Drowning Instinct

Page 18

Her husband was a surgical nurse, she‘d said. Once outside, I scanned faces and asked around until a doctor‘s wife pointed me in the right direction. After pulling the guy aside and explaining, I led him back to the house. Dr. Kirby tried catching my eye, but I only glanced once and then didn‘t look back.
Between her husband and me, we got her on her feet and downstairs. At the front door, the husband looked over his shoulder. We had a wonderful time, he said, which was completely weird. His face was so saturated with shame, I wanted to tell him everything would be okay. But I kept quiet, watching at they staggered down the rumba line of cars snaking along the drive.
The cold air settled my stomach. There was no moon and too much light pollution from the McMansion, but I could make out some stars. I didn‘t want to go back inside that house. But if I didn‘t belong there, where could I go? I had this sudden, wild urge to steal my parents‘ car and go north, to Lake Superior or Canada. Of course, I didn‘t do any such thing.
But boy, Bob, I should‘ve.
c
Instead, I went back to clean up the mess. Maybe halfway up the stairs, it occurred to me that I‘d have to do Matt‘s room, too. The idea of stripping his sheets made my scars bunch. They would never be clean enough. Burning them would be better.
Right about then, I began to float. A familiar numbness dripped through my veins, and my head felt hollow as a helium balloon. Slipstream, only I wasn‘t running—or maybe, metaphorically speaking, I was.
Still floaty, I cleaned: Comet on the sink, Clorox toilet cleaner in the bowl, about half a can of Lysol to get rid of the stink. I splashed water into the tub even though it wasn‘t dirty. I scrubbed, hard, and thought about nothing at all.
So that probably explains why I never heard him.
d
One minute I was sloshing blue water down the tub drain and the next, I felt someone watching. I looked over my shoulder.
Hi, sweetpea. Dr. Kirby was big enough that he blocked the door. I thought, maybe, we should talk.
22: a
I said nothing. I didn‘t move. My skin tightened over my skull.
Dr. Kirby slid into the bathroom. I know what it looked like, but we‘re all adults here, right? You‘re old enough to understand how things work? He spread his hands and that‘s when I saw Ben Franklin‘s face pinched between the first two fingers of his right hand. He took another step as I stood and then he was reaching, leading with the money, ready to tuck a hundred bucks into the breast pocket of my blouse. I know you know how to keep your mouth shut.
I . . . I swallowed against the lump in my throat. I don‘t want your money, Dr.
Kirby.
He froze, his hand hovering like a tarantula over my left breast—the one I‘d nicked with the kissing knife. He was watching my eyes, maybe trying to figure out if I was going to scream, which I wasn‘t. He said, awkwardly, Think of it as an early Christmas gift.
What teenager doesn‘t need a little extra cash?
I shook my head. I don‘t need anything, Dr. Kirby. I‘m fine.
Oh, come on, and then, somehow, he was even closer, easing the money into my pocket, fingers grazing my breast, a slow stupid smile spreading over his lips. We used to be friends, remember? I know how to be gentle, he said. His breath was rank, and then I was against the wall and he was leaning in, his hands reaching up to cup and squeeze.
No, I said. Don‘t, Dr. Kirby, I said.
But he didn‘t stop. First one hand and then the other and then he was pressing me against the wall, his slobbery mouth on my neck and then mashed against mine, his fat tongue worming between my clamped lips to lick my teeth....
Oh God, Bob. Did I do more? Sock him in the jaw? Stomp on his instep? Kick him in the groin and then drive my knee into his chin as he doubled over in agony? Bite off his tongue? Did I even scream?
No. I didn‘t. I could lie and say I did. No one but me and Dr. Kirby would ever know. But that‘s not what happened. I don‘t know if you‘ll get it, Bob, but think of that cold slap of shock the first time a parent spanks you or gets dead drunk or stammers an explanation to a cop about why he ran a red light—and you‘ll understand. Those are betrayals, moments when that thin membrane separating your life as a child from the real world tears just a little bit more. The first couple of times, you put a Band-Aid over the rip and the tear knits together. Sometimes there‘s a scar, but maybe not, and you go on. You try to pretend that the worst betrayals—when you discover your parents don‘t love each other, say—have healed. But, eventually, the cuts are too deep and the membrane shreds and that curtain can never be drawn again. Maybe that‘s when you grow up.
This was Dr. Kirby, my godfather. Our friend.
So I didn‘t fight. I did say no and I began to cry. All that should‘ve been enough—hell, the thing should never have begun—but it wasn‘t. Dr. Kirby fumbled at my blouse, jammed his knee between my legs and levered them apart. A button from my blouse popped then another and another, and I pushed at his shoulders and said no Dr.
Kirby no no no—
Hey!
Dr. Kirby started.
Eyes streaming, I looked past his shoulder—and then I simply wanted to die.
Because—of course—it was Mr. Anderson.
23: a
Dr. Kirby jumped back as if my skin was acid. Oh, hey, he said.
What‘s going on here? Mr. Anderson‘s eyes flicked from Dr. Kirby to me and then dropped to the floor and my buttons scattered there like tiny white Tiddlywinks. His face changed, shifting from shock to comprehension to black fury.
Dr. Kirby saw it, too. I was just leaving, he said, bullying his way out the door and practically lunging for the stairs. Jenna, tell your parents good-bye, all right?
Hey, said Mr. Anderson as Dr. Kirby clattered down to the foyer. Mr. Anderson started for the stairs. Hey!
I found my voice. Mr. Anderson, I—
Stay here, Jenna, just stay here! And then he was banging down the stairs after Dr. Kirby.
I took off after them both. By the time I hit the foyer, Mr. Anderson was already out the front door. I heard shouts. The cook came scurrying out of the kitchen in a flutter of white apron. What—? she began.
Get my parents! Get help! Then I was out the door, too.
b
Our driveway‘s gravel and Dr. Kirby bobbed and lurched, slipping and skidding on loose stone. He was faster than I thought he would be and he might‘ve gotten to his car if Mr. Anderson wasn‘t a runner. In six lunging strides, Mr. Anderson closed the gap, snagged Dr. Kirby‘s collar, then whipped him around like a sack of laundry. Dr. Kirby gave a startled yelp and half-turned, his arms flailing, but Mr. Anderson was strong. Dr. Kirby‘s feet left the ground as Mr. Anderson slammed him against a minivan. The van rocked and then there was the keening wail of an alarm, and Dr. Kirby was screaming the same high note, swatting at Mr. Anderson, trying to land a punch. Mr. Anderson‘s fists bunched in Dr.
Kirby‘s lapels and then he was cursing and smashing Dr. Kirby against the van once, twice—
What the— Someone swore, blew past me: my father. I didn‘t know he could move that fast. In another second, he and another man had Mr. Anderson‘s arms and were dragging him off: Break it up, break it up, break it—!
That pretty much killed the party.
c
Afterward—after Dr. Kirby realized he had a split lip and started howling about suing Mr. Anderson, after my father got Dr. Kirby ice for his lip, after the guests spawned for their cars—the adults went into my father‘s study and talked for twenty minutes. I waited in the kitchen and watched the catering crew clear dishes until my father called for me.
My father‘s study is paneled oak and red leather and framed diplomas and pictures and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather volumes he‘s never read. The room smells like oranges from the oill the housekeeper uses on the wood. My father was sitting behind his desk, a massive mahogany antique like the kind the president uses. Mr.
Anderson and Dr. Kirby were in the wing-backed chairs my father reserved for visitors.
Meryl and my mother perched on a small love seat to one side. My mother was wringing her hands and her skin was so pale her eyes looked penned on with a Sharpie. Meryl just looked disgusted.
Mr. Anderson stood as I entered. The reddish-blush of a bruise stained his right cheek, but no one had bothered getting him any ice. Take my seat, he said.
She‘s fine, said my father.
Mr. Anderson gave him a searching look, then shrugged but stayed on his feet, moving just a little closer to me. After an awkward pause, my father—annoyed—said,
Jenna, do you or do you not have money Dr. Kirby gave you?
The hundred dollars. I‘d completely forgotten. The bill was still crumpled in my breast pocket. I nodded.
There, you see? Dr. Kirby‘s lower lip was the size of a sausage. I told you, Elliot, he said. I was giving her a tip—
That‘s not what it was, Mr. Anderson interrupted.
—just like I‘ve done before, Dr. Kirby continued. I couldn‘t think of any time before that he‘d ever given me any kind of tip, but he pushed on: Elliot, for chrissake, I‘ve known Jenna since she was a baby. Can‘t a godfather give his goddaughter a tip for all the hard work she‘s done this evening? We were just giving each other a little hug good-bye and that‘s all. Now I‘m willing to let this go—
I‘ll just bet you are. Mr. Anderson‘s voice was low and I was standing next to him, so I was the only one who heard.
—because there‘s clearly been a misunderstanding. I‘d hate for this to come between us, Elliot. Dr. Kirby spread his hands. I mean, we have to work together. We‘ve got the office to think of.
And you have your daughter, Mr. Anderson said to my father. Think of her.
Oh, believe me, I do. My father‘s tone was brittle as dried leaves. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. Listen, I appreciate you showing an interest in Jenna, I really do.