Learning Not to Drown (30 page)

“YOU”—her voice is low and distorted—“are a nosy, spoiled brat. You think that you know everything? You think that I lied? How do YOU know that the people who accused him aren't the liars? How do YOU know what is the truth?”

“They couldn't
all
be liars, Mom.” The anger manifests itself into my hands. They curl into fists. My fingernails dig deeply into my palms. “And you know that. You
knew
that. You knew what he was in prison for. You knew. And you kept welcoming him back into our home.” I say each word slowly, trying to keep my voice even, although it comes out wavy and thick. “ ‘Come on in. Steal from us. Break a few windows. Pick a few locks. Snort some cocaine off our bathroom counter. Beat up your father. Stick a fork into your brother's arm.' ” My voice cracks on the last words, my anger getting tripped up with a surge of grief.

“He is a good brother to you,” my mother snaps back. “Remember all the letters. Remember holidays and bike rides and swimming in the lake. Remember him scaring off the kids that picked on you. You owe him so much. Remember that, before you go accusing me of doing something wrong. I ALLOWED him to be a good brother to you.”

“No, Mom. You aren't hearing me. It doesn't matter that he was good to
me.
He was
hurting
other people. And you knew how he was hurting them. How could you,
Mom? How could you keep letting him come home when you knew that he could do this?” I point at the computer screen. “What about me? What about Peter? What about every single person who got hurt by Luke because you were so busy keeping him free? Who protected the rest of us while you were protecting him?” The words are coming out fast. I am distorted and ugly, feeling the skin around my eyes and mouth, swelling, reddening. Fat, hot tears blur my vision. She shakes her head at me. No. No. No. She needs to hear me. “How many girls got raped because
you
needed to have your son home?”

She crumbles, limb by limb. I lunge forward to try to grab her, to keep her from falling. I am not fast enough. Her body thuds as it hits the floor, her robe bleeding into the carpet, her face protected by aged hands.

She's sobbing.

And I realize: I've never seen my mother cry before. Not at funerals. Not in the hospital. It snaps my brain.

I didn't have to accuse her. I wanted Luke home too. But that was before I knew what he was capable of. And she had to have known. At some point she
must
have believed he wasn't innocent. At some point she chose him over everything else, everybody else. Skeleton stomps his foot, points at Mom, and raises his hands into the air: Do something to help Mom. Don't leave her crying like this.

“Mom,” I say softly. “Mom. You can't change him. It doesn't matter how many times you let him come home. You
can't
change him.”

I can't change him either.

My fists are soft open hands now. They sail gently to Mom's back.

“Come on, Mom,” I say quietly. “Come on. I'll help you back to bed. I'm sorry. Okay?”

“You should be sorry.” Her face twists from her hands, the veins larger, icier, her eyes sunken deep behind swollen lids. “Get away from me. Go to bed.”

Dad peeks out their bedroom door. Baffled and half-dressed, he stumbles across the room and wraps Mom in his arms, shielding her from my eyes. And Peter's. I don't know how long Peter has been standing in his doorway. Maybe the whole time. He takes a few steps toward me, his eyes soft with compassion, with worry. But I turn and run. He doesn't follow.

With my room shut tight, and my desk chair angled under the knob in a desperate attempt to bar it, I lie on my back on my bed, staring at the door. Skeleton lies beside me, reaching out to hold my hand.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone.” I push him away. Pull my covers over my head.

I looked for proof. I found it. There is no way to turn around. Ever.

•  •  •

With the sunlight coming in, dancing for a second on the windowsills before being sucked away into the eggplant walls, I wake. Flip, flip, flip, through the motions and emotions of the previous night. Mom can't change Luke. Compassion will not cure him. Luke is responsible for changing his actions in order to change his world. A single beam of light falls on my
right arm, and tingling warmth awakens the skin. Luke is responsible for changing his actions in order to
his
world. I'm responsible for the actions I take to change
my
world.

I dress quickly, put a hat on my head. Leave the house without a word.

In the hardware store I pick up all the supplies I need, bring them back. Lean my chair against the knob, once again barring my door.

I mask off the ceiling line and trim with tape. Dip my brushes into the bucket of primer, first cut in the edges, then roll the middle of the walls. But white is too sterile, too clean and cold for my room.

A second coat. This one light green, the color of new apples. Sunlight bursts in through the open window. Reflects and brightens, refreshes and renews.

I shake, just a little, as the job is done. Shake because I'm not sure what this means. I'm not sure what Mom will say or do. I'm not sure of the punishment. Shake because I'm surprised at myself. Happy with myself.

I refuse to continue to let the sunlight be sucked out of my life.

I push my furniture around, rearranging it to sit exactly where I want it to be. The wide-open window allows an early spring breeze in. I would love to spend the day in my new room, but the paint fumes are a bit much, and there are more hours of daylight to enjoy.

On my way out I stop at the pile of mail on the counter, unsorted but with a letter addressed to me on top.

The pre-stamped envelope. Luke's prisoner number printed clearly under his name. I'm not sure I want to read it, but I tuck it into my pocket and head out the door.

It's easy to find the trail Luke showed me on the day he came home last summer; hard to believe that was less than a year ago.

I stop at the bush, pull out the jar of vodka. Inspect it, almost choke from smelling it, then tip it over and watch every last bit of it drain out.

At the top of the trail, I look over the valley, admiring the slowly melting snowcaps in the distance, smiling in disbelief at the waterfalls that were only trickles during the summer.

I could burn the letter. Put it into one of Mom's roaring fires, unopened. I could drop it over this cliff and watch it fall through the air, getting smaller and smaller, until it completely disappeared.

Skeleton points at the letter, now in my hands. He's curious to read what Luke has written. I'm curious too.

But I don't open it yet. Looking over the valley, the snowcaps white against the bright blue sky, sitting on this rock, I feel that peace is possible. Why read the letter? What am I looking for? An explanation. An apology. A bit of hope that he is the good Luke, instead of the bad. But is an explanation or an apology, or a tiny crumb of hope, enough when the truth tells me that his past indicates he will continue to steal, continue to assault?

Curiosity takes over. Skeleton and I open the letter together, read it word by word.

Dear Squeakers,

Ma and Pop tell me that the college acceptance letters are pouring in. Congratulations. I'm proud of you. Maybe that doesn't mean so much coming from me, but I hope the sincerity of it somehow comes through on paper. Congratulations. I mean it.

Listen, Clare, I'm kind of hoping that you will write me, occasionally. I'd really love hearing from you, especially since Peter and my friends never write. Only Ma and Pop. I don't know what I would do without them.

Don't give up on me. Please. What I did was wrong. I messed up so big, but I need you to keep believing in me. Sometimes I think that it is easier for me to be here, because at least in
prison I understand how it all works. Outside I do things I can't explain. But I've been thinking a lot about what I've done. I know that when I get out next time, I'm gonna do things right.

Squeakers, I'm still your brother. I need you to write. Please. Maybe send some photos of us at Granny's last summer. I think of that trip all the time. It's one of my favorite memories. I love you and miss you. I need you, Squeaks. Maybe you could come and visit. It's so lonely here.

Love,

Luke

I lower the letter and look out at the valley. If it were a cloudy day, I wouldn't be able to see the crystal-clear water hopping from rock to jagged rock, the green treetops etched into the backdrop sky, the fingers of snow reaching down the shady valleys. But it's not a cloudy day. I can see every detail.

I fold up the letter, place it in my pocket. Start my walk home on the muddy path, with Skeleton clinking close behind.

In through the front door, Mom is giving me the silent treatment. I say hello; she shakes her head, the bulging vein a permanent part of her brow.

Dad catches me in the hallway. “I see you painted your room.”

“Yes, I did,” I say.

“Your mother is very angry about it. You should've asked her if you could paint it first. You know, this is our house, not yours,” he says.

“So you don't like the color,” I say, taking a step to the side, preparing to walk around him into my new sanctuary.

“No, I didn't say that. I said that you should have asked us first,” he says, blocking the hall with his body. “You apologize to your mother. Or I'll ground you.”

“I think you are asking the wrong child to apologize.” Will my parents
never
get it? “Dad, it's just paint. I didn't steal anything. Or rape anyone.” I stand up taller. “And I'm not going to. Ever. Painting my room isn't a gateway to violent crime.”

He has no response. I spin on my heel and go back to the living room. Mom can be silent all she wants. I have something to say. “I'm not Luke, Mom. You don't have to worry about me like you worry about him. I'm going to make my own decisions. And I hope most of the time they'll be good ones.” Like apple-green paint. “So just treat me like Clare. Like we don't have Luke in the middle all the time.”

She looks from me to her ornaments, and for a moment I think I've said something that has reached her. But she responds, “I always know what's best, Clare. I always know what's best.”

I throw up my hands. “Fine. I tried.”

Dad's now blocking the entrance to the hall. I push past him and throw my room door open. I'm greeted by my window beautifully framing the apple tree. Tiny leaves are sprouting from each branch, white blossoms beginning to emerge.

It's spring. A pang of guilt hits me. There are four
blankets that wasted a winter under my bed. I decide I'm not going to dwell on the guilt. Peggy won't care. She'll be happy to see me, and they'll always have use for the blankets.

An excited jitter runs through my body as I pull the box out. I love knitting the blankets. I love delivering them even more. In fact, the only thing that will make it better is sharing it with a friend. I text Drea, and in ten minutes she's in my car.

As Drea watches me hand the blankets to Peggy, I realize how weird and ridiculous it was to keep
this
part of my life a secret from everyone. I can't explain why I did that, why it felt so right at the time. All I know is, now I'm seeing everything with clarity.

That night, on my bed, relaxed, I watch the fish in the tank swimming slowly, in and out of the log, under and above the castle. It's all very peaceful in my apple-green room.

I open the letter again, read through slowly. Luke wants someone to support him, love him, believe in him.

But what do I want?

Let me try to analyze this, like I am analyzing a branch of government or a famous piece of literature.

What do I want?

I want the lake, without the swamp, without the poisonous snakes, without the thin ice. I want peace.

I pull down my wooden box, open it to see all the letters, and the photos, and my locket. Add the new letter to the box and leave the house for the third time today.

Around the lake, I walk by moonlight to the deepest part, steps before the swamp. Standing with my bare toes curled around the edge of the cement rim, I put the box out far, far in front of me.

“Good-bye,” I say, sticking to my decision, unclamping my fingers from the sides, releasing the box for
my treasures, every memory of Luke, good and bad. Releasing it. Watching it sink slowly down until it disappears. I imagine it hitting the bottom, the swampy silt swallowing it.

It's a good decision. I am sad but relieved. My memories of Luke will rest here, in the lake that can't help but have equally good and bad sides to it.

When I turn around, Skeleton is behind me, watching with big empty eyes. He tips his hat at me, gives a nod of approval. But he still doesn't leave.

Spring break. My senior year. There are one million things I'd rather be doing, but Granny needs help, and offered to pay me for my work, which is fantastic, since I
still
haven't been able to get a job in town. The farm has sold, leaving Granny thirty days to sort everything she owns, take a few things with her, give the rest to family, donate anything left to charity.

The farmhouse is empty now. We've been working all week. My suitcase is upstairs, waiting for me to pick it up, so I can fly back home.

I stand at the foot of the staircase, looking up, watching the splintered bowing wood, the nails pulling up on either side. I stand watching nothing. Nothing stands on the stairs. Nothing strolls or thumps or squeaks. There is only me, me and my tightened chest, my sweaty feet, my hairs on my neck slowly rising, one by one.