Drowning Instinct(57)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Dad‘s face was ruddy. He reached for a bottle, splashed wine into his glass and drank. Maybe he‘d pass out before he did more damage.

―Elliot?‖

Dad came up for air. His upper lip was wet. Red wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth like blood. ―I mean that I‘m pulling my collateral for your line of credit. That store is finished and I‘m done, Emily. I‘m done.‖

f

Mom went absolutely still. Meryl froze, and so did I. I knew that Mom had come to depend, more and more heavily, on credit to meet her bills every month. For the last half year, that was the only thing standing between her and no store at all. The only reason the bank let her keep it was because Dad put up some of his assets as collateral. Without my father, my mother would have no credit at all. Without that, she couldn‘t pay Evan or her rent or keep up a full inventory. She‘d ordered massive amounts of books, hoping this Christmas season her business would turn around. Now, she was nearly at the end of the month, the day before what she hoped would be a huge shopping day but hadn‘t been for years—and now, if Psycho-Dad meant what he said, no way to pay down her debt.

―My God,‖ my mother said, finally. ―This is like when we pulled Jenna out of the hospital. You didn‘t just decide this. You already knew you were going to do this when we had the party, didn‘t you? A month ago! You knew then.‖

Psycho-Dad took another swallow. ―What if I did?‖

―Then this whole last month, our trip, everything you said, that we did … ‖ Mom‘s lips compressed to a gash. ―What did you think, Elliot? Did you think screwing me again would make it easier to f**k me over?‖ Coming out of her mouth, the words were so much uglier. ―That I wouldn‘t mind?‖

―Of course not.‖ Psycho-Dad managed a look of indignation. ―I‘m thinking of us, of protecting our position. That store is a money pit, you‘ve said it yourself. You should be relieved. I‘m only thinking of you.‖ But the way his eyes slid from my mother‘s, I knew he was lying.

―Thinking of me? This is about you and your precious money. You son of a . . .‖

She choked back the rest and then stood, slowly, as regally as a queen. ―You do what you need to do, Elliot, but don‘t sneak around. Be a man for once.‖

My father blustered. ―You can‘t talk to me like th—‖

―Fuck. You. Elliot.‖ She waited a moment, but my father had clamped his jaws so tight I‘d heard the click. She said, ―Do what you want. I don‘t give a damn.‖ She swept out.

He didn‘t go after her. Neither did Meryl. Maybe I should have, Bob. Matt wasn‘t her only kid. If I‘d reminded her that I was here, too….

I wish I‘d been braver, but I was paralyzed. And afraid.

Because what if I wasn‘t enough either? What if I had never been?

I didn‘t want to know, Bob. I didn‘t. Everyone breaks. Some wounds will never heal, and I just couldn‘t, I couldn‘t.

So, instead, I only sat and listened to her cursing and rummaging in the hall closet.

When she slammed out of the house, the windows chattered. A moment later, the garage door grumbled; her car roared; and then she was gone.

42: a

After Mom left, Dad and his Scotch stormed off to his study. Meryl and I cleared the table. I scrubbed pots and pans and cleaned counters. I might have gotten down on my hands and knees to scour the tile if Meryl hadn‘t stopped me.

―I‘m going after your mom.‖ She‘d already shrugged into her coat and was knotting a scarf around her throat. ―Thank God, the roads are clear or she‘d have gone off a bridge.

She‘s probably at the store. You want to come with?‖

I didn‘t. After Meryl left, I snagged a cinnamon roll and went to my room. I picked up Lasker‘s book on Alexis, then put it back down without cracking the spine. The book reminded me of how much I missed Mitch, and I ached to hear his voice. Normally, I‘d have been able to talk to him, either in school or on the phone or a text. In person, if we were running—or after: showering, toweling off. Making love.

But Mitch was in Madison until Sunday night and while I probably could call or text, he wouldn‘t be able to talk. He might not even answer. After all, there were limits to what you could explain away.

I needed to get out of that house. Go someplace I could breathe. Incredibly, my car was still down at school. I‘d missed school the day after the meet; and then it was break.

We kept meaning to retrieve my car, but Mom got busy with the store and we just hadn‘t gotten around to it.

But there was Dad‘s Lexus.

After tucking the Lasker book, my wallet, and cell into my knapsack, I tiptoed into my parents‘ bedroom. Dad‘s keys were on the bureau, along with his wallet and pager. I worked the key off the ring and then crept down the stairs to stand outside his study. I heard the television and what sounded like another game, but Dad was talking to someone, too, probably his nursie-mistress or some moral equivalent because I caught a couple words: inconsiderate bitch…want to…miss you, too…

I honestly didn‘t care. What with Nate Bartholomew and Mistress Nursie, I think I‘d decided my parents deserved each other.

b

Lucky for me, the Lexus was all-the-time four-wheel drive and had good tires. I took it slow as I drove to Mitch‘s house. I worried about how to explain away my dad‘s car in his driveway—but the hike from the park was a good eight miles. My ankle wasn‘t that bad, but I didn‘t want to push it. Anyway, Mitch‘s house wasn‘t visible from the road and his nearest neighbor was miles away. I should be okay.

It had snowed twice more since the week before, but the Lexus took the packed snow and hills easily and Mitch‘s drive had been plowed. I pulled up to the house, climbed out, and listened to a silence broken only by the susurration of the wind that spun snow into icy dervishes. Mitch‘s house was all sparkling glass, wood, and stone under the full sun, and felt empty even from the outside.

I already had my boots, but now I buckled on a pair of snowshoes and trudged around to the back of the house and looked across the white expanse of frozen lake. Mitch said the lake froze completely in winter, but it was still early in the season, the cold temperatures of the last two weeks notwithstanding. I could halve my travel time to the cabin if I cut across the lake, and there were prints where animals had crossed. But Mitch said the lake was very deep and visions of breaking through the ice kept me on the path instead.

The only sounds were the squeal of snow beneath my snowshoes and the steady huff of my breaths. My ankle complained a bit, then subsided. Sweat trickled down my neck and between my shoulder blades, and as I began to warm, I unzipped my parka and then my fleece. I hiked along for a good hour and when I turned onto the cabin trail, I don‘t recall that I was thinking about much of anything other than stripping down and enjoying a hot shower before making tea and curling up on our window seat with Lasker‘s book. As I rounded the last bend, I looked toward the cabin—