Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“I hear you, Mom. I hear you loud and clear.”

I stand, lean my mattress against the wall, and then sit cross-legged on the floor. Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing, blocking out the shrieks from beyond my door and the light that never dims. It’s a lot to ignore and it takes longer than it should, but I find my place, the silent, still white place where my brain goes to meet with the Om. It’s there, waiting for me. I’m ready.

I press my hands together in prayer, nod respectfully to the big unknown, then rise to my feet. Stepping forward with my left foot, I lunge back with my right, turning it ninety degrees toward the wall. I extend my arms until they are parallel to the floor; then I stretch into it, dipping my knee and letting my toes, ankles, and quadriceps wrap around themselves to do the hard work of balancing me. I can’t stay in it for long. I’m rusty and weak, but tomorrow will be better.

For the next hour, I work through a routine my mother used to teach daily on the beach. I’m sloppy and unbalanced. I can’t really stay in downward dog very long, and when I plank, I cheat with my knees. Holding some poses sends my muscles into tremors, and my feet and abs twist into cramps. There are a lot of cranky areas in this body, which is to be expected.

That’s why they call it a practice instead of a workout.

My goal today is to get through it, reminding myself that I’m both exhausted and near starved. I am also an emotional wasteland, but I’m doing something proactive that will make me strong and ready when someone makes another mistake on the other side of my cell door.

When the routine is done, I sit myself next to the closest wall, prop my legs straight up against it, and lie back in a ninety-degree angle. I focus again on my breath, trying to ignore my pissed-off muscles, embracing their anger. It is so much better than the fear I’ve been manufacturing since they locked me in this room. I lie still for as close as I can estimate to thirty minutes, feeling my head clear, feeling more like myself than I have in a very long time.

“I am Lyric Walker, Daughter of Summer,” I whisper when I open my eyes. She taught me these lessons, and I abandoned them. I’ve been a fool.



The days pass, and I get stronger with every one. The guards try to interrupt my practice by having me stand in the circle over and over again. At first the intrusions kill my concentration, but eventually I learn to slip right back into the workout once they are satisfied.

I wake eager to get started and end each day with another hour-and-a-half session before I go to sleep. I can feel my muscles tightening in my shoulders and arms, and soon the tremors and cramping are gone. I was never good at handstands, but my mother tried to teach them to me anyway, so I know the basics. I use the walls to brace myself, falling over many times, banging the back of my head once so badly, I’m sure I’ve ripped out the staples, but I get back up and do it again and again and again, until I can do a handstand pushup. At the end of the second week, I can do five of them. At the end of the third week, I can do thirty. My posture straightens, and I’m able to tune out the noises a lot better. The panic attacks still come around, but I’m able to fight them off with some focused breathing.

The hardest part is the food. It’s always the same, always rancid, and there’s never anything to drink, but I eat every bite. It’s the only way I’m going to get stronger. I wish I could just gorge and swallow it fast, but I know it will make me sick to eat too quickly, so I close my eyes tight and try to think of my mother’s spaghetti and meatballs, or meatloaf, or anything. Even the charred black stuff my dad made while destroying the kitchen every morning is better than this. His burned eggs and toast and scorched oatmeal sound delicious.

I think about pizza from Famous Ray’s, and chili dogs from Nathan’s, and cotton-candy afternoons. I think about fried oysters and clam strips at Rudy’s Bar. I think about everything but barfing, and aside from some gagging, it works. I lick every crumb in the bowl and tell myself it will turn into muscle. I’m still working on the rotten apples when the slot opens. I snatch what I can as the bowl is pulled out of my hands, skitters across the floor, and disappears.

I crawl to the door and laugh.

“I ate it all!” I shout. “You couldn’t get it before I was done!”