Drowning Instinct(67)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

I heard Mitch call and shot a glance over my shoulder. He was wallowing in the snow. I knew I would make it to the house first. I faced back, eyeing the house, thinking: Get there, get there, just get there!

―Jenna, stop!‖ he cried. ―Don‘t go any further, don’t—!‖

I was gasping, pulling in lungfuls of air. Spiky branches cut and whipped at my naked face. Wood snapped and broke beneath my boots. Then, all of a sudden, the ground fell away and I staggered, my arms shooting out for balance as I stumbled the last few feet down the dip at the shoreline and spilled onto the lake.

―Jenna!‖ Mitch called again. ― No!‖

The snow wasn‘t as deep, maybe only six inches, maybe less because of the wind that snatched fistfuls away during the day.

The surface was crustier, too, because of sun melt that refroze every night. So I could go much faster and I did, picking up my speed, stamping down and then pushing off as I plowed across. My boots dragged furrows through the snow and then I was a third of the way across, almost at the middle and—

POP.

Oh, Bob.

c

I froze.

I, literally, honestly, froze in mid-stride, one boot above the snow, the other still planted on the ice, my arms squeezed tight against my sides the way a good runner should.

POP.

CRACK!

Then a long grinding groan, like Mitch, inside me, moaning in his ecstasy, a deep-throated sigh that went on and on and on: OOOooooohhh. . . .

Something came out of my mouth, a high, inarticulate exhalation—and even now I think, yes, that‘s what I sounded like when Mitch and I were together, and for the briefest of moments, I was no longer there but defined only by the limit of Mitch‘s arms holding me together, tight tight tight.

Crack. Crack crack.

I was afraid to move. My muscles were quivering. I couldn‘t breathe.

―Jenna.‖ Mitch sounded close. Was he on the ice, too? I was too scared to put my foot down much less turn around. ―Jenna, honey, listen to me, do exactly what I say.‖

―Mitch?‖ A film of cold sweat bathed my face. I closed my eyes and swallowed. I wondered if the icy water would burn. I wondered if I would die fast this time. My voice rose a notch: ― Miiitch?‖

―I‘m right here, Jenna. I‘m only fifty feet away. I won‘t leave—‖

―Don‘t leave me, Mitch, don‘t leave me!‖

―I won‘t leave you, sweetheart. I love you; I‘ll never leave you. But you have to listen. Are you listening?‖

―Yes.‖ I was crying—from fear, from love, from relief. ―Yes, I‘m listening.‖

―The ice is too thin. You have to come back the way you came, okay? Come back to me, Jenna, and then we‘ll get off the ice together, all right?‖

―Yes.‖ I swallowed, gasped again as the ice popped. ―Okay.‖

―Put your foot down, honey . . . slow, slow … that‘s it, good girl. Now, Jenna, I want you to lie down.‖

My voice thinned to a wheeze. ―Lie down?‖

―Yes. Lie down on your stomach, spread as wide as you can, arms and legs as far as you can, and then you‘ll turn around.‖

―Mitch, I . . .‖ I gulped. ―I don‘t think I can do that.‖

―You have to, honey. Please. It‘s the only way. You have to redistribute your weight so the ice can hold you. Then you‘ll turn around and shimmy back, okay? Come on, you can do it.‖

My trembling knees creaked. The ice popped and groaned. My teeth were chattering. My whole body was shaking as if I would never be warm again, exactly the way Mitch had felt in the abyss at Rubicon Point. But I did what Mitch said: first my knees and then my legs and then I was facedown, spread-eagled in the snow. Now I could see the fissures in the snow, radiating out from my body in all directions. The ice under my belly moaned.

―Good girl,‖ Mitch said. ―Now turn yourself around very, very . . . slow, honey, slow . . . I‘m right here, I‘m not going anywhere, you don‘t have to hur—‖

CRACK.

A moan dribbled from my mouth, but now I was facing back the way I‘d come.

Maybe thirty feet away, Mitch was on his stomach, shucking his coat in slow-motion, rolling carefully from one hip to the other, but the ice beneath him was popping and snapping with every move. With dawning horror, I saw the same starburst of gashes in the snow and realized: the ice was breaking and ripping apart under him, too.

And Mitch was heavier than me.

―Mi-Mi-Mitch,‖ I gasped. ―The i-ice.‖

―I know, honey. It‘ll be okay,‖ he said evenly. But I saw his face. I had seen Mitch happy, tender, rapturous, sad, and not five minutes ago, guilty and full of remorse. But I had never, ever seen him scared to death. ―When I throw out my coat, stretch as far as you can and grab hold. Is there any way you can get your boots off?‖

―My b-b-b-b . . . ?‖

―Yes. Your boots are heavy and so is your parka. If you break through, I don‘t know if I‘ll be able to hang on to you.‖ He didn‘t say that I might also drag him under. He didn‘t have to.

I did try to get those boots off, but every time I reached back, the ice complained and Mitch told me to stop. ―But if the ice breaks,‖ I began, ―you won‘t—‖

―I won‘t let go of you, Jenna. I will never let go, I promise,‖ Mitch said. The sun had cleared the trees and was warm on my back, which meant it was also warming the snow and ice. Mitch skimmed his tongue over his upper lip. Sweat was dribbling down his cheeks. ―Okay, honey, we‘ve got to move now. Come on, start back toward me and I‘ll back up with you. We‘ll be—‖ Snap. Pop. ―We‘ll be on the shore in no time.‖

I did what he said, with my fists knotted in the sleeve of his sheepskin coat, the coat that had kept me safe and warm and held his scent—and which he gave up now for me, without hesitation, just as he always had and always would.

I’m right here. See me, Jenna. I’m right in front of you.

All I see is you, Mitch. All I see is you.

We crabbed on our bellies, shuffling back by inches, but we were going so slowly, too slow! Heavy sunlight pressed our backs and battered the lake and now the ice was talking, a constant rattle and snap and crackle like brittle glass being crushed beneath a hammer. Mitch kept up a steady stream of patter—I was doing fine, fine, we were going to be okay, okay—but his breath was coming faster, and I heard the hum of his fear. We made a torturous ten feet, then twenty, but the shore seemed to recede, and meanwhile, the snow kept fracturing.

Then Mitch moved—and I saw the snow and ice buckle, actually break, and lift beneath his right hip.

―Mitch!‖ I choked. ―Mitch, stop!‖