Red Sea by Diane Tullson Page A

Duncan’s chart and stretch it out to dry on the chart table. I find a Tetra Pak and open it, hoping it might be juice. It’s milk, but I drink from it, then set the container in the sink to finish later. I find a flashlight, but the water has ruined it. I find buckets and buckets of broken glass and soggy rice. Everything goes overboard. When pale dawn lightens the gray sky in the east, I’m sieving the water for anything that might clog the pump when I turn it on. My arms and shoulders are sore, my knuckles are bleeding from scraping against the floor. The wind has eased, but the sea is still churning. Sometimes it takes days for the sea to settle after a storm. It’s like the sea won’t let go of the fury.
    I flop down on the dining bench beside Mom. I pull up my knees to my chest and look at her. Her eyebrows are twitching and her eyes are moving under her lids as if she’s dreaming. I reach over and run my fingers over her cheeks.
    She starts and her eyes open.
    I shout, I can’t help it, “Mom!”
    She flinches from the sound.
    I’m so happy to see her that I laugh. “You’re awake!”
    Her eyes find mine. She struggles to focus. She says something, but her voice is barely a croak.
    â€œYou need a drink.” But in the time it takes to grab a water bottle from the table her eyes are closed again.
    â€œMom!”
    Her mouth moves, a smile or a grimace, I can’t tell, then she slips again into sleep.
    I say a very bad word. Then I give her a shake. “Don’t you leave me like this!”
    Her eyelids barely flutter.
    Dread crawls over me. I throw the quilt off of her and peel away the sweatshirt. It’s heavy with blood and I throw it out of the boat. Her leg has stopped bleeding and I see now that there are two bullet holes, fairly small, one on the front of her thigh toward the side, the other a little lower and behind. Gently, I prod the wounds. Mom moans, but her eyes stay closed. If she’s lucky, the two wounds means that she was hit with one bullet, that it went in and out. I run my hand over the long leg bone of her thigh. I don’t know what broken bone feels like, but Mom’s leg feels about like it should. Maybe the bullet missed the bone.
    The first aid kit in the galley has been ripped open and scattered. On the counter I find a package of sterile dressings. I take out a couple, grab a cloth and a bowl of water and go back to Mom.
    The bullet holes are crusted with blood, and I clean around the wounds, careful not to make them bleed again. A thin clear ooze runs from the wound on the front of her leg. I wipe it away as best as I can. She’s not bleeding anymore, that’s good. I don’t know how much blood she lost, maybe a lot. Maybe too much. I push that thought from my mind and cover the bullet wounds with the dressing.
    On the back of her head the gunman left Mom a bump the size of an orange. But it’s just a bump, right? Everyone gets bumps on their head. It doesn’t mean she has a concussion. If she did have a concussion, what are you supposed to do? I seem to remember something about waking them up every few hours, that they sleep like the dead. No. Not like the dead. I give Mom another shake. She mutters but doesn’t stir. I also remember she needs to be on her side with her chin tilted, so that her tongue doesn’t fall back and close off her air passage. And it’s not good for someone to rest in the same position for too long, so I roll her onto her other side. That gets more of a reaction. Mom’s eyes bug wide and she gasps. But then she sighs, like she’s tired, and closes her eyes again.
    I’m tired too. I flip the quilt over her and tuck it in around her legs. In a way, I’m glad she doesn’t know how much shit we’re in.
    I get up and fill the garbage pail with water. “Okay. I know. There’s still too much water. I’ll use all our batterypower just