Drowning Instinct (8 page)

―Isn‘t it?‖ I said. That just squirted out. Oh, all right, I let it happen. Whatever. I could hear Rebecca‘s ghost in my head, too. Every word out of her mouth was this creepy little verbal feeler, like an antenna:
I think; I sense; I wonder.
Like she didn‘t want to get caught committing herself one way or the other, so she would never be
really
wrong.

Anything she‘d said was a
guess
: an
I think
. ―Because, yeah, I kind of wonder.‖

Of course I was right. You should‘ve seen the look on his face: shock and surprise washing his skin purple as a beet. Even his ears pinked.

And, Bob? You have no idea how much seeing
that
hurt.

David was using me. He was being kind of a tool, you want to know the truth. This was all about hitting back at Danielle. I was convenient; that was all. But just because I thought I was right didn‘t mean I wanted to be.

―I‘m sorry,‖ I said, although I was probably talking for both of us. I felt the sudden sting of tears I couldn‘t afford pricking the back of my eyes. ―It‘s none of my business.‖

―Don‘t worry about it.‖ David‘s face closed tight as a fist. He was such a bad liar, Bob. So, probably a good guy despite all that, you know? Hitting back at someone who‘s hurt you or for whom you care is human—well, unless you‘re a shrink, in which case you can think your way out of it. Better yet, make it all someone else‘s fault, preferably your parents.

―I got to get going.‖ David abruptly shoved the broken saber into his bag and stood.

―Forget I said anything, okay?‖

Yeah, I wish. Five seconds later, David was out the door and heading for his car. I gathered my books and tried willing my brain to gray. The librarian rolled out of her office and started flipping lights before I even had my coat on. But there was still enough light that I could see my reflection in the window—and David.

He was in his car, behind the wheel. Just sitting there, the dome light washing the car a weak orange, and he was staring. At me.

He was too far away, so I have no idea what was
in
his eyes. There was no way to read him. But it was like each of us was on the screen of our own movie: him behind his windshield; me in my little library fishbowl.

The invitation was right there, again. David was waiting. Whether he was doing that for me or him, I don‘t know. Maybe he was waiting for both of us.

And the horrible thing? That moment was just like a film. If the girl would just turn around, she‘d see the guy who was trying to save her life. She‘d get in the damn car or not hop on that subway, and everything that was gearing up to unwind in one way would unspool another.

Sure, in some ways, my night would still have played out the way it did, but the characters would‘ve been different. And then this emergency room, Bob, my story? Never would have happened. Maybe.

But I let the moment spin out, blow past. Evaporate.

The dome light winked out. His headlights came on. The librarian cleared her throat, and as I turned from the window, David drove away.

14: a

8:10 P.M.

David was long gone. The soccer game was over. Cars had streamed away, their lights like beads on a string. The opposing team‘s bus had chugged off. From my spot hugging the wall just outside the library, I‘d watched the players trickle off the upper field to the locker room and then emerge again, heading for their cars, shouting insults at one another.

And. No. Mom.

She‘d never been this late before. The store closed at 9 P.M. on weekdays, but since I‘d started school, Mom let Evan close. So, figure she got delayed and left at 7, or even 7:30. A half hour max to get from A to B. If there‘d been an accident or traffic jam, maybe longer. Maybe that‘s what had happened.

Or . . . could she have forgotten me? How do you forget your own kid? There had to be a simple explanation. Things had been crazy at the store. She‘d gotten wrapped up in her work and I‘d completely slipped her mind. Maybe she was on autopilot, already halfway home and still thinking about what had to be done before the big party. I bet any second she would remember. She was probably looking for a place to turn around.

But what if she‘d gotten into an accident?

Shivering, I hugged my knees. Tomorrow would be October, and this being Wisconsin, the air was already crisp and very cool. I tried to think of what to do. Call her?

Regardless of his motives, I should‘ve taken David up on his offer. I‘d been so stupid to wait here, wasting time when I could‘ve used his cell or found a phone somewhere. Maybe the office, or something. Or maybe there were pay phones down by the field? I clambered to my feet, brushing off my hands on my jeans. I would go down there and see if maybe I couldn‘t find—

―Hello?‖ I‘d been so preoccupied I hadn‘t heard the front doors open. To my left, Mr. Anderson stood in a spray of light beneath the breezeway. ―Who‘s . . . My God, Ms.

Lord, what are you still doing here?‖

It was David-déjà vu all over again but, this time, all I felt was this sudden surge of relief. I should‘ve thought of Mr. Anderson, but I hadn‘t seen his car and figured he‘d gone home sometime when I hadn‘t been looking. Probably when I was busy alienating David.

He listened as I explained and then reached into his pocket. ―Call her now,‖ he said, offering his phone.

This time, I didn‘t argue. He had to show me how to use the thing; his was an iPhone and all I‘d had any experience with was Mom‘s old Blackberry, but I was getting a little too freaked to be embarrassed now.

Mom wasn‘t answering her cell. I called three times and kept getting rolled to voice mail. So I tried the store next. Evan picked up. More bad news: Mom had left before closing. ―She should‘ve been there by now,‖ Evan said. ―I‘ll try her, too, and tell her you called, okay? Give me the number.‖

―Ah . . .‖ I looked at Mr. Anderson. ―What‘s your phone number?‖

―Here,‖ Mr. Anderson said, and then took the phone. He rattled off the number, listened, said, ―Anderson,‖ listened some more, and then handed back the phone.

―Who is that?‖ Evan said. His tone was sharper now, a little suspicious. ―Are you all right?‖

―Of course, I‘m fine. It‘s my chemistry teacher,‖ I said, mortified.

―Mmm-hmm.‖ Pause. ―Do you want me to come get you, honey?‖

―No, I‘m fine, Evan. Really. Just . . . if you hear from Mom?‖

―Will do. You call me if you can‘t track her down, all right? Worst-case scenario, you stay with me and Brad.‖

―I‘ll be fine,‖ I said again. ―Just, you know, call me if.‖

He said he would, and I thumbed off. ―Sorry,‖ I said to Mr. Anderson. ―About Evan, I mean.‖

―It‘s all right. It‘s good that people are worried about you. Who‘s next?‖

―My dad.‖ But his cell was off, too, and when I called the hospital, the page operator said he‘d left for the day and was off pager.

Mr. Anderson said, ―Is there anyone else you can call? A relative, brother, sister?‖

When I shook my head, he added, ―Then maybe you should call Evan back.‖

―No, I‘ll be okay. She‘s just late. It‘s probably nothing.‖

―If you think I‘m going to drive off and leave you here . . .‖ Mr. Anderson ran a hand through his hair, looked down the empty approach road, blew out. ―Come on. Let‘s go over to your mom‘s store. Maybe Evan‘s mistaken. If she‘s not there, then I‘ll take you home, okay? You can keep trying her from the truck.‖

I protested, pointing out that if my mom showed and I wasn‘t here, she‘d have a heart attack. But Mr. Anderson wasn‘t having any of that. ―No way I‘m leaving you here.

We don‘t live that far from each other anyway. I‘m sure your parents will understand.

Come on.‖

I‘ll be honest. I was so freaked out he really didn‘t have to try all that hard. The one thing I didn‘t want was to stand there, by myself, in the dark. God, why hadn‘t I taken David up on his offer? I could‘ve been having a cup of coffee with a nice guy who was just trying to be friendly. Okay, fine, he was having girlfriend problems, but it wasn‘t like Danielle was my favorite person.

I followed Mr. Anderson to a red Toyota pickup. ―Prius is in the shop,‖ he said. The truck was neat as a pin and smelled like him: clean and green. There was a shoe box of CDs he‘d mixed himself and he told me to pick whatever I wanted. The mixes were all classical and jazz, so I just slid in a random CD. A snappy blast of jazzy brass, piano, and drums, which he said was Duke Ellington, filled the car. I stuck my pinkie in one ear and kept trying on Mr. Anderson‘s cell, but all I got was Robo-Mom who always told me to leave a message and have a nice day.

―Hey, sweetheart.‖ Evan kissed me on the cheek. He shook Mr. Anderson‘s hand, and I could tell from the way Evan‘s eyes narrowed that he was trying to decide if Mr.

Anderson was okay.

―You hear from Mom?‖ I asked.

―No,‖ Evan said. ―She‘s not picking up. I don‘t have any idea where she could‘ve gone, unless . . .‖

―What?‖ I asked.

―Well, Nate Bartholomew‘s in town. You know, the guy who wrote
Sandlot Blues
?‖

He hooked a thumb at a display. On the cover, a dejected-looking pitcher, who looked suspiciously like Kevin Costner, was kicking a spray of red dirt from the mound. ―Nate‘s in town for a few days and she said something about going out to dinner,‖ he said, then added to Mr. Anderson, ―She does that, sometimes. She and Nate have always been friendly.‖

Actually, no, she never did that. Mom liked books, not writers. Except for Meryl, she said all writers were prima donnas, drunks, social misfits, pompous, or depressed.

Brilliant, maybe, but completely crazy. (Really, Bob, this comes under the category of it takes one to know one.) She‘d rather stick pins in her eyes than voluntarily eat a meal with any author, no matter how famous.

―Do you know Mr. Bartholomew‘s number?‖ asked Mr. Anderson. When Evan shook his head, Mr. Anderson looked at me. ―That‘s it,‖ he said. ―I‘m taking you home.‖

I followed him out to his truck. To be honest, Bob, I was so panicked by then, I couldn‘t have argued even if I‘d wanted to.

We left the lights first of Milwaukee and then Mequon and darkness closed like a curtain. There were fields and farms to my left, and the invisible lake unspooling on my right, and us, driving north, following the truck‘s headlights on a knife edge of interstate.

Mr. Anderson had me pop in a mix of Cyrus Chestnut and talked about the similarities between jazz and classical. I knew he was trying to keep my mind off what might be going on with my mom, but I only listened with half an ear and grunted monosyllabic replies and after a while, he went quiet, too.

I stewed. Dad being MIA was standard. Probably screwing a nurse or something.

But
Mom
.... Why would she make an exception for this guy, Bartholomew? Unless . . .

Oh my God. Was she
sleeping
with him? No, no, that wasn‘t my mom. Was it?

Maybe she‘d been in an accident. Should I call the police? A hospital? What if she‘d just disappeared?

Or...

Or...

Oh ...
shit
.

―What is it?‖ Mr. Anderson asked. ―Are you all right?‖

I must‘ve gasped out loud. ―Uh . . . no . . . yes . . . I‘m okay.‖ But what I thought:
Oh shit, shit; please not that, please.

―You know,‖ Mr. Anderson said, ―if no one‘s at your house, I‘m not really comfortable leaving you alone there.‖

―What?‖ I stomped on the hyperactive hamster that was my brain. ―No, I‘ll be okay.

I‘ve been alone before.‖

―Under more controlled circumstances. This is definitely not that. If your parents aren‘t there, or their cells are still off, I‘m staying until somebody gets there.‖

―
No
,‖ then added: ―I mean, I can‘t let you do that. I don‘t have anyone to call, but I‘ll be okay. I‘ll lock the door and in the morning, I‘ll just . . .‖ And then I stumbled to a halt. Just
what
?

Mr. Anderson said what I‘d suddenly realized. ―If no one shows up, how will you get to school?‖

I didn‘t know. This was all suddenly too overwhelming. My eyes burned, and I bit down on my lower lip, worrying a piece of loose skin. My mouth filled with a taste of dirty pennies. God, why couldn‘t I be back at the hospital? Someone got in your face, you called a psych tech. Your meals came on little trays with plastic utensils. They did your laundry.

Things were under control. Yeah, the ward was a little like a prison; mouth off and they locked you up or slapped you in restraints, but still.

Mr. Anderson said, ―Let‘s just get you home and take it from there, okay?‖

―I don‘t want to put you out.‖ But my heart wasn‘t in it. I didn‘t want to be alone either. I wasn‘t sure how I would handle it if something horrible had happened. ―What about Mrs. Anderson? Won‘t she be, I don‘t know, kind of mad? You not coming home?

It‘s so late.‖

―No.‖ Pause. ―My wife is away.‖

―Oh.‖ I didn‘t know what to say. Then I thought about Mr. Anderson always at school so early and there so late.

―She‘s visiting family. Her dad‘s been sick, so I‘m baching it. So it‘s no problem.‖

We drove. Chestnut became Coltrane became Armstrong became Judy Garland singing ―Somewhere over the Rainbow.‖ I could tell the recording had been made when she was older. Her voice was throatier and sadder somehow, and when she tried for the high note at the end, her voice faltered. It was so, so sad.

Mr. Anderson must‘ve been thinking the same thing because he said, ―You can hear how broken she was by the end. You know she got hepatitis in the ‘50s? When they told her she might always be an invalid and never sing again, you know what she said? That she was relieved.‖

―Why?‖

―Because she was off the hook. She finally had a legitimate reason to stop performing. She could just
be
.‖

I knew what that was like. After Matt was gone, I‘d always felt such pressure to be perfect, to make up for all the things Matt hadn‘t accomplished for Mom and Dad.

But I said nothing. The CD turned out to be a bunch of ‗50s songs, not just Garland but Sinatra and Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. As Sammy was beginning the beguine, Mr. Anderson said, ―You know, I‘ve never asked. What do you do in that library every afternoon to keep busy?‖

God, shades of David. ―Homework, mostly. I read.‖ I don‘t know why, but I added,

―I write to my brother.‖

―Oh?‖ A beat passed, then two. ―Where is he?‖

This, I would never have told David or anyone else at Turing. ―Iraq.‖

Another beat-pause. ―Still? Even with the drawdown?‖

―Yes.‖ I swallowed. ―Fallujah. Camp Baharia.‖

―Oh, so he‘s a Marine.‖ Mr. Anderson nodded. ―My brother‘s over there, too, only he‘s army. Special forces.‖

―Where is he stationed?‖

―I have no idea, really. Somewhere in Afghanistan is all he‘ll say. Scares the hell out of me when I don‘t hear from him and then when I do, the relief just sucks everything out for a little while, like I‘ve run fifty miles instead of twenty.‖

I knew how that felt. ―How often do you hear from your brother?‖

―Casey?‖ He thought about it. ―Once a month? Not very often. Everything he does is classified. What about you?‖

―Matt gets off an e-mail about once a week, but I write to him almost every day. It makes me feel better. Like I‘m doing something. Like—‖

―What?‖

―Like I‘m keeping him alive. Like our e-mails are—‖ I wanted to say
lifelines
. If I wrote to Matt, I was keeping him close. But I couldn‘t say any of that. I‘d sound insane. I‘d said too much already. So I kept quiet.

He waited. Finally, he said, ―Do your parents know?‖

It seemed an odd question. I shot him a glance, but Mr. Anderson‘s gaze was on the road. ―No.‖ I told him about how they‘d been against Matt enlisting. ―The last thing I want is to upset my mother more than she already is.‖

―I think she‘d be more upset if she found out you were keeping secrets.‖

―She‘s got enough to worry about.‖ I paused then added, ―You won‘t . . . mention this to anyone, will you? To Ms. Sherman or anyone?‖

―The Tank? No. But . . . is this something she
should
be worried about?‖ Before I could answer, he held up a hand. ―Sorry. Not my business. I can keep a secret. But you know, Jenna . . . your brother‘s not the only person you can talk to.‖

Was that the first time he‘d used my
name
-name? ―I don‘t know anyone else.‖

―Well, you know me.‖ He paused. ―And you could make more of an effort to get involved in school.‖

Now he was sounding like an adult. ―How? I don‘t have a car. I don‘t even have a cell.‖

―Don‘t you have a license?‖

―My parents haven‘t . . . My mom hasn‘t had time to take me to the DMV.‖

―What about your father?‖

―He‘s . . .‖ My brain went into prerecorded robot-mode. ―He‘s really busy. He works all the time. He‘s under a lot of stress.‖

―Everyone has things to do. He should make the time.‖

Maybe in Mr. Anderson‘s perfect world, there were parents who were more interested in their kids than their own problems, but I had to live in mine. ―I‘m okay. It doesn‘t matter,‖ I said. ―It‘s not like I can exactly run out and do stuff with anyone, anyway.‖

―Do you want to?‖ When I didn‘t answer, he said, ―That‘s what I thought.‖

Honestly, Bob, what could I say?