Drowning Instinct (17 page)

And then it was Saturday.

When my alarm went off and classical music swelled, the first thing I thought was:
This is our last day. By this time tomorrow, nothing will be the same.

I almost didn‘t want to get out of bed. What was the point? Tonight, my parents would come back. Monday, I would start school again. I would go back to being me. I would avoid the cafeteria; Danielle would continue to hate me; David might drop by the library again, but . . . well, whatever. Of course, I‘d see Mr. Anderson again. Friday, he‘d asked, one more time, if I would
please
be his TA, although he‘d been smiling. He knew he‘d won that particular battle just as I knew I‘d show for cross-country practice on Monday afternoon if for no other reason than to be near him.

But I knew nothing would be the same. There would be other kids, more and different demands on his attention. His wife would come home, eventually. When that happened, I doubted he‘d be inviting me back for breakfast—if we still ran together at all.

As soon as I left this afternoon, he‘d strip the sheets from the guest bed even though I‘d never slept there and toss the towels in the wash, maybe even that old robe. By this evening, my presence would be erased from his house.

But I’m here now. She isn’t. School’s not. Don’t ruin this.

The weather had been turning steadily colder all week and I could feel it in the McMansion now. It was still dark when I slid from beneath my blankets, which made it feel ten times colder. Walking on my bedroom floor was like crossing an ice rink in my bare feet and I shivered as I pulled on my cold-weather running gear. Downstairs, I made oatmeal in the microwave, sliced up a banana and threw in a handful of almonds, and then washed it all down with a cup of tea I made as hot as I could stand, just to have something warm to hold in my hands. I felt stiff and creaky and
angry
, like Saturday had rolled around just to piss me off.

I tuned to an NPR station on the way over. Usually that early, they played something easy on the ears—Mozart, Bach, Vivaldi. What came out of the speakers was movie music, violins and clean high brass. I recognized it immediately as Hansen‘s symphony, the part they‘d used right after Ripley blasts the alien into space. Which is a very weird scene, actually, because she‘s singing to the monster the whole time:
You are
my lucky star, lucky, lucky, lucky
. Almost like the alien‘s her, welll. . . her lover. (Watch it again, Bob. Listen to the way Ripley‘s breathing, too. It‘s kind of kinky.) The piece ended by the time I was turning off onto Mr. Anderson‘s road. I didn‘t know if the music was a good or bad omen. I was afraid to think what it was.

We were doing a long run that morning, fifteen miles, and already planned to drive to the Lake Michigan shore to follow a route Mr. Anderson had mapped.

―But I don‘t like the look of those clouds,‖ he said. ―Change of plans. Let‘s run from here, but we‘ll go on this trail I know that winds north of the park. That way, if it storms, we‘ll have more protection. We‘ll still get wet, but just not
as
wet.‖

The trail was dirt, gnarly with roots, and hemmed by barren trees on either side.

Even in the cold, a thick mist from the lake wound over the ground and between the trees.

With no leaves to slow it down, blades of an icy north wind sliced my face, cutting tears.

Neither of us said much. Our route took us steadily uphill. Then, maybe five miles into the run, a rumble of thunder rolled through the trees and the wind picked up, flinging needles of sleet at my cheeks. I glanced up at the patchwork of sky just as a flash of lightning stitched through gray clouds. The sky to the north looked like a fresh, black bruise.

Mr. Anderson pulled up, panting. ―This is no good. We need to turn back.‖ He blotted sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ―If we run
really
fast, we might make it.‖

We almost did. We raced back, legs pounding the earth, arms pumping, and were just coming up to the last rise, a small bald cap of meadow. Below, there was the lake and Mr. Anderson‘s house on the far shore. Then the clouds just broke, cracked wide open, and the rain came straight down in icy, hard sheets that soaked us in seconds.

―Follow me!‖ The rain was so hard and loud, he had to put his mouth by my ear and shout. Water was streaming from his hair and sleet bounced off his cheeks. His clothes were soggy and dragged on his body as if he‘d been fished up from the bottom of the lake.

―I know a place we can go to wait it out!‖

I followed him as he plunged into the woods. The trail was mushy, the mud squelching beneath our shoes, and treacherous with slick leaves. The sleet and rain were so heavy it was like trying to see through a sheet of steel. Ahead, I could just make out the lake through breaks in the trees, but I knew from experience we were still a good three miles out. Then Mr. Anderson veered right, away from the house, and I realized he was heading down the thin ribbon of that path I‘d noticed earlier in the week.

―It‘s not far!‖ Mr. Anderson called over his shoulder. ―Another half mile!‖

A few moments later, the trees parted and the cottage— a two-story Cape with cedar shingles—appeared in a small clearing. The screen door gave with a loud squall and then we were ducking under the porch and out of the rain.

―That‘s better,‖ Mr. Anderson huffed. ―Just let me . . .‖ He knelt, dug around in a gray and blue wide-mouth jug and came up with an old-fashioned iron key. ―I don‘t know why I bother. No one ever comes here but me,‖ he said as he fitted the key into the lock.

The latch gave with a loud, solid thunk and then Mr. Anderson was pushing inside and feeling along the wall for the light switch. ―Come on. There are towels inside and a shower.

Just give me a second and . . .‖

―What is this—‖ I began and then stopped as the lights popped on. The cabin was like something out of a fairy tale: light hardwood, a scatter of fur rugs, a leather sofa facing a stone fireplace and windows looking down at the lake. To the left was the kitchen, complete with wood stove, rustic wooden table, and two straight-back chairs. A wrought-iron staircase wound to an open loft. To the right and leading off the living room was a door, open just a crack. I caught a glimpse of bookshelves and the corner of a table.

―Wow. This is
great
.‖

―Yeah, I like it.‖ Mr. Anderson was shucking out of his running jacket. Rainwater streamed from his hair to soak his shirt. ―I guess you‘d call this my home away from home, with all the comforts and none of the hassles. The original place was a hunting cabin, just this room and the kitchen with a bathroom and bunks where the porch is now. When I took over the house, I redid the whole thing. This is where I come to read and think and listen to music, write. Sometimes I hunker down for a couple of days, just to get away. I spent a lot of time here, actually, even in the winter. It‘s quiet.‖ He grinned. ―Well, now, anyway. The old cabin used to have a corrugated tin roof. Sounded like I was in pan of Jiffy Pop.‖

―It‘s beautiful,‖ I said. I hadn‘t moved from the front mat where I was making an impressive puddle. ―I‘m going to get your floor wet.‖

―Hang on.‖ Mr. Anderson pulled off his shoes, peeled out of his socks and padded, dripping and barefoot, to a bench. Lifting the seat, he reached in and pulled out an armload of towels. ―Here,‖ he said, shaking out a large beach towel. ―Shower‘s upstairs in the loft, to your right. There are some dry clothes in the closet that ought to fit. I‘ll get a fire started and make us some tea.‖

I didn‘t need convincing. Now that I was out of the rain, the cold really had its claws in me, and I couldn‘t stop shaking. The loft was huge with another fireplace and a small sitting area with a fur rug, game table, and two upholstered chairs. Further back was a four-poster bed with a patchwork quilt and a rainbow of throw pillows. Below, I heard Mr.

Anderson moving around, heard the dull thud of cabinet doors, the rattle of pots. The hardwood floor creaked when I walked across and I was suddenly self-conscious, knowing that Mr. Anderson could hear everything. I wondered if he gave that a second thought and then decided I was being stupid.

The bathroom was off the loft, down a short hall with a closet on either side, and it was all white: white tile, white pedestal sink, a glare-white shower stall. There was a mirror over the sink. I looked drowned, my hair lank and stringy, my lips blue. Even my scars looked shriveled. My skin was so cold it got these red blotches and started to itch and then ache under the hot water. Still, I got out before I wanted to. In the closet, I‘d found a flannel shirt that was only a size too large and pulled on a pair of sweatpants that puddled around my ankles, but they were better than nothing. I didn‘t want to leave the bathroom; the air was toasty and moist and I was still shaking. Gathering my running clothes into my towel, I steeled myself and opened the door, wincing as a ball of cold air broke over my face. ―Your turn,‖ I called.

―Coming.‖ I heard Mr. Anderson‘s footsteps and then saw his head as he mounted the stairs. His eyes ran down my body, taking in my clothes. ―You still look pretty cold.

Was that all you could find?‖

―I-I‘m ok-k-okay,‖ I said, and then laughed. My lips were trembling with cold.

―M-maybe n-not.‖

―Go downstairs. The fire‘s going and I made a pot of tea. There‘s a blanket you can use, too, and if you dig in that bench, there are some nice warm socks. I‘ll be down in a few minutes.‖

Downstairs, Sinatra was crooning softly about flying to the moon. A fire crackled and there were plates of cheese and crackers, nuts and dried fruit on a coffee table. A pot of tea and two mugs, sugar, some cream.

I also noticed that the door to Mr. Anderson‘s study was half-open, as if he‘d slipped in for a moment and forgotten to pull the door shut. Or, maybe, wasn‘t worried about anything I might see. Look at it another way, this might even have been an invitation.

Maybe.

I listened for a moment, heard the water still running and then eased into his study.

Just a quick peek.

A bay, plate-glass window, with a window seat and cushions, took up the far wall.

Because the cabin was on a rise, I could see both the forest and the lake. His house was visible, too, though just barely because of the trees and that steel sheet of rain still coming down strong. Even so, I could make out the deck along the back, and he‘d left a light on in the kitchen.

The other three walls were faced with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and held an expensive-looking sound system and lots of books: hardbacks and expensive leather-bound editions with gold lettering, along with paperbacks. The shelves also held a collection of fossils and rocks—crystals, mostly—and glass paperweights like the ones we‘d seen at the museum. There was one other chair, a comfortable burgundy leather with a matching ottoman, with a Tiffany-style floor lamp to the right. A glass perfume bottle squatted on a small dark table right alongside and I spotted a small stack of coasters for Mr. Anderson‘s mug or glass.

His desk faced the window. A laptop squatted dead center; a small printer sat alongside and to the left. The laptop‘s screen was dark, but the power light glowed green.

There was a fountain pen on his desk, fat and black, one of those fancy Montblanc jobs in a black glass holder. I teased the pen out. The nib was silvery metal edged with gold or brass. I touched one index finger to the tip and came away with a small dot of blue ink. I imagined him sitting here, admiring the view, carefully forming letters with this pen.

Yes, I could see how he might spend hours, days here curled up on the window seat or at this desk, cozy and safe, in his own little world. I would never want to leave.

His desk had only one drawer, locked, which was strange. I looked around for the place where he might hide a key but saw nothing obvious. I looked at his laptop for a long moment and then reached for the touchpad....

Above, the sound of the shower gurgled and then cut out.

My hand hovered over the touchpad. I was itching to see what he‘d been looking at.

Just a touch and then I would know because I wanted to know everything about him.

But then I felt bad. Mr. Anderson trusted me. What would he think if he caught me snooping?

Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

And yet: at the door, I stole a last look back over my shoulder. Let my gaze brush over the shelves, those books, that desk. The view from that window.

There was something missing. Something that should be here but wasn‘t. I just didn‘t know what.

Not then, anyway.

33: a

―You look comfortable.‖ Mr. Anderson stood on the stairs, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel.

―Mmmm.‖ The tea had been hot and strong and sweet. I‘d gotten as close to the fire as I could without singeing my eyebrows. Outside, the rain continued its ceaseless drumming. I was as drowsy as a lizard on a hot rock and happier than I‘d been in years.

He laughed. ―There‘s that bed upstairs, if you want to nap. We‘re not going anywhere for a while, not until this stops.‖

―Too cold upstairs. I‘ll be fine.‖

―Yeah, I‘ve heard that from you before. Well, sleep here, if you want. I won‘t bother you.‖ Mr. Anderson slid down next to me on the rug. He eyed the ravaged platters of cheese and dried fruit. ―Someone was hungry.‖

―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.‖