Drowning Instinct (18 page)

The fire cracked and sputtered. Rain slashed at the windows. Mr. Anderson said nothing. It was so quiet that when I swallowed, I heard thunder.

I couldn‘t look at him. What had I done? Why couldn‘t I keep my mouth shut? I‘d ruined everything. Would he even want me on the team now? Who wanted a little girl making googly eyes every time he walked by? He was probably trying to figure out what to say so the little dorkette wouldn‘t go all suicidal on him. God, I should leave. Maybe I‘d catch pneumonia and die and save him the trouble of getting rid of me.

But I couldn‘t move. Couldn‘t breathe. Didn‘t dare to.

Then Mr. Anderson let go of a small, slow breath that wasn‘t quite a sigh—more like something was coming undone in his chest. ―Oh hell,‖ he said.

The way he said that . . . it was like the world was a bell jar that had exploded, suddenly, in a shower of razor-sharp glass. I thought of my scissors, the kissing knife. I would cut and cut and cut right down to the bone and bleed, the way my heart was at that very moment.

I had to get out of there.

―I‘m sorry.‖ My voice came out raw and ragged and bloody. Hurriedly, I straightened, the blanket falling from my shoulders as I struggled to stand, but my feet tangled and I nearly crashed into the coffee table.

―Whoa, whoa.‖ Mr. Anderson snatched my wrist and then he was standing, and I was looking everywhere—the floor, the fire, the door—everywhere but at his face.

―Jenna—‖

I pulled, but he wouldn‘t let go. ―I‘m sorry. I shouldn‘t have said that. I should go.

Please.‖

―No.‖ He didn‘t sound angry. His hand was still around my wrist. I guess I could‘ve pulled harder, but I didn‘t. He said, ―I‘m the one who‘s sorry. I didn‘t mean what I said. It came out all wrong. We should . . . we should talk about this, how you . . . how you feel.‖

How
I
felt. Yeah, let‘s discuss how the crazy, pathetic little psychopath feels. It would be just
so
psychiatric. ―What‘s to talk about?‖ I heard the note of desperation in my voice and, to my horror, the sob welling up from somewhere deep in my chest. My eyes brimmed. ―I‘m sorry; I should go.‖

―Jenna.‖ I remember his voice was husky and low, and then his hands were gripping my shoulders. ―Jenna, please. Please, look at me.‖

I did—and that‘s when I realized that eyes really are windows to the soul.

―Don‘t go,‖ he whispered.

Okay, time-out.

I know what you‘re thinking, Bobby. You‘re thinking I made this one up, too. I mean, it‘s too perfect, right? The rain, the fire, the cabin that just happened to be where we needed it, the tea and cheese and blankets and blah, blah, blah. Only happens in fairy tales, that‘s what you‘re thinking.

But this happened, Bob. This is exactly the way it went down.

I know something else, too. I‘m doing it again, buzzing around the moment, flitting away like a startled moth. Protecting myself from the memory, I guess.

Because if I could just stop the flow of time there or
anywhere
before that afternoon, the rest couldn‘t, wouldn‘t spin out.

And then I wouldn‘t be here, in this emergency room—and neither, Bob, would you.

―Don‘t go,‖ he whispered again. ―I don‘t want you to. Please.‖

When he touched me—held me like that—something unraveled inside, like my heart was the knot of a flower and all the petals had suddenly unfurled. My knees went watery and weak and wobbly, the way they did when I ran hard and fast and for a very long time. I felt like I had been running forever and ever and ever and then I was falling, so fast and . . .

And then we kissed.

Or I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I don‘t know. But I kissed him and he kissed me, hard, very hard, so hard it was like he was drinking me in and then it was as if some shuddering dam finally burst and we couldn‘t get close enough; we were pressing together and kissing and I had never been so thirsty and we were trembling and his hands were all over me and mine were on him, and his mouth tasted of smoky sweet tea and then, somehow, we were on the rug and he was moaning into my mouth and then his hands slid beneath the flannel shirt and touched me, me, only me, only my skin and then . . .

And then my scars
shrieked
.

I gasped. I went absolutely, completely rigid. I felt his surprise as his mind registered what he felt. He pulled back, his eyes wide with shock, and then it was like I‘d been suspended above myself somewhere and come crashing back into my body.

―Don‘t.‖ I turned my face away. I was so ashamed. ―I‘m so ugly. Don‘t look at me.

Don‘t touch me. Don‘t.‖

―Jenna, Jenna, no, you‘re not, it‘s okay, shh, shh, honey,‖ and then he‘d gathered me up again, his hand smoothing my hair, cupping the back of my head. ―Oh, Jenna, sweetheart . . . what the hell have you done to yourself?‖

34: a

I told him. About the fire and Matt rescuing me and how Grandpa MacAllister almost died. About the hospital and the grafts and then the cutting that started up after Matt was gone and, finally, that awful day my English teacher stared in horror at the blood soaking my shirt. I hadn‘t tried to kill myself. The scissors had slipped, that was all. But no one—not the teacher, not the doctors, not my parents—cared about that.

I talked for a long time. I lay on my back on the rug, my face turned toward the fire because I didn‘t want to see how his face would change as the knowledge settled there—the way my parents‘ had when the shrink explained my
condition
, like I was this new and interesting bug no one had ever known existed. I talked until I was hoarse and the rain had stopped and Mr. Anderson ...

Mr. Anderson listened. He didn‘t say anything, interrupt, or ask questions. He lay on his side, head propped in one hand. His other hand rested on my stomach. (No,
not
skin to skin. Our clothes were on. The flannel shirt was buttoned. You are such a perv, Bob.)

―So I couldn‘t go back to my old school,‖ I said to the fire, ―not after all that. But I don‘t fit in at Turing either and I don‘t know what all this has been for. My family‘s falling apart; my mother‘s a drunk; my dad‘s screwing around; Matt‘s still gone. Things are better when I cut. That‘s the one thing I can control. God, I‘m such a screwup.‖

―Do you want me to agree?‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―Jenna, has it ever occurred to you that so long as you keep cutting, your parents stay together?‖

My cheeks burned. ―Rebecca, my therapist, said that. She said that my being ill was my way of making sure the family stayed together, but that all the cutting was symbolic.

Not like a death by a thousand cuts or anything. She said it was like this fantasy. I could cut myself, but I would always heal. I cut when the family‘s falling apart, but then I heal and the family‘s back together.‖

―When was the last time you cut yourself?‖ When I didn‘t answer, he said, ―Was it when that bastard at the party . . . ?‖

―Almost.‖ My mouth wouldn‘t make the words that should come after that:
But I
didn’t because I would’ve used your knife and I knew you would never hurt me, so I didn’t
and don’t you see, you
saved
me
. ―Labor Day. When Grandpa touched me.‖

He said nothing. The fire popped. I closed my eyes and studied the purple after-images of the fire scorched on the darkness. I heard his clothes rustle when he moved.

Then he said, very gently, ―Jenna, when was the last time he hurt you?‖

No one, not even my shrink, had ever asked me that. That was because no one else knew, or was supposed to know because then bad things would happen—as they had already.

―Not for a long time.‖ I still couldn‘t look at him. ―Not . . .‖ I forced it out. ―Not since the fire.‖

―So it was the fire that stopped him.‖

I nodded. ―He . . . he had a couple strokes in the hospital and now he ... he‘s just ...

he can‘t ...‖

―Who knows, Jenna? Who knows he hurt you, besides me? Who do you talk to about this?‖

Now I did open my eyes. His were serious and held me the way arms never could.

―Matt,‖ I said.

What I wasn‘t prepared for was his reaction. Mr. Anderson‘s eyes narrowed, and then his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. He said, carefully now, ―When was the last time you actually spoke to your brother?‖

The question caught me off guard. A little finger of alarm crept down my spine.

―About two years ago. Maybe two and a half.‖

―Before you started cutting.‖ He said it as a statement of fact, not a question. ―So . .

. he doesn‘t come home on leave? He doesn‘t call?‖

―No, I told you; my parents didn‘t want him to enlist.‖

―I‘m not sure that answers my question. How do you keep in touch?‖

―E-mail. I keep all his e-mails separate so there‘s no chance Mom will see. It would just . . . she would be upset.‖

―That a sister would keep in touch with her brother?‖

I said nothing.

―When was the last time you e-mailed?‖

―A long time. Since . . . pretty much since the night you drove me home from school. The night we . . . the night Mom was ...‖

He waited, but when I didn‘t go on, he said, ―Do you understand why you haven‘t?‖

―I . . .‖ Tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes and dribbled down, tickling my ears. ―I‘ve been—‖
Thinking of you, been with you, with you, with you.
―I‘ve been busy. I used to write to Matt every day, only . . .‖

―Jenna.‖ His hand moved from my stomach to cover one of my clenched fists.

―When was the last time Matt
really
answered?‖

Me:

Mr. Anderson: ―Jenna?‖

Me:

He waited. His eyes never left mine, but I saw what he knew and I hated . . . I
hated

...

Something exploded in my chest, hexane under pressure with no escape and now there‘d been the slightest spark. I scrambled to a sit,
screaming
: ―So now you‘re my
shrink
?

Why are you asking so many questions? Why are we
talking
about Matt? Why are you
pushing
me? I thought you were my friend; I thought you
cared
!‖

―Jenna, listen to me, I do, I
am
.‖

―Then why?‖ I dragged my arm across my streaming eyes. I would‘ve,
should’ve
gotten up, blasted out the door, but I was backed up against the coffee table now and there was nowhere to run. I drew my knees to my chin and hugged myself. ―Why are you
doing
this?‖

―Because.‖ He was facing me now, leaning forward, face intent, his eyes grabbing mine so I couldn‘t look away. We were like matching bookends, almost touching but with volumes between us and stories, so many stories. ―Because I
am
your friend and I
do
care, much more than I should.‖

―Then you‘d stop talking about this! You‘d
stop
.‖

―No. Jenna, honey, I can‘t. I wouldn‘t be your friend if I did.‖

―Why
not
?‖

―Because.‖ He cradled my face in his hands. ―Because Matt‘s dead, Jenna, and I am so sorry, sweetheart; I am sorrier than you can ever know. But he‘s dead, and has been for more than two years.‖

35: a

―Don‘t you think I know
that
?‖ I screamed. ―Don‘t you think I
know
?‖

They were questions with no answers, just as there had been none when my mother refused to open the door to the Marines in their dress blues. Because, Bob, you see . . . if they couldn‘t tell us, then—for her, for us all—Matt was a fly in amber, a flower in glass. If we never heard what the Marines had to tell us, then Matt was caught somewhere in some other
when
, in suspended animation: still alive just a little while longer.

Something huge and horrible ripped in my chest, and then I just couldn‘t stand it anymore: not the hurt or the grief or the lies or the wounds that wouldn‘t heal no matter how deeply I cut, or how often. Maybe they were all the same thing; I still don‘t know, Bob.

I hid my face in my knees and wept the way little kids do when their world is coming apart at the seams and nothing is safe anymore.

But Mr. Anderson put his arms around me and pulled me to his chest so I could hear his heart. He held me together and wouldn‘t let me go, and he saved me from breaking to pieces.

Eventually, the rain stopped because it always does, and so did I. We didn‘t move.

We faced the fire: me leaning back into Mr. Anderson; him with one arm across my chest and a hand in my hair.

I was exhausted, sweaty, hollow. Maybe I should‘ve felt better—people say that letting go is supposed to be good—but I felt horrible. My mouth was dry and tasted bad, like I‘d vomited out something awful. Which, I guess, I had.

I had ruined everything. Mr. Anderson had known my secret all along. Maybe he‘d hoped I‘d gotten over Matt and this was a test to see if I was worth the energy and his time.

In the last couple of days, he must‘ve gotten hopeful that I was better, but now I‘d gone all Drama Queen—and, well, crazy is as crazy does.

―I‘m sorry.‖ My voice came out croaky. My tongue was swollen and my lips wouldn‘t work right. ―I shouldn‘t have dumped all this on you.‖

―How do you figure? I
did
ask.‖

―But you already knew the answer. Was it in my . . . ?‖

―Your file? Yes, in the hospital summary.‖

―Why didn‘t you say anything the first time? Why did you let me—‖
Make a fool of
myself
. ―Let me go on?‖ I felt his shoulders move in a shrug. ―I didn‘t know you well enough. Oh, I wanted to, a couple times, but I kept thinking who was I to take that from you? We all have our fictions, Jenna, little lies we tell to keep ourselves going from one day to the next. So I let it go untill. . . until I thought the time was right.‖

His arm was hard and muscular under my hands and felt sturdy and strong and safe.

My words came in a near whisper. ―So what changed?‖

His grip tightened. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh almost as if he knew he should stop the words before they pushed their way out but couldn‘t, or didn‘t want to. ―You.
Me .
.. how I feell...‖

―Please don‘t hate me.‖

―Oh God, I don‘t hate you, Jenna. This isn‘t your fault.
I’m
supposed to be the adult here, not the other way around. You shouldn‘t be worrying about me.‖

―I‘m sixteen.‖

―I didn‘t say you were twelve. I said this wasn‘t your fault.

I . . .‖ His voice faltered. His arm slid around my waist. ―Listen, I started out just wanting to be a nice guy, you know? You were new and I wanted you to get comfortable in school and know there was someone on your side, an adult you could talk to without worrying about your grades or it getting back to your parents, things like that. Most kids, they warm up fast, but it took work to reach you. I don‘t know why I kept trying so hard, but I did. There‘s something about you . . .‖ He trailed off.

I hung onto his arm. My heart hammered my ribs so hard, he had to feel it.

He said, ―When I was a kid—maybe ten, eleven—I found this sparrow. Our cat had gotten hold of it. One wing was all messed up. I was this real Boy Scout; I‘d read all about how you could tape a bird‘s wing to its body and then it would heal. So I took the bird and I put masking tape around it, really anchored that sucker. Well, maybe five minutes later, the bird just keeled over. Completely freaked me out. When I touched it, it woke right up, but then it did that two more times in maybe three minutes. The last time, it wouldn‘t wake up no matter what I did. That‘s when I realized it was dead. I didn‘t figure out until later that
I’d
killed it. I‘d taped the wings too tight. The poor bird suffocated and I‘d done that. I hadn‘t meant to hurt it; I wanted to
help
. But I, literally, killed it with kindness. That‘s always stayed with me. I swore that whenever I tried to help, I would be so careful, never hurt anyone or anything again. I would always try to do the right thing.‖

―I‘m not a bird with a broken wing,‖ I said.

―Yes, you are. You just don‘t know it. I could‘ve said something about Matt a long time ago, but you wouldn‘t have heard. You‘d have run away. You did, if you recall, a couple times over. I guess I kept hoping if I gave you time.... But then I saw how your father treated you and that made me so damned angry, I knew I had to force it.‖

―But why?‖ I twisted around so our faces were inches apart. ―You said you didn‘t want to hurt me, but you did anyway. You took Matt away.‖

―No, an IED killed Matt. I got rid of his ghost so you‘d finally see.‖

―See what?‖

―Me, Jenna,‖ he said. ―So you would see
me
. And then you would know that you‘re not the only one who‘s lonely.‖

36: a

It was dark when we left the cabin and followed the beam of his flashlight around the lake and back to the house. (Oh, Bobby-o, I know what you‘re thinking. Sorry to disappoint but we only talked and when we weren‘t, we watched the fire and held one another, and that‘s all. Bob, you really do need to get a life.) He held my hand the whole way. We didn‘t say much. My parents weren‘t due home for hours yet, so I stuffed my wet running stuff into a plastic bag. I could change at my house. This time, Mr. Anderson didn‘t follow me to the road but bent down at the driver‘s side window.

―Maybe it‘s good that we can‘t see each other tomorrow. We both need to take some time and think about how we . . .‖ He looked away and then back and tried on a smile. ―Besides, you‘ve got that English thing, right?‖

Oh God. He was regretting this already. ―Yeah.‖

―So ... you okay?‖

―Sure.‖ I started the car. ―I‘m good.‖

―No. Wait.‖ He didn‘t back away. His fingers tightened on the door and he looked down at the ground. ―
Damn
it ...‖ When he looked up again, his lips were tight, his voice urgent. ―Listen, I want you to promise me something. Don‘t you cut because of this. Don‘t you hurt yourself because of
me
, don‘t you dare.‖

His ferocity took my breath away. ―I won‘t. I promise.‖

His face smoothed. ―Good. I just couldn‘t bear to think that you would . . . that
I..
.‖

He wet his lips. ―If you ever feel like cutting,
ever
, no matter if it‘s day or night, I want you to call me. I mean it, Jenna. Promise me you won‘t hurt yourself. Promise me you‘ll call.

Matt‘s gone, but I‘m here, Jenna. I‘m right in front of you.‖

His words tripped a hidden spring, and I felt my guts uncoil. ―Okay.‖

―Promise me.‖

―I promise.‖

―Okay.‖ He blew out. ―Good. Another thing: the cabin? Anytime you need to get away, you go there. I never move that key. It‘s always there. You don‘t need my permission first. If you‘re in trouble and you can‘t reach me or I can‘t get to you right away, you just go. It‘ll be our place, okay? You‘ll be safe there.‖

I smeared sweat from my upper lip. My fingers shook. I was afraid I was going to start crying again, but with relief this time. ―All right. Thank you.‖

―Okay. See you Monday.‖ Not:
See you Monday bright and early.
Not:
Don’t forget
we’ve got that lab to set up and you said you’d be my TA and I’m counting on you.

He took a step back and gave me a wave as I dropped the car into reverse. When I reached the rise and looked in the rearview, I could see his house and the lights in the windows, but that was all.