Miss Adventure (8 page)

We stop swimming and float, facing each other. I try try try not to think of my legs dangling in the water beneath me.

“What now?” I’ve always been a loud shouter, and every time I yell over to Jack a few feet away, I feel better.

“Get me the flare gun out of your left shoulder pocket!”

I dig at my shoulder frantically. “Oh, my God! Are we in trouble!?”

“We’re just testing the pockets!”

Oh. Right. That’s why I’m here.

And that’s how it goes. He has me swim around and dunk under, then asks me to get something out of a pocket.

The pockets are harder to get at in the water than I thought they would be, and more than one power bar or piece of equipment floats to the bottom, however far down that is. The ones I successfully retrieve he then makes me put back. And I keep having to rest. Just being in the choppy water is taking its toll.

Finally the helicopter flies back into sight and my already frozen bones double-freeze up all over again. The dread reaches all the way into the muscles of my jaw.

The chopper has a ladder dangling from it.

A LADDER.

My stomach sinks to the unfathomable bottom of the sea. I’m pretty sure I’m going to faint. I didn’t think about how we’d get back into the chopper. But a ladder?

I’m scared to climb up or down ladders when they’re leaning against something, let alone dangling.

The flimsy thing is swaying all over the place. How am I supposed to climb that? And when I reach the top, how will I let go of the ladder to haul myself in?

Before the chopper gets too close, Jack swims right up to me and shouts in my ear. “I’ll go first. Once I start climbing, grab the ladder to anchor it. Once I’m up, we’ll haul you in. All you’ll have to do is hang on.”

“Okay!” I shout, and then get a choking mouthful of water.

While I’m trying to catch my breath, Jack grabs my feet, takes my flippers, and hooks them to his belt with his. Then he’s climbing up the ladder like a monkey. I grab the ladder and hang on.

This is the worst worst worst part.

I’m almost safe, but a shark or squid could still get me. I’m in the ocean, the middle of the ocean, all by myself.

Why can’t Jack climb faster? I thought he was supposed to be good at this kind of stuff. I get my feet into the ladder rungs and climb up so I’m just above the dangerous water.

I look around. Grey turbulent sky, grey turbulent sea. It’s amazing. And beautiful. And sublime. At this one moment, it poses no danger to me, and I think I love it.

But I want to be the person who loves it even
with
the danger. That’s why I’m here.

Because moments like this, moments suspended above the danger, almost never happen in life.

I feel the ladder start to pull me up. Jack is safely inside the chopper a million miles above me.

I let go of the ladder.

As I Nestea plunge back into the ocean, it’s just about the greatest feeling I’ve
ever
made happen in my life.

I give a whoop of joy and dive back under, face first, butt in the air. When my vest brings me right back up, I look up to the chopper to give Jack a thumbs up so he doesn’t think I’m in trouble.

This is my moment.

I swim and splash and kick. Then I get calm and still. I look around as the waves beat at me. Life is good.

* * * * *

But it’s too bad life isn’t quite as good as it is in made-for-TV movies. If it were, my Helicopter-Ocean Adventure would have cured my wimpiness forever and made me a brave person.

But it didn’t.

If it had, I wouldn’t be back in the hospital.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

No, Jack Hawkins, I do not want to tell you what happened. You were
there
, you moron. “Why don’t
you
tell me what happened instead,” I suggest. “How long have I been here?”

“A few hours. You had an anxiety attack at the airport, passed out, hit your head. Not hard. But, with your recent medical history, I wasn’t taking any chances.”

Oh, my God.

“This happened at the airport? You mean the helicopter and the ocean and the shark—it was all a dream? I have to do it again?”

“It happened at the airport when we got
back
,” he assures me. “The helicopter ride and the ocean were real, all right. I’m not too sure about the shark.”

“I
felt
it,” I insist. “It rubbed against my foot. I swear. You had my flippers, remember? My feet were bare, and I
felt
it. That’s why I jumped back onto the ladder so fast.”

“It was probably seaweed.”

“It was
moving.
”

“Seaweed moves in the water.”

“It was cold and slimy like a fish,” I say. “A
great fish
.”

The great fish moved silently
through the night water…

“Seaweed is cold and slimy,” Jack says.

“And it was
scratchy
,” I add. “I’ve watched
Shark Week
. I know shark skin is scratchy.”

“If you rub it one way,” he concedes. “You rub it the other way, it’s smooth like…like a wet pair of galoshes. But if you rub it the wrong way, it’s not just scratchy. It’ll make you bleed.”

I stare at him, clenching my teeth.

“Your foot’s not bleeding,” he says quietly.

I can feel angry tears burn behind my eyes. Could I really have been terrorized by seaweed AGAIN? In the middle of my Nestea plunge? I look away from Jack, down at my hospital gown. Still naked underneath. “Did they have to cut the wetsuit off me?”

Dear God, don’t let him make me do it again in a different suit.

“No,” he says. “It’s right over there.” He points to the thing lying like a selkie’s skin on one of those mauve hospital chairs. “They took it off you when they examined you.”

“How am I going to get home? I’m not squeezing into that thing again. Do you have any cash on you? Can you buy me a pair of scrubs or something?”

“I brought in some stuff from the truck.” He indicates a pile of clothes folded on the stand next to the bed.

“You’ll have to take me back to your house to get my suit,” I say. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Not tonight,” he says, dismissing my need for Gucci power gear. “I’m driving you straight home. Tomorrow I can take you back to the Into the Wild to get your car.”

I jut out my jaw. “But my suit.”

“You still have my pants. I’ll keep the suit for as long as I damn well please.”

* * * * *

Almost two hours later, he drives me home. And the ride is bizarre. Jack talks non-stop. And even weirder, he demands answers of me. Constantly.

“I don’t
know
which Hardy Boy dated Nancy Drew!” I tell him for the third time.

I swear he’s giving me a monster headache. Why does he even care? He thought Linda Carter played Nancy Drew on the TV show, for Pete’s sake.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” I say. “In the books, her favorite date is Ned Nickerson. And in the old books—the
real
ones—she would never fool around on him.”

“What’s your middle name?”

Just like that, he changes the subject, like he has a chamber loaded with questions. “Don’t have one.”

“Did you ever want one?”

Good lord. We’ve driven barely three miles and already I’ve heard him say more than I’ve heard him say since I’ve met him.

“Oh, my God.” I turn to look at him. “I have a concussion, don’t I? And you don’t want me to fall asleep. That’s why you’re talking to me.”

“Just a precaution.”

“Great.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, staring at the sluggish traffic, then he asks, “Who was your favorite character on
The A-Team
?”

“Why does this truck smell like Chinese food?” I demand instead. “I’m starving. Are there some egg rolls under the seat?”

“It’s the vegetable oil I use for fuel. I get it from a tempura place near my house.”

I suck in another delicious lungful. “Can you stop at Star Wok on the way home? Or McDonald’s? Or Burger King? Or a pizza place?”

“I called in an order to Jerry’s Deli when you were getting dressed. We’ll pick it up on the way to your place.”

“Good.” The mention of Jerry’s Deli makes my mouth actually water, and the promise of such delight to come puts me in an awesome mood, despite my throbbing head. I touch my brow and wince.

I can’t believe I got another forehead bruise, just as my head-butt bruise was almost gone. Luckily, though, when I passed out at the airport and landed on my face, I hit a parking curb with my forehead, thus saving my nose and teeth from getting broken. Plus, I didn’t die, which is really good. Now I have this really hot guy to drive me home.

And it’s weird, but it makes me feel all superior—to whom I have no idea—to have such a completely non-sexual relationship with such a sex god. As though I’m above it all or something. True, our platonic association has more to do with his finding me repulsive, but I so don’t care. It’s been months since my release from the hospital, and I finally have
someone
in my life.

“Mad Dog,” I sigh, sinking back into the seat, engulfed in a cloud of contentment.

“What?” he asks, nudging into a different lane.

“My favorite A-Team character, by far, is Mad Dog Murdoch. And by the way…” I take a deep breath. “Thanks. For taking me to the hospital and now this. You’re a pretty cool guy.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, pulling onto the exit ramp. "Because I’m spending the night.”

* * * * *

He’s in my pajamas, no less. Lucky for him I buy men’s pajamas, just so I’m extra comfy. Now he’s just as snug as can be, showered and cozy, wearing a pair of dark plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt.

Not that he has any intention of sleeping, though.

Hardly.

He won’t let me sleep either. And since it’s already been established that the whole sex thing is a non-issue, he’s stuck playing
Lord of the Rings
Trivial Pursuit with me. It’s the fourth board game we’ve played so far tonight. Serves him right. Though, I must say, for someone who didn’t seem too excited to play, he’s doing awfully well.

At ten to midnight, he wins the game.

“Bastard.”

“Wow,” he says, stretching his legs along my shabby-chic couch and nearly pushing me off. “A chicken and a sore loser. You didn’t get picked for too many teams when you were a kid, did you?”

“Hey,” I warn, cleaning up the game pieces.

“Just calling a spade a spade.”

“Right. Like you’re a defender of truth. No way you only saw the movies once.”

“I have. But I’ve read the books more than that.”

I slump back on the couch, giving Jack a dirty look. His shins are pressing against my back, making my slouch a very uncomfortable one. I just keep glaring at him. “I can’t believe I forgot. You never do things you suck at.”

He bends his knees, pulling his legs out from behind me. “I never said ‘never.’”

I shift so my back rests against the arm of the couch, making it so we’re facing each other from our opposite ends. “So once upon a time you sucked at something?”

“’Course,” he answers. “I wasn’t born doing everything right or knowing what I was good at.”

“So what did you do so badly?”

He doesn’t answer.

“C’mon. I’ve humiliated myself lots in front of you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve chosen a different path.” He sits up and folds the board into the box. “I’ve learned what things in life I want to avoid, and what things I want to pursue.” He puts the top back on the game box and looks at me with a blow-off kind of shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean? That I haven’t learned anything because I still manage to end up looking like a fool sometimes?”

He folds his hands, his elbows on his knees, and looks at me. “I don’t know, Lisa. You tell me.”

What a smug little cretin. “Maybe I just think some things are worth risking, even if I'm not sure and not perfect.”

He blinks at me, reminding me of Morris the Cat. “Maybe I won’t tell you about my life because it has nothing to do with our deal.”

And we’re not friends.

He doesn’t say it, but I can hear it echo in the silence.

Then, like the slap of a tide that you can’t beat to shore, the disillusionment and mortification wash over me. I realize that until this second, I was thinking that we had some kind of connection beyond the deal. Not a boy-girl connection. Not even friends, really. But still, a bond. Like the bond that develops between Nicholas Cage and Shirley MacLaine in
Guarding Tess
. Not exactly friends, but not exactly anything else, either. Like a Mulder-Scully rapport.

But no. I was wrong.

“Of course you don’t have to tell me anything,” I decide to concede with a smile. “I entered into this arrangement free and clear. Your exposing yourself to me to make me feel better was never part of the deal.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Jeez, I already agreed with him. You'd think he'd just shut up and leave me alone. “In any case,” I say with matter-of-fact clarity, “no one should ever be hounded into turning themselves inside out. Everyone should get to keep to themselves whatever they want. Except criminals.” I look right into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Jack looks at the floor, then back at me. “Look, Lisa,” he finally says, taking hold of my foot. “I know it’s been rough. What the Media did to you…”

“It hasn’t been rough,” I say, then do a bark of laughter-type throat noise. “I got six million dollars. Everyone should have it so rough.”

“That doesn’t replace what the Media stole from you, or what you lost.” Jack’s voice is too soft and too nice, especially considering what he really thinks of me.

I remember the things people said about me in the magazines. Some of those people were supposed to love me, but they humiliated me anyway. I can’t help but wonder if Jack read the articles. If he remembers.

Binge…barely fit into a size fourteen…bull-sized her meal…almost choked on the cheeseburger in her mouth….was so happy when Keith finally proposed this Christmas…Always had low self-esteem, poor thing, ever since she wet the bed at a friend’s house in fifth grade after watching
C.H.U.D.
….An incredible girlfriend, I don’t care what size she is….She was always jealous of my being skinnier, which is sad between sisters. She could be a decent size, too, if she just stopped eating.…I heard this loud creak. I thought she’d farted…When you eat like that, how can you expect to float down the aisle on a cloud?....The combination of big body size and low self-esteem is a tragedy of a modern, over-eating America.…She kept trying to compare herself to Marilyn Monroe...

I’d been in a coma, unable to comment, unable to defend myself. Unable to explain how scary
C.H.U.D.
was or how I wasn’t
always
comparing myself to Marilyn Monroe. And I don’t do it anymore now that I’m no longer blonde. It’s just that she was a size 12 like I was, or at least that’s what she tells Clark Gable in
The Misfits
.

“Jack,” I pull my knees in toward my chest, snatching my foot back. “I don’t want to get personal, either. Can we stop talking now?”

He doesn’t answer. Good.

But his silence is so condescending.

“Why are you so sure I need therapy,” I demand, “but you don’t?”

“Why am I here?” he asks instead of answering me. “You were in the hospital today, but I’m the only one with you. You didn’t call anyone. Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

“I thought this was all supposed to be a big secret!” Damn, talking that loudly really makes my head hurt.

“From the staff at Into the Wild,” he reminds me.

“If you didn’t want to drive me home or stay the night, then you shouldn’t have done it. I never asked you for any of this.”

“I’m responsible, Lisa. Do you think I’m just going to walk away and not take care of you?”

Take care of me?

“You were testing
my
gear when this happened,” he goes on. “The truth is, I should have been better prepared for something like this. I will be next time.”

Oh. It’s all just business and gear and liability for his guinea pig.

“Why do you care who I do or don’t call, anyway?” I ask. “Psychoanalyzing me wasn’t part of the deal, either.”

He shrugs. “I thought maybe you were bugging me about my secrets because you really just wanted to talk about yours.”

“Secrets?” I squawk. “Like I have any left!”

He just looks at me.

“Is it so hard to believe,” I ask, “that I was asking about
you
because I actually want to know about
you
?”

He looks at me as if it
is
hard to believe, but I’m so tired that his skepticism sits just fine with me.

“It’s midnight,” I say, stretching out. “Can I go to sleep?” I shut my eyes.

“I’m going to wake you every hour.”

“Whatever.”