Tide

Chapter 51

I hadn't done well on my exams. Stress engulfed me and tortured me until I could no longer focus. I remember frequent panic attacks, anxiety, and constant unease. At times I'd get home and catch my mother crying. Most times I didn't say anything, but when I did, she'd begin to bawl and retell memories about my father; crying about how much she missed him. She'd take out a photo album and we'd sit together, leafing through the thick pages of photographs of my childhood. We looked at pictures of when Mason was just a baby, and I was just a kid, holding him with a grin stretched so far across my face you could see all of my teeth.

There were other times where I would cry, and it wasn't rare. I'd just break down, feeling unusually pressured with school and friends and family. Occasionally I thought of Isaac, but I tried not to. I'd keep myself busy, avoiding the distractions of memories. Same went for thinking of my brother and father. I avoided them.

Some days I was angry. I'd yell at my mother until my lungs would burn and my eyes would sting. Most times I blamed her for my anxiety, although to this day I never really know why I was so irritable. Ms. Campbell often held PTSD responsible. Other days I'd refuse to go places. "I'm not doing the interview." I'd say.

Yet there I was, during summer break, sitting in a plain room surrounded by cameras, arms folded, back leaned against a cheap sofa. Wearing a long dress, my hair was curled, a layer of makeup painted across my face. I felt fake. I tapped my foot impatiently, waiting for someone to show up. I felt awkward being trapped in a small room where everywhere I looked, there was a camera set up. This wasn't where I wanted to be. I didn't ask for it to be this way. I didn't want fame or people to feel sorry for me. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to cope with my trauma all by myself, not in front of cameras. But attention proved to be one of the outcomes of going through something out of the ordinary.

A lady entered the room, cameramen following her. She was probably in her mid-forties, her blonde hair gone thin from too much dyeing and her lips polished with matte red lipstick. She sat down in front of me, reeking the smell of strong perfume.

"Ava, right? I've heard so much about you, dear. Your story is truly... Incredible."

I chewed the inside of my lip and said nothing.

"I can't even imagine how much you've been through. How long were you in Thailand?" she asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, and then shut it closed. I let out a deep breath, then breathed back in, in hopes I could inhale some courage.

"We arrived December 24th," I said finally. I glanced at one of the cameras. The red light blinked, signalling that it was recording.

"December 24th," she repeated. "Only two days before it happened. Did it ever cross your mind while you were staying there that something bad was about to happen?"

"Um, no."

"I see. And you were staying in Thailand?"

"Yes."

"Where were you when the wave hit?"

"The beach."

I winced at what I was saying. My answers were too quick -- too brief. I watched the lady, wondering what she was thinking of me. Did I seem irritated? Was I answering the questions properly? How many people were going to watch this interview?

"And when you saw the wave, how did you react?"

"I don't know, it's... difficult to describe. I didn't really understand what was going on. I was also very focused on finding my little brother... he'd been running around and I lost sight of him."