Learning Not to Drown (25 page)

“Hi, Sue,” I greet our teller, one of two in our town's only banking establishment.

“Making a deposit today?” she asks as she takes my check and deposit slip. “Okay. Five hundred into your savings. Did you want any cash back?”

“Not today.”

She stamps the check and initials a few spots before sliding it into a drawer. Then she hands me my receipt.

“Here you go.”

I glance at it. Seeing the total grow always feels good.
But this time I do a double take. This can't be right.

“Sue?” I point at the slip. “I'm confused. I had $9,125 in my account. It's showing only $520. It should be $9,625.”

“Well, that's because your mother came by earlier today and withdrew everything but the twenty dollars we require to keep the account open.” Her eyes, framed by fake lashes, blink twice.

“But . . .” I can feel panic entering my chest, squeezing my heart and lungs. “But . . . this is
my
account. I didn't authorize her to withdraw any money.”

“Honey, until you are eighteen, your mother is the joint holder of the account and, therefore, may withdraw money at any time.”

Remain calm, Clare. Stop and think. Be smart right now, not emotional.

“Can I help you with anything else today?”

“Yes, actually. I think I would like to withdraw the remaining money in the account.” I force myself to smile. “All of it. Including the twenty dollars that is needed to keep the account open.”

“Okay. Let's see. You're going to have to fill out a few forms.” Her false eyelashes flip up and down as she looks from her computer to me, pushing papers under the bulletproof glass. “And I'm going to have to verify the funds on this five-hundred-dollar check in order to give you cash. It's from one of our affiliate banks, so it shouldn't take but five or ten minutes.”

I fill out the forms to the sound of Sue's fingers tapping on the keyboard, then of her chatting on the
phone for a moment or two before she asks to verify funds. As hard as I try to write with a steady hand, the forms are barely legible when I give them back. I need to get home. I need to find my money.

“All verified. Here you are. Five hundred and twenty dollars. Are hundreds okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I try to walk out at a normal pace.

I drive the few blocks home carefully, thinking, thinking. If I confront my mother, I will never see my money again.

Quiet as I can be, I tiptoe into the house. Where would she put it? I instantly think of the fire safe. I find the key. Silently, quickly. Open, look. Nothing there but my parent's checkbooks and Mom's only necklace with a diamond. Close, lock, key back.

Why did she take my money? What if she spent it already? What would she spend it on?

Wait. Find the money first. Ask why later.

Where else? Her purse. I look around the room. It's not in here. Where could it be? Her bedroom? Her closet? I wouldn't even know where to look.

Kitchen. That's where she sorts the mail. Maybe in there.

I push the door open, freeze.

Mom greets me with, “They arrested your brother this morning.” She says it like any other mom would say, “We're out of milk.”

It takes me off guard.

“For the receipt thing?” Oh, shit. I'm going to have to testify against him.

“Well, yes, they did have a warrant for that.” She pauses.

“And?” I ask.

“Well, not that I believe a bit of it, but this twentysomething girl is claiming that she picked him up when he was hitchhiking and then he stole her car when she stopped to get gas.” Mom pauses. “Not that I believe it. I mean, really. What respectable person picks up hitchhikers these days?”

Skeleton nods as Mom steps toward me.

“Clare.” Mom's fingers close in on my shoulder. “It would be a shame for Luke to spend Christmas in a holding cell, waiting for the trial, don't you think?” She doesn't wait for my response. “I know how much you love him, and I knew that you would want to help him, so I withdrew some money from your savings account today.”

Bail. This is about needing bail so Luke will be home for Christmas! She wants me to sacrifice all my hard work, all the time I spent working at the library, as a tutor, as a lifeguard. Ten hours a week during the school year since I was twelve years old. Thirty-three hours a week all summer and a half lifeguarding. So that Luke can be home for Christmas. I pry her talons off my shoulder. She must be sick. Ill. Mentally ill. There is no other explanation. I take a few steps back.

“Do you know how bail works?” Mom asks, in a voice that she uses for small children. “Let me explain. Luke is going to be tried sometime in February, or maybe early March. If we post bail, from now until that
time the judge allows Luke to be free, to be with his family or friends. What they require is that a certain amount of money is held by the court. If he shows up on his court date, we get the money back. It's that easy. And the bail bonds company takes a little percentage of the amount of bail for their services.”

“But what if he doesn't show up? I've been saving that money my whole life,” I say. “For college. I need it.” Where the hell is my money?

“But you won't be giving it away permanently. It's just a loan, until Luke's trial date,” she says. “We can't afford it without your help.”

“What happens if he doesn't show for the trial?” I ask again.

“We don't worry about that, because Luke will show for his trial date. He always has.”

“Just so I completely understand how it works, what happens if he doesn't show?” She's not going to say. “If you don't tell me, I'll just look it up online.”

“Nothing comes back.” Her lips thin out, and the vein begins to show in her forehead. Has she already posted bail?

I have to stall for time. “Okay. I'll think about it,” I say. I need to find the cash now—if it is here—and let her think I'm considering. Where would she put it? Then I see the strap of her purse, pinched in the pantry door.

“The decision's been made, Clare,” she tells me. “I have the money and I'm going to use it for Luke's bail.”

She said “going to use it.” So it should still be here. Remain calm. Let her think she's won.

“Okay,” I say. “I guess you've made the decision for me.”

She smiles.

Miraculously, she goes into the bathroom. It may be my only chance.

Open the pantry. There is Mom's poorly hidden purse.

Inside is an envelope, filled with hundreds. There is a receipt. My account number is on the bottom. The relief is overwhelming. I stuff the envelope under my shirt. The guilt is overwhelming. It's my money. Why do I feel like I'm stealing?

Mom's purse drops back into place. I grab my keys and drive to Drea's as snow begins to fall once again.

•  •  •

“Your mom's seriously crazy, but I can't believe this.” Drea's fingers are shaking as we count the money. With the cash I just withdrew, it totals $9,625. It's all there.

I shake my head. I can't stop crying.

“Will you hide the money here? Just until I can figure out what to do?” I'm still crying, but at least my brain is working.

A mischievous grin crawls across Drea's face. “I've always wanted to slit open the bottom of the mattress and hide a big wad of cash there.”

“Do you think that's the safest place? I mean, if they do it in a movie, doesn't everyone know about it?” I ask.

“Who would think of looking for almost ten thousand dollars in
my
mattress? Otherwise we can tuck some here and some there. As long as we don't hide it so well that we can't find it again.”

The next half hour is spent splitting and hiding the cash, feeling more like criminals hiding our illegally acquired loot than two high school students putting away my college savings.

“Thanks, Drea,” I say, leaving her house and preparing to go into battle.

•  •  •

No one seems to notice I was gone. Mom is in the kitchen, fixing dinner. My heartbeat slows—the confrontation can be put off for now. I find Peter in his room, wrapping gifts.

I hold up my shopping bags. “It'd be handy if we had more than one pair of scissors in this house.”

After a few minutes of cutting and taping, chopping through Santa's face and lining it up with reindeer, I get the courage to talk to Peter.

“So . . . I'm not in here just to wrap gifts,” I say.

“What's up?” He doesn't look up from the tag he's writing.

“They arrested Luke today,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. I overheard Mom talking on the phone to Dad,” Peter says, looking at the pile of ribbons.

“Mom wants me to give up my college savings for Luke's bail.” Now I have his attention. I continue, “She actually went to the bank today and took all the money out of my account.”

“Is that legal?” he asks.

“Apparently it is, since I'm under eighteen and she had to sign on to the account originally. But I found
the money in her purse and took it back. She doesn't know yet.” I look him in the eye. “She's going to kill me when she finds out.”

“Wow. Mom's stealing from her own kid's savings account. It's a new low, even for our family.”

“Crazy, right? Mom says she needs my money since she doesn't have enough. But she says I'll get it back when he shows for the trial. Do you think he will?” I ask.

“I don't know. Maybe. Probably not.” Peter looks down, starts to tie gold ribbon around a package. Gives up and slaps a premade bow onto the top.

“I don't know why they'd need that much money,” I say, “He stole a car. Bail couldn't be that much, could it?”

Peter clicks the top of his pen, looking up, his jaw clenching.

“Clare, he didn't just steal a car. He . . . raped someone.”

“What?” My stomach acid rises. Luke couldn't have done that.

“I don't have any details. Just what I overheard. The charges are grand theft auto and something to do with sexual assault.” Peter's jaw muscles tighten and release.

“Luke has made some bad decisions in the past, and I know he's violent when he's wasted. But I don't think he'd do that. That's a whole different level of fucked up than what he is,” I say as Peter clicks the pen as fast as his thumb will move up and down.
Click, click, click, click, click, click, click.
Finally he stops.

“Clare, I've been seeing a therapist at school. It's . . . helpful. Good, actually. And you should do it too.” He looks back down, flipping a box along the wrapping-paper roll.

“Why?” What, I'm crazy now? And so is Peter? Why therapy?

“For a lot of reasons. You know we don't have the best parents. And Luke—Luke is . . . Can I tell you something? Something only my therapist knows, so you need to keep it a secret forever. No telling Mom or Dad. Or Drea. Or anyone.” I want to walk out of his room. Nothing that he is planning to say can be anything I want to hear.

“Okay.” My stomach turns.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Not ANYONE.”

“Okay, I promise. Not anyone.”

Peter takes a big breath in, looks back at his wrapped gift, winds a piece of ribbon around a finger. “I was twelve. Dad was at work that day. And Mom took you with her Christmas shopping. She told Luke that he was responsible for me, and we were just here at the house watching TV, but then his friend Heather— Do you remember Heather? The girl with long black hair and blue eyes who used to come over sometimes? You were eight and you used to always tease Luke—‘Luke and Heather sitting in a tree—' ”

“I was hoping they'd get married,” I interrupt. “She was so nice. And she didn't seem to care that Luke had been in jail a few times.”

“Yeah. I liked Heather too.” He gives a half smile. I want him to stay on this part of the story. Just remembering Luke and a friend, a girl we all liked. Nothing bad. But. Pushing away my worst memory of Luke never helped me. I need to hear what Peter has to say. “Anyway, she called and wanted him to come over. We put on our coats and boots and walked the mile over to her house. I forgot my gloves, so when I got there, my hands were freezing. It's crazy. That detail. How clearly I can remember the cold. We didn't knock, so Heather was still sitting on the couch, chewing her fingernails. Next to her was this guy with gray front teeth and sullen cheeks. I think his name is Dan. I still see him around sometimes.”

He stops again. Rolls out another piece of wrapping paper and measures the next box. Cuts the paper jaggedly. For a moment I think he won't tell any more of the story. Then he continues. “Heather jumped up and ran over to us, just gushing over how cute I was and how happy she was that I was there. Her breath had that almost sweet smell that you get when you're drinking. She gave Luke a kiss on the cheek and told him she'd make him a cocktail. As she walked to the kitchen, I remember Luke nudging me, pointing at her butt because it was barely covered by her long-sleeved dress or shirt or whatever it was she was wearing.”

His jaw muscles tighten again for a second. It's hard for him to keep talking. Keep telling me this story. It's hard for me to hear each word, because, really, don't I know already where it's leading?

After Peter's jaw relaxes, he continues. “She made me
a hot chocolate—with marshmallows. As soon as we sat down on the couch, Dan tapped Luke on the shoulder and said, ‘I got what you need.'

“Luke said ‘Shut up' at the same time Heather said, ‘Hey. Not in front of the kid.'

“Luke told me to stay on the couch and watch the basketball game, and he headed down the hall to Heather's room with Dan. She stayed with me, ruffling my hair and giggling and drinking and saying how she wished she had a little brother like me. She refilled my hot chocolate each time she got up to make herself another—five times. I remember it was at the beginning of the second quarter when we got there. Knicks versus Heat. By the middle of the third period, she was pretty trashed and Luke hadn't come back. It wasn't bad sitting there, but the Heat was ahead by twenty something, and Heather kept passing out and waking up, and I was bored and I wanted to go home.