Learning Not to Drown (11 page)

After making my bed and pulling on an old T-shirt and some ragged cutoff jean shorts, I do a few things to procrastinate. Add water and treatments to the fish tank. Eat a bowl of cereal and drink a mug of coffee. Then decide to have a glass of orange-mango juice as well.

As I tilt my drinking glass for the last time, I grimace, knowing I can't put it off any longer. Mom will freak out if she doesn't see me on my hands and knees with brush in hand soon.

I spray and scrub. Spray and scrub. A half hour later the only thing I've managed to do is saturate the carpet
in a gross fake-orange smell. The stains haven't gotten even one percent lighter. My only hope is to scrub so hard that I wear a hole right through the carpet.
Then
the stains will be gone.

Peter walks in from his room, heading to the front door. He stops midstride when he sees me on the floor.

“What. Did. You. Do?” he asks.

I shrug. “It's raining. I can't work. I guess she needs to keep my hands busy?”

“I'm glad I'm out of here,” he says, moving toward the door. “If Mom asks, I'm at Evan's watching the Dodger game.” Then he stops, licks all five fingers on his right hand, and plants them one by one on each of Mom's ornaments. I'm not sure if he just potentially made my life worse, but I am strangely satisfied knowing the ornaments are no longer perfect.

•  •  •

Twenty minutes and one lunch break later, it's still raining and I'm wondering how long I need to pretend to scrub before Mom will be satisfied that I tried. Skeleton is settled in Dad's easy chair, sipping his brandy, reading the paper, occasionally looking down at me, frowning and pointing his umbrella at the spots leading from the front door to the living room. He wants me to remember. Scrubbing furiously at the carpet, I look away from him, trying to concentrate on
anything
else. Of course my brain goes straight to Ryan. He's in Venice now, but the four days before he left, he was at the lake at the same time I swam. And despite my promise to stay away from him, I found myself standing on his board every
morning. Using a paddleboard oar, I was even able to do a lap without falling. And Mandy was never there, so after our morning swim and paddle, we'd sit on the side of the lake and chat for a minute before I had to work. Which was awesome. The more I get to know Ryan, the more I like him. He invited me to visit him in Venice. Even if I weren't grounded, I'm not sure I'd go. After all, isn't that a trip his girlfriend should go on with him? I'm not his girlfriend, and I'm not trying to be. Okay, maybe I am. But I'm not trying to
steal
him from Mandy. I'm just enjoying his company as a friend. For now. Of course, if they ever break up . . .

I'm so lost in my thoughts, I barely hear the front door opening.

“Squeaks?” I look up. Pause with the scrub brush in hand. Luke is standing right next to me, his shoes firmly planted on the bloodstains I wish could disappear.

The front door window was broken.

I could see the clear, jagged edges that held to the frame.

Slowly I got off my bike. Rolled it to the tree next to the house, my hands turning white from gripping the handlebars. I leaned my bike against the trunk, my eyes still on the window.

I moved closer, then closer. My shoes crushed the glass on the ground into smaller pieces. Inspecting the shards that clung to the frame, I paused only for a few seconds before I turned the doorknob and walked inside.

The drops on the linoleum floor were round. In sixth-grade art class I had tried, again and again, to draw a perfect circle. I couldn't do it without the compass attached to my pencil, stabbing the paper in the center. My freehand circles were always wavy, lopsided. I didn't think it was possible to make a perfect circle without the compass. But here, right in front of me, were perfectly round, bright red droplets. Mom always said that we had thin blood. That's how I knew it was one of us.

I could have gone back outside. Waited at a neighbor's until I was sure Dad was home from work. He was used to blood. He was used to corpses.

But I didn't. I don't know why, but I followed the droplets.

They were a much better trail than breadcrumbs. The blood would stain the floor, stain the carpet. It wouldn't be picked by birds. We'd always be able to follow it.

The sharp sounds of an argument and a nasty smell—body odor and alcohol, and another that I couldn't recognize—stopped me for a moment. Maybe I should have left then.

Curiosity gave me bravery. I turned the corner.

I look down at the stains and up at Luke in disbelief, hundreds of thoughts filling my head at once. Is it really Luke standing in front of me? It's been almost four years, but he looks old, more like forty than twenty-nine. His face is leathery, wrinkled in spots. The Virgin Mary that I remember as so bright on his arm is now faded, the blue tattooed lines blurring into his skin.

“How's my little Squeaks?” Luke's long arms reach toward me before I even say hello. He's unaware of his feet, how they step on the faded spots. The tiny hairs on my neck start to rise, then fall. He doesn't remember. I can tell.

I stumble to stand, dropping my scrub brush. Luke sweeps me up with both arms, pressing my breath from my lungs, twirling me in a circle like I am still five years old. I can't help but laugh as I spin.

He gently places me down on the ground. I'm dizzy, disoriented, happy. “When did you get so tall? I haven't been gone that long! Hey, Ma,” he shouts out. “What are you feeding Clare? She looks like a teenager!”

“Welcome home, Luke.” Mom briskly passes me and embraces him.

“Ma.” The muscles in Luke's arms tense, showing me how tightly he holds her. When they finally let go, Mom pulls his hand to her lips and gives it a kiss. She doesn't glance down to see if I've gotten the stains out of the carpet, leaving me wondering if she knew Luke was coming home today or if she just wanted to keep me busy.

“Come on,” she says, leading him toward the couch. “I want to hear about everything. Sit, sit! You too, Clare. Put the cleaning supplies away, then join us. Grab us a few glasses of lemonade while you're up, please.” She can't take her eyes off Luke. “So, Luke,” she says. “How is everything?”

“Good. It's great to be home.” As I pour the lemonade, I take in every note of Luke's deep voice. Trying to bottle it in my ears. It sounds so different in real life than it does over the phone. And since my parents never let Peter and me go with them when they visit, this is the first time I've heard it in person in close to four years.

I'm back in the living room with three lemonades as fast as I can.

“Tell us about your job,” Mom says.

Luke's smile droops for a second. Then he tries to pull it back up. “It didn't work out. There was another guy there, interviewing the same time as me. He'd been through a similar training program. And, you know. His record was clean. But the boss said that he's gonna
have a bunch of openings in about six months on some big high-rise they're building.” He grabs his lemonade and takes a long, slow drink.

“That sounds very promising,” Mom says, looking to me and nodding, but I know what she's thinking. It's really hard to get a job out of prison. And when he has one, he does so much better. Is clean for longer. Stays out for longer. What is he going to do with himself for the next six months? What if he doesn't find another job immediately?

As she takes a drink, an awkward moment of silence descends on the room.

“How long are you staying?” I ask.

“Well, that depends. Ma, do you think I could hang for a while? You know, just until I can get a job and some money saved? My PO says he's got some other leads for me.”

Suddenly I'm twelve years old again. We are all sitting on the couch just like we are now, Luke saying the same sentence. And even though I can't remember, I'm sure he has said it every time he's been released.

“Of course,” Mom says. “You know you're always welcome here. This is your home. And, come to think of it, I have a few chores I can pay you to do. The house needs painting. And the attic is a disaster. I can't pay much, but it'll be something.”

“Thanks.” Luke reaches out and squeezes Mom's shoulder.

“But.” My mother pulls out her serious voice. “If you want to stay here, there are a few rules that you're going
to have to follow. I want you home by midnight, every night. No booze or drugs. I tell you which friends you can bring to the house. And you can stay here long-term only
if
you get a job.”

“Okay, okay. You got it, Ma.” Luke's voice is as serious as hers. Then, smiling, he stands up and kisses her forehead. “I'm not gonna disappoint anyone this time.”

I almost flinch when he says that. I really, really want to believe it. But it feels like he has jinxed his chances by letting those words escape his mouth.

“Hey, Squeaks, wanna go for a walk?”

I look to Mom. She's beaming. “Okay, but be back by dinner.” I wish I could make her smile like that—all teeth and bright eyes—by just walking into the room.

•  •  •

It's still raining, but the thunderstorms have passed. Luke and I walk close together under our umbrellas. He smells like the road, probably a few days since a shower, his body odor barely covered by a spicy deodorant.

There's a nervous silence, like both of us are scared of offending the other by saying the wrong thing. Asking him about prison is impossible, although I wonder a lot about it. Since I was never allowed to visit him there, I have only movies and the Internet to refer to. I hope that the meals were okay, there was a lot to read, and good TV. I hope it's not as bad as I've been led to believe. Most of all I hope he has never been . . . Stop. I won't even think about that.

“Have you been to Craigen's Hilltop?” he asks.

“No. The only way to get there is through the mayor's
property, and he and his rottweiler aren't so keen on people frolicking through his yard,” I say, thinking of the large
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
sign.

“I can show you how. No trespassing needed. Completely legal.” Luke leaves the road and walks into the bushes. Completely legal, huh? I want to see this. I follow, my jean shorts getting soaked as leaves and branches brush against them. A trail starts, out of nowhere, like it was placed there just for us, and weaves up the hill.

“Man, I missed this place.” Luke takes in big breaths and releases happy sighs. Raindrops slow to drips.

“We used to party on this hillside all the time,” he says. “In high school I'd hide booze in these bushes. Hang on a sec.” He pulls aside the branches of a huge juniper bush and presents a canning jar, half-full of clear liquid. “Wow! Still here. I can't believe it. I used to pour vodka in jars like this, out of Ma's stash, then fill her bottle with water. You know she and Pop don't drink the stuff, and they never have people over. I don't even know why they even keep it.” He opens up the jar. Sniffs it.

“Wheeeew. That's some strong drink,” he says, grimacing. “I wonder if Ma's vodka is still all water.”

“Not all of it,” I joke.

“My li'l sis isn't drinking out of Ma's cabinet, is she?” He pokes me in the side.

“No, I don't have to resort to that. I have Peter.” Now that Luke's not promising anything, we're getting back into our brother-sister rhythm.

“Well, then, here's to Peter.” Luke holds up the jar in a toast, then swigs the age-old vodka. He coughs. “You got any water, Squeaks? This stuff's terrible.”

He dramatically twirls and grabs at his throat, and I laugh. The rock in my stomach is breaking down.

“We'll leave this right here.” He closes the jar and slides it back under the bush. “It'll be like an experiment. See how long it can stay here, and how much stronger it gets. No swiping, okay?” He laughs.

“Yeah, after that reaction the thing I want to do is drink that poison.”

We continue our hike. I can see him as a teenager meeting his friends here. Pulling jars of different liquors out of the bushes, getting drunk in the woods. I'm trying to imagine who he fit in with, who partied up here. Just Luke and a couple of friends, or the whole school, including a different generation of Cranberry Hill girls?

Then we're at the crest. I'm in awe. Who knew our crappy little town had a magical trail that led to this? A green valley, almost glowing against the gray sky, with trickles of water running down the mountainside to a stream far down below.

“You should see it in the winter with all the snow.”

“Can we hike down there?” I say.

“Nah. Not from here. Don't get too close to the edge, Squeakers,” Luke warns. “That'd be a bad fall down.”

He's right. Maybe this is why we don't drink here. That and the hike.

“I can't believe this is here. Pretty amazing,” I say.

“This town has a lot of shit in it, but there are some good surprises, too. I'll have to show you a few more. Later. Now we'd better get home. Ma'll be waiting,” Luke says. “What do you think she made for dinner? All I can think about is her beef Stroganoff.”

“I'm sure that's what she made.” It's Luke's favorite. There is no doubt in my mind that my mother practically ran to the kitchen to start on it as soon as we left.

Back on the road, Luke is stopped by a shout.

“What's up, old buddy?” It's his friend that I saw in the woods. Ugh.

“Just got out.” They do a three-part handshake that ends in a fist bump. I stand to the side. Silently watching. Silently wishing. Please, Luke, don't get involved with him again.

“Party tonight. You should come,” the guy tells Luke. “I've got a good hookup in town now.”