Lifelines: Kate's Story (28 page)

When
the door did crash open, she pressed her fist harder into her chest. She hadn’t
understood how big Alain was. When he held her, his size had felt perfect; when
he walked at her side, his height sheltered her. Her father had been tall, and
she measured all men by David’s standard. Alain passed every test: height,
intellect, indulgent smiles.

The
man who slammed her door open must be a stranger, his fists formed like
weapons. He threw the door closed behind him with such force it bounced open
again. He ignored her lacy black bra and her long naked legs. His gaze locked
on her eyes as if now, only now, he recognized her as beneath contempt.

“Do
you have any idea—?” His voice broke violently and she backed away.

“Alain
...”

“Do
you know what you’ve done? What in Christ’s name did you think?”

“I
didn’t do anything.” His eyes terrified her.

“Bitch!”

When
she stumbled against the bed, he jerked her back onto her feet. “You didn’t do
anything? You invaded my house, hurt my wife. Did you want to destroy me?
Did—you—bitch...” He shook her violently and with each jolt of her body, he
snarled, “Bitch ... bitch ... bitch!”

“Alain?”
Jennifer tried to swallow the fear in her throat. “I talked to her, told her
the truth ...I needed the truth in the open.”

He
shook again and her head snapped back with frightening force.

“Lying
bitch. You said I made a baby. You said I want a divorce. You’re on the fucking
pill. You destroyed my life with your lies.”

His
hands bit in painfully and she screamed.

When
he threw her away, she slammed against the wall, sprawled on the floor with
fire in her hip. He came after her and she sobbed, scrambling away from him
along the wall, her leg useless, his eyes full of hate.

“Don’t
hurt me. Please, Alain, please don’t ...” She crammed herself into the corner and
knew she could do nothing to stop him.

Abruptly,
the aggression drained from his eyes and he lurched against the wall. His
throat convulsed and his body folded in on itself as if someone pulled a plug
on the violence of his emotions. He shoved away from the wall and collapsed
onto the bed, sat there, his hands hanging between his knees.

“She’s
in the hospital.”

Jennifer
needed to get off the floor before his rage returned. A moment ago, he could
have killed her. Had he thrown Wendy to the floor in rage, hurt her enough to
need an ambulance?

“Hospital?”

“Acetaminophen.”
A convulsive shudder. “A bad way to attempt suicide. If you live ... if you ...
liver damage. She’s in a coma and they don’t—I don’t know if she’ll ever come
back.”

Jennifer
swallowed painfully.

“What
if I lose her? I love her so much. I can’t—” Sobs drank his words.

Jennifer
pushed harder into the corner. The violence of Alain’s pain terrified her.
Tears streamed down his face and his mouth convulsed. She desperately wanted to
hide until his pain walked out of the house. His sobs tore her apart, and she
could only press her body tight into the corner and hold her breath.

“You
did this. If Wendy dies, you’ve killed her.”

She
felt her mouth open, like a fish desperate for oxygen.  He lurched away and
stumbled into the hall. She heard him crash against the wall as he careened
down the stairs. She wouldn’t breathe until he reached his car outside, until
she heard him drive away.

His
feet struck wood with a force that shook the house. The veranda. A grunt,
injured animal sound, repeated again and again. Her sound. She tried to stand
but her leg buckled and she sank onto the floor and hugged herself. 

If
Wendy dies, you’ve killed her.

Jennifer
felt her breath, broken by the sounds she made. With unmerciful clarity, she
saw Wendy Trudeau in a poisoned coma.

Your
fault.

Alain’s
eyes hated her, while his hands had wanted her dead.

If
Wendy dies, you’ve killed her.

When
silence became unbearable, she stumbled to her feet despite the pain in her
leg. Alain ... the desk her books ... Art History. No way she could continue at
university ... couldn’t study in Alain’s department now.

Wendy
...

She
couldn’t bear this.

The
phone.

She
grabbed the receiver and her finger punched out the familiar number
automatically, but she almost hung up on the first ring. What could she say?

Mom,
I ...

She
squeezed her eyes and felt tears hot under her lids. She seemed to be watching
herself from far off, feeling sorry for herself while Alain stood beside a
hospital bedside and prayed for his wife’s life. By the third ring, she’d
forgotten all the reasons why she couldn’t explain to Kate.

Where
was her mother? Four rings ... now five. Jennifer’s fingers clenched more tightly
on the receiver. Why didn’t the machine answer? Why wasn’t her mother at home?

She
hung up slowly, more alone than ever before. Had Kate gone to Grandma’s?
Jennifer couldn’t remember Grandma’s number. It might be in the directory, but
she couldn’t face a conversation with Grandma, who would ask weird questions,
making Jennifer feel trapped and guilty.

She
couldn’t bear another ounce of guilt.

Where
was Gail, who’d been quick enough to pound on the downstairs wall earlier? Why
hadn’t she come to help when Alain shook her to within an inch of her life?
Jennifer needed her mother desperately, as she hadn’t in many years. Kate
always knew how to fix things.

She
limped to the end of the bed and bent to pick up her t-shirt. If she drove the
Mercedes, she could be home in three hours. By then, surely her mother would
return home?

T
he whisper
on the sailboat’s hull grew to chatter as the boat rushed through the water,
driven by wind in the sails. The smooth rush of the hull echoed in Kate’s body,
and stirred memory where no memory could exist—perhaps the primal affinity of
man and ocean.

Sitting
on
El Niño
’s foredeck, Kate closed her eyes and filled her consciousness
with wind and water ... and flowed through the ocean. Sensation slipped along her
skin, into her lungs, and filled her heart. She’d always thought sailing would
be peaceful and quiet, but water whistled over the hull, wind whipped on the
sails, and the boat itself creaked as it bent to the elements. Overhead, a sea
bird called for its mate. As for the peace ... No, not peace. Sensation zinged
through her veins, the energy of wind and sea.

Filled
with this elemental vibrancy, she felt no desire to move. Eyes closed, she knew
Socrates lay bonelessly on deck a few feet from her, while Mac stood at the
tiller, eyes narrowed on the horizon in the way of sailors.

They’d
driven to the Madrona Bay marina, the first time she’d been inside his truck.
She’d felt conspicuous as they walked into the marina’s small grocery store and
purchased supplies for a late lunch aboard his sailboat. When the clerk didn’t
seem to recognize Mac, she wondered if the clerk was new, or if Mac hadn’t been
sailing in a long time. Had he brought his wife here?

She
disliked the awkwardness that wouldn’t let her ask.

Mac
lifted Socrates up onto the boat, then he stepped into the cockpit and
disappeared through a hatch with the groceries. Kate followed because she felt
exposed on deck.

Down
below, she found one room—she supposed he would call it a cabin. The tiny
galley occupied the back corner, balanced by a chart table. A v-shaped built-in
sofa called a settee occupied the rest of the cabin. Two people could sit on
either side of the sofa, if they crawled over each other to get seated. The
fact that Mac’s boat contained nothing like a bed eased her tension
ridiculously.

Ever
since Mac asked to kiss her, she’d felt self-conscious.

She
didn’t want the mating ritual thoughts that played in her mind, uncomfortable
speculation about what he wanted ... should she or shouldn’t she ... would he be
turned off by her stretch marks?

No
sane person would go through all that first-time nonsense again.

She
couldn’t seem to get it out of her mind.

“I’ll
put away the food,” she said, but he quickly pulled milk, lettuce, and tomatoes
from the bag and stacked them into a tiny fridge.

“I
don’t want you chained to the galley. Grab a bowl from the cupboard behind your
left shoulder, I’ll pump some water for Socrates, and we’ll get underway.”

The
cupboard had a catch on the door and she fumbled the mechanism.

“Like
this,” he said, and opened it easily.

“I
need to do something.” She couldn’t pretend to be a twenty year old girl,
laying around on deck while he sailed off into the sunset.

“Don’t
worry,” he said. “I’ll put you to work.”

And
he had. With the engine started and the lines untied, he instructed her on how
to handle lines, tiller, and sails. She raised the forward sail under his
instructions, then bundled up sail covers and stowed them in a hatch called the
lazarette while he raised the mains’l.

The
wind caught the sails and the little boat leaned over to the right—to
starboard, she corrected. She grabbed blindly to avoid falling, and laughed
when he caught her. She felt sunburned, her spirit so light, so happy, the
world fresh and new.

He
shut off the engine when the wind freshened. Then he put her on the tiller and
showed her how to correct their course to steer for a hazy point on the horizon
where he promised a fine anchorage. When she had the hang of steering, he went
below to make thick cheese sandwiches stuffed with lettuce and tomato. Then he
took over the tiller and sent her up on deck with a cushion.

Perhaps
she slept, and dreamed, because it seemed he’d called her from a long distance
away. Salt water in her nostrils, the boat rocking gently.

“We’ll
anchor here!” he announced.

She
stumbled to her feet and joined him at the tiller. He gave her new instructions
as they slipped into a small bay. Mac dropped the big sail, then hurried
forward to the bow. She heard the rattle of anchor chain and felt the anchor
bite into the ground below, then the boat swung in a half circle and faced back
in the direction they’d come. She heard the forward sail slide down its track.

They’d
anchored in a curving bay lined with spruce and madrona trees. Ripples on the
water, but the slight breeze made no sound inside the bay, and the boat lay
almost motionless in the water. She saw Mac pulling rope over the sails, and
she went to fetch the sail covers. They worked together in silence as they
bagged the jib and tied the cover over the main. When they finished, they stood
side by side on deck. She could hear silence.

Then
Socrates stumbled to his feet, and Mac said, “We’d better take him ashore. His
bladder must be about to burst.”

She
giggled. Like a schoolgirl.

Mac
launched an eight-foot dinghy and Kate held her breath as he lifted Socrates
into the tipsy boat. “All ashore that’s going ashore!” he called, and Kate
climbed into the dinghy and sat abruptly, before it could tip her out.

“Will
your sailboat be all right here? Where are we?”

“Sorrel
Island, and the boat’s fine. Good bottom.”

“Good
bottom?”

“It’s
mud. The anchor bit right in.”

“How
can you tell?”

“Remember
how she snapped around when the anchor bit?” When his knees bumped hers, she
shifted to avoid him, and leaned over to rub Socrates ears. He smiled at her as
he took up the oars and started to row, and she felt heat flood over her
throat.

If
she couldn’t rid herself of this tension, she would lose a friend.

When
the dinghy grumbled over the sand, Socrates stumbled to his feet, but collapsed
against Kate’s legs as the little boat shifted.

“He’s
got a bit of arthritis,” she said.

“Stay
put and I’ll haul us ashore.”

He
stepped out with a sailor’s easy grace and pulled the dinghy several feet up
the beach to dry sand. When he held his hand out for her, she took it because
it would be silly not to. She came out of the boat, partly lifted by his grip,
and landed with both feet on the sand and her body almost touching his.

He
touched her face with his free hand and brushed callused fingers over the curve
of her cheek. She couldn’t breathe, felt herself return his grip so tightly she
might have been trying to save herself from falling over a cliff.

He
cupped her cheek in his palm. She stared into his eyes, saw the pupils dilate
and felt herself turn soft and pliant.

She
breathed his air. Pleasure, warmth ... kiss.

Socrates
whimpered.

This
is a mistake.

Mac’s
lips clung as they drew away. He didn’t release her eyes for long seconds.

“I’ll
get Socrates,” he said huskily.

He
brushed against her hip as he reached into the boat and she realized she stood
in his way. She stepped back, licked her lips and tasted him there. She
swallowed several times.

When
Mac released Socrates on the sand, the dog promptly lifted his leg to pee on
the side of the dinghy. They both laughed. Kate felt relieved Mac didn’t reach
for her hand when they walked up the slope of the beach.

“Do
you come here often?”

“Jake
and I used to. After he died I came a few times. It made him seem closer. I
haven’t been out in a couple of years.”

“David
and I used to go camping,” she offered. “We’d pack up the camper with food and
blankets and head across to the Olympic Peninsula for a couple of weeks each
summer.”

She
walked a full circle to study the water, the entrance to the bay, the thick
undergrowth against the trees. “I remember it like this—clean salt air,
evergreen trees, bird calls. The last time we went, Jennifer was thirteen.
Camping interfered with her social life, her friends, and she made so much fuss
we somehow never went again.”