Free Wrecked by E. R. Frank Page B

what to do. Ellen does, though. She lies still for a bunch of seconds, and then her face relaxes. “Thanks for remembering Whitey.” She picks up her polar bear. She’s had him on her pillow since she was born. He’s all worn out and gray looking now. She rubs him across her chin. “Thanks,” she says again, yawning and then immediately wincing. About a minute later she’s asleep.
    I wake up to my own voice. I’m making this moaning, calling sound. It’s still coming out of my mouth as my light snaps on, and then my father and Jack are standing at the foot of my bed.
    “Stop it, Anna,” my father’s saying. “Stop it now.”
    My blankets are all over the place. The back of my tank top is sticking to my skin. I’m shaking. The eye shield is falling off My mother rushes in.
    “Anna?” She sits on the edge of my bed and puts her hand to my forehead.
    “She had a nightmare,” Jack says.
    “You’re all right,” my father tells me.
    “She’s trembling,” my mother says.
    “She’s fine.” His gray hair is in complete bed head. He touches my sweaty shoulder. “You’re fine,” he says again.
    “I’m fine,” I say. My father leaves, and Jack snaps off the light. You can still see, though, from the light in the hallway.
    I’m in my room, not on Ocean Road. I’m in my room, not in the street with Ellen in my lap and a ponytail, sharp as glass, in my eye. I’m in my room, not out in the middle of the road, huddling near Jack, who’s huge as a giant, tree trunk legs planted wide and firm, tree limb arms and branched hands raised up and out. I’m in my room, not in the darkness with policemen and screaming, stopped. I’m in my room, I’m in my room, I’m in my room.
    “I need water,” I say. Jack gets it for me. I wait, the shaking slowing down while my mom sits close.
    “Thanks,” I tell Jack after I take a swallow.
    “You’re welcome,” he says.
    There was this one night, back when we got along. That year’s beach house was called Porpoise Swim. I had run into my room to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, even though it was so hot out. I hate bug spray and won’t use it. I could hear my family’s voices clear as anything as they trooped down the stairs from the upper deck, under the house, and out to the driveway.
    “And then they cut to something else,” I heard Jack saying, “and then they slice up her eyeball, only it’s a special effect, so it’s not really her eyeball.”
    “That’s disgusting,” I heard my mom go as I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up. Mosquitoes will get your ears if they can’t get anything else.
    “Really, it was a cow’s eye, except you couldn’t do that today because of animal rights and all,” Jack explained. It sounded as ifthey had reached the bottom of the stairs. “You never heard of it?”
    “No,” my mother said.
    “But it’s famous,” Jack told her. “They’re showing it at the museum next Saturday. Could we go home a day early so I can see it?” I walked down the hall toward the great room.
    “You know we don’t leave until Sunday,” I heard my dad say. Then he went, “Is that dripping?” He meant the outdoor shower underneath the house, where we were supposed to rinse the sand off before we came upstairs and inside. It was always dripping. “Damn it,” my father said. “It is.”
    “Yeah, but it would just mean leaving one day early, and you can’t rent it.” It sounded like they were almost at our driveway. I stepped out onto the deck through the sliding glass doors.
    “We’re not leaving one day early so you can see Anderson’s Dog, ’ my father said. I could see the flashlight beams bouncing around out near the street. “Anna!” my dad called as I stepped onto the top stair.
    “It’s Andalusian, ” I heard Jack say. “Not Anderson’s .”
    “Turn the shower all the way off when you come down!”
    My father had been standing right there looking at it. Why couldn’t he have turned it off?
    “Whatever