Left Drowning Read online

  “It’s not bad at all. You should be proud. I don’t think I could run a quarter of a mile. Good for you!” Eric opens the door. “Stay with the truck, would you, in case anyone needs to move theirs or something? I’ll start unloading.”

  I bite my lip. Holy shit. Two months of running and I can run over five miles? It is true that I feel stronger, firmer. That I crave the workout. Six days a week sometimes doesn’t feel like enough, and the day that I don’t run leaves me restless. When I run as far as I can and push myself as hard as possible, my entire body feels it. The ache in my legs, the nausea, the pounding from my heart, and the prickly heat that covers my skin are all addictive. Yes, it is pain, but it is pain with a purpose. Maybe the purpose is to escape, but that escape is letting me heal. I can feel it happening.

  A thump on the side of the truck startles me out of my thoughts. I roll down my window. “Hi, Sabin.”

  “What’s happenin’, the cakest of all my baby cakes?” Sabin’s messy hair blows in the light wind. His leather biker jacket is unzipped, and he has on only a thin white V-necked T-shirt under it. A pair of faded red cargo shorts show off legs that are stuck sockless into unlaced hiking boots.

  “Aren’t you freezing? It’s snowing, you nut!” I lean out the window and wrap my scarf around his neck.

  “Awww! You care! But I’m all good, sweets. This is not cold, kid. Negative fifty with the windchill is cold. Today is refreshing. You on truck duty?”

  “Yup. You didn’t see Eric? He already started taking stuff inside.”

  “Okay. Stand guard for any suspicious-looking fellows passing by. Oh! Like this guy! Blythe, help me!” Sabin runs off, zigzagging wildly up and down the road as Chris approaches, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  Chris tucks his hands into his jeans and peers into the window. “Hi.”

  “Hi, back.” We haven’t spoken in weeks, and I feel like an asshole just sitting in his car like this.

  “Sorry about Sabin. As usual.” Before he can say anything else, Sabin tackles him in a bear hug.

  “Oh, thank God, it’s just my dear brother. I thought you were an obsessed fan. Or a zombie.” Sabin kisses Chris on the cheek, noisily and sloppily, and then grabs something of Estelle’s from the truck bed. “So, Blythe? Where, pray tell, would you like this?”

  I crane my head out the window. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s a two-foot-by-three-foot oil painting of Jesus.” Sabin holds the atrocity out to his side as if it were a top prize on a game show. “A stunning portrait, done in shades of neon, and complete with an ornate gold frame. Fancy, yes?”

  “That is some ugly crazy shit.” Chris closes his eyes.

  “Oh fuck,” I say. “Seriously? Is this for real?”

  “Estelle makes interesting artistic choices. Regretting your decision yet?”

  “No, no, of course not.” I slump into my seat. “I’m sure this will look striking above the bed.”

  “I better get this priceless objet d’art out of the snow. Back in a sec.” Sabin swooshes from the street to the sidewalk on his boots like he’s skiing, and uses the backside of the painting as an umbrella.

  I am alone with Chris, and it’s hard not to stare at him now that I’m given the opportunity. There is a strong family resemblance between Chris and Sabin, but Sabin is bigger and burlier, and generally more disheveled. Sabin reminds me of a big, messy kid, while Chris has a lean, groomed, and definitely grown-up allure. Chris is put together in a way Sabin isn’t. Even when Chris’s hair falls into his eyes, as it is doing now, it is perfect. And I know what is under his layers of clothing, how the muscles in his arms and chest are insanely cut and defined. I know how he breathes when he cups my ass in his hand … .

  More than those things, I know how he sounds when he talks me down from pain.

  I know too much not to be affected by his presence.

  The windshield is nearly covered with snow. I squint my eyes. All the giant flakes cling to one another, and none are able to survive alone.

  “Hey, Blythe, listen.” Chris leans into the cab of his truck and grabs my hand, but I refuse to look right at him. “About earlier … About that night?”

  “What? What about it?” I focus on the snowy glass in front of me again. Those damn green eyes of his are too compelling, and I’m afraid they’ll make me all weak and pathetic. I have a right to show him how severely irritated I am. How confused I am.

  “I’m sorry. That probably shouldn’t have happened. And I didn’t mean to just … to leave the way that I did. It wasn’t you. And I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t me?” I snap. “That’s got to be the goddamn dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re way too smart to say something like that. Don’t be such an asshole.”

  “Okay, yes. It was you.”

  “Awesome. That’s great to hear.”

  “No, I don’t mean like that. It was just too … I don’t know.”

  I finally turn to see his face as he grasps for the right words. Chris looks lost, and I have a hard time not empathizing with that. More than lost, though, he looks scared. Something else that I understand.

  Finally he continues. “It was too intense.”

  Oh. He had felt that, too.

  “It’s just that … I went too far with you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m not really boyfriend material.”

  I glare at him. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. Who says I want a boyfriend? Or that I want you to be my boyfriend?”

  This, I am somewhat surprised to discover, is true. While, yes, I have spent more than enough time fantasizing about Chris, and I can’t deny the fierce connection that I feel, I haven’t really considered the idea of having an actual relationship with him. I’ve imagined lots of nakedness and lust, yes, but commitment? No. Life is just starting to overwhelmingly and wonderfully creep back into my screwed-up soul, which means I am hardly equipped at the moment to sort out boyfriend stuff. It’s a relief to recognize this.

  “Did you ever consider that maybe I’m not girlfriend material?”

  Chris strokes his finger over the top of my hand. “Yes, you are. You’re outstanding girlfriend material. I’m the one who’s all kinds of fucked up. Trust me. You and I are better off as—”

  “Don’t you dare say the F word, or I swear to God I’ll pass out.”

  He says nothing. His eyes are gentle, sorrowful even, and I feel terrible.

  “It’s fine,” I continue. “Things got a little out of hand. We’re back to normal now. Restaurant buddies, dorm mates.” I stare at the windshield again and try to appear fascinated by the snow, but I can feel him watching me. “Stop looking at me. It’s annoying.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Chris takes an eternity to respond. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Chris? I’ve hardly seen you at all.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to stay away from you. I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know that I can get into a relationship with you, either—”

  “Chris.” I stop him, unsure what I want to say. My hand is still in his. This—touching him, being with him—feels impossibly comfortable and right. I put my other hand on top of his and squeeze. Is his a perfect hand? To some, maybe not. Aside from looking a little rough and chapped from the winter cold, the shape of his hand makes me wonder if he broke it as a child and it wasn’t reset well. But I love this hand. Chris may be imperfect, and he makes mistakes, but I can feel his heart, and I know that he is mine. In what capacity, I don’t know, because what I feel for him is complex. It’s so easy to be with him and yet also too much. I think I’m starting to understand a little why he ran from me that night.

  Still, I want to be with him, in whatever way either of us can tolerate. I don’t want to give him up.

  “Don’t stay away,” I finally say calmly. “Don’t. We don’t h
ave to be boyfriend and girlfriend. We don’t have to be defined. We don’t have to let anything happen on beds or up against doors. We can just be us. We can just be this,” I say as I squeeze his hand again.

  Chris leans in through the window and holds his cheek to mine as he wraps an arm around my neck and holds me. There are a million things that I want to say to him, and an equal number of things I don’t, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he feels the same.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Finding Solace

  I glare at the fantastically ugly neon Jesus painting that is propped up on top of Estelle’s dresser and try to imagine what it’s like to believe that God is watching out for me, protecting me. It’s just not possible for me to believe that there are reasons for things. I once had faith and went to church with my family, but now I don’t know what to believe or how to believe. I imagine that anyone who goes through trauma like I have wonders the same things I do: how God can exist and allow such awful things to happen. There are no reasons for my parents’ death, and that’s that. There is nothing like trauma to make you see the world clearly, and now that I know there is no God, I cannot go back.

  Maybe that’s part of why I am so uncomfortable with Estelle’s ridiculous Jesus painting. It’s a reminder of what I have lost and what she still has. Considering that Estelle spends significantly less time in our room than I do, it doesn’t seem fair that I am subjected to this piece of trash. Estelle describes the painting as the equivalent of fan fiction. “It’s an homage to his character,” she said once. “A fanciful play on ideology.”

  Whatever the fuck it is, I don’t like it.

  Aside from the unfortunate decoration, Estelle is a great roommate. I even wish she were around more, but she tends to come home late at night. I haven’t asked where she’s coming from, but it’s obvious she’s seeing someone. Well, or fucking someone. Since she’s made no mention of whoever this guy is, I assume that he is not going to pass the sibling-approval test Chris referred to.

  I love how energetic, outspoken, and fun she is and how she routinely throws barely worn clothing in my direction, claiming the clothes aren’t her style. She brings home unusual food from the restaurant, so we always have something to pull from the mini fridge, and because of her relentless pestering, I now own more stylish running gear than I really need. If I’m not careful, I’m going to develop an addiction to online shopping, but Estelle makes browsing through Web sites fun. It seems that she has money to burn, and although living with her is getting expensive, investing a little in fashion and beauty after years of neglect feels right.

  But the best thing about having her around is that I have a friend, and friends, I am learning, can change everything. For example, the fact that Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I am happy to be spending it here with the Shepherd siblings instead of going back to my aunt’s house.

  To be honest, I’m especially happy to be spending it with Chris. We’ll be getting lots of time together thanks to Eric, who is organizing Thanksgiving dinner, because he paired me up with Chris to complete about six thousand shopping and cooking tasks. Things between us feel comfortable and much less weird since our talk.

  And at least one thing is certain: Chris and I are inextricably connected. Do I have factual reasons to know this? Proof? Assurances? No. None.

  Some people believe in God; I believe in Chris.

  So I am not upset that we’re not a couple because, however idiotic it may sound when I tell myself this, I know, I just know, that our time will come. But it’s not now. For now, we are on hold. And it’s not a painful place to be. It’s the opposite in fact, because not only do I have him in my life now, I have something to look forward to.

  Before I head downstairs to the dorm kitchen, where Chris and I will be baking pies, I decide to make one phone call. James. This will be the first Thanksgiving that I won’t see my brother, and while that feels awful, I also think it might be for the best. He texted me last week to tell me that he’s going to his girlfriend’s house, and I’m relieved that he’ll be with someone’s family, if not ours. Or what’s left of ours. We have no grandparents, no cousins … There is only our aunt, Lisa, and I’m pretty much done with her.

  As I dial his number, I vow to rebuild our family, even if it’s just James and me. It’s not about numbers, it’s about quality, and somewhere, in the wake of destruction, we’ll recover the relationship that he and I used to have.

  He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Blythe.”

  “Hi.” My voice is chipper this time. It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken or communicated beyond short information-only texts and e-mails, and my only goal is to have this call end in something besides tears. “I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanks. You, too.” He does not sound pissy, which is a good start.

  “You’re going to your girlfriend’s house?”

  “Yeah. She lives one town over, and her parents invited me since I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

  I take a breath, feeling a wave of guilt even though I know he doesn’t mean to bait me. “I’m sorry about that. But it’s good you’ll have a real house to go to. What’s your girlfriend’s name again?”

  “Angie.”

  “Right. Angie. Have you met her parents already?”

  “No. We’ve only been dating for a month or whatever. I’m kind of dreading it, but she promises me that they’re normal.”

  “If she’s inviting you home, they can’t be that bad or she wouldn’t let you meet them.”

  “That’s true.” He pauses. “Blythe, do you think I’m supposed to wear a suit?”

  “I doubt it. Maybe a dress shirt and tie? You better just ask Angie. What if they’re all wearing jeans and football jerseys? You don’t want to show up in formal wear.”

  He actually laughs. “True. I’ll ask. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Having dinner with some friends in the dorm. It has a kitchen and a lounge, and we’re going to do what we can to make it festive. My friend Eric has a huge menu planned, so we’re just going to follow orders and hope we don’t get in trouble if we forget to fold the napkins into turkeys or whatever.”

  “And definitely don’t forget to take the paper package of guts out of the turkey,” he says.

  Now I laugh. “Remember how pissed Mom was when Dad did that? And to make matters worse, he cooked it upside down.”

  “Right, because he said his instincts took over and he was positive it would produce a juicier dinner.” I can tell James is smiling, and it’s a great feeling.

  “I don’t recall it tasting any different, do you?”

  “No. Although it looked freaky when he brought it to the table.”

  “And Mom threw a kitchen towel over it so that we wouldn’t lose our appetites!”

  It’s the first time we’ve reminisced about our parents since they died. This is a small moment, yet a huge moment.

  “James? I wish that Lisa had given us more notice that she was going to be out of town for Thanksgiving.” I pause. “I’m pretty pissed.”

  He perks up. “I know, right? What the hell is wrong with her?”

  “I mean, what did she think we were going to do?”

  “She didn’t think. She never thinks about us.”

  James and I have never acknowledged what a completely insensitive moron Lisa is. Until now. “Seriously. Did she … did she tell you about the house? Mom and Dad’s?” I ask.

  “In an e-mail. Can you believe her? What a bitch.”

  We spend fifteen minutes tearing apart our aunt. It’s mean, but awesomely fun because we are on the same side of something.

  Then James surprises me with a question. “Are you ready to go back to Mom and Dad’s for Christmas? I think it’s going to suck.”

  I’m honestly not sure what to say, but it hits me that while I am motherless, so is James. Lisa has done a shitty job not even trying to fill that role, and it’s something that I should do. That I can do
. James is only nineteen years old, God damn it, and he’s still a kid really.

  “No, it’s not going to suck. It’s going to be the best Christmas we’ve had since …” I suck it up and say it. “Since they died. I’ll take us out to get a tree, we’ll pull the old decorations out from the attic, and I’ll cook up a storm. Santa is going to fill our stockings until they’re spilling out onto the floor, and we’ll have cocoa and … and … and I don’t know. I’ll make weird reindeer appetizers out of marshmallows and pretzel sticks. It can’t be how it used to be, so we shouldn’t expect it to be. But we’ll have something new that is yours and mine. Okay, James? I promise you that it’s going to be great.”

  “I don’t know.” He sounds so sad. “I’m not sure that I can do it.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to take care of it, and I’m going to make up for the lame job that Lisa has done on every holiday we’ve spent with her. Now we get to do things our way.”

  “If you say so.” James is skeptical, but I can still hear the teeniest hint of excitement.

  There’s a knock at my door as it swings open. Chris sees that I’m on the phone, and he waves furiously for me to come with him. He’s got flour on his sweatshirt, and the poor guy looks beyond frazzled.

  “Help!” he mouths.

  “James, I have to run. There seems to be a pie emergency.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon.” I go to hang up, but he stops me.

  “Hey, Blythe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have a good Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too, James. Watch out for the bag of guts.”

  “Will do, sis.”

  I toss the phone on my bed and head off to bake pies with Chris. I am outrageously happy.

  It’s 11:30 p.m. before we have successfully made all of our assigned desserts. Well, maybe successfully isn’t exactly the right word. “These look revolting.” Chris has his hands on his hips and an extremely dissatisfied look on his face as he surveys our dessert spread. It’s true that each pie is either lopsided, slightly charred, or rather grotesquely discolored. The pumpkin pie appears to be all three. “Eric is going to kill us.”