get up here to you," he said. "The Clearview Hotel here in West Palm is open. They'll take you in. Your parents will be here by after­noon. Police escort."

"He could have swam to shore!" I shouted. Because if I could get him to say it, it would be true.

"Twyla, honey, pack her a couple of sandwiches," he said instead.

"I'll do that right now. Don't you worry, ladybug," Twyla said, patting my shoulder. "Don't you worry now."

Ladybug and pussycat, nicknames to call a girl you pity. Did he pity me?

Peter, please come back so you can tell me. Tell me if you love me.

I'll die if I don't know if you love me.

You swam to shore. It was hard but you did it because you're so strong. You walked and walked until you found shelter. Now you're trying to get back here.

I will be Twyla Deary. I will say everything twice until you come back to me. I will find the thing to do that will bring you back.

Live.

Live.