Surfacing (13 page)

“I really do have to get to some sleep,” Maggie said. “Early practice.”

“I know.” Nathan had let the engine idle, its subtle vibration rocking the car like a lullaby. He had driven her home after dinner.

Maggie touched the door handle and paused. “Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

Drops of wetness started to hit the windshield, tinging and then bouncing off.

“Is it snowing?” Maggie asked.

Nathan leaned forward to look deeper out the front window. “No, not yet. I think it’s sleet. You’d better get inside. You don’t want to get wet.”

Maggie opened the car door.

Nathan stopped her. “But what were you going to ask me? What were you going to say?”

“People tell me things, true things. All the time. And then they don’t want anything to do with me.” She pulled the door shut again.

“Like who?”

“Like people, like strangers, people at school. It’s like they let me see what’s inside and then they hate me for it,” Maggie said. “I don’t want that to happen to us.”

“It won’t. It can’t,” Nathan said. “There isn’t anything I haven’t told you already. And I’m still here.”

“OK.” Maggie reached for the door handle again.

Nathan took her arm. “Wait. I have something to tell you, then.” He took a breath. “I love you, Maggie. I know I love you.”

She looked back at Nathan, his face splattered with the reflection of the ice on the surface of the windshield, like freckles, like tiny distortions.

“Do
you
love
me
?” he asked. “Remember, you can’t lie.” Nathan managed a tentative smile.

“No, it’s
you
that can’t lie.” Maggie laughed.

“I didn’t.”

“I know,” she said. She put her hand on the door handle again. The cold seeped through her gloves and into her skin and made her shiver. “I love you, too.”

It was so easy. Not like in the movies, where the music swells, the guy stammers, and the girl gets all nervous. It was easy. It was the truth.

Sunday, the first real winter day of the year, Maggie’s parents told her they were splitting up. It snowed hard that afternoon. Really, it had never stopped. Sleet from the day before had turned to snow and fallen all through the night. A blinding whiteness outside the living-room window, clinging to every branch and roof, an oddly beautiful backdrop. Dylan and Lucas had apparently already been told
something
, but not the same thing Mr. and Mrs. Paris were now telling Maggie.

“Daddy and I aren’t going to stay married anymore,” Mrs. Paris phrased it. Maggie wondered if any other expressions had been considered, and if so, why was this the winner?

Daddy and I aren’t going to stay married anymore
.

“It shouldn’t be that big of a surprise to you, is it?” Mrs. Paris asked.

Maggie looked over at her dad. The only word Maggie could think of was
wizened
. His face looked
wizened
. Her next thought was the swim meet the next day. If the team won that meet, the state semifinals, and then the state finals, they would be invited to Nationals over midwinter break. Most everyone had a parent, or two, or entire families, planning their vacation around the meet. Which of her parents would go with Maggie? And then if only one of them was there, would everyone have to find out? What if neither of them came?

Would they hate each other so much that they could never be in the same room together ever again? Maggie actually laughed out loud.

“It’s nervous laughter,” Mrs. Paris told her husband, although he hadn’t said anything.

And then oddly, or maybe not so oddly — maybe it was exactly perfectly self-destructive — while her parents’ mouths were moving and words were coming out, Maggie had another thought, about Matthew James and about how he would be coming home soon: The memory of how badly he had treated her seemed to fit the moment, seemed to fit the crime, fit
some
crime, and that was all that mattered. It was snowing, midwinter break. College students got out mad early. Matthew would be back in town soon, and of course, the deed had been done. She was ready.

“It’s not going to happen right away, Maggie,” Mrs. Paris said. Her eyes were shot with red and her mouth was trembling, which wasn’t fair. Which wasn’t fair at all. She had no right to be crying.

“I’m going to stay until I find something close by,” Mr. Paris said. “Certainly not before the end of the swim season.”

“But none of this has anything to do with you, Maggie,” Mrs. Paris said quickly. She glanced at her husband. “We just want you to know that.”

Not that she had thought of that, but now that they mentioned it, Maggie crinkled her face.
Why would this have anything to do with me? How could this be my fault? Why would they say that?

Mrs. Paris was standing, while Mr. Paris sat on the couch.

“Where’s Dylan and Lucas?”

Maggie’s parents looked at each other. “They’re at Grandma’s. Why?”

Maggie shrugged. She didn’t have to say anything.

“We both love you very much, Maggie,” Mrs. Paris said.

“Of course we do,” Mr. Paris said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

They said it again.

But Maggie had no way of knowing anymore if they were telling the truth, if anyone ever had. It all seemed so ridiculous. And embarrassing. All Maggie knew was that she didn’t want anyone to know. Not even Julie.

The girls’ semifinal swim meet was a two-and-a-half-hour bus ride away, smack in the middle of the day. Only the particularly devoted, or crazed, parents could attend, like Mr. Paris. Over the rhythm of the seams in the highway and the steady sound of the motor, nothing was heard but the tiny thumping beats escaping from iPods and an occasional cough or sneeze. The intensity of the team’s focus seemed to draw oxygen from the air.

What felt like seconds later, or years, Maggie found herself on the starting block, then she found herself in the water, and just like that it was all over. They were back on the bus, going home. They had won.

Maggie had sharp pains in her chest and belly on the ride home from the meet. She told Julie she thought she had an ulcer.

“Or maybe you’re having a heart attack,” Julie offered.

“Thanks.”

The two friends sat low and close together, their knees wedged high against the back of the seat in front of them, their necks arched forward, pressed against the vinyl cushioning behind them.

“You swam great, Mags,” Julie went on. “Maybe you just overdid it.”

Maggie lifted her knees and slid her bottom back, sitting up. “I’m OK. Just hungry. When are we going to stop to eat? Did Coach say?”

And as if on cue, the air brakes hissed and the bus pulled into the rest stop. It was pitch-black outside, but the massive lights illuminating the parking lot made it look like it was noon.

“McDonald’s!” A cheer rose.

“Health food, here we come!”

“Everybody has to give me their bonus points.”

“Like hell.”

“I’m getting two double cheeseburgers, and nobody can stop me.”

And the girls piled off the bus with renewed energy.

“My treat,” Coach Mac called out once they were inside. Winning makes everybody feel generous.

Standing in line, ordering, grabbing straws, pulling the toys out of Happy Meals, and finding a place to sit were all second nature. The girls spread out and were absorbed into the world of fast food, like children again. It was infectious — either the excitement, the bright lighting in the dark of night, or the smell of salty, warm French fries.

“My freakin’ parents are such assholes.” Cecily Keitel laid her tray down at the table and scooted into the bench seat across from Maggie. Julie was following right behind.

No encouragement needed, though Maggie was surprised Cecily was willing to talk so openly again. Repeat performances were rare.

“My freakin’ dad wasn’t even here. I broke my own record. Twice.”

“I know. You swam great,” Julie said. She unwrapped her burger and dumped her fries on a napkin. “Anybody want?”

“Are you kidding?” Maggie pointed to her own tray. She had two large fries and a large milk shake.

“Even
your
dad and mom were there,” Cecily went on.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Julie asked, but it was unusual for the Bensimons to come to a meet and stay the whole time.

“No offense,” Cecily said. “Divorced parents suck. They hate each other so much that it leaks out all over the place, and then they try to talk to me about it. My mother keeps telling me how sorry she is.”

“For what?” Maggie felt her stomach tighten again. She pushed her tray away.

“For anything. For everything that’s happened in the last fifteen years. For my toilet training. For 9/11. For the recession. For the war in Iraq.”

The three girls giggled. Maggie was too nervous to look at the other two for fear of spitting food out of her mouth.

“She’s so damned sorry that I start to feel like it
is
my fault.” Cecily was on a roll.

“Maybe it is,” Maggie blurted out. It was as if all the power had suddenly been drained from her body, as if a counterclockwise rotation stopped, reversed, and started to spin in the other direction.

Julie coughed, then began choking.

Cecily smacked Julie on the back and glared at Maggie. “What?”

“What?” Julie echoed.

“I don’t mean
you
. I mean
me
. I mean, my parents are getting divorced. They told me last night. It sucks. It just sucks.” The release itself was like one pain replacing another, creating relief in its place.

Neither Julie nor Cecily spoke. There was that beat or two when Maggie might still burst out laughing and tell everyone at the table that she had been joking.

Maggie went on, “So now I’m thinking my dad is going to move away. Or are they going to have to sell the house? And does he have to give my mother money now? All they do is fight about money.”

Julie was quiet. Her expression went from hurt to compassionate. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It just happened,” Maggie explained. “Last night. I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like it’s my fault.”

“I hate to break this to you, Maggie,” Cecily said. She lifted her soda. “No matter what you think, you’re just not that powerful.”

“You OK, Maggie?” Julie’s voice melted into dark.

The bus moved into the darkness, deeper into the night. Most of the girls had fallen asleep.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Everything’s going to be OK,” Julie said.

“I don’t know. Now I’m the one confessing things to perfect strangers. I’ve lost my mojo.”

“Well, Cecily’s not exactly a stranger. And it’s not like you were so happy about hearing everybody’s bitching and moaning.”

“Well, better them than me.”

Julie said, “But you could have told me. I’m your best friend.”

“You are,” Maggie whispered back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

Someone’s cell phone vibrated insistently.

Lucid dreaming is really nothing more than being aware that you are dreaming while you are dreaming. In other words, you know it isn’t real and that you are asleep and dreaming. Sometimes, when she was particularly exhausted, Maggie drifted into REM sleep almost immediately, or maybe that night it was the food she ate for dinner, too many French fries, a bite of Cecily’s apple pie, that last slurp of vanilla milk shake.

But this certainly was a dream, because Leah was dead and she could not be talking, but she was. Even Leah seemed to know she was not alive. Maggie wanted to tell her about their parents, about what was happening. Every time she opened her mouth, it was flooded with water, but Maggie could speak anyway.

Leah, I have to tell you something, but don’t be mad. Don’t be mad at me
.

Each word rose in a bubble to the surface. Leah wasn’t listening. Why wouldn’t she listen? She had been under the water so long, and yet she seemed OK.

Except you need gills to breath underwater.

Or a blowhole. A dolphin swam by with Leah on her back, too fast. She was swimming too fast to hear what Maggie had to say.

I have to wake up
.

I need to wake up
.

This is an awful dream, and I want to wake up
.

Now
.

Now
.

Maggie woke and sat up in bed. Her bedroom door flew open, and both her mother and father stood in the light.

“What’s wrong? What’s the matter? You were crying in your sleep.”

Maggie didn’t register why her dad was standing there, too; she was just so glad he was home. Everything was going to be all right.

“Everything’s OK now, sweetie,” he said.

Her mother asked, “Why are you still crying?”

“I’m not,” Maggie said, but when she reached her hand to her cheek, she felt that her face was dripping. Then she realized that her blankets were soaked and that a small pool of water had formed around the bed.

It wasn’t until she woke up again, her eyes wet, that Maggie realized she had still been dreaming.