Free Red Sea by Diane Tullson Page B

She’d be telling me about how her Mom won’t let her wear the new shirt she bought because it makes her look like a whore, that her newest boyfriend wants her to get a tongue stud, that she might, that it blows her mom’s mind, that tongue stud, she’ll say, and then she’ll laugh. I’ll say,
Hey Jesse, talk about mind-blowing. I washed bits of Duncan’s brain out of the cockpit. Worse even than the brain were the clumps of his hair with fragments of skin attached. Sticky
.
    I draw the quilt over my head and rest my forehead on my knees. My fingers trace a sore on my shin, a new one, I guess, from cleaning up after the pirates. The scab is still soft, but I find the edge with my fingernail and pry it off my leg. I feel blood on my fingers.
    I could say anything to them, and no one would really understand what it feels like. How could they? I’m not sure if I even know what I’m feeling. I should be crying more, grieving for Duncan, worried about my mother. I can’t feel anything right now, not even the wound I’ve forced open on my shin. I lift my fingers to my mouth and taste the blood. I don’t know why, but for an instant, I think I find the scab on my fingernail and put it in my mouth. I shudder and wipe my hand.

TEN
    T HERE’S A PALE LIGHT in the cabin, and I heat a kettle of water on the butane stove to make tea. I can’t find the teapot and the Thermos is gone, I know that, so I put the tea bag right into the kettle. The mug I take out to use is my mother’s. The labeled letter “J” makes me think of washing dishes with Duncan and him asking me to stand watch with Mom.
    I don’t know what difference it would have made, me being there with her. What was I going to do, leap into the pirates’ boat like a human sacrifice? They didn’t even want me. They just wanted our stuff. I rummage in the cupboardfor a container of sugar and find it open, the sugar like concrete with the exposure to the damp air. Using the handle of a spoon, I chisel crystals into the bottom of the mug, then pour the tea on top. I guess I could have stood between Mom and the bullets. They wouldn’t have shot at her if she’d just stopped the engine. The first shots they fired didn’t hit the boat. Like Mac said, they were warning shots. Maybe if I’d been out there, I could have calmed Mom down, I could have stopped her from firing the flare at them. What did she think, anyway, that a flare gun was going to stop them?
    The tea tastes like tank water. Duncan liked to filter the tank water before making tea. The metal taste of the tea reminds me of blood, of Ty. It burns the back of my mouth and makes my eyes water, too hot to swallow but I do. Strands of sugar trace over my tongue.
    I don’t know what Duncan expected of me. Did he really think I could protect my mother?
    I reach into the canned goods locker, selecting one without a label. I don’t look at the magic-marker label. I heft it, trying to guess its contents. “Green beans.” I check and I’m right. I toss the can back into the locker and pick another one. This one feels solid, like canned chili. I toss it back without reading the top. I want peaches, or canned pears, something in syrup that I can drink. I bring out another, shorter can. Pineapple. Bingo. This lid needs an opener, and I find one in the jumble of a drawer. Mom’s labeled the can
pineapple tidbits
but it is actually rings. I hook a ring with my finger and eat it over the sink. I make myself eat all of the fruit before I tip the can to drink the juice.
    The tea has cooled so that I can gulp it down. I’m hungry suddenly, totally ravenous. I wish for a fat pink ham, adorned with pineapple rings and red cherries like old ladies used to make. French fries and ketchup. Chocolate cake. A box of chocolate truffles dusty with cocoa. Normally, the canned goods locker is jammed to the top. There’s maybe a