Drowning Instinct (13 page)

For the first two hours, I finished up what little homework I had. I surfed the Internet for a while, looked at my former friends‘ Facebook pages. My own page hadn‘t been updated since before my hospitalization. I didn‘t even look the same. My hair was shorter then, and my breasts barely there. (I was a late bloomer. Mom always said I was an ugly duckling that someday would swan. She might have meant well, but every word drew blood.) Besides, what would I add to my page?
Free At Last? Forty-Seven Days Since Last
Cut?

Then I remembered Matt. I hadn‘t e-mailed him in days, and that wasn‘t right. But what could I tell him? That I‘d flushed Dr. Kirby‘s hundred dollars down the toilet? That I‘d thought of my old nail scissors but instead clutched the kissing knife as my skin begged? That as badly as I wanted to, I hadn‘t cut and that was because I knew now that Mr. Anderson was the only adult willing to protect me? Fight for me? That he would never, ever hurt me? No, I couldn‘t tell Matt any of this.

There were no DVDs I wanted to watch. We didn‘t own
Alien
, but I found the final sequence on YouTube, where Sigourney Weaver blasts the alien into space, and turned the music up. Mr. Anderson said it was from Howard Hansen‘s ―Romantic Symphony,‖ so I downloaded that and a couple other tracks: an album of Judy Garland, Duke Ellington. That piano piece by Cyrus Chestnut we‘d listened to the other night. Wagner.

Then, I thought:
Go for a run
. I‘d mapped out a ten-mile route from the McMansion, but I was restless and wanted something new. Pulling up Google Earth, I searched until I found the address.

Well, Mr. Anderson had said his door was always open.

Time to find out if that was true.

County Road J turned out to be mainly rolling farmland, the fields fallow now, the withered stalks plowed under to form dun-colored quilt blocks. Here and there, fields of pumpkins shone an iridescent, impossible orange under that clear, bright, October sun. I passed sad farmhouses and tumble-down barns and listing silos. Other farms were better off, the barns painted a deep russet or a flawless, eye-watering white.

Mr. Anderson‘s mailbox guarded the mouth of a dirt road that snaked north over a rise hemmed by hardwood forest and disappeared. From the map I‘d pulled up on Google Earth, Mr. Anderson owned about a hundred acres and his house perched on the southwestern shore of a large kidney bean of a lake. The Google images had been taken during full summer because all the trees were leafed out and the open fields were a deep emerald green. The woods extended from the lake on all sides and then gave way to open land to the east but more woods running north and west. A small stream drained into the lake at its northernmost point and another coiled away to the south. There seemed to be at least one more building way to the west, almost drowning in the forest, so maybe it was a summer cottage or an old hunting cabin. The nearest house was a good three miles east, but there was parkland off Mr. Anderson‘s property, with another lake and plenty of running trails, and that‘s where I headed.

If you‘re thinking that I was daring something to happen, Bob, you‘d be right. At the time, I told myself that I just needed some new scenery to keep my workouts fresh. But I know the truth. I was hoping I might run into Mr. Anderson on the trails. He said he ran on his property and in the park, and I was a runner and lived sort of out here. So we would just happen to run into each other and then . . .

Then
what
?

Come by, he‘d said, anytime. Did he really mean that? I thought he did. I also half-sensed that we were dancing around something, doing a complicated series of steps to some ancient rhythm that he knew but I didn‘t yet understand. Or maybe I was dancing alone, the whole scenario unfolding in only
my
imagination. Like so many other things.

Even for a nice day in October, Faring Park was virtually deserted, with only one other car—not Mr. Anderson‘s. I changed into my running shoes, stretched, then took off at what I knew was an easy seven-mile-an-hour pace. I followed a meandering wooded trail that, in three miles, would empty onto another east-west trail and
that
would eventually take me to the edge of Mr. Anderson‘s property. Total distance, there and back, was a little shy of seven miles. Crossing onto Mr. Anderson‘s property—running to his house, say—would add another four miles there and back. So, eleven altogether. It was doable. I just didn‘t know if I would.

Like math and science, running has never been hard for me. I don‘t listen to music when I run. The more I sweat, the clearer my mind becomes, as if all thought, good and bad, oozes out in salty rivers. After a while, there is nothing but the surge of my heart. My muscles are warm, my strides effortless, and I am flying, skimming the earth. I don‘t think; my head empties, and that is best of all.

I met no one on the trail. I knew when I‘d reached Mr. Anderson‘s land because there were placards stapled to the trees:
Private Property
and
No Trespassing
. I could‘ve continued. The trail unfurled like a brown carpet. I could run onto his property, loop around the lake, just
happen
to be passing by as he stepped onto his deck, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, to admire the view. Then he‘d do a double take and shade his eyes and his lips would curl in a happy, surprised grin:

Jenna, what are you doing out here? You ran
how
far?
How
fast? Your split was . .

. my God, that’s
terrific
time! I didn’t know you could run that fast. Hey, if you’ve got a sec,
come on in; I’ve just put on a pot and I was thinking about how nice it’d be to have
someone to share this....

I made great time back to the car.

That night, talking to my mother on the phone:

―Your father and I really need to get away,‖ she said. They‘d made it to Bayfield too late for the last ferry to the island, so they were staying in town and just about to head out to their favorite restaurant. ―I think we might stay an extra few days. You don‘t mind, do you?‖

―What about the store?‖ But what I thought was: What about your boyfriend?

―Evan‘ll handle everything. I haven‘t had a break in, well, I don‘t know how long.

Thanksgiving‘s coming up and things will get even crazier. I need the time away.‖

―I understand. Don‘t worry about me. I‘ll be fine. There‘s plenty of food and whatever I need, I can always buy.‖ I had a stash of birthday money I‘d planned to spend on some new clothes, but my mother had been too busy and shopping on my own was too pathetic even for me.

―There‘s emergency cash.‖ Mom told me where to find it and then added, ―You‘ll be good driving to school?‖

―We‘re out for the week.‖

―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Right. I forgot.‖

Big surprise there. ―When do you and Dad think you‘ll be back?‖

―Is Thursday all right?‖ After I told her that Thursday was fine, Mom asked again what I‘d done all day but then interrupted to say that Dad wanted to go eat. ―And have his first martini,‖ she said. ―Talk to you tomorrow.‖

―Sure,‖ I said. ―Tomorrow.‖

25: a

Monday.

There was no work I could pretend to have. I was way ahead in all my classes except English. High time I got serious about my project, though I didn‘t have a clue what I was going to write about. Alexis‘s book had arrived at the school library the day before break, and I had yet to crack the spine. So I turned the radio to an NPR station—Mozart, I think—and settled onto the window seat in my bedroom.

I expected something dry, a recap of what I already knew from my Google search with some anecdotes tossed in for interest. Instead, the very first chapter was about the rescue of a female beluga whale that had gotten tangled in a snarl of illegal lobster traplines off the coast of Canada near the St. Lawrence Estuary. By the time the rescue team arrived in Zodiacs, the poor thing had been struggling for hours to stay afloat. Belugas travel in pods and her podmates were frantic, crying in high-pitched whistles as they circled their companion. As Alexis watched, some tried slipping beneath the female to keep her from drowning but couldn‘t get close enough to help without getting entangled themselves.

The only way to free the whale was to cut the ropes and that meant getting into the water with all those whales. Belugas aren‘t huge, only fifteen feet when they‘re fully grown, but any given beluga may weigh as much as three thousand pounds. If the pod panicked when the divers got in the water, or the trapped female began to thrash, the divers wouldn‘t have a chance. But if they didn‘t help, the female beluga would drown. There really wasn‘t a choice. While the Zodiacs took up positions between the pod and the trapped whale, Alexis and three other divers slid into the icy water. As soon as they did, the trapped whale became virtually motionless, as if she knew she must. Silent now, the other belugas circled, waited, watched. For more than an hour and in brain-numbing cold, the divers hacked at the nylon rope, mindful that the beluga‘s podmates might swarm in to protect their companion; that a moment‘s lapse in concentration or careless placement of a knife might injure themselves or the whale.

When the beluga was finally free, she blasted out of the circle of divers. The pod chattered and whistled, and then all the whales converged on the divers so quickly there was no time to get aboard their Zodiacs. Alexis thought they were toast.

Instead, the whales circled as the one they‘d freed gently pressed the bulbous hump on her head—
melon
, Alexis called it—against each diver. When it was Alexis‘s turn, she wrote: ―At the whale‘s touch, I felt my questing soul calm. It was as if I had been asleep my entire life and then suddenly come awa—‖

The phone jangled.

The sound catapulted me out of the book and back to the real world. I fumbled with the handset. ―Hello?‖

―Hello . . . Jenna?‖ A pause. ―Are you all right?‖

My answer was automatic, awkward: ―Yes, I‘m . . .‖ I was still so deep in the web of the story I had a hard time making sense of the words. Then my brain caught up, and I sucked in a breath of surprise. ―Mr. Anderson?‖

―Yes.‖ He sounded concerned. ―I was just calling to see how you were doing. I would‘ve called yesterday, but . . . Are you all right?‖

I swallowed, all thoughts of Alexis Depardieu pushed aside. ―I‘m fine. I was just reading. Something for English.‖

―Oh.‖ A pause. ―Well, okay. I didn‘t mean to disturb you.‖

―No, it‘s fine, really. I just . . .‖ I glanced at my clock: nearly noon. Two hours had evaporated. ―Wow, I lost track of time.‖

―Must be a good book.‖

―It is, actually. I wasn‘t expecting it to be. Anyway . . .‖ I slicked my lips with my tongue. ―I‘m fine.‖

―Good. I was just checking in. You know, after what happened Saturday night, you‘ve . . . you‘ve been on my mind. I would‘ve called yesterday, but I thought that was too soon and your parents—‖

I jumped in. ―My parents are away for a couple days. They left Sunday morning.‖ I explained about Meryl then said, ―So I‘ve got the house to myself until Thursday.‖

―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Well, what are you planning to do with all your free time besides read?‖

―Uhm . . . well, I‘ve started running again.‖ I screwed up my courage. ―In fact, I went over to Faring Park yesterday.‖

If he was surprised, he didn‘t sound it. ―Yeah? I run there. How‘d you do?‖ I told him and he said, ―So that‘s . . . hang on . . . about a seven-minute mile, give or take about four seconds. Not bad. You run today yet?‖

I shook my head then remembered he couldn‘t see. ―Not yet.‖

―Neither have I. Want some company?‖ He said it lightly enough and then added:

―If you‘re not too busy. No pressure. I did a long run yesterday, so I‘m going easy today, only five or so.‖

―No.‖ My heart was racing. ―I mean, sure, I‘d love some company.‖

―Great. Well, you know where the park is, right? How about we meet there in, say, an hour?‖

I said that would be cool, and he said to bring a change of clothes because he knew this little place for lunch, and then I said that sounded nice and hung up and was out the door in fifteen minutes.

Depending on how you look at it, Bob, you might say that was the worst decision of my life. Depending.

26: a

After the first mile, Mr. Anderson said, ―So how are things with your parents? I mean, in general.‖

I‘d already told him about the glacial freeze on Sunday morning, so I said, ―How do you mean?‖ We were going at an easy ten-minute-mile pace, and I had plenty of breath for talking. Not that I‘d done any, I was too tongue-tied and awkward. Before leaving, I‘d obsessed on which outfit to wear. When I‘d started running again, I‘d ordered two new pair of compression shorts, pants and matching tops, along with new shoes. The shorts were broken in, but the tops not so much and I thought the grungier I looked the better. I mean, I was
run-ning
—with an older
man
—not going on a date (which I‘d never been on anyway).

In the end, I paired navy blue compression shorts with a baby blue racerback tank that hid my grafts well enough in case I peeled a layer; a white running bra; a lightweight training jacket; and good wool socks for the trail. The day was a carbon copy of the one before, though a little cooler because Mr. Anderson had suggested a loop around Faring Lake. By the end of the first mile, my muscles were warm; I was sweating, my body moving in a comfortable rhythm, though I had to lengthen my stride a little to keep up with Mr.

Anderson‘s longer legs.

―Welll. . .‖ Mr. Anderson glanced at me, then away. That plum-colored bruise was nearly lost in the high color splashing his cheeks. Sweat was just beginning to bead on his muscled shoulders and his throat glistened. ―Maybe none of my business, but you mentioned that you were worried about your mom.‖

My stomach knotted. I was glad we were running so Mr. Anderson couldn‘t really see my face. ―I might be overreacting.‖

―Or maybe not. You‘d be surprised how long people can trick themselves when the truth‘s right in front of them.‖

So I told him about the night we‘d gone to the store and Mom hadn‘t been there, and what I‘d started thinking about. What I‘d seen at the party. ―If they‘re not having an affair, then I think they‘re really close to one.‖

Mr. Anderson didn‘t answer for so long I worried I‘d done something wrong.

Maybe he hadn‘t bargained on this. It was one thing to ask how my parents were; it was another when the crazy girl spilled her guts. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but I worried that would make me sound stupid, like a little kid, so I just ran.

After another half mile, Mr. Anderson said, ―So you think that‘s why your parents decided to take an extra couple days? Your mom wants a divorce and your dad might be trying to talk her out of it? It‘s just as likely that they‘re enjoying one another‘s company and need some time away.‖

From you
. He didn‘t say that, but I heard it anyway. I knew he was right. My parents needed a time-out from their crazy lives which included their nutsoid daughter.

How dumb was it, me believing that Mr. Anderson was doing anything other than just being nice to the whacko new kid. He had to be thinking about what my dad had said: that I‘d been on a psych ward and had
problems
. Mr. Anderson was probably regretting he‘d ever called and counting the minutes until we made it to the parking lot.

This is what happens. This is what happens when you forget that only Matt
understands. You can talk to Matt. His e-mails never change, he never . . .

All of a sudden, I was sprinting, running as fast as I could, full out, legs thudding, arms pumping, my chest going like a bellows. I heard Mr. Anderson call my name, but I didn‘t look back, just kept going faster, faster, my brain yammering:
run, run, run faster,
must get away, must run faster
. If I ran fast enough, maybe my skin would split, peel off, float away, and then I would be like that beluga whale, finally free to get as far from my life as I...

―Jenna!‖ Mr. Anderson had drawn even, but I didn‘t slow, didn‘t turn. ―Jenna, what—?‖

―Don‘t!‖ I gasped. Sweat stung my eyes—or were those tears? Was I crying? I was such a loser, I was so—

―Ugh!‖ A sudden sharp pain knifed my side and I grunted, wincing as a deeper cramp took hold, and then I was groaning, pulling up short, nearly doubled over with the pain. My heart thudded in my ears, and then my knees bit earth and I was hunched like a dog on all fours, panting. Bile, bitter and nauseating, pushed into my mouth, and I spat it out. The stitch grabbed me again, and I moaned.

―Hey.‖ Kneeling, Mr. Anderson put an arm around my shoulders. ―Hey, it‘s okay, take it easy, try not to pant.‖

―St-stupid,‖ I managed, and tried spitting, but my mouth was dust, my tongue swollen. My arms were quivering, my calves were starting to cramp, too, and my whole body felt shaky and weak. I was dehydrated, I realized. What had I drunk today? Coffee this morning, then I started reading. I hadn‘t had anything else to drink and nothing to eat.

Stupid, stupid, so
stupid
.

―Take it easy, I‘m here,‖ Mr. Anderson said. Somehow I was on my back, staring up at blue sky through gnarly bare branches. My vision spun and my legs throbbed. Mr.

Anderson had my right leg in his lap and was pushing my foot back, working his fingers into the solid rock of my gastroc, trying to knead out the cramp. ―Deep breath, in . . . and out . . . in and ...‖

―I‘m sorry.‖ Mortified, I draped an arm over my eyes. I was too dehydrated to cry and my skin was hot. ―I shouldn‘t have gone so fast.‖

―Stop apologizing. It happens. My fault for not checking if you‘d hydrated before we started. Here.‖ He pressed something into my hand and my fingers closed around a gel.

―I hope you like green apple.‖

I squinted at the gell packet. ―I hate it.‖

―Tough. Come on, suck that down. I‘ve only got the one, but we‘re not that far from the car. There are restrooms and I think the water‘s still on at the picnic shelter. We can at least get that into you.‖

I was so shaky I could barely get my fingers to work, and Mr. Anderson finally tore open the gell pack for me. Sour apple gell never tasted so great, but it left me thirsty and puckered my entire throat. Eventually my leg cramps eased enough that I was able to limp to the car, albeit slowly and with Mr. Anderson‘s arm around my waist.

After a long drink at the shelter fountain and three more gels Mr. Anderson had stashed in his car (all sour apple), I felt a little more human. The shakes weren‘t as bad, but I was still weak and woozy, and a headache was pushing against my eyeballs and beginning to leak from my ears.

―Absolutely not.‖ Mr. Anderson shook his head when I tried to head for my car.

―No way you‘re going home just yet. The last thing we need is for you to wrap yourself around a tree. Come on.‖ He dug around in the backseat of his Prius and came up with a fleece. ―Put this on. We‘re going to my place. And shut it,‖ he said, as I opened my mouth.

―I‘m the coach. No arguments.‖

So. I shut it.

27: a

Mr. Anderson‘s house was a rambling two-story contemporary, all cedar and stone and glass. I had a general idea of its shape from Google Earth, but the satellite photograph had been taken in full summer. Now, with the leaves gone, the house seemed massive, almost a mansion on a small rise above the lake. Stone steps led down to a dock. There was a slip where a boat would‘ve been, but that was empty now. A long wooden walkway off the back deck led to a three-season boathouse. There was a stretch of brown sand at the water‘s edge, and two beached kayaks.

Over my objections, Mr. Anderson grabbed my pack and led me upstairs and then down a back hall to what he called a guest room but which turned out to be a series of three rooms laid out in a semicircle, each opening into the next: sitting room with a television, a bedroom that was bigger than three of mine, and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi bath and shower stall with four heads that was large enough to fit an entire relay team.

―Take your time,‖ he said as he headed back down the hall. ―And use as much hot water as you need.‖ He grinned. ―I have three sisters. There was never any hot water by the time they were done. I decided that when I got older, I would install
three
water heaters and name them after my sibs.‖

The shower was heaven. I was chilled to the bone and decided that this was no time for restraint. Dare to be decadent. I cranked on all the heads, dialing the water as hot as I could stand. The water thundered onto my shoulders, streamed over the scars on my abdomen and sluiced down the butterfly patches of skin graft on my back, washing away my sweat and grime and fatigue.

My embarrassment.

God, I‘d been stupid. What an idiot. I hadn‘t followed the rules every runner worth her salt knew. I was just lucky that Mr. Anderson was a coach and understood what to do, how to help. He was being cool about it.

So why couldn‘t I follow his example and cut myself a break? Not everything was my fault. Something my shrink once said bubbled up from memory:
believing that
everything is your fault is like saying that the world revolves around you and that is pure
narcissism and no less destructive.

So, okay, okay,
I thought.
Like the man said: shut it.