Gale #2
“It depends on what you mean. There was funneling, but it didn’t end up producing.” I cut into the meat loaf with the side of my fork, ate a bite, then put the fork down. The small amount I’d eaten sat heavily in my stomach.
The heat of Dad’s gaze made me squirm. If anyone could read me, it was him, and sometimes, I feared what he saw.
“What?” I asked when he stayed quiet.
“I thought you’d be more excited. I know you didn’t want to take part in this nonsense, but you must have taken some nice pictures?”
He was trying to brighten my mood. I sensed it in his tone.
“Hopefully. I’ll develop them tonight.”
“Can’t wait to see them. Got your heart thumping, I bet.”
“It did.” I thought of Ozrik and his scrutiny, of the drive home, of his attempt at making conversation. Then I remembered his inquiries about Olivia. I was an idiot.
The quiet between us returned. I wanted to tell Dad about the unexpected spiritual connection that had brought me to my knees in the middle of the field. About how I hadn’t run away in time because I’d felt close to God for the first time since leaving the seminary.
I wanted to tell him about getting dragged away by Ozrik.
About the spark of lightning that had literally jumped between us.
About the tightness in my chest and the ache in my lower belly.
I wanted to tell him that it was Ozrik, not the potential for a tornado, that had really got my heart thumping.
I wanted to tell my dad that I didn’t know how to live in my own body, with these bones and this skin that didn’t fit right. That I was afraid all the time.
Most of all, I wanted to tell him why I’d left the seminary. About the secret inside me that was slowly eating me alive.
Instead, I picked at my food, not tasting it.
Dad sat with me the entire time. A silent pillar of strength.
That night, I spent time in the darkroom developing prints. By the time they dried, it was late. I collected them and brought them to my bedroom, locking the door behind me for safety. Dad had never entered my room without knocking, but it quieted my vulnerable heart.
I started with the pictures of the storm, marveling at the clarity of the churning sky and all it promised. I’d been there, standing underneath it. The whole thing felt surreal. Only then, locked in my room, did I understand the sheer magnitude of what I’d faced. The danger. The risk I’d taken.
No matter how hard I looked, the transcendent experience didn’t translate on film. In the same way you lost depth perception, my spiritual connection had been severed. Staring at the image of swirling angry clouds, I felt vacant. Empty. Alone again. Had I imagined the connection?
I managed to capture a timeline that depicted the storm’s story from beginning to end.
Not all the shots were perfect, but of the dozens I’d taken, a few impressed me enough that I separated them from the rest and laid them side by side on my bedspread.
They had the potential to become something.
A seed of an idea took root in my brain, germinated, and grew.
I tucked it away to examine later and set the chase photos aside.
Four photographs remained. I had left them face down, too afraid to look at them right away. Touching them, I closed my eyes and revisited those moments under the broken cloud cover, when I’d impulsively taken photographs of Ozrik without him knowing.
One at a time, I turned them over to view the results. The candid shots displayed his luminescent joy.
I may not have been able to capture the spiritual connection I’d felt with God, but I had managed to seize the confluent energy that ran between Ozrik and nature.
His loose curls whipped around his rain-splattered face.
For as much as I had hated being strung along with his chase team, stuck inside the cramped car for hours with Noah’s camera in my face, recording my humiliation, I would have given anything to return to that exact moment at the side of the road to witness Ozrik’s smile again.
A rap at my door made me jump out of my skin. The knob turned as Dad called, “Hey, son, I found—” The latch caught. “Oh. The door is locked.”
“S-sorry. Hold on.” I scrambled to bury the shots of Ozrik under my pillow. As I rose to unlock the door, other photographs tumbled to the ground.
Dad stood in the dark basement hallway, the only light coming from the main floor where it spilled down the stairs. His face was in shadow. He held a photograph, angled so I couldn’t see the image.
I flicked my gaze from it to my father’s undefined face. “I locked it because… It was… I was… There’s… Um.”
I had no excuse for locking the door, not that Dad was looking for an explanation or cared one way or the other. I should have let it go, but in the course of fumbling for a reason, my cheeks burned so hot I was sure they were going to burst into flames.
“You’re entitled to privacy without having to justify yourself, Gale.
” He thrust the photograph in my direction.
“I washed my slippers earlier and left them on the rack to dry. Forgot about them. Came down to get them and found this on the ground outside the darkroom. Figured you dropped it and might want it back.”
I glanced at the print, a close-up profile of Ozrik with nothing of the storm in the background. The entire focus was on him. I hadn’t kept track of how many photographs I’d taken and was missing one.
In the picture, I caught the edge of a smile, his head tipped skyward, skin speckled with rain. The long stretch of his neck and prominent curve of his Adam’s apple were a thing of beauty. It was the best picture I’d taken…
And my father found it.
Never mind the locked door. How was I going to explain this?
My throat constricted. I wanted to disappear. Melt into the floor. Throw up.
“That’s Ozrik Devereaux, isn’t it?” Dad said, admiring the photograph.
“I remember that boy. He had it rough as a kid. Your mother spent a long time trying to force child services to do something.” He clucked his tongue.
“Not sure it ever happened. Haven’t thought about him in years.
Grew up to be handsome. How’s he doing these days? ”
I don’t know, I wanted to say. How could I know? Why would I know?
Dad paused, but I couldn’t find my voice to fill the silence.
In fact, the void yawned wider and wider, and I wanted to tumble into the abyss and cease existing.
Dad was leading the conversation in a direction I wasn’t willing to follow.
Was he doing it on purpose? Was this his way of taking my hand and telling me it was okay?
But it was not okay. I couldn’t form words. I had no saliva in which to make them, and my lips were rubbery, unable to make shapes.
“Was he out chasing storms?” Dad seemed to sense my apprehension and steered us toward safer ground.
“Yes,” I croaked. “He’s… the leader of Twisted Fates, I guess. I don’t know. He’s been chasing for a long time. Olivia’s never mentioned him?” My voice squeaked like I was twelve.
“Maybe. Not that I remember. Did you guys team up today?”
“Not on purpose. Landed in the same spot.”
“Nice. It’s a great shot. You really captured something there.”
I stood mute and numb, staring at the photograph of Ozrik, sweating and shivering at the same time.
Dad ruffled my hair and drew me in to kiss the top of my head. “Love you, kiddo. Sleep tight. I’m heading to bed.”
“Good night.”
He shuffled down the hallway to the stairs. The soft creak of wood followed his ascent. The kitchen light flicked off, and the basement was swallowed in darkness. I retreated into my room, clutching the picture, unsure where to put myself.
It was past midnight. Instead of crawling into bed, I dug a backpack from my closet and filled it with clothes and gear. In the morning, I would hit the road and land somewhere else. The truth nipped at my heels, and I feared I would spend a lifetime trying to outrun it.