Learning Not to Drown (8 page)

And he wasn't there to protect me from Peter when I needed him the most.

It's sad to see the leftovers of a party. Only ashes remain in the bonfire pit. Marlboro butts and empty Coors cans lie with pine needles and pinecones. How did the forest survive our night?

“Okay, kiddos.” Dad hands us each two bags and a pair of rubber gloves. “Trash in one bag, recyclables in the other. Go to work.”

I snatch the bags from him, still pissed off, until I notice in amazement that my father is putting on gloves and bending to pick up a beer can. I thought this was
my
punishment.

“You're going to help?” I ask.

Dad nods.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I'd expected him to sit in the truck and take a nap, or go hunting for more dead animals.

Drea works in circles around the fire pit while Dad stands in it, picking out charred cans. I follow a trail of trash to the outskirts of the clearing where two hiking paths meet.

“Man, this sucks,” I say aloud, realizing the chore is bigger than I even imagined.

Squirrels chatter loudly as I step off the trail, pursuing the shiny aluminum deeper into the forest. Light trickles down through the trees, but where it doesn't, it's dark, making it feel later than my watch tells me it is. I reach the end of the can trail. The bonfire pit is pretty far away—I've wandered farther than I thought. Hairs on my arms stand on end. I hurry back to the path, noticing each chirp, snap, and rustle. Then I freeze. Someone is walking toward me from the other hiking trail. Tall. Male. Making big strides.

He's probably just a hiker. I'll walk toward the clearing, even if it means turning my back on him.

“Hi,” he calls out before I have a chance to move.

“H—,” I say nervously. I clear my throat and try again. “Hi.”

“Nice day for a walk. . . . Hey, I know you.” He steps forward. “You're Luke Tovin's little sister, right?” He smiles. “I'm an old buddy of his.” Steps closer. How could he be one of Luke's friends? His face is lined in wrinkles and he's missing a tooth on the left side. His nose is raw, like mine looks after a day of snowboarding. He looks way too old to be a friend of Luke's.

I spy Skeleton out of the corner of my eye, peeking from behind a nearby tree trunk.

“Oh, yep. That's me,” I say, silently willing the man to go away, to not get any closer. “I'd shake your hand, but . . .” I see him take in the trash bag in one hand, the glove on the other.

“You picking up the woods for a charity project or somethin'?”

“Something like that,” I mutter. Step out to pass him. A wide step. Skeleton peers out from behind the tree again, bones trembling.

“Need any help?” The man bends down to pick up a can I missed. Gives it a little shake next to his ear. “Got to see if anything's left. Don't want good beer to go to waste.”

Gross. He laughs. Looking up the trail, I see Dad bending and standing, picking, picking, picking, his back toward me.

“How is Luke, anyway?” the man says.

“Good. I'll be seeing him soon. I can tell him I ran into you.” I step back. Skeleton grabs a branch, pulls himself up to the next, climbing fast. He stops at a high branch and looks down, a death grip on the tree trunk. Motions for me to start climbing.

“We used to party up here too, you know.” He steps forward again. The empty beer can still in his hand. “You've grown up quite a bit since I last saw you.” His eyes travel down my chest to my legs.

Definitely not one of Luke's good friends. Skeleton's bones are rattling, rattling. Too afraid to turn and run, I look up toward the clearing. I see Dad. He's so far away. But I have to try.

“If you know Luke, you must know my dad. I'm sure he'd want to say hi. HEY, DAD! OVER HERE!” I shout and wave, see my father look my way, his hand shading his eyes. He drops his bag and walks toward me, a speed walk that borders on a jog. Luke's friend takes a few steps back.

“Hi, sir. Name's Dan. I'm a friend of Luke's.” He puts his hand out.

“I know who you are,” Dad says, wrapping his arm around me instead of shaking Dan's hand—which drops, then travels to scratch his head.

“I was just helping your daughter out here.” Dan drops the can into my trash bag.

Dad pulls me close.

“Luke out of the slammer?” Dan smiles wide. Dad clenches his jaw.

“Soon.”

“Great. Tell him to come say hi when he's out.” He pauses. When we don't say anything else, he adds, “Well, I'd better continue on my hike.”

As Dad watches him stroll down the trail, he says, “I think it's clean enough here. Why don't you and Drea work with me around the bonfire.”

His hand on my back steers me to the clearing. I want to thank him for coming to get me, but I don't say a word, and neither does Dad. It's better that way. Then neither one of us has to admit that maybe I was in danger, and neither one of us has to admit we've been in danger before. A memory starts to surface, starting with a vision of a broken window—but I quickly push it away.

•  •  •

After the clearing is clean, we drop Drea off at her house and return home.

Dad opens the back of the truck and drags out a medium-size box.

“Get the front door for me, will ya, Clare?” he asks.

“What's in the box?” I prop the door open with my leg as he struggles to bring it in and plops it on the coffee table.

“Fire safe,” he says, slicing the top of the box open. I hold the packaging as he pulls the safe out. It's rectangular and small enough to just barely fit into my backpack. Dad unlocks the door with the key and stares inside. I'm impressed by how thick the walls of it are. It won't hold a lot. It seems like a waste of money. We really don't own much that is considered valuable.

Mom joins us just as I sink deep into the couch, enjoying how the soft cushion feels on my tired body.

“What are you going to put in here?” I ask.

“Valuables. Important papers,” Dad says. “In case of fire,” he adds.

Mom looks at the safe and then at me. Her lips thin out.

“You didn't make your bed this morning,” she says to me. She's still pissed. It doesn't matter to her that I have no cell phone; no car; no rights to the TV, computer, or land line; or that my back is aching and I have the scent of stale cigarette butts and beer stuck in my nose from picking up trash for the past two hours. “Go make it now.”

“Can't I relax for a second?” I can't hide the irritation in my voice.

“Idle hands,” Mom says. My brain immediately completes the sentence: . . . are the devil's playground. Her favorite saying.

“But why do I have to make my bed? I'm going to sleep in it in a couple of hours.”

“Don't argue with me, young lady.”

I push off the couch and stomp to my room.

Forget that. I shower, eat dinner in silence, and go to bed, reveling in how messy it is. But that small victory is short-lived because I can't stop thinking about the guy in the woods—I try to lie on my stomach, then my side, then on my back. Stare forward. Keep eyes open, because when they close, I can see him, his disturbing eyes traveling over my body. I can see him with Luke. Stop. Don't think about the possibilities of what Luke could have done hanging out with a guy like that. My heart palpitates, my breathing thin at the top of my chest. I try to take some deeper breaths, push the air all the way down into my lungs. Keep my eyes open until they shut on their own.

•  •  •

Icy blue air. Grass soft between my toes. Moist. Our yard, usually dull and boring, with only dirt and a few tall trees, transformed with foxglove, hollyhock, lavender, roses. All open to the moon. I turn back toward the house. Warm glow in each window. Home. Outside, the flowers are too bright, the grass too soft, the greens too green. “Walk confidently,” I whisper, but my legs and feet run, arms pump. In the door. Lock it.

The house feels wrong. Food on plates. No one to eat it. No one in the family room, the television blaring a bright cartoon, blankets crinkled on the couch, pillows haphazard. Washer swooshing. Dryer droning.
Bathtubs filled, steaming hot and ready. And my room. Everything in place.

I will be safe in my bed.

Jump in with both feet. No mattress, no pillows, no blankets.

Decaying bodies, dead but alive. Clammy hands seize my ankles.

Scream.

Leap out of the bed with strong legs that catapult me across the room. My body hits the floor. Hard.

My small blue night-light beacons to me, and I quickly crawl along. Using the doorframe as a guide, I feel the wall until I find the light switch. Illumination.

No decaying bodies. No corpse hands. No icy blue air. Nothing but my room. Stagnant and dark as ever.

Just a nightmare, a nightmare. Not real, not real. I clench my hand to my chest, wishing in some way that I could smash my fingers through the skin and manually help my heart slow.

I need to be distracted. Stop, mind. Forget the nightmare. Stop and think of anything else. Anything. Like . . . the color of my walls.

Eggplant. I don't like the vegetable. I don't like the color. I prefer something lighter—something that wouldn't steal the sunshine even on the brightest days. Like sky blue or maybe buttery yellow or apple green. It would be nice to wake in the middle of a nightmare to a room painted in bright colors. The room was this color when it belonged to Luke, the same color as it had been when my parents had bought this house more
than twenty years ago. It'll probably be the same when they die. I wish Mom would let me paint it, but she's got something against paint. Or maybe she has something against change in general.

The only thing that's not stagnant in the whole entire house is my fish tank. I flip on the light.

My one sucker fish is currently feasting on the
NO FISHING
sign. The angels are suspended, almost as if the light has frozen them in a moment of surprise.

After my goldfish died, I bought bala sharks. Which did great for a long time. Then, one by one, my bala sharks committed suicide by jumping out of the tank, drowning on the carpet.

I chose angelfish next, a school of four to prevent aggressive behavior, as advised by Luke, who, for a few months, was the fish expert at Tank Goodness. He loved that job. I wonder if they would even consider hiring him again.

As the angels adjust to the light, they begin to slowly move. I take my finger and put it up to the glass. Sushi instantly finds it, follows my finger as I move it up and down and across the front of the tank. The nightmare is feeling far enough away that I can start to think about reality.

Check through the sheets and blanket, look under the bed. It's safe. I sit down, pushing my legs under the covers, grabbing my knitting. The
clink, clink
of the needles and concentrating on counting stitches keeps out the nightmare that wants to replay in my mind. Drea's beanie is really looking nice. It's the first time
I've added beads to anything, and I'm happy to see it's coming out great.

When I feel like I can barely keep my eyes open, I put my knitting on my bedside table and lie down on my back.

Seventeen is way too old for nightmares and fears of the dark. I keep the lights on anyway.

“Are you really going to take us trick-or-treating?” I held as still as I could while Luke adjusted my crown. I couldn't believe he was home.

“Aye, Princess Squeakerrrrrrs.” Already in character with pirate eye patch on, Luke was going to make tonight more fun than most Halloweens. I couldn't remember the last time he'd been home in October.

“Have a good time,” Mom called out, not looking up from some very serious work-type papers she was reading in front of the fire.

Luke's rough hand clamped onto my chin, moving my head from side to side, checking that my crown was on straight. Then we went out the door. Luke held his hook out to Peter, but he squirmed away, too old to hold hands, even on a dark All Hallows' Eve. Or maybe he was still mad that Mom wouldn't let him trick-or-treat with his friends so he was stuck with us.

At the first stop, Mrs. Brachett answered the door, saying, “A princess, how cute; and let's see here, a monster . . . and a pirate. . . . Luke Tovin . . . how
appropriate,” making Skeleton appear, jumping out from behind the bush next to me.

We grabbed apples off the trees that lined the streets, taking big bites of the free fruit as we walked from house to house, Luke and Peter competing to see who could hit the most stop signs with cores and bruised apples from the ground.

After getting treats from a dozen or so houses, we stopped in front of Mr. Kirkland's place. I raised an
Are we really doing this?
eyebrow at Luke. He grinned a pirate grin and rapped his hook against the door.

Mr. Kirkland swung the door open. “I suppose you kids are looking for a handout. Trick or treat. Humph. Here,” he said, dropping apples into our bags. Apples?

“Argh. This here be no treat, me matie,” Luke protested.

“Consider it a treat that I don't call the police and report you as trespassers.” Mr. Kirkland slammed the door in our faces.

Once on the street Luke dropped his hook into his candy bag and grabbed Peter's arm.

“The name of the game is TRICK orrrrr treat. Free apples be no treat. This one deserves a trick,” Luke continued in pirate slang. “Argh. A good pirate is always prepared.” He pulled a six-pack carton of eggs from the bottom of his treat bag.

“Are you crazy?” Peter exclaimed through his monster mask. “Mr. Jerkland is still mad about the flowers you ran over with your friend's ATV.”

“Argh. No man livin' or dead can prove that there
accusation.” Luke walked behind a bush. “And me thinks you best follow, unless you want to be caught eggin' Ol' Jerkland's abode.”