Drowning Instinct(32)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Jenna!‖ Mr. Anderson had drawn even, but I didn‘t slow, didn‘t turn. ―Jenna, what—?‖

―Don‘t!‖ I gasped. Sweat stung my eyes—or were those tears? Was I crying? I was such a loser, I was so—

―Ugh!‖ A sudden sharp pain knifed my side and I grunted, wincing as a deeper cramp took hold, and then I was groaning, pulling up short, nearly doubled over with the pain. My heart thudded in my ears, and then my knees bit earth and I was hunched like a dog on all fours, panting. Bile, bitter and nauseating, pushed into my mouth, and I spat it out. The stitch grabbed me again, and I moaned.

―Hey.‖ Kneeling, Mr. Anderson put an arm around my shoulders. ―Hey, it‘s okay, take it easy, try not to pant.‖

―St-stupid,‖ I managed, and tried spitting, but my mouth was dust, my tongue swollen. My arms were quivering, my calves were starting to cramp, too, and my whole body felt shaky and weak. I was dehydrated, I realized. What had I drunk today? Coffee this morning, then I started reading. I hadn‘t had anything else to drink and nothing to eat.

Stupid, stupid, so stupid.

―Take it easy, I‘m here,‖ Mr. Anderson said. Somehow I was on my back, staring up at blue sky through gnarly bare branches. My vision spun and my legs throbbed. Mr.

Anderson had my right leg in his lap and was pushing my foot back, working his fingers into the solid rock of my gastroc, trying to knead out the cramp. ―Deep breath, in . . . and out . . . in and …‖

―I‘m sorry.‖ Mortified, I draped an arm over my eyes. I was too dehydrated to cry and my skin was hot. ―I shouldn‘t have gone so fast.‖

―Stop apologizing. It happens. My fault for not checking if you‘d hydrated before we started. Here.‖ He pressed something into my hand and my fingers closed around a gel.

―I hope you like green apple.‖

I squinted at the gell packet. ―I hate it.‖

―Tough. Come on, suck that down. I‘ve only got the one, but we‘re not that far from the car. There are restrooms and I think the water‘s still on at the picnic shelter. We can at least get that into you.‖

I was so shaky I could barely get my fingers to work, and Mr. Anderson finally tore open the gell pack for me. Sour apple gell never tasted so great, but it left me thirsty and puckered my entire throat. Eventually my leg cramps eased enough that I was able to limp to the car, albeit slowly and with Mr. Anderson‘s arm around my waist.

After a long drink at the shelter fountain and three more gels Mr. Anderson had stashed in his car (all sour apple), I felt a little more human. The shakes weren‘t as bad, but I was still weak and woozy, and a headache was pushing against my eyeballs and beginning to leak from my ears.

―Absolutely not.‖ Mr. Anderson shook his head when I tried to head for my car.

―No way you‘re going home just yet. The last thing we need is for you to wrap yourself around a tree. Come on.‖ He dug around in the backseat of his Prius and came up with a fleece. ―Put this on. We‘re going to my place. And shut it,‖ he said, as I opened my mouth.

―I‘m the coach. No arguments.‖

So. I shut it.

27: a

Mr. Anderson‘s house was a rambling two-story contemporary, all cedar and stone and glass. I had a general idea of its shape from Google Earth, but the satellite photograph had been taken in full summer. Now, with the leaves gone, the house seemed massive, almost a mansion on a small rise above the lake. Stone steps led down to a dock. There was a slip where a boat would‘ve been, but that was empty now. A long wooden walkway off the back deck led to a three-season boathouse. There was a stretch of brown sand at the water‘s edge, and two beached kayaks.

Over my objections, Mr. Anderson grabbed my pack and led me upstairs and then down a back hall to what he called a guest room but which turned out to be a series of three rooms laid out in a semicircle, each opening into the next: sitting room with a television, a bedroom that was bigger than three of mine, and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi bath and shower stall with four heads that was large enough to fit an entire relay team.

―Take your time,‖ he said as he headed back down the hall. ―And use as much hot water as you need.‖ He grinned. ―I have three sisters. There was never any hot water by the time they were done. I decided that when I got older, I would install three water heaters and name them after my sibs.‖

The shower was heaven. I was chilled to the bone and decided that this was no time for restraint. Dare to be decadent. I cranked on all the heads, dialing the water as hot as I could stand. The water thundered onto my shoulders, streamed over the scars on my abdomen and sluiced down the butterfly patches of skin graft on my back, washing away my sweat and grime and fatigue.

My embarrassment.

God, I‘d been stupid. What an idiot. I hadn‘t followed the rules every runner worth her salt knew. I was just lucky that Mr. Anderson was a coach and understood what to do, how to help. He was being cool about it.

So why couldn‘t I follow his example and cut myself a break? Not everything was my fault. Something my shrink once said bubbled up from memory: believing that everything is your fault is like saying that the world revolves around you and that is pure narcissism and no less destructive.

So, okay, okay, I thought. Like the man said: shut it.

b

Incredibly, I was cleaned up and dressed before Mr. Anderson was. As I took the stairs to the first floor, I heard the distant rush of water from a shower at the opposite end of the house. The house was laid out in a giant H: bedrooms on the right, the rest of the living area to the left. I headed left, down another carpeted hall to where I thought the kitchen must be.

Classical music floated out of hidden speakers. The air smelled a little like roses and some kind of spice that nipped at my nose. Light splashed through windows and skylights.

In what I thought must be a family room, one wall was just this huge picture window framing the lake like a painting.

A clutch of photographs hung on the opposite wall above a leather sofa: a younger Mr. Anderson flanked by an older man and woman who, from the resemblance, had to be his parents; Mr. Anderson when he was closer to my age, in swim trunks, suspended at the peak of his dive; Mr. Anderson, sprinting, chest out, legs scissored wide as he crossed the finish line first. A shot of Mr. Anderson underwater, in dive gear, his hair fanning like seaweed.

At the far left, near a stone fireplace, were three more pictures. One was of Mr.

Anderson on his deck: in profile, standing at the railing, looking out over the lake with—

yup—a coffee cup in hand. Mist rose from the lake and the trees were bare, so a shot in late fall or early spring, I thought.