The Wave of the Stars

Chapter Seven // Painting on Paper Towels

Darkness swamped Kanoa's mind, roaring filled her ears, and sand constricted her lungs, pressing against her chest, filling her throat, keeping her from taking a full breath. Spikes of fear, and the impending doom of near death welled up within her and she fought! Kicking, trying to scream, trying to take a breath, all in one. Her head broke through the surface of icy shards and she lifted her face towards the air rushing over and gulped the air in, only to be dragged down by an unseen enemy, quicksand or sirens or seaweed tangled around her ankles. She'd gotten air once--it would have to be enough. She struggled again, kicking, clawing at the top, letting ice and teeth and fins graze and slice her arms, but eventually her limbs grew weary, heavy, and she couldn't go against the force any longer. Yanked down, her legs, pulled out of socket, yanked to the ocean floor.

Kanoa woke up in a sweat, eyes fluttering open to her half-lit bedroom. Her sheets were wrapped around her legs, half off the bed, and her arms stung with chilled numbness. Lazy sunlight illuminated motes drifting in the air, not caring what had just happened to her. She didn't move for a few minutes, her upper body shuddering as the events of her nightmare replayed and replayed in her mind. She dreamt she was drowning. Had she actually drowned that day? Had she hit the ocean floor? What force of nature had taken away half of her body? And had Brennan resuscitated her? She never wanted to experience that again. Ever. Ever. Ever. She knew the power of the ocean and how anything could happen before she realized it was happening, but...this...it was absolutely terrifying. The loss of control--the very life sucked from her mind and heart and lungs as she gave in to the swell. Utter darkness. She shuddered again, wrapping her arms around her middle, tucking her chin against her chest. The icy grip of fear settled deep into her bones and she didn't try to shake it off.

Exhaustion seeped around her, pulling at her limbs and her mind and she struggled to sit up. She didn't want to. Laying there for the rest of the day sounded like a wonderful idea, but it wouldn't be possible. There was probably something she should attend to. She was a wife, a mom, and there were things to do. Things to do...Kanoa nearly fell out of bed, but landed safely in her wheelchair, her soon-to-be-gone urine bag clipped safely to its spot on the chair, and Kanoa wishing her lower half only had a feeling of temporary numbness like her arms had when she woke up, but, apparently, this was a world in which wishing never did much good.

Feeling sticky with sweat and the sand from her nightmare, Kanoa wheeled into the main room and spied the mail coming through the slot in the door. What would be in that pile? She watched for a few moments as a few more envelopes were pushed through, falling, smacking onto the wood, then wheeled closer to collect them. Most of them were bills and advertisements, but one large envelope possessed several stamps, and a curly, large scrawl over the front. It was from her father.

Kanoa tore into the envelope, several things falling onto her lap--a letter in the same scrawl, a number of miniature paintings she had given him when she'd had time to paint, and the last item: a small set of watercolor paints and brushes with a sticky note taped to the front of the plastic container, I hope you pick up painting again.

When Kanoa hadn't been on the water or with friends, she'd been painting. How long had it been since she held a paintbrush in her fingers? Grabbing one and stroking it along the paper almost felt like third nature. She hadn't stopped painting because she really wanted to, but more because she'd grown too busy, too distracted to continue. Waves and people had become a priority, but it was The Wave that took precedence. It had consumed her, and it still did, but she couldn't go out and find it anymore. She would have to paint about it. It was the only thing she could continue to do besides measuring the ocean day in and out and adding each day to the charts...or, well, having Brennan measure.