Drowning Instinct(45)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Maybe it‘s good that we can‘t see each other tomorrow. We both need to take some time and think about how we . . .‖ He looked away and then back and tried on a smile. ―Besides, you‘ve got that English thing, right?‖

Oh God. He was regretting this already. ―Yeah.‖

―So … you okay?‖

―Sure.‖ I started the car. ―I‘m good.‖

―No. Wait.‖ He didn‘t back away. His fingers tightened on the door and he looked down at the ground. ― Damn it …‖ When he looked up again, his lips were tight, his voice urgent. ―Listen, I want you to promise me something. Don‘t you cut because of this. Don‘t you hurt yourself because of me, don‘t you dare.‖

His ferocity took my breath away. ―I won‘t. I promise.‖

His face smoothed. ―Good. I just couldn‘t bear to think that you would . . . that I.. .‖

He wet his lips. ―If you ever feel like cutting, ever, no matter if it‘s day or night, I want you to call me. I mean it, Jenna. Promise me you won‘t hurt yourself. Promise me you‘ll call.

Matt‘s gone, but I‘m here, Jenna. I‘m right in front of you.‖

His words tripped a hidden spring, and I felt my guts uncoil. ―Okay.‖

―Promise me.‖

―I promise.‖

―Okay.‖ He blew out. ―Good. Another thing: the cabin? Anytime you need to get away, you go there. I never move that key. It‘s always there. You don‘t need my permission first. If you‘re in trouble and you can‘t reach me or I can‘t get to you right away, you just go. It‘ll be our place, okay? You‘ll be safe there.‖

I smeared sweat from my upper lip. My fingers shook. I was afraid I was going to start crying again, but with relief this time. ―All right. Thank you.‖

―Okay. See you Monday.‖ Not: See you Monday bright and early. Not: Don’t forget we’ve got that lab to set up and you said you’d be my TA and I’m counting on you.

He took a step back and gave me a wave as I dropped the car into reverse. When I reached the rise and looked in the rearview, I could see his house and the lights in the windows, but that was all.

b

Mom and Dad blew in around nine. They were giddy as kids, and my mom was all over my dad, touching his shoulders, messing with his hair. Made my stomach twist. Dad poured them both nightcaps, and they couldn‘t stop talking about how much fun they‘d had, what with all that kayaking around the Apostles and screwing each other blind. (Okay, they didn‘t say the last part, but—really—if I‘d done anything remotely like that with a guy in front of them, Psycho-Dad would‘ve locked me in a barrel and fed me through a tube for the rest of my life.) They‘d even browsed real estate listings and Dad made noises about how a hobby farm might be nice when he retired and Mom gave up the bookstore. Then Mom laughed and told him she was never giving up the store and gave his chest a flirty little push, and it was all I could do not to throw up.

I interrupted Mom in mid-sentence. ―I‘m going to bed.‖

My mom stopped talking, drink in hand, her mouth this perfect little O. ―Sure. Of course.‖

―You feeling all right, kiddo?‖ Dad asked. ―What‘d you do all week, anyway?‖

―Nothing,‖ I said and headed for the stairs. ―Night.‖

c

I didn‘t sleep.

My parents came upstairs around midnight. I wondered if they would stop outside my door, but they didn‘t. I heard their shower go on and then off. The house fell silent and dark. There was no moon and only the glow of my clock. I lay on my back, watching the inky shadows bunch and gather on the ceiling, and thought about Matt, how he was gone, really gone this time and for good. Worse than a ghost, Matt was first a fantasy and now a memory that would fade the same way I couldn‘t remember much about the fire or what came before or what my favorite flavor of ice cream had been when I was three.

Mr. Anderson said he would be there for me, but how could that possibly work? He was my teacher. I was just a kid. No matter what he said, that‘s what I was and he would see that and regret ever opening his mouth

Plus, he was married.

And his wife, where was his wife, really? Their baby?

I sighed. My eyes itched from crying so much. I wondered what he was doing, if he was asleep or maybe thinking about me….

The sounds might have been going on for a while, but I guess I‘d been so preoccupied they were like white noise, background that didn‘t become clear until someone laughed. I sat up in bed, ears straining. The sounds were disjointed, broken— and then my mother laughed again and my father groaned.

Oh God. My parents were going at it, and not quietly. Or maybe they thought they were being quiet, or just didn‘t care. Because Jenna was asleep, right? Jenna was a good girl. Besides, she‘d been gone so many months in that psychiatric hospital, who could remember to keep it down?

I stuck my head under my pillow and screamed into my mattress.

d

My parents slept late Sunday. I got up, skipped breakfast, and went for a run far away from Mr. Anderson‘s house. The temperature had dropped during the night and all the puddles from the day before had frozen over. Crossing a bridge, I skidded on some black ice and nearly fell into the river, but I didn‘t care one way or the other. I ran far enough that I started to feel sick and had to swallow a couple gels. They were sour apple and made me want to puke.

When I got back, my parents were up. The kitchen smelled like eggs and coffee, and the windows were fogged. ―Hey, you‘ve gotten to be a real athlete there,‖ said my father.

His cheeks were ruddy and his hair was still wet.

My mom was puttering over a skillet, spatula in hand. ―You hungry, sweetie?‖ She smiled at me. ―I‘m making omelets. Goat cheese.‖

If I didn‘t get out of that kitchen, I was going to throw up in my father‘s lap. ―I‘ve got to take a shower. I have work.‖

―Well, I’ve worked up an appetite,‖ said my father, and winked at me. Then he grabbed my mother around her waist and she squealed and did the whole mock-fight thing again. They were like a couple of googly eyed teenagers.

No one noticed when I left.

e

I hunkered in my room the rest of the day and finished Alexis‘s book. Here‘s what I decided: the lady was certifiable with all her crap about ecstasy under the sea and hot blood and cool water, and I ought to know. Now to figure a way to say that in five pages.

But I never opened Word. Instead, I went to my ghost e-mail account (oh, how appropriate) and scanned Matt‘s messages, all the ones he‘d ever written and then my replies. I saw how I‘d changed all the date stamps as I went along, resending myself his e-mails over and over again, so what was old was new again: You’ve got mail! Running my eyes down the list was like reading a timetable of my . . . well, my breakdown, I guess you‘d call it.