Sally in the Storm

It rained the day my parents took us to the beach and we sat in the car and watched as the waves whipped the rock wall and they rose up like hundred-foot-tall forests of mist and the sidewalk looked like a river and on second thought it was only dad who took us.

I remember now. I’ve got to keep the story straight because that was the day mom left. We got home, and I saw him waiting at the door, back way too early from work. He told Sally to get in the car and said grab the sunblock, so I did even though it was raining.

We watched the storm for a while, staring out from the back seat. I would point things out to Sally and she would smile and giggle, but we whispered real low because, well, just because. Dad just sorta sat there, not even taking off his seatbelt. His head hovered just over the steering wheel in between his hands. I don’t think Sally noticed, but I did.

A sudden bluish-white bolt lit up the dark grey sky over the city, like a glowing scar in the clouds. Sally squealed and Dad yelled a bad word real loud. He didn’t look up or anything, but she immediately shushed. He never swore at us before.

He was gripping the wheel so tightly. Whenever we would drive somewhere, I remember he would just barely hold the wheel, gently guiding it around corners or tapping along to the radio. He always said you had to be good to your car, and it would take you wherever you needed to go, said he looked forward to teaching me all about it someday.

The storm had gotten really crazy, the wind and rain slamming loudly against the windows and roof of the old red sedan. But as much as part of me wanted to watch the beach, my eyes were fixed on the back of his head. His shoulders shook a little every once in a while in a weird way, then he shifted into drive.

“Seat...belts,” I barely heard him whisper.

I turned to tell Sally but she wasn’t there. I checked under the seat but she was gone.

“Dad, wait,” I said, sliding over and pushing open the door. I took a breath and dove into the cascade. Running to the wall that separated the beach from the parking lot, I was immediately drenched. Through the pouring rain, I could just make out her small form on the shore, looking so insignificant against the gigantic waves.

I ran to her but slipped on something soft and fell into wet sand. Looking up, I saw her standing, stoic, hands held high, a blank expression on her face. Her eyes were red but I couldn’t tell if she had been crying in the rain. She shook from the cold.

Standing up, I grabbed her shoulders and rubbed them, trying to warm her. Only then did the tide pull out, revealing hundreds of dead jellyfish surrounding us. That must have been what I slipped on, I thought, as I saw that where Sally stood must have been almost the only bit of unjellyfished beach as far as I could see.

“What,” I yelled, “What happened? Where’d you go?”

She just kept looking forward. “I killed them,” she said, “with my superpowers.”

“We’ve got to get back,” I said, grabbing her hand.

“I killed them all,” she said again.

“C’mon,” I said, turning toward the parking lot. I looked up just in time to see Dad’s car driving away.

“Him too,” she said.