Drowning Instinct(44)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Because.‖ He was facing me now, leaning forward, face intent, his eyes grabbing mine so I couldn‘t look away. We were like matching bookends, almost touching but with volumes between us and stories, so many stories. ―Because I am your friend and I do care, much more than I should.‖

―Then you‘d stop talking about this! You‘d stop.‖

―No. Jenna, honey, I can‘t. I wouldn‘t be your friend if I did.‖

―Why not?‖

―Because.‖ He cradled my face in his hands. ―Because Matt‘s dead, Jenna, and I am so sorry, sweetheart; I am sorrier than you can ever know. But he‘s dead, and has been for more than two years.‖

35: a

―Don‘t you think I know that?‖ I screamed. ―Don‘t you think I know?‖

They were questions with no answers, just as there had been none when my mother refused to open the door to the Marines in their dress blues. Because, Bob, you see . . . if they couldn‘t tell us, then—for her, for us all—Matt was a fly in amber, a flower in glass. If we never heard what the Marines had to tell us, then Matt was caught somewhere in some other when, in suspended animation: still alive just a little while longer.

Something huge and horrible ripped in my chest, and then I just couldn‘t stand it anymore: not the hurt or the grief or the lies or the wounds that wouldn‘t heal no matter how deeply I cut, or how often. Maybe they were all the same thing; I still don‘t know, Bob.

I hid my face in my knees and wept the way little kids do when their world is coming apart at the seams and nothing is safe anymore.

But Mr. Anderson put his arms around me and pulled me to his chest so I could hear his heart. He held me together and wouldn‘t let me go, and he saved me from breaking to pieces.

b

Eventually, the rain stopped because it always does, and so did I. We didn‘t move.

We faced the fire: me leaning back into Mr. Anderson; him with one arm across my chest and a hand in my hair.

I was exhausted, sweaty, hollow. Maybe I should‘ve felt better—people say that letting go is supposed to be good—but I felt horrible. My mouth was dry and tasted bad, like I‘d vomited out something awful. Which, I guess, I had.

I had ruined everything. Mr. Anderson had known my secret all along. Maybe he‘d hoped I‘d gotten over Matt and this was a test to see if I was worth the energy and his time.

In the last couple of days, he must‘ve gotten hopeful that I was better, but now I‘d gone all Drama Queen—and, well, crazy is as crazy does.

―I‘m sorry.‖ My voice came out croaky. My tongue was swollen and my lips wouldn‘t work right. ―I shouldn‘t have dumped all this on you.‖

―How do you figure? I did ask.‖

―But you already knew the answer. Was it in my . . . ?‖

―Your file? Yes, in the hospital summary.‖

―Why didn‘t you say anything the first time? Why did you let me—‖ Make a fool of myself. ―Let me go on?‖ I felt his shoulders move in a shrug. ―I didn‘t know you well enough. Oh, I wanted to, a couple times, but I kept thinking who was I to take that from you? We all have our fictions, Jenna, little lies we tell to keep ourselves going from one day to the next. So I let it go untill. . . until I thought the time was right.‖

His arm was hard and muscular under my hands and felt sturdy and strong and safe.

My words came in a near whisper. ―So what changed?‖

His grip tightened. When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh almost as if he knew he should stop the words before they pushed their way out but couldn‘t, or didn‘t want to. ―You. Me . .. how I feell…‖

―Please don‘t hate me.‖

―Oh God, I don‘t hate you, Jenna. This isn‘t your fault. I’m supposed to be the adult here, not the other way around. You shouldn‘t be worrying about me.‖

―I‘m sixteen.‖

―I didn‘t say you were twelve. I said this wasn‘t your fault.

I . . .‖ His voice faltered. His arm slid around my waist. ―Listen, I started out just wanting to be a nice guy, you know? You were new and I wanted you to get comfortable in school and know there was someone on your side, an adult you could talk to without worrying about your grades or it getting back to your parents, things like that. Most kids, they warm up fast, but it took work to reach you. I don‘t know why I kept trying so hard, but I did. There‘s something about you . . .‖ He trailed off.

I hung onto his arm. My heart hammered my ribs so hard, he had to feel it.

He said, ―When I was a kid—maybe ten, eleven—I found this sparrow. Our cat had gotten hold of it. One wing was all messed up. I was this real Boy Scout; I‘d read all about how you could tape a bird‘s wing to its body and then it would heal. So I took the bird and I put masking tape around it, really anchored that sucker. Well, maybe five minutes later, the bird just keeled over. Completely freaked me out. When I touched it, it woke right up, but then it did that two more times in maybe three minutes. The last time, it wouldn‘t wake up no matter what I did. That‘s when I realized it was dead. I didn‘t figure out until later that I’d killed it. I‘d taped the wings too tight. The poor bird suffocated and I‘d done that. I hadn‘t meant to hurt it; I wanted to help. But I, literally, killed it with kindness. That‘s always stayed with me. I swore that whenever I tried to help, I would be so careful, never hurt anyone or anything again. I would always try to do the right thing.‖

―I‘m not a bird with a broken wing,‖ I said.

―Yes, you are. You just don‘t know it. I could‘ve said something about Matt a long time ago, but you wouldn‘t have heard. You‘d have run away. You did, if you recall, a couple times over. I guess I kept hoping if I gave you time…. But then I saw how your father treated you and that made me so damned angry, I knew I had to force it.‖

―But why?‖ I twisted around so our faces were inches apart. ―You said you didn‘t want to hurt me, but you did anyway. You took Matt away.‖

―No, an IED killed Matt. I got rid of his ghost so you‘d finally see.‖

―See what?‖

―Me, Jenna,‖ he said. ―So you would see me. And then you would know that you‘re not the only one who‘s lonely.‖

36: a

It was dark when we left the cabin and followed the beam of his flashlight around the lake and back to the house. (Oh, Bobby-o, I know what you‘re thinking. Sorry to disappoint but we only talked and when we weren‘t, we watched the fire and held one another, and that‘s all. Bob, you really do need to get a life.) He held my hand the whole way. We didn‘t say much. My parents weren‘t due home for hours yet, so I stuffed my wet running stuff into a plastic bag. I could change at my house. This time, Mr. Anderson didn‘t follow me to the road but bent down at the driver‘s side window.