Drowning Instinct(40)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Who we were fell away, too, until we were like shades, ghosts of the people we‘d been. Sometimes we stood on the opposite shore and looked back at his house, its windows fired with yellow light so it glittered on the mirror of the water.

And once Mr. Anderson said, very softly, ―It‘s like looking at another country from very far away.‖

I wasn‘t sure what he meant, but he sounded sad again, like the day he talked about how people can drown and you would never know by looking because things seem fine. I wanted to reach out and take his hand, let him know I was there to help. Of course, I didn‘t.

But I loved it all, everything, every moment. I loved that Mr. Anderson always had fresh towels for me and gave me one of his old robes. He always let me shower first. Then, while he cleaned up, I would wrap myself in that robe and lie on the bed in the guest room and listen to the distant rush and thrum of the water. Sometimes I let myself imagine what he might look like, his muscles and bronzed skin wet and glistening. I never quite let myself form a whole picture, if you know what I mean. But . . . almost. Enough that the robe felt almost unbearable against my skin. Enough that I imagined walking into his bathroom and letting the robe slip from my shoulders and then, somehow, he would see me and only stand there and let me look at him as the water flowed around his body and there was a mirror and my skin was flawless and white, no scars, no grafts and then I would step under the water with him and then . . .

And then, for a few seconds—in my mind—I was almost beautiful.

Of course, I would never do that. It could never happen anyway and besides, it would be wrong. He was married. He had a wife and, maybe, a baby. Mr. Anderson was my friend. I tried to tell myself that he cared about me the way a teacher would who was going out of his way to make the crazy kid feel good about herself. Such a friendship didn‘t come around very often. I had to be careful not to wreck this.

Still, every night, I unfolded that scrap of paper and reread the words Mr. Anderson had written that gave the lie, and I wondered if he was awake in a tangle of sheets, staring up at shadows, thinking of me.

b

And then it was Saturday.

When my alarm went off and classical music swelled, the first thing I thought was: This is our last day. By this time tomorrow, nothing will be the same.

I almost didn‘t want to get out of bed. What was the point? Tonight, my parents would come back. Monday, I would start school again. I would go back to being me. I would avoid the cafeteria; Danielle would continue to hate me; David might drop by the library again, but . . . well, whatever. Of course, I‘d see Mr. Anderson again. Friday, he‘d asked, one more time, if I would please be his TA, although he‘d been smiling. He knew he‘d won that particular battle just as I knew I‘d show for cross-country practice on Monday afternoon if for no other reason than to be near him.

But I knew nothing would be the same. There would be other kids, more and different demands on his attention. His wife would come home, eventually. When that happened, I doubted he‘d be inviting me back for breakfast—if we still ran together at all.

As soon as I left this afternoon, he‘d strip the sheets from the guest bed even though I‘d never slept there and toss the towels in the wash, maybe even that old robe. By this evening, my presence would be erased from his house.

But I’m here now. She isn’t. School’s not. Don’t ruin this.

The weather had been turning steadily colder all week and I could feel it in the McMansion now. It was still dark when I slid from beneath my blankets, which made it feel ten times colder. Walking on my bedroom floor was like crossing an ice rink in my bare feet and I shivered as I pulled on my cold-weather running gear. Downstairs, I made oatmeal in the microwave, sliced up a banana and threw in a handful of almonds, and then washed it all down with a cup of tea I made as hot as I could stand, just to have something warm to hold in my hands. I felt stiff and creaky and angry, like Saturday had rolled around just to piss me off.

I tuned to an NPR station on the way over. Usually that early, they played something easy on the ears—Mozart, Bach, Vivaldi. What came out of the speakers was movie music, violins and clean high brass. I recognized it immediately as Hansen‘s symphony, the part they‘d used right after Ripley blasts the alien into space. Which is a very weird scene, actually, because she‘s singing to the monster the whole time: You are my lucky star, lucky, lucky, lucky. Almost like the alien‘s her, welll. . . her lover. (Watch it again, Bob. Listen to the way Ripley‘s breathing, too. It‘s kind of kinky.) The piece ended by the time I was turning off onto Mr. Anderson‘s road. I didn‘t know if the music was a good or bad omen. I was afraid to think what it was.

We were doing a long run that morning, fifteen miles, and already planned to drive to the Lake Michigan shore to follow a route Mr. Anderson had mapped.

―But I don‘t like the look of those clouds,‖ he said. ―Change of plans. Let‘s run from here, but we‘ll go on this trail I know that winds north of the park. That way, if it storms, we‘ll have more protection. We‘ll still get wet, but just not as wet.‖

The trail was dirt, gnarly with roots, and hemmed by barren trees on either side.

Even in the cold, a thick mist from the lake wound over the ground and between the trees.

With no leaves to slow it down, blades of an icy north wind sliced my face, cutting tears.

Neither of us said much. Our route took us steadily uphill. Then, maybe five miles into the run, a rumble of thunder rolled through the trees and the wind picked up, flinging needles of sleet at my cheeks. I glanced up at the patchwork of sky just as a flash of lightning stitched through gray clouds. The sky to the north looked like a fresh, black bruise.

Mr. Anderson pulled up, panting. ―This is no good. We need to turn back.‖ He blotted sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ―If we run really fast, we might make it.‖

We almost did. We raced back, legs pounding the earth, arms pumping, and were just coming up to the last rise, a small bald cap of meadow. Below, there was the lake and Mr. Anderson‘s house on the far shore. Then the clouds just broke, cracked wide open, and the rain came straight down in icy, hard sheets that soaked us in seconds.

―Follow me!‖ The rain was so hard and loud, he had to put his mouth by my ear and shout. Water was streaming from his hair and sleet bounced off his cheeks. His clothes were soggy and dragged on his body as if he‘d been fished up from the bottom of the lake.

―I know a place we can go to wait it out!‖