Eight Minutes (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE GOOD WIFE

E
ric hasn’t gone for a morning run since Thud died. He’s taken to riding his bike instead. I’m glad for his early morning routine because it means I haven’t had to explain to Toby why his dad is sleeping in the guest room.

Every day this week, as soon as I hear Eric leave the house, I make up the guest bed and vacate our room so he can still shower there. If he moves his clothes into the guest closet, it’s going to make me sick.

Every day so far, I’ve had a smoothie ready for him when he returns. Strawberry banana, made with mango juice and that expensive protein powder he likes. He’s polite, says thank you and all, but he doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve gotten off his back about the protein powder. We both act like we don’t know how hard I’m trying.

Once I noticed that if Toby is downstairs when Eric leaves for work, he gives me a peck on the cheek. But when he’s not, I get the same good-bye I’m sure he gives to the guys on his project team. I try to make sure our son is eating breakfast at that time every day.

I put my John Robberson notebook away. After all, I don’t need to keep collecting evidence. I don’t tell Eric what Toby said about Kay being mad at the dog. I don’t tell him what Lakshmi said about the possibility of John Robberson getting impatient. I certainly don’t tell him I’m worried she might be right, or how much it scares me to think that my son is blocking the goal of a military-trained spirit. But I can’t keep from ruminating about it all day long.

And I’ve been avoiding Lakshmi the last couple of days. Yesterday, I took Toby to the science museum but couldn’t find the energy to engage with him once we were there. I just let him play while I sat on a bench and spun on my speculations. Today, we’re going to an afternoon movie.

When we come out of the theater, Toby jabbers about the airplanes he saw as I turn on my phone and check for messages. I don’t know whether to be happy or nervous when I see a text from Eric. I click on it.

do we have plans this weekend?

No
, I type back.

Scott invited a group of us to his lake house to go tubing. Says to bring the whole family. I need this. Project budget not approved yet.

I almost hear angels in my head, singing the “Hallelujah” chorus. This is exactly what we need. I worked with Scott. Scott loves me. I can help Eric get his funding.

I’m so excited!! Want to send me your proposal? I can take a look at it if you want.

My thumb hovers over the “Send” button. Too much, I decide, and I backspace it away. I wait for my heart rate to slow as I think about how to strike the right balance between nonchalance and cooperation. Less is more.

Sounds great.

Immediately, he answers:
I’ll set it up then.

At dinner that night, we talk to Toby about what he can expect. He’s never been boating before. I smile as I listen to Eric describe tubing to him, of course starting with where inner tubes come from, detouring to the difference between an inner tube and a tire, and finally ending up with how much fun it is to ride in the tube behind the boat.

When I come downstairs after tucking Toby in bed, Eric clicks off the TV and asks, “Can we talk about this weekend?”

“Sure. I’m really looking forward to it.” I sit in the armchair and turn to face him on the sofa. “What time do you think we need to leave?”

“I don’t know. I’ll check.”

“Friday after work? Or are we driving up early Saturday morning?”

“Shel. I don’t know.” Eric fidgets. “Sorry. Look, I’ll get the details and make sure you know all that. I just don’t have it yet. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want what’s going on between us to be . . . you know . . . an issue. I don’t want you talking to the wives about it.”

“It? Meaning our marriage?” I ask. “Eric. Of course I’m not going to talk to women I barely know about our marriage.”

“Or John Robberson. So if Toby says something, just let it go. Don’t react. Don’t drink too much and start talking about ghosts or airplanes or fire chiefs or anything. Don’t”—and he waves his hand, that dismissive gesture I hate—“just don’t.”

I bite my metallic-tasting tongue and pause before I answer. “Stop.” I attempt a feeble smile and reach to find a tone of voice that will pass for reassuring. “I get it, Eric. I told you I could control it. You’ll see. I can be the good wife.”

“It’s important. Scott can’t think I’m off my game. Distracted by my home life.”

“I know,” I say.

I don’t say that I know damn well Scott is not the one worried about Eric being off his game.

We wake up right after the sun rises on Saturday and make the half-hour drive to Saguaro Lake. Toby and I try to identify all the watercolor shades of the morning sky, yellow and pink dissolving into a blue so pale it barely qualifies as a color. As we get closer to the lake, I’m happy that Eric joins in and points out the striated shades of the rugged desert cliffs, orange and brown and beige.

We find Scott and his wife, Jenny, at the marina, tending to the boat. As we load our bags, Scott explains that both Marcus and Lin bailed at the last minute. Eric pretends to be disappointed, but I know he’s glad to be the only one who showed up.

Jenny and I team up to glob sunscreen on every inch of Toby. I cover his nose with zinc oxide, making it a shiny white button on his face, while she squirts a quarter-sized portion into her palm and reaches for Scott’s back. I follow her lead and turn my attention to Eric, who looks lean and strong in boardshorts riding low on his torso. He stiffens at first when I apply sunscreen to his shoulders. It’s the most physical contact I’ve had with him in a week. When I’m finished, he says, “Thanks, hon,” as if he calls me “hon” on a regular basis.

The boat is white with blue and yellow stripes and blue seat cushions. Its nautical intent stands in stark contrast to the green and gray slosh of the lake, making it seem almost cartoonish. Toby seems nervous, so I’m glad when Scott insists on life jackets. We all make a big deal of strapping into our bright orange vests.

Eric and I watch without a word as Jenny gives Scott a hug from behind while he steers the boat out of the marina waters. I wonder if Eric misses us as much as I do.

As the boat accelerates, Jenny turns on the stereo. Toby pushes his head under my arm so he can sit closer. I explain to him exactly what we’re going to do. He’s not so sure.

I volunteer to go first. Toby howls when he realizes I am actually going to get out of the boat and into the inner tube. Despite my efforts to prepare him, the shock of seeing his mom in what he considers a dangerous situation is evidently testing his resolve.

The boat starts slow, and I smile bigger than I should, trying to make it okay for Toby. I swallow plenty of lake water before he seems to realize I’m in no danger. I bounce from wave to wave, my legs flopping every which way, and it takes awhile before I can stop worrying about him and enjoy it. I remember to wave to Toby, and he responds by squealing with delight. Eventually, I give the slow-down signal, a thumbs-down. There’s no graceful way to exit an inner tube, so I squeeze and squirm and finally squirt myself free. When I get back into the boat, I’m still laughing.

Eric is next. I keep telling Toby, see, Daddy likes it too. Over and over, Eric gives the thumbs-up signal for Scott to go faster, faster. The boat makes a few sharp turns, which pull Eric across the wake, and we all cheer when Scott successfully flips him into the water. By this time, Toby has the hang of it, so he’s happy to see his daddy fall into the water.

“He’s bwave,” Toby concludes.

Now Toby is begging for his turn. He wants to ride with his dad. Scott promises me that he’ll drive like a turtle.

I keep my eyes on Toby the whole time. He has the same expression as when we swing him in our arms—one, two, three, whee. He keeps his mouth wide open with delight until he swallows a lungful of water, which makes him cry. I signal for Scott to stop the boat, and I can see Eric coaching Toby through it.

“Ready to come back in?” I call out.

Eric waves me off. Toby gives the thumbs-up and they try again, this time with Toby’s lips clamped tight. He’s sitting on Eric’s lap. Eric presses himself far into the tube to make room. He uses his body to situate the tube to absorb most of the bump from the meager wake. Toby, quiet at first, becomes more animated as his confidence grows. When they finally crawl back into the boat, Toby’s giddy, but Eric seems more subdued than usual.

Scott cranks the music and the boat’s speed when it’s Jenny in the tube. She belts out good-natured hollers with each big bump. She’s short and chunky, so I’m surprised that when Scott flips her out of the tube, she dismounts with the elegance of a gymnast. Once she’s back on the boat, she grabs a beer before she dries off.

Toby, completely encased in a thick towel, squirms on my lap. Eric sits across from us, not saying a word. His smile looks forced as he turns down both a beer and an offer to drive the boat. I accept the beer so we don’t come across like a buzzkill couple and try not to look as relieved as I am when Jenny puts hers down before she takes the wheel.

Relax
, I tell myself. I look over at Eric. Something’s not right.

During Scott’s turn, Eric moves to sit by my side and admits he’s been the recipient of a king-sized lake enema and is not feeling a hundred percent.

I don’t dare laugh.

We’ve been on the water less than an hour, and I can already tell Eric is finished. It’s going to be a long day on the water for him. I get another beer from the cooler and accidently-on-purpose spill half of it into the lake, then hand it to Eric to use as his cover.

“Go up front with Scott,” I whisper to him. “I’ll be the designated tuber.”

Jenny is not shy when it comes to driving the boat, and she keeps Scott out there a long time, laughing and accelerating every time he says he wants to come in.

“Who’s next?” she calls out when she finally allows Scott back on the boat.

“Ready, Toby?” I ask, in a shiny happy voice, and off we go. I make a point of not pressing myself too low in the tube, so we fall off early and often. Toby likes it.

By lunchtime, I’ve taken so many turns in the tube, I’m sure my butt cheeks look like raisins. I don’t mind. Eric still doesn’t look well, but at least he’s getting his chance to talk to Scott. I smile between bites of my chicken-salad sandwich as Jenny teaches Toby how to tie a square knot.

After lunch, we head back to the marina. When we get the boat secure in the dock, Scott and Jenny walk over to talk to another couple they know, which gives Eric a chance to rush away to find the restrooms.

I take my time gathering our belongings from the boat. Toby walks barefoot on the blue seat cushions toward the back of the boat. Along the dock, there are several families around in various stages of coming and going, loading and unloading their respective boats.

The marina smells like dead fish and gasoline. As I search for my sunglasses case, I glance at the mossy water and wonder how many hundreds of thousands of parasites are in it. I’m in the front of the boat, busy straightening the orange life jackets we’d taken off and shoved under the seat cushions, when I hear a dull thump that sounds like someone dropped an ice chest. Then a splash.

“Ooh, that’s gonna be gross. I hope that wasn’t someone’s lunch,” I say, turning around to smile at Toby.

He isn’t there.

“Toby?”

“Toby!” ’

I don’t think twice about the green muck as I charge in after him, but I’m surprised at the depth of the water. I dive too steeply, and the time it takes me to surface is excruciating. My ears are ringing like an alarm. Eyes open, I realize I made a splash that pushed Toby farther out. I’ve made it worse. I can see his face in the water, eyes closed and arms floating away from his body. I have a surge of superhuman strength and lunge toward him under the water. I miss and have to come up for air. On the second try, I touch him and he feels rubbery. I feel around for a place to anchor my feet but find none. I’ve never been a good swimmer, and I have no idea how to rescue someone, but my panic has given me tunnel vision.

When I reach him, Toby is limp. I surface and immediately turn his face up to the air. I’m about ten feet away from the dock, directly behind the exposed propeller of the boat engine.

Suddenly, Eric is there in the lake with us. He wrestles Toby out of my arms, and I go under. He leaves me in the water to crawl out on my own. Scott extends a hand and pulls me up onto the dock. When I get my bearings, Eric has Toby laid out flat on the dock, and by this time, several other people are crowding over them, yelling instructions. The sound of my own shallow breath is replaced by a cacophony of voices, filtered through the crackling anxiety in my ears.

Jenny’s voice: “Stand back! Stand back!”

“Is there a doctor here?”

“Give him room.”

“Is he breathing?”

“CPR! Who knows CPR?”

Eric checks Toby’s breathing, tries to rouse him. When he doesn’t respond, Eric uses his finger to clear Toby’s mouth and bends over him. He begins chest compressions, firm but not too firm. His face is calm as he counts to himself. He leans over and breathes into Toby’s mouth. Somehow, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and I love this man so much.

I step aside and let him do the right thing. “Back off! Will you all just back off?” I stand next to Jenny and Scott, my arms outstretched, the three of us creating a frantic circle around Eric and Toby, me never taking my eyes off my baby.

The crowd steps back. They start explaining it to each other, in lower tones.

“What happened?”

“The kid fell in. This guy came sprinting outta nowhere. He must be a paramedic.”

“Is he bleeding?”

He’s not. Eric lays Toby on the dock, checks his pulse again, and assures me he feels a heartbeat. I needed to hear that, but Toby still isn’t conscious. His brown curls, plastered down on his forehead, make him look unnatural. I push them up, out of his eyes. His little face is slippery under my hand.