Drowning Instinct (12 page)

One minute I was sloshing blue water down the tub drain and the next, I felt someone watching. I looked over my shoulder.

―Hi, sweetpea.‖ Dr. Kirby was big enough that he blocked the door. ―I thought, maybe, we should talk.‖

22: a

I said nothing. I didn‘t move. My skin tightened over my skull.

Dr. Kirby slid into the bathroom. ―I know what it looked like, but we‘re all adults here, right? You‘re old enough to understand how things work?‖ He spread his hands and that‘s when I saw Ben Franklin‘s face pinched between the first two fingers of his right hand. He took another step as I stood and then he was reaching, leading with the money, ready to tuck a hundred bucks into the breast pocket of my blouse. ―I know you know how to keep your mouth shut.‖

―I . . .‖ I swallowed against the lump in my throat. ―I don‘t want your money, Dr.

Kirby.‖

He froze, his hand hovering like a tarantula over my left breast—the one I‘d nicked with the kissing knife. He was watching my eyes, maybe trying to figure out if I was going to scream, which I wasn‘t. He said, awkwardly, ―Think of it as an early Christmas gift.

What teenager doesn‘t need a little extra cash?‖

I shook my head. ―I don‘t need anything, Dr. Kirby. I‘m fine.‖

―Oh, come on,‖ and then, somehow, he was even closer, easing the money into my pocket, fingers grazing my breast, a slow stupid smile spreading over his lips. ―We used to be friends, remember? I know how to be gentle,‖ he said. His breath was rank, and then I was against the wall and he was leaning in, his hands reaching up to cup and squeeze.

―No,‖ I said. ―Don‘t, Dr. Kirby,‖ I said.

But he didn‘t stop. First one hand and then the other and then he was pressing me against the wall, his slobbery mouth on my neck and then mashed against mine, his fat tongue worming between my clamped lips to lick my teeth....

Oh God, Bob. Did I do more? Sock him in the jaw? Stomp on his instep? Kick him in the groin and then drive my knee into his chin as he doubled over in agony? Bite off his tongue? Did I even scream?

No. I didn‘t. I could lie and say I did. No one but me and Dr. Kirby would ever know. But that‘s not what happened. I don‘t know if you‘ll get it, Bob, but think of that cold slap of shock the first time a parent spanks you or gets dead drunk or stammers an explanation to a cop about why he ran a red light—and you‘ll understand. Those are betrayals, moments when that thin membrane separating your life as a child from the real world tears just a little bit more. The first couple of times, you put a Band-Aid over the rip and the tear knits together. Sometimes there‘s a scar, but maybe not, and you go on. You try to pretend that the worst betrayals—when you discover your parents don‘t love each other, say—have healed. But, eventually, the cuts are too deep and the membrane shreds and that curtain can never be drawn again. Maybe that‘s when you grow up.

This was Dr. Kirby, my godfather. Our
friend
.

So I didn‘t fight. I
did
say no and I began to cry. All that should‘ve been enough—hell, the thing should never have
begun
—but it wasn‘t. Dr. Kirby fumbled at my blouse, jammed his knee between my legs and levered them apart. A button from my blouse popped then another and another, and I pushed at his shoulders and said
no Dr.

Kirby no no no—

―
Hey!
‖

Dr. Kirby started.

Eyes streaming, I looked past his shoulder—and then I simply wanted to die.

Because—of course—it was Mr. Anderson.

23: a

Dr. Kirby jumped back as if my skin was acid. ―Oh, hey,‖ he said.

―What‘s going on here?‖ Mr. Anderson‘s eyes flicked from Dr. Kirby to me and then dropped to the floor and my buttons scattered there like tiny white Tiddlywinks. His face changed, shifting from shock to comprehension to black fury.

Dr. Kirby saw it, too. ―I was just leaving,‖ he said, bullying his way out the door and practically lunging for the stairs. ―Jenna, tell your parents good-bye, all right?‖

―Hey,‖ said Mr. Anderson as Dr. Kirby clattered down to the foyer. Mr. Anderson started for the stairs. ―
Hey
!‖

I found my voice. ―Mr. Anderson, I—‖

―Stay here, Jenna, just stay here!‖ And then he was banging down the stairs after Dr. Kirby.

I took off after them both. By the time I hit the foyer, Mr. Anderson was already out the front door. I heard shouts. The cook came scurrying out of the kitchen in a flutter of white apron. ―What—?‖ she began.

―Get my parents! Get
help
!‖ Then I was out the door, too.

Our driveway‘s gravel and Dr. Kirby bobbed and lurched, slipping and skidding on loose stone. He was faster than I thought he would be and he might‘ve gotten to his car if Mr. Anderson wasn‘t a runner. In six lunging strides, Mr. Anderson closed the gap, snagged Dr. Kirby‘s collar, then whipped him around like a sack of laundry. Dr. Kirby gave a startled yelp and half-turned, his arms flailing, but Mr. Anderson was strong. Dr. Kirby‘s feet left the ground as Mr. Anderson slammed him against a minivan. The van rocked and then there was the keening wail of an alarm, and Dr. Kirby was screaming the same high note, swatting at Mr. Anderson, trying to land a punch. Mr. Anderson‘s fists bunched in Dr.

Kirby‘s lapels and then he was cursing and smashing Dr. Kirby against the van once, twice—

―What the—‖ Someone swore, blew past me: my father. I didn‘t know he could move that fast. In another second, he and another man had Mr. Anderson‘s arms and were dragging him off: ―Break it up, break it up, break it—!‖

That pretty much killed the party.

Afterward—after Dr. Kirby realized he had a split lip and started howling about suing Mr. Anderson, after my father got Dr. Kirby ice for his lip, after the guests spawned for their cars—the adults went into my father‘s study and talked for twenty minutes. I waited in the kitchen and watched the catering crew clear dishes until my father called for me.

My father‘s study is paneled oak and red leather and framed diplomas and pictures and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather volumes he‘s never read. The room smells like oranges from the oill the housekeeper uses on the wood. My father was sitting behind his desk, a massive mahogany antique like the kind the president uses. Mr.

Anderson and Dr. Kirby were in the wing-backed chairs my father reserved for visitors.

Meryl and my mother perched on a small love seat to one side. My mother was wringing her hands and her skin was so pale her eyes looked penned on with a Sharpie. Meryl just looked disgusted.

Mr. Anderson stood as I entered. The reddish-blush of a bruise stained his right cheek, but no one had bothered getting
him
any ice. ―Take my seat,‖ he said.

―She‘s fine,‖ said my father.

Mr. Anderson gave him a searching look, then shrugged but stayed on his feet, moving just a little closer to me. After an awkward pause, my father—annoyed—said,

―Jenna, do you or do you not have money Dr. Kirby gave you?‖

The hundred dollars. I‘d completely forgotten. The bill was still crumpled in my breast pocket. I nodded.

―There, you see?‖ Dr. Kirby‘s lower lip was the size of a sausage. ―I told you, Elliot,‖ he said. ―I was giving her a tip—‖

―That‘s not what it was,‖ Mr. Anderson interrupted.

―—just like I‘ve done before,‖ Dr. Kirby continued. I couldn‘t think of any time before that he‘d ever given me any kind of tip, but he pushed on: ―Elliot, for chrissake, I‘ve known Jenna since she was a baby. Can‘t a godfather give his goddaughter a tip for all the hard work she‘s done this evening? We were just giving each other a little hug good-bye and that‘s all. Now I‘m willing to let this go—‖

―I‘ll just bet you are.‖ Mr. Anderson‘s voice was low and I was standing next to him, so I was the only one who heard.

―—because there‘s clearly been a misunderstanding. I‘d hate for this to come between us, Elliot.‖ Dr. Kirby spread his hands. ―I mean, we have to work together. We‘ve got the office to think of.‖

―And
you
have your daughter,‖ Mr. Anderson said to my father. ―Think of
her
.‖

―Oh, believe me, I do.‖ My father‘s tone was brittle as dried leaves. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. ―Listen, I appreciate you showing an interest in Jenna, I really do.

Heaven knows, she needs people to help her negotiate life. You‘re probably not aware but before Turing, she had . . . well,
problems
and—‖

No, please, don’t say it
. I saw my father‘s lips moving but heard nothing over the sudden thump of my pulse. I wanted to melt into the carpet. The earth shifted, a dark chasm opened, and then I was falling and I thought,
Good, fine, swallow me up
.

―—so I think you can understand that she‘s got some special needs,‖ my father was saying. ―After her hospitalization, we‘d hoped that Turing would be a way for her to start fresh.‖

―This has nothing to do with any of that,‖ said Mr. Anderson. ―We‘re talking about this guy molesting your daughter. Jesus, are you blind, or just stupid? Look at her blouse.

Look at
her
.‖

―That does it. I‘ve had enough.‖ Dr. Kirby grunted his way to his feet. ―Elliot, I‘ll admit to a bit too much to drink and a misunderstanding, but that‘s all. Now I‘m going home. Tomorrow, I‘m going to sleep late, read the paper, drink coffee, and forget about this. I‘ll see you in the office.‖ He nodded at my mother. ―Emily.‖

When he was gone, Mr. Anderson looked at my father. ―She‘s your daughter.‖

―Yes, she is.‖ My father stood and leaned across his desk to offer his hand. ―I can‘t tell you how grateful I am that you‘ve taken such an interest. Not enough teachers spare the time these days.‖

Mr. Anderson didn‘t move. ―But she‘s your
daughter
.‖

―Yes. Well.‖ My father‘s smile wobbled and he took back his hand. ―I‘ll just say good night.‖

Mr. Anderson asked me to walk him to his car. My father opened his mouth to say no, but then he looked at Mr. Anderson just daring him to do it and so my father, for once, shut up.

Our feet stirred stone as we crunched down the gravel drive toward the road. The night was moonless, and Mr. Anderson only a shadow gliding alongside. It was also colder than I remembered, and an easterly breeze made the bare branches chatter. I shivered and hugged my arms.

―Cold?‖ Mr. Anderson asked.

―I‘m okay.‖

―You say that too much.‖ I heard a soft shoosh of fabric and then Mr. Anderson was draping his jacket around my shoulders.

The leather was warm from his body heat. ―I can‘t. I‘ll be fine. It‘s not that far. It‘s your jacket.‖

―Yes, it is. If it‘ll make you feel better, you can give it back at the car and then shiver all the way back to the house, okay?

Now be gracious and say thank you.‖

―Thank you.‖

―You‘re welcome.‖ Then: ―I‘m sorry, Jenna.‖

All at once, I was
that
close to tears. I gnawed on my already-raw lower lip. At this rate, I wouldn‘t have any skin left. ―You didn‘t do anything. I should be apologizing to you.‖

―No,‖ he said, his voice rough. ―Don‘t ever say that. You‘ve got nothing to apologize for. I‘m sorry I couldn‘t keep your father from embarrassing you more than . . .‖

He paused. ―Look, nothing your father said makes a difference, all right? You‘re still the same person you were before.‖

―I should explain about what happened last year—‖

―No.‖ His hand reached out of the darkness and touched my shoulder. ―Listen to me, Jenna. What happened doesn‘t matter. It‘s past. I don‘t need to know. All that matters is here and now, you understand? Sometimes it‘s best to let the past go, Jenna. Don‘t get so caught up in looking behind you forget to look ahead.‖

We started walking again. I could feel the words bunching up in my throat. What Mr. Anderson didn‘t understand was...all of a sudden, I
wanted
to tell him. I wanted him to know
me
: about Matt and the fire, about the psych ward. I thought of his knife now squirreled in my backpack because it was easier to get at that way and I could keep it close.

I liked the feel of that secret in my hands, and I wanted to confess that, too.

But I said nothing. I let his jacket keep me warm, and I kept my mouth shut.

At his car, he said, ―There‘s something I want you to promise. Anyone touches you,
anyone
, I want you to call me, you understand? Day or night, makes no difference. Even if it‘s because you only need to talk, I‘ll be there. I‘ll come get you wherever you are. I mean it, Jenna. I‘m here for you. This—‖ His words thrummed with emotion. ―This stuff . . . It‘s crazy; it‘s—‖

―I think my mom is having an affair.‖ The words flew past my teeth and there was no calling them back. ―My dad‘s screwing one of his nurses. Matt‘s gone, and it‘s just me with them, and I‘m scared they‘re going to get a divorce and then I think that would be a good thing.‖

―Oh, Jenna. Oh, honey, I‘m sorry.‖ He took a small step and I thought he might hug me, but it was dark and his face swarmed with shadows. So I‘m not sure, even now. But I will be honest: I wanted a hug. I needed one, so badly. Nothing like that happened, though, and after a second or two, he said, ―Listen, any time you want a break from your folks, you come over to our house, okay? Door‘s open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

You wouldn‘t be the first.‖

Our
house. Right. He was married; I remembered my stupid phone call and wondered why his wife wasn‘t here. I was also very glad he couldn‘t see my face.

―Sure,‖ I said.

Psycho-Dad was waiting just inside the front door. ―What did you say to him?‖ he demanded.

―Nothing,‖ I said.

24: a

Sunday, after the party.

At noon, I watched my parents‘ car rumble down the drive. Meryl was sitting in back and only she turned to wave goodbye, which pretty much summed up the general temperature of everyone concerned: chilly, just the near side of frost. I lifted my hand to Meryl and then my father hung a right at the bottom of the drive, tooled up the rise toward the highway, and passed out of sight.

I closed the door, listening to the silence settle in. Before Matt left, our family always made the trip up north to Meryl‘s farm on Madeline Island together. The drive was long, over eight hours, so we‘d stay an extra day or two to kayak on Lake Superior, bicycle around the island, or just hang out on the farm, helping out with the sheep that Meryl raised for wool. Mom said that when I was little, I always cried when we left. That was probably true. I loved Meryl just about as much as I loved my mother, sometimes more.

Still, I was relieved to be left behind, afraid until the moment my father turned the ignition and dropped the car into drive that they might make me come along.

At that point, my parents weren‘t due back until Tuesday night. I had sixty hours of freedom, give or take. Other than homework and running, I didn‘t have a clue what I was going to do with all that time.

It was weird, when you stopped to consider that at this same time last year, I‘d been on a mental ward. So, at best, my parents leaving me alone meant that they completely trusted me.

At the worst—well, I guess you could say they deeply didn‘t care.

Which, I thought, was closer to the truth.