Sea by Heidi Kling

kids drew big waves. Some drew rainbows. Some drew the pesantren.
    “Why did she draw an airplane?” I asked Vera, referring to Elli’s art.
    Vera asked her in a smooth, patient tone.
    Elli looked at her lap while she explained. My gut told me it was some awful reason.
    “Because she wished an airplane would have flown in to rescue her mother from the sea. The day the wave came.”
    How ironic, I thought. One kid’s nightmare is another kid’s hope.
    “What is the red about?” I pressed.
    Vera asked Elli.
    “She thinks of the tsunami as death and she said the color of death is red.”
    My voice caught in my throat. “Like blood,” I said.
    “Yes,” Vera said sadly, “like blood.”
    I cleared my throat and felt hot. Listened to the pounding rain on the roof. Poor Elli.
    Vera asked me to hand out a fresh piece of paper to all the girls. I did.
    The rain outside was getting louder.
    “This time I’d like you to draw yourself. Any way you’d like. Just make sure you are in the picture.” She said it in English, then translated to the group.
    Elli scribbled quickly another palm tree with a tiny stick figure standing below it. This time, thankfully, there was no red.
    “You?” I asked, pointing.
    “Elli,” she said, patting her chest.
    “It’s good.” I smiled. Then I turned and whispered to Vera, “Why did she draw herself so small?”
    Vera’s eyes widened as she translated Elli’s answer. “She said that is how she feels when she wakes up each day without her family. Very small and very alone.”
    Tears stinging in my eyes, I grabbed a green marker and even though I probably wasn’t supposed to, I drew a stick figure on Elli’s paper next to the tiny one.
    A tall girl with yellow hair and orange shoes.
    I pointed to my Converse. “You, me, together,” I said.
    Elli leaned into my shoulder before beginning to draw again.
    This time she drew another figure, then another.
    She was drawing her friends here at the pesantren.
    “You are not alone,” I told her. And I think she may have understood what I said. Maybe next time she would draw herself a little bit bigger.
    Maybe I would too.

    At lunchtime we ran into the hall to eat more noodles before breaking into afternoon groups.
    This time in one of the older girls’ dorm rooms.
    I noticed the boy with the limp wasn’t at lunch and wondered when I would see him again.
    Wind slashed against the shingles. Vera spoke loudly above the rain.
    We were sitting cross-legged on the floor. The girls were sitting on kaleidoscope-colored prayer mats. One girl offered to share her mat with me, so we were sitting together.
    Vera said I could take pictures, so I zoomed my lens on the doe-eyed face of a girl about my age who was wearing a lime green jilbab . I listened as she told her story, in English.
    “I was home with my mother and my sisters when I heard the sound. The sound of thunder. My father and my brothers were fishermen and were working. I ran out the door and saw people running toward me, away from the ocean. They were crying out: The sea is coming, the sea is coming. My mother grabbed my baby sister and the two older girls and they ran. I grabbed my younger sister’s hand and we ran as fast as we could away from the water. My sister was seven and couldn’t run any more. Even though she was big, I lifted her into my arms, and together we ran until she was too heavy and I stumbled on a fallen man and my sister slipped from my arms. I tried but I couldn’t reach her. There were many people running. The water moved so fast behind me and was so thick and tall that ...”
    She stopped talking and crumpled forward onto the carpet.
    Vera said something too quietly.
    The girl wiped her eyes and continued talking. Her words had frozen me to the floor and I didn’t know what I wanted more: for her to stop talking or to finish the story.
    “It’s okay,” Vera told her, gently prodding.
    “My sister was swept away.”
    The knot in my throat swelled up.