The Twilight Swimmer (10 page)

She rambled on and on, her words spilling out much too quickly for the Swimmer to process them. He watched her in awed silence, his gray eyes never blinking.

Brandi finally sat back down on the couch, worn out by her paranoid rant. “Seriously. What am I supposed to do with you? You might have thought about that before you walked out of the water.”

The Swimmer took a deep breath, the pink line at his jaw fluttering. “Brandi,” he said with a nervous smile.

“What?” she asked, looking despondently at her feet.

“Your name. Brandi,” he said her name again, with more strength in his voice, as if he’d discovered the answer to a math problem.

Brandi looked up and met his eyes, big and warm. Her paranoia melted away. She didn’t fear him. She didn’t wish for him to just go away, to never have appeared and thrown her life into upheaval. With a deep breath of her own, she asked, “Do you have one? A name?”

The Swimmer stared at her, a glimmer of embarrassment in his eyes.

Brandi nodded, understanding. “It’s better that you don’t have one. What are the chances I could pronounce it?” Then, awkwardly, “Why did you look for me? Why me?”

“I heard your voice,” said the Swimmer. “I wanted to
see
your voice.”

“To
see
my voice?” she asked.

“Is it wrong? Am I… wrong? I don’t want to frighten you,” he said.

“You scared the hell out of me, actually.” She softened her tone. “But not now. Now I’m not afraid.”

He smiled and lowered his eyes, embarrassed by the scale of his relief. She watched one of his pale hands knead the other, watched his toes continue to work for a grip on the smooth wooden floor.

And then, when he at last looked up again, “You haven’t answered. Why me?”

“I know you,” said the Swimmer.

Before Brandi could process what he had said, she inadvertently glanced down and saw her watch. It was nearly 5:30 AM, the small and big hands converging on that South-most point. To Brandi’s eye, the sight was horrifying. “Oh my god. My parents.” She sprang up from the couch again, this time holding her hands out to remind the Swimmer that he should remain seated. With furtive glances at her guest, she frantically pulled on her hoodie and headed for the door.

“You leave?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

“I’ll come back. Just stay here. Inside or nearby.” She swung open the door, the first hint of morning light passing into the cabin. When the light touched the skin of the Swimmer’s exposed hand, he pulled it back with a wince. But Brandi was too concerned about the time to notice his discomfort. “You’re the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in… I don’t even know. You’re not a mirage or a dream or a hallucination. At least I’m pretty sure you’re not. At what point does it become obvious to the person hallucinating that the hallucination is exactly that? Maybe never. God, that’s unsettling. I’m really rambling, aren’t I? I’m rambling like the type of person who might hallucinate a… a
you
. Anyway, ignore the rambling. I promise, I will come back. Tonight.”

The door slammed shut behind her, sealing out the dawn.

But the window on the opposite wall of the cabin was lightening as well, a dull gray square set against the brown cabin wall. The Swimmer’s eyes landed on the window, and on the rising level of light. He rose from the couch and moved toward the window from an angle, careful to stay out of the light now reaching inside the cabin and painting a subtle rectangle on the cabin floor. He pressed his back against the wall and slowly lifted his hand until the tip of his pale finger crept above the bottom edge of the window. Gritting his teeth, he held it there.

In only a few seconds, his translucent skin began to turn.

CHAPTER SIX

Brandi paddled so hard her shoulders burned, weaving her way back through the maze of interior waterways as quickly as she could. But the sun rose rapidly, and the morning beat her back to her home by nearly an hour. As she piloted her kayak around the final bend before the high-traffic inlet, she immediately saw the very thing she dreaded. Her father was sitting on the dock, in the very lawn chair that once resided at the hunting cabin. He had draped a coat over his broad torso to stave off the morning chill, but his hands were exposed and squeezing the flimsy metal armrests. Even from a distance, she could tell he was squeezing.

She thought about turning the kayak around and disappearing into the wilderness. If she paddled for a month, she might arrive in the St. Lawrence Canal. From there, the Great Lakes. She could keep paddling west, from brooks to creeks to tributaries to raging rapids. Eventually, she might find herself in California. She’d be about fifty by the time she got there, but at least her father wouldn’t be waiting for her on shore with that cool, calm expression that foretold a truly awesome fury.

Brandi lifted her paddles from the water and let her momentum carry her toward her family’s dock. To her amazement, Conrad stepped off the dock and plowed into the shallow water. His pajama pants were instantly soaked up to his thighs, but he didn’t seem to notice. He took a few wet steps to meet her kayak and, without a word, grabbed the frame and dragged the boat onto the grass. The sudden tug sent Brandi lurching backward in her seat. She almost lost her grip on her paddle, but managed to hang on as her father deposited her boat on the slope.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” she blurted out, not sure what to say but certain she should start with an apology.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he answered, watching with hands on hips as she awkwardly climbed out of the kayak. “Pick up the pace, would you?”

She shivered against the morning chill, suddenly aware that her father should have been chilled to the bone in pajama pants and a tee shirt. The fact that he seemed impervious to the cold was somewhat alarming. He was so upset when he realized she wasn’t in her room, he’d walked out the back door and taken up position on the dock to wait without even grabbing a sweater. And now his blood must be boiling, literally. How else could his arms be free of goosebumps while every hair on hers was standing on end?

“I didn’t mean to make you worry—”

“Dammit, Brandi, I said I don’t want to hear it.” He waved his arm toward the house, directing her to head that direction… and pick up the pace. But before she’d taken a step the sliding glass door flew open and her mother charged through. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair disheveled and her face unadorned by the makeup she always wore, Brandi had never seen her look so bad. Her cheeks were puffy and her eyes red. Every age line she fought so hard to prevent from deepening stood out now, despite the softness of the morning light, like a ravine in an aerial photograph.

“Sweetheart, go back in the house,” said Conrad.

Sherri kept coming, as if she hadn’t heard her husband. Her bare feet slipped on the grass, wet with dew. Her robe was sliding open, revealing the thin nightgown she wore underneath. Revealing the thinness of her neck, every tendon drawn tight below her clenched jaw. Her eyes were threatening slits, trained on Brandi and unblinking.

“She’s back now. She’s safe,” said Conrad, moving between Brandi and his incensed wife. “Let’s go inside.”

“You’ve got some nerve, young lady!” hollered Sherri as she pushed past Conrad, her face inches from Brandi’s. “Making us crazy so you can run off and play sailor? Is that what you think you are? You think you’re a sailor? Because all I see is a little girl with no consideration for anyone but herself. A little girl! A child! Adults don’t behave this way, do they? You answer me! Do adults fill their loved ones with terror, with absolute terror, just for a laugh? Is that the way adults act? You answer me!”

Conrad looped his arm around his wife’s waist and gently pulled her away from Brandi, who was now cowering.

“I’m sorry,” Brandi whispered.

“You’re sorry? You’re
sorry
?!” Sherri ‘se yes filled with fresh tears as she strained against Conrad’s strength. “I’d have knocked on every door if your father would have let me. I’d have walked the neighborhood all night, looking under trees and bushes. Looking behind rocks. Looking on the… on the
beach
. Terrified of what I might find. My daughter just lying there! My daughter, the only one I have left, not moving, not breathing, just lying there! And your own fault for running off like a child, like a petulant little child, with no regard for… with no consideration, not a single thought… of what you put us through!”

“Honey, please. That’s enough. You’re freezing.” Conrad began to guide his wife back up the hill, toward the house. Brandi watched her parents go, still shaken by her father’s calm and by her mother’s uncontrolled outburst. But then her eyes caught movement in an upstairs window. It was Cody, peeking between his bedroom curtains. She could just make out the blue and green of his pajamas, his hair matted and sticking straight up above his left ear. He stared at Brandi for a long moment then yanked the curtains closed.

Brandi wiped at her eyes, where tears of her own had begun to form. Her stomach gurgling and her head pounding, she walked slowly up the hill.

Brandi needed to get back to the cabin.

She thought about faking sick, and after a night spent kayaking when she should have been sleeping she actually did feel lousy. But there was no way her parents would reward her rebellious behavior with a day off from school. Even if she could muster symptoms sufficient to rouse their sympathies – an ugly cough or a minor fever – she was certain her mother would opt to stay home and tend to her. Not out of motherly concern so much as her sense of motherly responsibility. If your child is irresponsible, you tighten your grip on the child. And if your child is sick as well, you tighten it even more. The women’s magazines she read religiously were very clear on such issues when they weren’t focused on fashion advice and beauty makeovers. With her mother consulting these very magazines at her bedside, or right down the hall, she could hardly sneak away and return to the cabin. She was lucky her kayak was still at the dock and not lashed to the roof beams in the garage, but she wasn’t ready to push her luck just yet.

And so she showered and dressed, forced down a slice of toast and a banana under her father’s watchful glare, and piled into his police cruiser for their traditional ride to school. The sun was brighter than it ought to be, Brandi thought. No consideration for people whose tired eyes craved eight hours of darkness. She leaned her cheek against the window and yawned, her hair falling mercifully over her face.

Conrad periodically stole glances at his daughter, but remained quiet to let her sleep. When his police band radio crackled with static, he turned the dial down as far as it would go without clicking off. In this town, he was unlikely to miss an important call from Sally, their elderly dispatcher. The warehouse fire had been the biggest criminal event in recent memory, but his normal week consisted of one or two traffic stops, maybe a fender bender, and the occasional shopkeeper declaring that one kid or another had stolen something. No proof, in these cases. Just suspicions, and a wasted trip for Conrad. He typically promised to go talk to the boy in question, but rarely did. Accusations without evidence turned his stomach. For the same reason, he likewise rarely filed the obligatory paperwork, preferring to let such trivial matters fade from memory, both the public’s and his own. Better to remind everyone, through such forgivable omissions, that they lived in a town where safety could be safely assumed. In his humble opinion, that perk alone made up for the long drive to the nearest movie theater, the slim pickings at the local grocery store and every other minor inconvenience folks grumbled about.

As they pulled up to the school, kids were hustling inside the building. Conrad gave Brandi a poke in the ribs to wake her up. With another yawn, she pushed open her door and set one foot on the asphalt parking lot, not looking at her father.

“Brandi,” he said, loudly enough to get her attention. “You’re coming to the station after school.”

“Why am I doing that?”

“I don’t like the tone of your voice,” he answered. “When I speak to you, you either bite your tongue or respond with a respectful tone. Is that understood?”

Brandi nodded, surprised by her father’s sternness.

“You’re coming to the station this afternoon and every afternoon for a month. Volunteering your time. Consider it punishment for turning your mother’s hair gray with stunts like the one you pulled last night.” He eyed Brandi warily, expecting a protest. She wisely kept her mouth shut. “You’ll help Sally out, however she needs you. Answering calls, working the boards. Cleaning up. Filing. Whatever she needs, you’re her girl. Understood?”

“Any gray hair Mom has, she had before last night,” Brandi murmured.

Conrad pretended he didn’t hear the snide remark. “I’ll pick you up and run you over. Do not be late. Do not make me wait. Understood?”

Brandi nodded again and slid out of the car.

“Brandi,” said Conrad. It was normal for him to call her back for one last word before she disappeared inside the school. One last smile, one last compliment or joke, a reminder that he loved her. She would never admit how much it meant to her, this small gesture from her father. “You’re not a kid anymore,” he said. And he turned away, his hands squeezing the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. Brandi shut the car door, but kept looking through the window, waiting for him to sneak one last glance at her and flash her a reluctant smile.

He didn’t. Not today. He put the cruiser in gear and drove off.

Gulping down her dismay, Brandi shuffled inside the school.

The school cafeteria was small, barely twenty round tables placed haphazardly to accommodate thick steel girders painted, inexplicably, to look like concrete. The chairs were hard plastic and had been around since the Eisenhower administration. That was the joke, anyway. Most of the students barely knew there was once a president named Eisenhower, much less how long ago he had been in office. For the past ten years, a section of wall about ten feet wide had been painted by the senior art students. The effect was a very colorful but very disjointed mural depicting everything from sailors doing battle with stormy seas to a basketball team celebrating a victory. While the former made sense in a coastal fishing town, the latter made no sense whatsoever. Their basketball team had not won a “big game” since the Eisenhower administration or any other. Better than a football mural, Brandi supposed. Around the year the seniors started their mural, the school came to terms with the fact that it didn’t have enough willing participants to field a legitimate team. The expense of keeping up the football field, also used for a soccer team that didn’t exist, hardly made sense. And so the field was plowed over and turned into an agricultural laboratory for the Science Department while the athletic dreams of every student who couldn’t dribble were firmly dashed. At least they had the small consolation of homegrown carrots, lettuce and tomatoes on the lunch menu, nurtured and harvested by their fellow students for class credit.