Chapter 31 Taylor
Taylor
A memory:
The sea ahead of Taylor and her mom, a furious gusting of gray absorbing the horizon.
Wind beating at their backs and knotting their hair, sand snapping at their legs.
There’s a glisten to her mom’s face, and it’s more than just wetness from the rain.
Her mom grasps six-year-old Taylor’s hand in a firm grip as she determinedly pulls her along.
Edging them closer to the ocean.
The beachfront houses on stilts are barricaded, wooden planks covering their windows, driveways emptied of cars. The town is ghostlike. The local supermarket aisles have cleared—no more bottled water. Her dad has gone to get them supplies at another store.
A hurricane is coming.
Let’s go, little monkey, Mom had said, in their kitchen, as soon as he left.
Go where? Taylor had asked.
Let’s go see it.
Now, her mom lets go of Taylor as she runs ahead, toward the spitting sea. For a moment, Taylor’s heart stops. But then she’s back, dragging her away. Wind claps at them, attempting to thwart their retreat. Her mom’s jeans, rolled below the knees, and soaked through her thighs.
Back in the car, the door shut, the air still howling in their ears like an echo. Her mom fiddles with the car radio, the newscaster reporting in a loud, urgent tone. The taste of danger and fear in Taylor’s mouth, like a sour candy.
But her mom is laughing. Then she leans over, picks up Taylor’s hand and presses it against her damp windbreaker. In Taylor’s palm, her mom’s heart flutters, a staccato of emotions.
Don’t tell your dad, she says. As if her wildness is a secret he can’t know.