I knocked, let myself in, and found her in the bed, lying on her side. Her back was bare. Arms crossed in front of her chest. Head on a pillow. The sheet covered her legs and most of her chest. She was still staring south through the wall—the direction she’d been heading when all this happened. I pulled a chair up next to the bed and showed her the ointment and peroxide. She nodded. I soaked a gauze roll and began patting her cuts clean. Doing so took some time. I continued until there were no more bubbles. Then I smeared antibiotic ointment onto all the cuts, which by my count were somewhere close to a hundred. They wrapped over her shoulder and onto the top of her collarbone and chest. It was impossible to cover each with a bandage without turning her into a mummy, so I didn’t. When I finished, she slid the sheet off and I doctored the slices on her legs.
She’d live, but the next few days wouldn’t be fun. As I worked, she never winced, suggesting either she’d known much pain or something in her hurt more than my doctoring.
I took out the food and set it on a chair before her. She reached for nothing. I opened the soup and offered a spoonful. She sat up, gently grabbed the mug, and sipped. Not taking her eyes off me. I opened the saltines and set them next to her on the bed.
I tried to make conversation. “You auditioning for the circus?”
She nodded and managed a whisper. “Evidently.”
“What were you doing out there on open water in a boat the size of a bathtub?”
She shook her head.
“The guys at the marina are gonna be hacked when they find out their boat is at the bottom of the ditch.”
She said nothing.
When she finished the soup, I offered her a mug of microwaved herbal tea. She accepted it, hovered over it. Sipping gently. The moon shone in through our window. Her convulsive cries had been replaced by shallow, controlled breaths.
“You picked a nice night for a swim.” Trying to bring a smile.
She leaned her head back and laughed. At herself. “I can’t swim.”
That explained a good bit. “Really?”
She was staring into her mug when she spoke. “Never learned.”
“You mean to tell me you stole a boat, navigated thirty minutes south of here having never had your hand on the tiller, and you can’t swim?”
She placed a hand on her ribs, winced, and nodded.
“Seriously?”
A shrug.
“What were you planning to do had you gone overboard?”
Again only her eyes moved. “No plan for that.”
“What were you going to do had I not showed up?”
Another shrug. “No plan for that either.”
Gathering her strength, she sat up and pushed the sheet off her. Naked. She spoke in broken resignation. “I can’t fight my way out of this room. If you’re going to do something to me . . .” She lay back. “Just get it over with.”
Sometimes people’s pain is deeper than we can first see. I was sorry I hadn’t seen it sooner.
I set my backpack on the bed, unzipping it. “There are some clothes in here. Not much, but it’s what I’ve got. Maybe tomorrow we can get you something more feminine. Tonight you might sleep without a shirt. Give your skin time to scab over. Otherwise everything’s just going to stick to you and you’ll have to go through the whole warm-shower peel-off in the morning.” I set the pain pills on the bed next to her. “Tomorrow you’re going to feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. Two of these will help with the pain and swelling.” I laid the room key on the nightstand next to her and walked to the door.
Standing at the exit, I said, “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
Tabby stood looking at me, anticipation and saliva dripping from his mouth. I made a stop sign with my hand and he sat. Then I pointed to the bed, so he hopped up on it and lay with his head alongside her leg. Another stop sign. “Stay.” He wagged his tail.
As I was pulling the door shut, I heard her say, “How do I know you’re coming back?”
“Well, if I don’t, you can keep my dog.”
She wrapped an arm around his chest and almost smiled for the first time.
I pulled the door shut and looked down at the marina and Fingers’ ridiculous orange lunch box staring back up at me. He’d like her. “I know. I know,” I told the box. “Don’t say it.”
Chapter 7
Sunlight pierced the crack in my eyelids. I sat up to find my friend gone. Bench seat clear. Fingers’ Rolex told me I’d been asleep a few hours, so I climbed out of the boat, walked up the dock, and met the attendant bringing me a cup of coffee. He handed it to me. “Didn’t know how you took it.”
I nodded and handed him twenty bucks.
He smiled. “Mister, if you need a keeper, I’m available for hire.”
I sipped and stared up at the motel. “You’d be a good one too.”
I knocked on her door and heard a rustling. When she answered, she was wearing my shorts and long-sleeve fishing shirt. Both of which swamped her. Tabby appeared, licked the outside of my fingers, and stood smacking me with his tail. Beneath the long sleeve was a short sleeve, which I guessed she was using to soak up the blood and protect the outer layer. She’d pulled her hair back, revealing cuts and scrapes and an otherwise beautiful face with roots still gray. I wouldn’t say she was rested, but she looked like she’d slept. Barefoot, she swung the door wide and stepped aside. The room had been cleaned, bed made, groceries bagged. Both the bottle of wine and the pain pills sat on the table. Neither the cork nor the seal had been broken. A steaming mug sat with the tea bag dangling.
Her face looked slightly puffy above her eye. She sat on a chair, hands between her knees. “I don’t have any money. For—” She waved her hand across the small world in front of her.
I stood opposite her. “You hungry?”
She said nothing and nodded.
I laid a pair of flip-flops at her feet. “Wasn’t sure of your size, but . . .”
She spoke without accusation. Only honesty. “You have a way of avoiding some of the things I say to you.”
I gestured to the flip-flops.
“You’re doing it right now.”
“I know, but I’m worried about your feet.”
She slid her feet in and her toes curled and uncurled. Her feet were muscled, arches high, toes calloused, and calves defined in taut muscle. She stood and shoved her hands in the pockets of my baggy shorts.
“I talk better with food in my stomach,” I told her.
She smiled.
We walked two blocks to a diner and took a seat in a booth against the window. “You drink coffee?”
She rubbed her eyes and attempted a smile. “People who don’t . . . aren’t people.”
The waitress brought coffee, and we ordered breakfast. As the silence settled around us, I broke the ice. I extended my hand across the table. “Murphy. But most folks call me Murph.”
She met my hand with hers. “Elizabeth. But everybody calls me . . . Summer.”
“How’d you get from Elizabeth to Summer?”
“Made my Broadway debut as Anna in The King and I. The Times headline the next day read, ‘Meet the Star of This Summer’s Hit: Summer.’ The misprint was a comical hit among the cast members. Been Summer ever since.”
“You danced on Broadway?”
She nodded but there was no arrogance in it. Only a silent admission of something lost. “Sang too.”
“How long ago?”
She shook her head and studied the ceiling. “Twenty-plus years.”
“Just the one show?”
“No.” Her eyes studied the ceiling. It was the first time I’d seen them in daylight. Emerald green.
She saw no need to promote herself, so I asked, “How many?”
“A dozen or so.”
“You performed on Broadway more than a dozen times?”
“Well, no. I played a role in more than a dozen shows, which performed a couple hundred times.”
“W
hat happened?”
She stared out the window, then back at me. She folded her arms, bracing herself against a cold breeze I didn’t feel. “Bad decisions.”
“How is it that you never learned to swim?”
She shrugged and shook her head. “City girl trying to dance. Never made time.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking for someone.”
“Looking for or chasing?”
Raised eyebrows told me I’d hit some corner of the truth. “Both.”
“Someone who doesn’t want to be found?”
Her eyes found mine.
I scratched my chin. “Is she sixteen, looks twenty-one, has legs like yours, a new tattoo at the base of her back, likes to twirl when she enters a room, and is now hanging out with some bad people she thinks are okay people?” I held up the picture I’d snapped with my phone. “Answers to the name Angel?”
She reached out and touched the screen with her fingertip. She held it there a long time. The waitress delivered our food, and I told her the story while she shoved eggs around her plate. The truth did not comfort her, as evidenced by the tears. Finally, she wiped her face and nodded.
I thumbed behind me. “I was on the dock when you perfected that seventeen-point turn in an attempt to exit the marina.”
She nodded again. A little less uncomfortable.
“I had a feeling if you stayed in that dinghy long enough, you’d end up wet. So I went looking.”
She looked up at me. “You always go looking for stupid folks you don’t know?”
Funny how one simple question can sum up so much. I pushed my eggs around my plate and smiled. “Sometimes.”
We sat in silence while the waitress refilled our mugs. The waitress asked Summer, “Baby, could I get you something? We make a pretty good apple pie. Oreo milkshake?”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
The waitress looked at me with suspicion and then turned sideways and whispered again to Summer while scratching her right eye. “Baby, you want me to call the police for you?”
She reached out and touched the waitress’s hand. “No, but thank you.”
Summer spoke as the waitress returned behind the counter. “I don’t think she likes you.”
“No, but I love the way she says ‘Baby.’”
She laughed.
I sipped. “Tell me about Angel.”
Summer told me about her daughter and their rocky relationship. As Angel grew and blossomed into a staggering beauty with an innate and easy dramatic ability—landing her the lead role in every musical since she was seven—Summer, based on her own mistakes, became more protective. In the last year or so, Summer had been unable to corral Angel at home. Eventually, Angel made her own poor choices. Culminating in the decision to hop on a yacht with a mysterious muscled man and a bunch of equally disoriented kids and spend a promised month in the islands bending reality with mind-altering drink and drugs.
“You got any family? Anybody you can call to help you out?”
“No. It’s just us.”
“Husband?”
Her eyes found mine, then looked away. Another single shake.
“Any idea where they’re headed?”
She shrugged. “South. Miami. The Keys. Bahamas. Wherever the wind blows, the water’s clear, and rum flows.”
“You got a plan?”
She laughed. “Yeah.” Wiped her face with her right hand. “But it’s at the bottom of the Intracoastal right now.” More silence. When I paid the check, she looked away.
She didn’t like leeching off me. “On the dock, you were wearing a uniform. Like a server . . . ?”
“Angel has . . . had . . . a partial scholarship to this really good school. But seventy-five percent still leaves twenty-five percent. I was working three jobs. One was an all-night diner where I work six nights a week.”
“And the other two?”
She didn’t look at me. “I stock shelves at an auto parts store on Sundays when they’re closed.”
“And?”
“I own an appointment-only dance studio.”
“Why appointment only?”
Her voice softened. As if the admission were painful. “I don’t have enough clients to keep normal hours.”
“What do you teach?”
“Mostly, I teach two people how to stand in the same space and not kill each other.”
I laughed.
She continued, “Other than that, I teach women how to follow men who don’t know how to lead.”
“Sounds tough.”
“Following is not as easy as it looks.”
“How so?”
“Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, backward and in high heels.”
“Good point.”
“Most guys think they’re Patrick Swayze until you show them what to do. Then they melt into egg yolk.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Most of my appointments are wedding parties. A bride and groom.”
I had a feeling she was growing slightly more comfortable with me, so I let her talk.
“I can tell you from the first five minutes of the first lesson whether they will make it or not.”
“How do you know?”
“Not sure really. It’s an intuitive thing. How he treats her. How she responds to him. How they communicate. How his hands touch her says a lot about how his heart holds her.”
“You have a favorite type of student?”
“Older folks. Been married a long time. Their dancing is an expression of how they’ve lived.”
“I don’t know much about it.”
“What, dancing or being old?”
I laughed. “Both, but . . .”
She was warming up to me. “No offense, but I already figured that.”
You hang around people long enough and you learn their tells. Pain has a way of exiting the body, and most will let you know when it’s on its way out. Seldom do they know what their “tell” is telling you. Most often it’s silent. Sometimes it can be loud. However it comes out, it leaves a trail. Jittery fingers. Itchy skin. Headaches. Always tired. Always hungry. There are hundreds, I guess.
“How long you been clean?”
She bit her lip, tilted her head to one side, and looked at the floor. “Which time?”
“This time.”
“Ever since things started going sideways with Angel. Two months. Give or take.”
“What’s your poison?”
“This time or other times?”
“This time.”
“Opioids.”
“That explains why you didn’t touch the wine or pain pills.”
“I’ve dated them too.” She shook the memory. “I start swallowing stuff to numb my pain, and the next thing I know I’m chugging it like sweet tea or eating them like Skittles.” She had a beautiful way of poking fun at herself. A disarming honesty. “I had spread myself really thin—”
She was returning to her story. As if compelled to tell it. I interrupted her. “You don’t have to—”
“Feels good to hear myself say it.”
I waited.
“Between rent and my lease and Angel’s tuition and some debt, I was in over my head. Then I messed up some ligaments in my ankle when I got tangled up with a shopping cart in the grocery store parking lot. And then, because I needed the money, I made it worse trying to teach this idiot how to dance with a gimp ankle. Then one of my clients—”
I knew where this was going.
“—helped me out. Brought me whatever I needed. Said I could pay him later.”
“But black-market pills aren’t cheap.”
She shook her head, and her eyes darted to the floor again.
I continued, “And he was all too happy to keep supplying you.”
“My own private pharmacy.”
I’d heard this before.
“But,” she said with a shrug, “a few months passed. My ankle got better, a
nd slowly, and not without difficulty, I weaned myself off the Skittles.”
This I had not heard before. “How?”
She laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Maybe sensing my skepticism.
“Try me.”
“I read.”
“You’re right, that is a new one.”
“Told you.”
“What’d you read?”
“At first, thrillers. Love stories. Anything from the bargain bin that would take me”—she waved her hand across the world before us—“out of here.”
“You unhinged your body from an opium addiction with a book?”
She smiled. “Not just any book. A series of thirteen books by one author. I’ve read them twenty or thirty times each.”
“You’ve read one book twenty or thirty times?”
“Actually, I’ve read thirteen books twenty-seven times.”
My face betrayed my questions. “Explain that to me.”
“Drugs medicated my pain. Books medicated my reality. The second lasted longer with less downside and helped lessen the craving for the first. So I replaced one drug with another.”
“Sounds like a good book.”
That piqued her curiosity. “You like to read?”
I laughed. “No. Not really.”
Chapter 8
I had opened Pandora’s box. Summer took a breath and talked nonstop while our food grew cold. “Well, David Bishop is the man. He’s written this impossible love story where his character, Bishop—a priest who’s taken a vow of celibacy and poverty—uses the confessional and the secrets people reveal to open the story and introduce the problem, or to explain who the bad guys are and who he needs to rescue. Problem is, he’s such a good priest and he’s so good at his job that the government comes to him and asks him to work for them, which he reluctantly does. So he lives all these fantastic adventures around the globe working for both the church and this secret government agency.
“And on top of that, and this is the cherry on the whipped cream, in order to complete his cover, the government makes him travel with this beautiful woman, but—wait for it—she’s a nun, and she was once beautiful but now she has this long scar across her face and a secret she won’t tell him ’cause she’s afraid if she does he won’t have anything to do with her. She secretly loves him, see, and he secretly loves her, but neither one will tell the other. It’s impossible all the way around.”
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