Red Sea by Diane Tullson Read Free Book Online Page B

being inside a drum. The wind resonates in the mast, boom and rigging so that the hull vibrates with the howl of it, magnifying it. Open locker doors slam back and forth against the bulkheads. A set of enamelled plates behind one locker door lift and clatter like cymbals. Curtains at the windows sway out to vertical, then drop back against the acrylic panes. A juice glass rockets from one open locker and shatters on the opposite wall.
    Everything on the floor now swims in half a foot of sea-water. I latch down a couple of floating floorboards so that I won’t step into the bilge.
    Swinging by one arm, I fish the top boards of the dining bench out of our slough and replace them. The bench cushion is hopelessly sodden and I leave it on the floor. “Looks like you’ll have to sleep on the hard plywood.” Pulling myself hand over hand against the rolling of the boat, I find a quilt that is reasonably dry. “I’ll fold this up for you.” I position the quilt along the dining bench, then fit the canvas lee cloths that will hold Mom in like a hammock. Mom calls the dining bench a sea berth and sleeps here when we’re at sea. She says it’s the best bed in the boat because it rocks less, like being on the middle of a teeter-totter versus the ends. In a storm like this, it’s a subtle distinction.
    I think of Fanny’s basket hammock, of Emma and Mac’s snug boat. They wouldn’t have heard my mother’s mayday. We’re just too far away. I was too late getting back to the boat. My throat closes and my eyes fill, and I push the thought out of my mind.
    In all her gear my mother weighs a ton, and I can only use one arm to lift her because I have to hold on with the other. I hoist half of her onto the bench, then, anchoring her chest with my knee, I strip off her jacket. Underneath, her fleece is wet around the neck so I take this off, and her sweatshirt. Her final layer, a T-shirt, is reasonably dry and I leave it. Now for the pants. The one pant leg hangs in yellow ribbons. Gripping the waist band, I ease Mom’s pants down to her boots. The inner layers are sodden with blood. Taking a breath, I peel back what’s left of the fabric.
    From the middle of her thigh, a thin river of red runs into my mother’s boot.
    The breath stops in my chest. I grab her sweatshirt and wad it against her leg, wrapping the sleeves of the shirt around. If I had another set of hands, if I even had both of mine, I’d do all that direct pressure stuff you learn in first aid. I can barely tie a knot in the sleeves of the sweatshirt.
    I lower Mom’s head to the quilt. “You’ll be fine.” My voice is shaking, my hands too. I take off one boot, the good one. Seawater dumps into the cabin. The other boot spills red onto my pajamas.
    I push Mom onto her side and draw the quilt around her. The sweatshirt seems to be stemming the worst of the bleeding. I tighten the lee cloths. She’s cocooned now, just her pale face visible outside of the lee cloths. I slump down on the bench beside her. My jaw hurts where I got slugged. Every joint in my body feels like someone has driven nails into it.
    I take my mother’s jacket and untangle the radio. The battery light shows a pale yellow. “Not much battery left.”I glance around the mess that is our cabin. “Maybe I can recharge it if I can find the charging unit.”
    Looking around, I see Eggman left the fridge open. I reach over and drop the lid, then switch off the breakers on the main electrical panel. The fridge motor falls silent.
    â€œBut right now everyone is in their own private storm. And they’re so far away they won’t hear us anyway.” I’m cold suddenly, so cold my hands shake and my teeth chatter. I need dry clothes. I set the radio in its spot at the chart table and, hanging on for every step, I slog through seawater to my cabin. It’s like being drunk, this feeling, an