Crimes of the Sarahs (29 page)

I feel cornered. I feel like maybe I should help Sarah A. I mean, our plans to haul her out to the car certainly didn’t work. Maybe this one last act of friendship is all she needs.

“I’ll help you,” I say. “I’ll stand by the lake.”

“What about you?” Sarah A asks Sarah C.

“Okay,” Sarah C says. “I’ll stay here with you. But I’m not touching her computer.”

Sarah A releases Sarah C and she stumbles forward, gasping for breath.

“By the way, you two are terrible at restraining people. You should take a self-defense class,” Sarah A says. “Or buy some mace.”

So there it is. Sarah A won. We assume our positions. Sarah A and Sarah C remain inside the cabin. Sarah B stands approximately ten feet away from the cabin. And I stand, John Glenn at my side, almost thirty feet away from Sarah B. And the woman in the kayak is about fifty yards away from the lake’s edge. It’s somewhat of a relief to know that I’m taking part in the Sarahs’ last crime ever. No handcuffs. No lineups. No prison jumpsuits. John Glenn lowers his head and laps up several drinks of water.

“Nice day!” I yell to the woman in the kayak.

“Don’t try to talk to her,” Sarah B says to me. “That’s suspicious.”

“We live in the Midwest. Polite conversation is expected of us,” I say.

“Are you almost done?” Sarah B asks.

“We found essays!” Sarah A yells.

“We don’t even know if they’re entrance essays,” Sarah C says.

Did she find another file? I thought she found the one she wanted already. There Sarah A goes again. Wanting more and more and more.

“Keep it down,” I say. “I can totally hear you. Your voices probably carry across the water.”

I watch the woman dip her oars in the calm lake. She pulls through the water, aiming her small boat toward the shore. I watch the kayak’s tip grow closer. Every time she digs into the water with her oar, she stirs the lake into fragile shivers.

“You’re really good at that,” I yell. “I mean, you’ve got so much speed.”

The woman in the kayak tosses back her head and laughs. She seems nice. I look over at Sarah B. She pulls her baseball cap off and wipes her forehead.

“Hurry up,” I hear her say.

Sarah A bolts out of the cabin and races toward me. She kicks off her sneakers and peels out of her socks. “She needs more time. She’s printing stuff out,” she says.

“We’re using the woman’s printer?” I ask.

“Of course,” Sarah A says. “And we need to stall Gail.”

“How will you stall her?” I ask.

“Tip her boat and dump her in the water,” Sarah A says. “I’ll make it look like an accident.”

“That’s stupid,” I say.

I reach out and grab Sarah A by the wrist.

“Tell Sarah C to stop printing stuff. Let’s end this. We’ve got time,” I say.

“No. It’s useful information,” Sarah A says. “We’re dumping Gail.”

“She looks like a strong swimmer. That might not slow her down,” I say.

“So I’ll whack her with the paddle,” Sarah A says.

I tighten my hold on her wrist and stare right into her eyes. I want her to be kidding.

“You can’t attack her with her own oar,” I say.

“Why not?” Sarah A asks.

“That’s assault,” I say.

“I’ll hit her in the head. I’ll knock her out. She won’t remember anything. Head injuries usually lead to memory loss,” Sarah A says.

Why have multiple Sarahs begun to want to knock other people out? It must be stress.

“That’s crazy,” I say.

“Don’t call me that.”

She rips her arm away from me and runs down the long, narrow dock. Her feet sound like drums. I panic. I need to stop her.

“Get her, John Glenn!” I yell.

I slap him on his rump to encourage an enthusiastic pursuit, but he sits down. Sarah A dives off the dock and takes
long strokes toward the kayak. I can’t believe she’s going to do this.

“She’s done!” Sarah B yells.

I look back to the cabin. Sarah B is racing down the steps toward my car. She’s holding a stack of papers. Our last crime is finished. There’s no need for further drama.

“Come back!” I call, flashing the peace sign over and over.

But Sarah A doesn’t stop. She’s traveling through the lake on a course that’s going to intercept Gail’s kayak. Before I know what I’m doing, I feel wet. I’m in the water, swimming after my awful, crazy friend. At first, John Glenn is at my side, dog paddling with me, but he’s not used to being in deep water. After several feet, I watch him turn back to shore. I don’t have that option. I need to correct this disaster.

It’s surprising to me that I’m able to overtake Sarah A. Maybe she’s only the strongest Sarah on land. Because here I am, within striking distance. I grab on to her foot, so that she knows that I’m here. This must really freak her out, because she kicks her heel free and slips onto her back. At first I think she’s going to float on her back. Instead, she splashes the water uncontrollably with her arms.

“Stop it,” I say. “Go back with me.”

But Sarah A seems to be on a whole other planet. She’s slapping at the water, fighting to keep her head up. It’s like she’s forgotten how to swim or float or anything.

“Relax,” I say.

I try to reach around her to grab her waist, but she pushes away from me. I reach for her again, but she struggles against me. I’m trying not to swallow water. But it’s hard. We’re both whipping the lake into a white foam and things feel very out of control. I don’t want to give up. But I don’t know what to do. The kayak isn’t that far away from us either.

“You’ll flip me!” I hear a voice yell. “Are you drowning?”

I can’t tell if Sarah A is in trouble, or if she’s purposely trying to tip the kayak. She looks like she’s drowning, or at least she looks like how I imagine a person who’s drowning would look. But I don’t want to capsize anybody. And I can’t keep wrestling with Sarah A in this deep water. My muscles are tired and I can’t seem to take in enough air. I don’t try a third time. I let go of her. And I let go of the idea that I can neatly save everything by pulling this unwilling person back to shore.

“Sarah A?” I yell. “I’m going back.”

She continues to flail as the kayak approaches. But she’s not trying to tip the boat. She’s in trouble. She keeps slipping under the water. Then it happens. She goes under and she stays under. I watch the top of her blonde head disappear. It doesn’t resurface.

“She’s drowning!” I yell.

Gail is wearing a life jacket. She rolls the kayak on its side and slips into the lake.

“I’ve got her,” she says.

I watch Gail lift a very pale Sarah above the waterline.

“Can you make it back to shore?” she asks me.

I nod. And then roll over onto my back, kicking hard to make it to the dock. I don’t bother asking her about the welfare of the kayak. I figure in matters of life and death, boats don’t figure into the equation.

I make it back before Sarah A and Gail. Sarah C and Sarah B are waiting for me. They each grab one of my arms and haul me onto the dock. John Glenn nervously runs back and forth.

“Are you okay?” Sarah B asks. “Did you swallow water?”

I cough and roll onto my side.

“Hit her back,” Sarah B says. “She’s filled with water.”

“I don’t think that’s what you do,” Sarah C says. “It’s not like she’s choking on a grape.”

They each sit beside me. Sarah C brushes my wet hair away from my face, and Sarah B holds my hand. John Glenn protectively sniffs my soggy sneakers.

“You don’t look blue,” Sarah B says. “That’s a good sign.”

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. I didn’t save Sarah A. I
couldn’t
save Sarah A. I left her in the middle of a lake to die.

“She wouldn’t let me help her,” I say.

“She’s fine,” Sarah C says. “She was acting crazy. She could have drowned you both.”

“Maybe if I could have gotten a better grip on her heel,” I say. “Or if I could have reached her calf.”

“People who are drowning are totally dangerous, because they’re so panicky,” Sarah B says. “I think that’s part of the reason life preservers have such long ropes.”

“If I was on land, I bet it would’ve been different,” I say.

“She’s fine,” Sarah C says.

“She is so
not
fine,” I say.

I open my eyes and turn to look at Sarah B and Sarah C. Their faces look so kind and concerned. Do they always look this way? I close my eyes again. The warm dock feels solid and pleasant beneath me.

“We’re going to check on Sarah A,” Sarah C says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

John Glenn curls up next to me. It feels so nice to have a dog. I can hear Sarah A being lifted onto the dock by the other Sarahs.

“Let’s set her on the dock,” Gail says.

All three of them haul Sarah A out of the water.

“I’m okay,” Sarah A says. “I got in over my head.”

“We know,” Sarah C says.

“She’ll be okay,” Gail says. Her voice is low and strong.

“Thanks so much,” Sarah C says.

“It’s what any decent person would have done,” Gail says.

“I’m just thankful you’re a decent person,” Sarah B says.

“Your friend is staying in that cabin there, right?” Gail asks, pointing to Sarah A’s weekend cabin.

“Yeah, for a couple of nights,” Sarah B says. “I’m staying with her tonight.”

“That’s good. Do you need help getting her to her cabin?” Gail asks.

“We’ve got her,” Sarah C says.

“I’m fine,” Sarah A says. “I don’t need any more help.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you. Even if the circumstances were fairly dramatic,” Gail says. “Stop by later if you want. I’ve got to fetch my kayak before she makes it to Lake Superior.” Gail waves good-bye.

“Wow, you have huge biceps, do you work out?” Sarah B asks.

“At my age, lifting weights is highly recommended,” Gail says.

“What’s your age?” Sarah B asks.

“If you must know, I’m a spry sixty-five.”

Gail does not look like an elderly person to me. She looks like the kind of person who hikes.

At the mention of the word “kayak,” John Glenn leaps to his feet and commences barking.

“John Glenn, no,” I say.

“You named your dog John Glenn?” she asks.

“Yes.” I’m tempted to ask Gail her professional opinion
about this. She’d know whether or not I’d score brownie points for writing a college essay about my shelter rescue dog. But it seems a bit inappropriate to bring up now, after this near-death experience.

“That’s too bad about John Glenn,” Gail says.

“Did he die?” Sarah B asks.

“No, not too long ago he caused a serious car wreck in Ohio. He failed to yield and put himself, his wife, and the driver of the car he hit in the hospital.”

“That’s awful,” Sarah C says.

“Well, accidents happen,” Gail says. “You girls really should stick closer to shore. This is a pretty wide lake.”

She smiles and waves and jumps into the lake.

“Thanks!” I call again.

All four of us wave, even the somewhat stunned Sarah A.

“What now?” I ask.

“I think you should rename John Glenn before you write that essay,” Sarah C says.

“Really?” I ask.

“What about Neil Armstrong?” Sarah C asks.

“What about Lou Gehrig?” Sarah B asks.

“That’s so weird,” I say. “Did you know that they were all members of the same fraternity, Phi Delta Theta? So was the twenty-third U.S. president, Benjamin Harrison, and the architect Frank Lloyd Wright.”

“That seems like a lot of useless information,” Sarah A says.

“What?” I ask.

I’m a bit surprised and saddened that after her near-death experience she’s so eager to spew negativity.

“Nobody but a nerd would know that Benjamin Harrison was a U.S. president,” Sarah A says.

“I knew that,” Sarah C says.

Sarah A sits up and coughs. Then she rolls her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah A says. “You don’t need to rename your dog. He looks like a John Glenn, and just because an ex-astronaut failed to yield, it doesn’t make him a bad guy.”

I like this idea.

“You’re right,” I say. “His name stays.”

“So now what?” Sarah B asks.

“Do you really have to spend the night here?” I ask. “Couldn’t you spend it with one of us?”

“My dad totally wouldn’t mind,” Sarah B says.

Sarah A blinks several times.

“Roman is going to come up to visit,” Sarah A says.

“Forget Roman,” Sarah C says.

“But I like Roman,” Sarah A says.

“What about his pheromones?” I ask.

“I like those too,” Sarah A says.

“But you haven’t smelled his pillow in weeks,” I say.

“I’ve been smelling the real thing,” Sarah A says.

“You could call him on my cell phone,” I say.

“What would I say?” Sarah A asks.

“That you’re staying at my house,” Sarah B says.

Sarah A gathers her wet hair between her hands and twists it hard, wringing the lake’s water from her ponytail.

“Let’s get your stuff and get out of here,” I say.

Sarah A nods.

“It’ll be a snug fit,” I say.

Sarah A grabs her drink from the roof and offers to let Sarah C ride shotgun, because of her long legs. This is the first time Sarah A has ever made that considerate gesture.

“Do you have enough room back there?” Sarah C asks.

“No,” Sarah A says. “And I’ve got a wet dog on my lap.”

“It’s only an hour and a half home,” I say.

We all laugh.

“Hey, I’ve got some bad news,” Sarah C says.

“What?” I ask.

“Those papers I printed out. They’re not what we thought they were,” Sarah C says.

“What are they?” Sarah A asks.

“They’re the freshmen entrance requirements for Western Michigan University. Actually, I think it’s stuff you can download off their website.”

“No way,” Sarah A says.

“Yes way,” Sarah C says. “Did Gail tell you that she worked for Michigan?”

“I thought she said Michigan,” Sarah A says.

I turn on the radio. This is sort of disappointing news. None of us want to go to Western. We want to get away from home and have a real college experience.

“What should we do with that stuff?” Sarah B asks.