Drowning Instinct

Page 28

Hey, you said we had to refuel. Just doing what the coach said, and then I yawned.
Jenna, honestly, go to sleep. It‘s okay.
I don‘t want to sleep, I murmured, but I let my head fall back against the couch. I don‘t ever want to sleep again.
Why not?
So I told him the truth. It just came out. I don‘t know why. Maybe it was because I didn‘t think there was anything to lose and . . . well, so much of my life was constructed of lies of one sort or another. But this was Mr. Anderson‘s private place, and I thought it might be big and safe enough to hold my secrets, too.
So I said to the ceiling, Because this is our last day and I don‘t want to waste it.
There will be plenty of time to sleep when I‘m not with you. There‘ll be the rest of my life.
b
The fire cracked and sputtered. Rain slashed at the windows. Mr. Anderson said nothing. It was so quiet that when I swallowed, I heard thunder.
I couldn‘t look at him. What had I done? Why couldn‘t I keep my mouth shut? I‘d ruined everything. Would he even want me on the team now? Who wanted a little girl making googly eyes every time he walked by? He was probably trying to figure out what to say so the little dorkette wouldn‘t go all suicidal on him. God, I should leave. Maybe I‘d catch pneumonia and die and save him the trouble of getting rid of me.
But I couldn‘t move. Couldn‘t breathe. Didn‘t dare to.
Then Mr. Anderson let go of a small, slow breath that wasn‘t quite a sigh—more like something was coming undone in his chest. Oh hell, he said.
The way he said that . . . it was like the world was a bell jar that had exploded, suddenly, in a shower of razor-sharp glass. I thought of my scissors, the kissing knife. I would cut and cut and cut right down to the bone and bleed, the way my heart was at that very moment.
I had to get out of there.
I‘m sorry. My voice came out raw and ragged and bloody. Hurriedly, I straightened, the blanket falling from my shoulders as I struggled to stand, but my feet tangled and I nearly crashed into the coffee table.
Whoa, whoa. Mr. Anderson snatched my wrist and then he was standing, and I was looking everywhere—the floor, the fire, the door—everywhere but at his face.
Jenna—
I pulled, but he wouldn‘t let go. I‘m sorry. I shouldn‘t have said that. I should go.
Please.
No. He didn‘t sound angry. His hand was still around my wrist. I guess I could‘ve pulled harder, but I didn‘t. He said, I‘m the one who‘s sorry. I didn‘t mean what I said. It came out all wrong. We should . . . we should talk about this, how you . . . how you feel.
How I felt. Yeah, let‘s discuss how the crazy, pathetic little psychopath feels. It would be just so psychiatric. What‘s to talk about? I heard the note of desperation in my voice and, to my horror, the sob welling up from somewhere deep in my chest. My eyes brimmed. I‘m sorry; I should go.
Jenna. I remember his voice was husky and low, and then his hands were gripping my shoulders. Jenna, please. Please, look at me.
I did—and that‘s when I realized that eyes really are windows to the soul.
Don‘t go, he whispered.
c
Okay, time-out.
I know what you‘re thinking, Bobby. You‘re thinking I made this one up, too. I mean, it‘s too perfect, right? The rain, the fire, the cabin that just happened to be where we needed it, the tea and cheese and blankets and blah, blah, blah. Only happens in fairy tales, that‘s what you‘re thinking.
But this happened, Bob. This is exactly the way it went down.
I know something else, too. I‘m doing it again, buzzing around the moment, flitting away like a startled moth. Protecting myself from the memory, I guess.
Because if I could just stop the flow of time there or anywhere before that afternoon, the rest couldn‘t, wouldn‘t spin out.
And then I wouldn‘t be here, in this emergency room—and neither, Bob, would you.
d
Don‘t go, he whispered again. I don‘t want you to. Please.
When he touched me—held me like that—something unraveled inside, like my heart was the knot of a flower and all the petals had suddenly unfurled. My knees went watery and weak and wobbly, the way they did when I ran hard and fast and for a very long time. I felt like I had been running forever and ever and ever and then I was falling, so fast and . . .
And then we kissed.
Or I kissed him. Or he kissed me. I don‘t know. But I kissed him and he kissed me, hard, very hard, so hard it was like he was drinking me in and then it was as if some shuddering dam finally burst and we couldn‘t get close enough; we were pressing together and kissing and I had never been so thirsty and we were trembling and his hands were all over me and mine were on him, and his mouth tasted of smoky sweet tea and then, somehow, we were on the rug and he was moaning into my mouth and then his hands slid beneath the flannel shirt and touched me, me, only me, only my skin and then . . .
And then my scars shrieked.
I gasped. I went absolutely, completely rigid. I felt his surprise as his mind registered what he felt. He pulled back, his eyes wide with shock, and then it was like I‘d been suspended above myself somewhere and come crashing back into my body.
Don‘t. I turned my face away. I was so ashamed. I‘m so ugly. Don‘t look at me.
Don‘t touch me. Don‘t.
Jenna, Jenna, no, you‘re not, it‘s okay, shh, shh, honey, and then he‘d gathered me up again, his hand smoothing my hair, cupping the back of my head. Oh, Jenna, sweetheart . . . what the hell have you done to yourself?
34: a
I told him. About the fire and Matt rescuing me and how Grandpa MacAllister almost died. About the hospital and the grafts and then the cutting that started up after Matt was gone and, finally, that awful day my English teacher stared in horror at the blood soaking my shirt. I hadn‘t tried to kill myself. The scissors had slipped, that was all. But no one—not the teacher, not the doctors, not my parents—cared about that.
I talked for a long time. I lay on my back on the rug, my face turned toward the fire because I didn‘t want to see how his face would change as the knowledge settled there—the way my parents‘ had when the shrink explained my condition, like I was this new and interesting bug no one had ever known existed. I talked until I was hoarse and the rain had stopped and Mr. Anderson ...
Mr. Anderson listened. He didn‘t say anything, interrupt, or ask questions. He lay on his side, head propped in one hand. His other hand rested on my stomach. (No, not skin to skin. Our clothes were on. The flannel shirt was buttoned. You are such a perv, Bob.)
So I couldn‘t go back to my old school, I said to the fire, not after all that. But I don‘t fit in at Turing either and I don‘t know what all this has been for. My family‘s falling apart; my mother‘s a drunk; my dad‘s screwing around; Matt‘s still gone. Things are better when I cut. That‘s the one thing I can control. God, I‘m such a screwup.
Do you want me to agree? Mr. Anderson said. Jenna, has it ever occurred to you that so long as you keep cutting, your parents stay together?
My cheeks burned. Rebecca, my therapist, said that. She said that my being ill was my way of making sure the family stayed together, but that all the cutting was symbolic.
Not like a death by a thousand cuts or anything. She said it was like this fantasy. I could cut myself, but I would always heal. I cut when the family‘s falling apart, but then I heal and the family‘s back together.
When was the last time you cut yourself? When I didn‘t answer, he said, Was it when that bastard at the party . . . ?
Almost. My mouth wouldn‘t make the words that should come after that: But I didn’t because I would’ve used your knife and I knew you would never hurt me, so I didn’t and don’t you see, you saved me. Labor Day. When Grandpa touched me.
He said nothing. The fire popped. I closed my eyes and studied the purple after-images of the fire scorched on the darkness. I heard his clothes rustle when he moved.
Then he said, very gently, Jenna, when was the last time he hurt you?
No one, not even my shrink, had ever asked me that. That was because no one else knew, or was supposed to know because then bad things would happen—as they had already.
Not for a long time. I still couldn‘t look at him. Not . . . I forced it out. Not since the fire.
So it was the fire that stopped him.
I nodded. He . . . he had a couple strokes in the hospital and now he ... he‘s just ...
he can‘t ...
Who knows, Jenna? Who knows he hurt you, besides me? Who do you talk to about this?
Now I did open my eyes. His were serious and held me the way arms never could.
Matt, I said.
b
What I wasn‘t prepared for was his reaction. Mr. Anderson‘s eyes narrowed, and then his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. He said, carefully now, When was the last time you actually spoke to your brother?
The question caught me off guard. A little finger of alarm crept down my spine.
About two years ago. Maybe two and a half.
Before you started cutting. He said it as a statement of fact, not a question. So . .
. he doesn‘t come home on leave? He doesn‘t call?
No, I told you; my parents didn‘t want him to enlist.
I‘m not sure that answers my question. How do you keep in touch?
E-mail. I keep all his e-mails separate so there‘s no chance Mom will see. It would just . . . she would be upset.
That a sister would keep in touch with her brother?
I said nothing.
When was the last time you e-mailed?
A long time. Since . . . pretty much since the night you drove me home from school. The night we . . . the night Mom was ...
He waited, but when I didn‘t go on, he said, Do you understand why you haven‘t?