Learning Not to Drown (17 page)

“So do you like it, the locket, the photo? I'm not so good at this. I mean, I don't have a lot of practice at giving gifts.” My heart cracks—how could Luke be afraid that I wouldn't like it?

“It's the best gift. I love it. And how can you say you're not good at giving gifts?” I point to the wooden box. “It's for my treasures. Take a look at what I keep inside.”

His fingers run along the smooth edges, delicately lifting the lid. His hand floats down and picks up each letter, one by one. Bing Crosby and his chorus are now singing “I'll Be Home for Christmas”—adding a bittersweet soundtrack to the moment.

“You've kept them? My letters? All of them?” His voice is wavy.

“I kept all of them.” I rub my eyes with my pillow, telling them to stop watering.

“If only in my dreams . . .” Bing's voice is going to push me over the crying edge.

Luke clears his throat, finally says, “That's cool, Squeakers. Really.”

He gently places the box back on my bookcase. Checks the clock next to my bed. “Wow. I've gotta get to that construction site before we go. Remind them about me for when we get back. I guess Christmas is over till December, huh?”

“Thanks, Luke. This means a lot to me,” I say.

“You got it.” He gives a wave as he leaves the room.

I open the locket. Squint to get a better look at the photo. Luke's comfortable with holding me, and I'm snug in his arms, sleeping.

I'd love to stay in bed all day, pretending like it's Christmas for real, reading a book in my pj's under the covers with no responsibilities, no worries. But it's July. My last day of work for the summer. Chris's last chance to pass the swim test before I leave. He's showed up for five lessons, and we've made good progress.

•  •  •

Chris smiles and jumps up when he sees me.

There are two ways to get into a freezing, snow-runoff-filled lake. One is tiptoeing in, screaming “It's too cold!” with each step, holding your breath as the water slowly covers inch after inch of skin. The other is jumping in, not knowing which part of you is the coldest. Getting the shock over within a few seconds, convincing your body and mind that the water is not really that cold, starting to move your arms and legs, letting the warm blood pump through your body at the same time that you feel the sun penetrating the water.

“On three.” Chris and I hold hands. Our toes curl along the concrete edge. We'll be jumping in waist deep for me, chest deep for Chris.

“One,” I say.

“Man, it is going to be so cold!” Chris says.

“Two,” I say.

“And three!”

Shock. Brrr. Sun. Not so bad.

I've learned a lot about Chris these past couple of
weeks. He's not the bully that I pegged him for, or the annoying brat of a brother that Mandy can't stand to be around, or the hyper kid that Lucille tries to push away because he doesn't fit quite right in her stupidly perfect little family. The first lessons were impossible. He didn't want to do anything. But once his confidence kicked in, he really started working hard. I start to wonder if Luke was like Chris as a kid—his potential overlooked because he got in trouble. Chris
really
wants to learn, and I am desperate to teach him. Desperate to be the outside force that inspires him to challenge himself.

“Let's get warmed up with your kicks.” I toss him a boogie board. “More from the hips than the knees. There you go. Perfect.” After he's warmed up, we start the swim test. He jumps from the diving board into the deep end and treads water. Three minutes later he begins his swim to the island, me doing a sidestroke beside him. His crawl is pretty ugly, his breaststroke not much better. He's wasting a ton of energy, but at least he's swimming. Kind of. When we get to the island, he pulls himself out of the water and flops down, exhausted. He just doesn't have the endurance to swim back.

“You did great, Chris,” I tell him as he rests. Then my heart drops a little. “I wish I had more time. I think with another week of practice we could tighten up your strokes and you could pass the test for sure.”

He shrugs, but I can tell he's disappointed. He agrees to practice while I'm gone, and I demonstrate some more strokes in case he wants to try them before I return.

“Hey, Chris,” I say, looking him straight in the eye. “You let me know if there is anything else you need help with, okay? Not just swimming. Anything.”

His face scrunches up, like he's deciding whether to tell me something or not. Lucille breaks the moment, yelling from the beach, holding his blue towel up.

“Thanks,” Chris says. As we swim toward his mom, I try to convince myself that the trip to Granny's will be over before I know it. There will still be enough summer to finish teaching him to swim. I have to believe that, because I can't just leave Chris on his own.

Two lessons. That's all I had. One from Luke: learn to float. One from Peter: a basic crawl stroke.

Private lessons were out—too expensive. Dad's idea of teaching me was throwing me into the deep end and yelling, “Sink or swim!” Mom refused to help, using her disgust for the lake water as an excuse.

Drea showed me what I would need to know for the swim test: jump off diving board, tread water, swim to the island and back. I watched other kids, little kids, younger than me by three or four years, pass the test using a number of styles: backstroke, crawl, breaststroke, sidestroke, even doggy-paddle.

Then I practiced. Drea cheering me on.

In July I passed the swim test. All on my own.

The lifeguard was so impressed with how hard I tried to swim correctly that she gave me a couple of free lessons so I could really learn. At the end of summer she gave me information on junior lifeguards. By applying for financial aid, I was able to do the program for free, CPR class included.

The next summer I was a junior lifeguard. And
I knew that once I turned sixteen, I would pass the test and become an official lifeguard and work my summers at the lake. I made the plan, and I did it. All on my own.

“Hey, Squeaks, can you do me a favor?” Luke is standing at my bedroom door. Everything I think I need for the next few weeks is packed in two mismatched duffel bags, a backpack, and a purse. Our flight leaves at eight p.m. tonight.

“Depends on how long it takes,” I say, stuffing another few skeins of yarn into one of the bags. As a last-minute addition I decide to pack enough yarn to knit a blanket, and a beanie for Ryan. “I'm meeting friends later.”

“I just need you to drive me to a few stores so I can return some things.” Now I notice the three plastic shopping bags in his hand.

“Where?”

“Bargain Bin, Compute This, and Valerie's.”

I look at the clock. Eleven a.m. Okay, there's enough time. “As long as I'm home by two,” I say, dropping a large feeder into the aquarium that's supposed to keep my fish alive for a month. I double-check my fish care instructions for Peter. “Let's go.”

The forty-five-minute car ride is all small talk. Luke asking questions about school and friends.

We pull into the parking lot of Bargain Bin. Luke opens a small black organizer, looks through it carefully. His fingers slide down each receipt as he looks from his shopping bags to the list of items printed on each slip of paper. He pulls a few receipts out, tosses the organizer onto the floor of the car.

“I'll just be a second. Wait here.” It's not an offer; it's an order, and I follow it.

Skeleton looks over my shoulder from the backseat. “What are you doing here?” I mutter at him.

He points at the organizer, open on the passenger seat floor, a few receipts spilling out. I reach over and pick it up. Sliding the receipts back in, I notice the organizer is filled with them from different stores, the ink dark and new.

Skeleton's bony finger tap, taps, taps the top of the receipt. Purchase date: June fifth. Luke was still in prison.

I clamp the organizer shut.

“Maybe I should take a lesson from Luke and try organizing things this way,” I say to Skeleton, changing the subject. “I can never find any receipts.”

Frustrated, Skeleton throws his arms up at me.

“Big deal. It's not a crime to have an organizer.” I return it to the floor. Skeleton pushes me, leaning far over the seat, hits the organizer open so papers fly out.

“Stop!” I yell, hurrying to stuff the receipts back in. There are so many. Too many. Luke couldn't have had time to shop for this much stuff. He couldn't have afforded it either.

As Luke exits the store, I quickly put his organizer back.

“Thanks.” Luke slides into the car. “Two more stops, then we're done. We're good on time, right?”

“Two more stops?” Check the clock. A little past noon. There is plenty of time. Skeleton shakes his head. He's right. Whatever Luke is doing with this receipt book doesn't make sense.

And I don't want to be a part of it. “I don't know. I don't want to be late.”

Luke's smile drops. “C'mon, Squeaks.” He pulls his fingers through his hair. “It's only noon. We have plenty of time. Besides, I need to handle these returns today. We leave tonight.”

I agree to drive to the next store. Luke exits the car. Skeleton shakes my shoulders.

“Leave me alone.” I turn on the radio and close my eyes as I sing along to words I don't quite know.

One last stop. Ignoring Skeleton as best I can.

“Alright. All done.” Luke jumps into the car. “One o'clock. You should be home with time to spare.”

He tries to start up a conversation, but I fake an excited “I
love
this song!” and turn the music as loud as I can stand it. Maybe nothing that weird is going on. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe not. But I know one thing: I don't want to think about it anymore. He's my brother and I love him. And that is all that matters. That has to be all that matters.

When Mom got to the hospital, she was worried only for a minute. Once she realized I wasn't going to die, she demanded, “Explain yourself, young lady.”

It was, of course, all Peter's fault.

I'd been lying on the grass next to Drea, in my favorite bikini, my hair still wet from my last laps across the lake, listening to my iPod—well, I should say Peter's iPod.

“Hey, buttface!” Then there was Peter, standing over me, chewing sunflower seeds with an open mouth, his pack of friends chewing and spitting behind him.

“I didn't say you could borrow that.” He spit a shell on me, which landed in the pool of sweat on my stomach. I scowled, brushing it off.

“Yes, you did.” Well, at least he had before.

“That was yesterday, assmunch,” he said.

“You weren't home this morning,” I said.

“I'm taking it back.” He sent another shell flying in my direction.

“Stop spitting on me!” I stood up, standing on my tiptoes, trying to make my eyes even with his.

“Oooooh. So tough,” he taunted.

“You aren't even going to use it. You work this afternoon, pizza boy.
If
you are still employed.” The music was a key part of my perfect day. I planned to fight for it.

“It's mine and I'm taking it back.” He stooped to grab the iPod. Drea nabbed it first and handed it to me as I ran past her. It was so smooth, I bet people thought we'd planned it.

“Bitch!” Peter yelled behind me.

I ran. Straight across the grass, jumping over classmates sleeping on towels, running through picnics and barbecues. People yelled, “Hey! Watch it!” I caught a glimpse of Skeleton running beside me, picking up a soda from one picnic, a chicken leg off the barbecue of another, reminding everyone, including me, that Peter and I were Luke's brother and sister.

Peter was getting closer, closer.

I turned. Started running down the slope. In one move Peter snatched his iPod from my hand and shoved my back. I saw the brick stairs. There was no other way to land.

Everyone around us heard the snap.

My jagged forearm bone stuck through the flesh. There was too much blood. Too much of my blood. The last thing I heard was Drea screaming for help. Then I must have decided that passing out would be the best plan.

I was in an ambulance. Then the hospital. Surgery. A metal plate and some screws. Stitches on my arm, under a cast. Stitches on my forehead. Words like “shattered pieces” used to describe my forearm.

Mom, stroking my hair, said, “You are lucky it's only a broken arm and that you're going to be okay.” Then, suddenly angry, she crossed her arms. “Do you realize how expensive this is going to be? Why can't you leave your brother's things alone?” When I didn't say a word, she pried, “Explain yourself, young lady.”

I couldn't see Skeleton, but I could hear his bones
clink
,
clink
,
clink
ing together.

Peter stood behind Mom, red puffy eyes, his face anguished. When she left the room for coffee, he sat on the edge of my bed. “Sorry, Clare. Sorry. I didn't mean to,” he said. “I didn't mean to. Sorry.”

Granny's barn reaches up to the sky, rickety and holey, ready to be put to its final rest. Eye-level weeds engulf the land around, showing the top of Papa's rusted tractor. Why would she want the barn fixed? We should tear it down.

“Let's put anything burnable here,” Mom says as she hurls a busted-up tire to mark the spot, “which I hope will be most everything. Then we can torch the whole thing.”

“What?” I exclaim. Air pollution, anyone? “We can't burn all this junk.”

Mom glares. “Yes, we can. Tennessee law permits it. As far as the old cars and stuff go, maybe we can get a tow truck to come out here and remove them in exchange for parts. I'll be inside calling around, keeping Granny company.”