Drowning Instinct (19 page)

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.‖

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.

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.

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.

I reread one of the first messages he‘d sent when he‘d been alive-alive: The only way I live through each day is to pretend I‘m already gone. If you‘re dead, then the life you had before is dead, too, and all that remains is the horror of what‘s right in front of you. So I‘m dead, Jenna. You have to think about me that way, okay? Because that‘s how I think about you and Mom and Dad. As long as I‘m here, we‘re all dead and it has to be that way for me to do my job and come back.

Was that crazy? I didn‘t think so. Matt had protected himself as best he could. I would never be able to imagine what living there—dying there every day—had been like.

The real irony is that Matt chose to kill himself every single day so he could come back to life, and then he died for good.

I deleted all his messages. I deleted my replies. Every. Single. One.

Then I deleted my ghost account and dumped the shortcut into my recycle bin and then I emptied that, too. I would‘ve ripped out the hard drive and run over it with my car, but then I‘d have to explain to my father why I killed my computer. I might be nuts, but I wasn‘t crazy.

Mom was on a roll. For dinner, she whipped up lasagna and salad and garlic bread.

She and Dad popped the cork on a bottle of Chianti and chattered about their college days and how they met and blah, blah, blah. I pushed food around my plate and then asked to be excused and, when no one gave permission, left anyway.

When I went to bed, I screwed in earbuds and listened to ―Learning to Fly‖ and then Death Cab for Cutie and then Black Sabbath. Screw Ellington and screw Mingus and screw Judy, and screw you, too, Wagner.

If my parents went at it again, I sure didn‘t hear.

Sunday night, I‘d told Mom that some of the people on the team practiced early and it made more sense for me to drive myself. She said that was fine; she‘d have tons of work anyway now that Thanksgiving was almost here and Black Friday and Christmas and blah, blah, blah.

I didn‘t care about any of that. I wasn‘t sure I would even go to school.

All I wanted was to be left alone.

And then it was Monday.

I left a half hour earlier than usual, at 4:30. My parents weren‘t up; the house was quiet; the streets were dark and there was virtually no traffic. If I actually made it to school, I told myself I could work in the hall outside the library if I had to; Harley was used to my getting there early and wouldn‘t give me grief. Hell, I might even beat Harley.

But I knew I was lying to myself. I had to know if Mr. Anderson was there. I had to know if he‘d come in early because if we were on the same wavelength here, I thought he might. There was no other time to really talk except before school. So I‘d cruise past the lot. If there wasn‘t a single car—or if I saw only Harley‘s truck—well, then, I‘d know not to make a fool of myself. I could still TA and be on the team, but the rest of it—yeah, like the rest of
what
—would be as if it never happened.

But, if he was there, that would . . . it would mean something.

When I stopped for coffee, I thought about picking up one for him, too. But he always made his own, so that would be kind of lame. I did get two scones, though; then worried I was jinxing myself; then told myself to get a grip, they were just
pastries
.

The sky was cobalt when I pulled into the school parking lot. The stars glittered, diamond-bright in the cold. At first I thought there were no other cars in the lot, not even Harley‘s— and then my stomach clenched.

Mr. Anderson‘s truck was there.

He‘d come early. Earlier than I had. God, how long had he been here? My eyes flicked to the second story above the library—and zeroed in on a dim, barely visible glow.

Had he turned on a light? I didn‘t think so. But he was here. He was waiting for me.

I had all the power now. Go to him . . . or not.

One of the front doors was unlocked. I pushed inside. The halls were very dim, and my footsteps echoed. On the second floor, I saw no spray of light from his classroom, and there was no music. Okay, that was bad. Yet the hall smelled of coffee. So that might be good.

The classroom was completely dark except for a slim bar of uncertain light beneath the office door. When I stepped into his room, I don‘t know why . . . but I pulled the door shut behind me. Quietly. But I did it. Then I crossed to his office door and put my hand on the knob.

He was sitting at his desk, but looked up as the door opened. The only light came from that small desk lamp, enough to see by but no more. He stared at me for a very long moment and then stood. Was he relieved? I couldn‘t tell.

―I wasn‘t sure you . . .‖ He paused, cleared his throat. ―I just put on a fresh pot. Do you want a warm-up?‖

―No, I‘m good.‖ I held up the paper bag of scones. ―I hope you like blueberry.‖

―I love blueberry.‖ But he didn‘t smile. We looked at one another and then he picked up a book from his desk. ―Here. It‘s that book about Alexis Depardieu I told you about. I meant to give this to you the other day, but we got kind of . . . sidetracked.‖

―Thanks.‖ The book was slim, with no jacket. I opened to the title page and then had to angle it toward that feeble light:
Swimming with the Sharks
. ―Who‘s Peter Lasker?‖

―Alexis‘s lover.‖

I couldn‘t look at him. My pulse throbbed in my neck. ―Before she was married?‖

―Yes, if you believe him. Before, during . . . and after.‖

Now I did look up. ―But she was married,‖ I said, faintly.

―I guess that didn‘t make any difference to them,‖ he said, carefully. ―I think they were in love and didn‘t care. I think they felt that loving each other was more important than following the rules.‖

―Are we going to follow the rules?‖ I whispered. I honestly didn‘t know what answer I wanted.

―We probably should.‖

I closed my eyes, willing my tears not to fall. ―I killed Matt. All his e-mails, my account, everything.‖ I opened my eyes. ―There‘s only you. All I can see is you.‖

Something in his face changed and then he took a step forward and then another. He was close enough to reach out for me, but he didn‘t. Instead, he stretched past, pulled his office door shut—and locked it. He took the book and then the bag of scones from my weak fingers and carefully squared both next to the coffeepot. Reaching around, he eased my knapsack from my shoulders and let it slide to the floor, and then he peeled off my coat, his fingers lightly brushing my neck, trailing over my wrists. He draped my coat over his desk chair and then, without taking his eyes from mine, felt for the lamp.

Click
.

The room went black. I heard him breathing. My heart was pounding. He was so close we could‘ve touched in that trembling darkness, but I couldn‘t move. A moment later, I felt his fingers thread through mine and my pulse jumped.

His voice drifted out of the dark. ―Come with me. I know the way.‖

I did. My head was buzzing. He moved easily through the storage room, past the hulking shelves of chemicals so carefully arranged and cataloged, and then down the short hall to the old forgotten darkroom he‘d shown me in what seemed like another century. The door was open, but he didn‘t step inside. Instead, he paused, my hand still in his—and waited.

In the ruddy blush of the emergency exit sign, I spied that cot where he must sometimes take a nap or rest after a run. The air smelled different, though: still Dove and him but, also, the round warm scent of vanilla.

Now was the moment to decide which rules mattered. There were choices. I had the power. I could turn around. I could leave. There was no mystery here. Once I stepped into that room, I would be crossing a line.

―I haven‘t been able to stop thinking about you.‖ When I turned, he cupped my face in his hands. ―I thought I was helping only you, but now I think I‘ve been struggling to help myself, too. But you have to understand how serious this is, Jenna. No one can know. You can‘t tell anyone. I could end up in jail.‖

―We‘ve been out together. We‘ve been places together.‖ I realized, belatedly, that after Adelaide, Mr. Anderson had been careful to go where no one would know either of us.

―We run together.‖

―And we can keep doing those things, within reason. I‘m your teacher. Your parents know me. I‘ve been to your house. I‘m no different from any other adult. Or . . . we don‘t have to do anything. We can be friends and that would be fine. I . . . I care about you, Jenna. The last thing I want is to hurt you. I won‘t force you. I
want
you to want me.‖

They felt like words
I’d
wanted—waited for—my whole life. ―I do want you.‖ My body was liquid, my skin so hot I thought that one more degree and I would burst into flame. ―And I know how to keep a secret, Mr. Anderson, I promise.‖ He nearly,
nearly
smiled. ―I think that when it‘s just the two of us . . . you can call me Mitch.‖

We didn‘t talk after that. Not with words, anyway.

37: a

―
Where
is Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson planted his fists on his hips. His words rode on breath clouds the wind tore away. ―We start in five. Don‘t tell me she‘s still suiting up.‖

The rest of us knotted together, jamming our hands in the pockets of our warm-up jackets, doing the cold-girl two-step. We were in Wausau on a Tuesday and a week before Thanksgiving for the last cross-country meet of the season. Regionals would be the week after Thanksgiving, with state the week after that. The weather was crap, the temperature a degree above freezing—kind of typical for north-central Wisconsin this time of year. A thin salting of snow filmed the frozen ground. The weatherman was talking six, eight inches on the way, and everyone was saying that winter was going to be early, long, and hard.

The wind was steady. The air smelled like crushed aluminum. Every gust whistled through my warm-up jacket and sweatpants, slicing straight to the bone. I‘d tried to keep as warm as I could, but I could feel my muscles stiffening up. I needed to be running already.

―I‘ll get her.‖ When Mr. Anderson gave a curt nod, I jogged past the clutches of parents huddling together in the cold (not mine; Dad would never come and Mom was working maniac hours). David and a couple other stalwart boyfriend-types were there, too; when I trotted by on my way to the visitors‘ locker room, David looked the question, but I only shrugged and—