Drowning Instinct(19)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―What?‖ I stomped on the hyperactive hamster that was my brain. ―No, I‘ll be okay.

I‘ve been alone before.‖

―Under more controlled circumstances. This is definitely not that. If your parents aren‘t there, or their cells are still off, I‘m staying until somebody gets there.‖

― No,‖ then added: ―I mean, I can‘t let you do that. I don‘t have anyone to call, but I‘ll be okay. I‘ll lock the door and in the morning, I‘ll just . . .‖ And then I stumbled to a halt. Just what?

Mr. Anderson said what I‘d suddenly realized. ―If no one shows up, how will you get to school?‖

I didn‘t know. This was all suddenly too overwhelming. My eyes burned, and I bit down on my lower lip, worrying a piece of loose skin. My mouth filled with a taste of dirty pennies. God, why couldn‘t I be back at the hospital? Someone got in your face, you called a psych tech. Your meals came on little trays with plastic utensils. They did your laundry.

Things were under control. Yeah, the ward was a little like a prison; mouth off and they locked you up or slapped you in restraints, but still.

Mr. Anderson said, ―Let‘s just get you home and take it from there, okay?‖

―I don‘t want to put you out.‖ But my heart wasn‘t in it. I didn‘t want to be alone either. I wasn‘t sure how I would handle it if something horrible had happened. ―What about Mrs. Anderson? Won‘t she be, I don‘t know, kind of mad? You not coming home?

It‘s so late.‖

―No.‖ Pause. ―My wife is away.‖

―Oh.‖ I didn‘t know what to say. Then I thought about Mr. Anderson always at school so early and there so late.

―She‘s visiting family. Her dad‘s been sick, so I‘m baching it. So it‘s no problem.‖

We drove. Chestnut became Coltrane became Armstrong became Judy Garland singing ―Somewhere over the Rainbow.‖ I could tell the recording had been made when she was older. Her voice was throatier and sadder somehow, and when she tried for the high note at the end, her voice faltered. It was so, so sad.

Mr. Anderson must‘ve been thinking the same thing because he said, ―You can hear how broken she was by the end. You know she got hepatitis in the ‘50s? When they told her she might always be an invalid and never sing again, you know what she said? That she was relieved.‖

―Why?‖

―Because she was off the hook. She finally had a legitimate reason to stop performing. She could just be.‖

I knew what that was like. After Matt was gone, I‘d always felt such pressure to be perfect, to make up for all the things Matt hadn‘t accomplished for Mom and Dad.

But I said nothing. The CD turned out to be a bunch of ‗50s songs, not just Garland but Sinatra and Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. As Sammy was beginning the beguine, Mr. Anderson said, ―You know, I‘ve never asked. What do you do in that library every afternoon to keep busy?‖

God, shades of David. ―Homework, mostly. I read.‖ I don‘t know why, but I added,

―I write to my brother.‖

―Oh?‖ A beat passed, then two. ―Where is he?‖

This, I would never have told David or anyone else at Turing. ―Iraq.‖

Another beat-pause. ―Still? Even with the drawdown?‖

―Yes.‖ I swallowed. ―Fallujah. Camp Baharia.‖

―Oh, so he‘s a Marine.‖ Mr. Anderson nodded. ―My brother‘s over there, too, only he‘s army. Special forces.‖

―Where is he stationed?‖

―I have no idea, really. Somewhere in Afghanistan is all he‘ll say. Scares the hell out of me when I don‘t hear from him and then when I do, the relief just sucks everything out for a little while, like I‘ve run fifty miles instead of twenty.‖

I knew how that felt. ―How often do you hear from your brother?‖

―Casey?‖ He thought about it. ―Once a month? Not very often. Everything he does is classified. What about you?‖

―Matt gets off an e-mail about once a week, but I write to him almost every day. It makes me feel better. Like I‘m doing something. Like—‖

―What?‖

―Like I‘m keeping him alive. Like our e-mails are—‖ I wanted to say lifelines. If I wrote to Matt, I was keeping him close. But I couldn‘t say any of that. I‘d sound insane. I‘d said too much already. So I kept quiet.

He waited. Finally, he said, ―Do your parents know?‖

It seemed an odd question. I shot him a glance, but Mr. Anderson‘s gaze was on the road. ―No.‖ I told him about how they‘d been against Matt enlisting. ―The last thing I want is to upset my mother more than she already is.‖

―I think she‘d be more upset if she found out you were keeping secrets.‖

―She‘s got enough to worry about.‖ I paused then added, ―You won‘t . . . mention this to anyone, will you? To Ms. Sherman or anyone?‖

―The Tank? No. But . . . is this something she should be worried about?‖ Before I could answer, he held up a hand. ―Sorry. Not my business. I can keep a secret. But you know, Jenna . . . your brother‘s not the only person you can talk to.‖

Was that the first time he‘d used my name-name? ―I don‘t know anyone else.‖

―Well, you know me.‖ He paused. ―And you could make more of an effort to get involved in school.‖

Now he was sounding like an adult. ―How? I don‘t have a car. I don‘t even have a cell.‖

―Don‘t you have a license?‖

―My parents haven‘t . . . My mom hasn‘t had time to take me to the DMV.‖

―What about your father?‖

―He‘s . . .‖ My brain went into prerecorded robot-mode. ―He‘s really busy. He works all the time. He‘s under a lot of stress.‖

―Everyone has things to do. He should make the time.‖

Maybe in Mr. Anderson‘s perfect world, there were parents who were more interested in their kids than their own problems, but I had to live in mine. ―I‘m okay. It doesn‘t matter,‖ I said. ―It‘s not like I can exactly run out and do stuff with anyone, anyway.‖

―Do you want to?‖ When I didn‘t answer, he said, ―That‘s what I thought.‖

Honestly, Bob, what could I say?

c

The good news: as we pulled into the McMansion‘s driveway, I could tell from all those yellow rectangles that just about every single light downstairs was on.

Then, the bad news: the garage door was down, so I had no way of knowing just who was home. I couldn‘t slide out of having Mr. Anderson come inside either. He just wouldn‘t budge and I was too worked up to argue.

I didn‘t hear the television from the front foyer, but that didn‘t necessarily mean anything. ―Mom?‖ Pause. ―Dad?‖