Under Water

by Andrea Ring

  “What’s this from?” I ask him.

  “Bottle opener,” he says.

  I ask Clark to stand up with me. I kiss my way up to his collarbone and over one shoulder until I reach his back. He has scars there, too, crisscrossing between his shoulder blades.

  “These?” I ask as I nibble them.

  “Belt buckle.”

  I face him and press my chest into his. He groans. Then he places his hands on my cheeks and kisses me softly.

  “Now your scars,” he says.

  I turn my back on him and undo my jeans. I push them to my knees and step out of them.

  I lie down on the couch and cover my stomach with my hands.

  Clark is staring at me, breathing hard.

  “My very first scar is here.” I pull the crotch of my underwear aside and show him my groin, where I have a two-inch shiny pink line.

  Clark crouches down next to me and rubs his finger along it.

  My left hand is still covering my stomach. Clark pushes my hand gently to the side, exposing the thick red scar that runs from my belly button down to my pubic bone.

  It’s not pink yet, if it’ll ever be.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks me.

  I nod. “It twinges on and off.”

  “Do you want me to touch it?”

  I nod again. “Pain into pleasure.”

  His hands span my waist. He rubs his thumbs on the edges of the scar, as if memorizing the texture.

  “They nearly split you in half,” he murmurs, and he leans down and kisses my scar carefully. His mouth hovers there, and I know he’s thinking about kissing me lower.

  And I want him to. I’m tired of living by inches, afraid to follow through with anything. Afraid of making another mistake. No matter what happens tomorrow, though, or next week, or ten years from now, I’m tired of wanting something and not taking it.

  I want Clark.

  I sit up and pull Clark onto the couch beside me. I think he senses what I want, the decision I’ve made, and he nuzzles my cheek with his own.

  “Not here,” he says. “Not like this.” He props his head on his hand and gazes down at me. “I want it to be just us the first time.”

  “As opposed to me running to you to escape?” I guess.

  He nods.

  I don’t totally get it, but I’m okay with it. I sense something else going on with Clark, but I don’t even know what questions to ask him to find out the answer.

  We kiss and cuddle and touch. He comforts me.

  It’s enough.

  ***

  Baby T’s not speaking to me, but Gabi is.

  Clark and I are tangled up on the couch under a couple of blankets, and he’s rubbing my cold toes in his hands while I talk on the phone.

  “She’s hiding out,” Gabi says. “She won’t even talk to Raz. I mean, they’ve been together forever.”

  I roll my eyes. “Gabs, two years. They’ve only been together two years.”

  “But they’re in love. They’re going to school together next year.”

  “So?” I say.

  “So? So what’s the deal? What the hell happened at the dance?”

  I cover the microphone on my cell and look at Clark. “She doesn’t know,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, and I agree with him. If Tiana didn’t spill her secret to Gabi, I can’t do it for her.

  I remove my hand. “Gabs, all I know is that Tiana has her reasons. We have to trust her.”

  “But he’s so upset,” she says. I imagine her chewing the nail on her pinkie finger, something she does when she’s anxious. “He called me four times today trying to get me to convince her to talk to him. What do I tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Stay out of it. Tell him Tiana will call when she’s ready.”

  Gabi sighs. “But I want to fix it.”

  “You can’t fix it. It’s all up to them. I gotta go.”

  “Fine,” she says. “But I know you’re holding out on me. And I don’t appreciate it.” And she hangs up on me.

  I stare at the phone. Clark prizes it from my fingers and sets it on the coffee table.

  “She hung up?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “The day just keeps getting better and better.” He squeezes my toes. “Wanna talk to me about your dad?”

  I go over the conversation with him. It doesn’t seem quite as devastating in the re-telling, maybe because I had my outburst and got it out of my system.

  “What is it with people?” Clark says. “Why is it so hard to have a child, then love and protect it? It seems pretty easy to me. I haven’t been around a lot of kids, but like with Bea, she’s just a baby, sweet and innocent. How can her parents not see that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I have the same instincts you do.”

  “So you’re really gonna move out?”

  I snuggle deeper under the blankets. “I have to. They don’t want me here, and I can’t leave Bea alone with my mom.”

  “Do you have a plan? You usually have a plan.”

  “Not this time,” I say with a smile. “This plan needs more planning.”

  Clark pierces me with his green gaze. “You could move in with me.”

  I blink.

  “I could say we’d be good roommates, and we would, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

  I…what? Did Clark really just ask me to move in with him?

  “What would Linda say?” I finally manage.

  “We’re adults. There’s not much she can say.”

  “I don’t want to damage your relationship with her.”

  “We’ve survived worse.”

  “But what will she think?” I ask him.

  He smiles. “That I’ve finally made a good decision where a woman is concerned.”

  “But she won’t like it,” I insist.

  “I’m not gonna lie to you,” he says. “People will judge us. But I’m used to that.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s insane,” I say, trying to think it through. “We’ve known each other four months. We’ve dated for, like, two weeks.”

  Clark doesn’t say anything.

  “And we haven’t even talked about the future. We’ve only talked about hoping it lasts.”

  “Is that what you need?” he asks me. “A commitment?”

  “I guess…I don’t know. Is that what you’re offering?”

  “I’m not asking you to be my maid, Leni, or my sex slave.”

  “Then what? I don’t get it. Why do you want all this baggage?”

  “I told you,” he says. “I feel good when I’m with you. I feel like someone.”

  “I know, but what about me? How do you feel about me?”

  Clark eases my feet off his chest and sits up. He rubs both hands roughly through his hair.

  “I don’t know if I can articulate that. I’m not romantic, Leni.”

  “Liar,” I say.

  He laughs. “You know me. Already you fucking know me.”

  “I know I’ve hit a button.”

  He shakes his head. “Not a button, it’s just…I’ve never said the words, not to anyone. Not even my aunt.”

  “I’m not looking for those words,” I say, and I feel a spurt of courage in my chest. “But since I’m asking for truth, I’ll give it to you. I love you.”

  “You don’t—”

  “I do. I love you, Clark. I know it’s fast, and I know we have a lot to learn about each other, but every part of you I do know, I love.” I kneel down at his feet and put my hands on his knees. “And you don’t have to say it back. Let’s see how things go. I’ll get an apartment. I don’t want you to feel like you have to rescue me.”

  “I don’t feel that way,” he says. “I know you can take care of yourself.”

  I climb to my feet. “Do you want to spend the night?”

  “Your dad might come home.”

  I suddenly feel awkward, stripped bare both physi
cally and emotionally. I wrap the blanket tight around myself, and Clark watches me.

  “Leni, I would give anything to be what you need.”

  I fight to keep my voice steady. “You are, Clark. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  He stands and finds his t-shirt. He shoves his arms in and pulls it over his head.

  “It feels that way.”

  “It’s not coming from me,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “This one is all on me.” He grips my arms through the blanket. “Hang with me on this, please. I want to be with you.”

  I smile at him. “I know. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  He hugs me tight and gives me a soft kiss. “I’ve never felt this way with anyone. I…you matter to me, your opinion. I’ve never cared before what anyone thinks of me.”

  Something in my face makes him laugh.

  “And I’m just digging a deeper hole, aren’t I?”

  I laugh, too. “I think so.”

  He kisses me again. “I’m at UCLA tomorrow ’til late. I have a seven o’clock class. I’ll check in with you to see how your mom’s doing, and I’ll call you on my way home.”

  I smile. “Be good. Be safe.” And that damn courage courses through my veins. “I love you, Clark.”

  He grins like a goofy kid.

  And he leaves.

  And I know he loves me back. He just needs to figure out how to say it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dad doesn’t come home, doesn’t call. I’m up at six with Bea, and I know he probably had a long night, but I call him anyway. He doesn’t answer.

  I call Aunt Rhonda and she doesn’t answer either. I figure my day is shot, so I send an email to the attendance office, citing a family emergency as the reason for my absence. I have some schoolwork to do, a lot of planning, even some packing, but I decide it can wait.

  I have a day with Bea.

  I need to be in the moment for this. I know that I’ll be responsible for her soon, and that soon may even be now. I need to know I can do it.

  Bea wants a sippy cup of milk, which she carries upside down as she runs through the house, little white splotches marking her path. She brings me a book and insists I read it to her, twice. She brings me a box of crackers and spills them all over the couch. I finish cleaning up and look at the clock: 6:52. I’d normally be out of the house at 7:45 for my first class at 8:00. If I had to drop Bea off at a babysitter’s, I’d have to leave by 7:30.

  I grab Bea from the floor and take her in the shower with me. She sits under the spray while I wash. Thank goodness I don’t have to shave my legs. I soap Bea down and figure that the water has done most of the work.

  We towel off and I let her run around naked while I get dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, something simple. Bea pees on the bathroom floor while I’m putting on deodorant. Next time I’ll remember to dress her first. Or bathe her at night. But what would I do with her while I took a shower by myself?

  At 7:47, we’re dressed and clean, but my un-lotioned legs itch furiously, and my wet hair has dripped onto my shirt and plastered it to my back. Neither of has eaten, nor have our bags been packed. I concede that the morning routine needs work.

  We don’t have anywhere to be, thankfully, so I put some cartoons on for Bea while I check my email. Clark calls at eight.

  “How’s your mom?” he asks.

  “I haven’t heard anything,” I say.

  “What’d your dad say?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t come home and won’t answer his phone.”

  “Shit,” he says. “You could call the hospital.”

  “If I don’t hear in the next couple of hours, I will.”

  “So…are you stuck at home?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have anyone who can watch Bea.”

  “Wow,” he says. “I know you said you’d end up with her, but I didn’t really think it would happen.”

  “It’s happening, alright,” I say. “I’ve never had her to myself like this. It’s scary.”

  Clark laughs. “Bea’s in good hands.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  “Thanks, Clark,” I say.

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “It helps just talking to you.”

  “Well, call me when you hear something. I promise I’ll answer.”

  “Even in the middle of class?” I say, smiling.

  “Even if.”

  “Will do. Have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  I throw a load of laundry in, and decide to start beef stew in the crockpot so we can have an easy meal. Bea is especially quiet while I’m cooking, and when I sneak a peek at her, I see she’s fallen asleep in front of the TV, sprawled on her back on the carpet, snoring softly.

  I carry her to her crib and wonder what to do with myself.

  I decide to hunt for apartments on the Internet.

  It looks like I can get a one-bedroom place for about $1200 a month.

  Holy hell! How does anyone afford to live on their own? I make about $2000 a month. My car is paid for, but insurance is $65 a month, and I need to factor in maintenance and repairs. My cell phone is $40 a month. I’ll need Internet and cable TV—another $50?

  I can forgo a house phone, but I’ll have to pay for water, electricity, and gas. Groceries. Health insurance. Fabric for clothes. Shoes. Toiletries. Household stuff, like toilet bowl cleaner and paper towels. Gas for my car. Diapers for Bea. Babysitting for Bea.

  I start to cry. I don’t even realize I’m crying until the tears have dripped from my chin and I can’t catch my breath.

  This is life. It’s silly to be crying, but reality is suddenly closing in, threatening to smother me. I swipe at my eyes and take a deep breath. I can do this.

  I have money. I don’t want to use it, but Dad’s right—I’ll use it for Bea. I make enough to get by, just barely, and I can work more shifts. I can get loans for college. I have a giant nest egg to fall back on. There’s no need to panic.

  I choose a newer complex near Chapman University, where I can walk to school and save on gas. I call the sales office and ask about one-bedrooms.

  They have one available on March first. The lady asks about my credit.

  “I don’t think I have any to speak of,” I tell her honestly. “I’ve never had a credit card or purchased anything with a loan. But I bought my own car with cash. I own it.”

  The woman hmphs into the phone, and her voice grows chilly. “Do you have income?”

  “Yes. About $2000 a month. And I have savings.”

  “You’ll have to bring in bank statements and recent paycheck stubs. If you have poor credit, we require you to pay rent in advance.”

  “I don’t have poor credit,” I say, trying to remain respectful. “I’m just starting out. I turn eighteen on January 20th, and I know I’m sort of untried, but I’m very responsible.”

  “Your parents could co-sign for you,” she says.

  Not happening.

  “Well, how much would you need in advance?”

  “A year’s rent. Plus an extra month as a security deposit.”

  I calculate the amount in my head—$15,000, give or take. I have close to $25,000 of my own money saved.

  “Fine. I’ll be in to sign the papers this afternoon.” I can always walk over with Bea.

  The lady is stunned into silence.

  “Is there anything else I need to bring?” I ask her.

  “And what is your name, miss?”

  “Eleanor. Eleanor Marquette.”

  “No personal checks,” she says. “Cashier’s check or money order, made out to West Orange Management Company.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I look forward to meeting you.”

  “We’ll see,” she says and hangs up.

  My phone rings as soon as I put it down. It’s my school.

  “Hello?”

  “Leni? Hi, it’s Dr. Jones.”

  “Hi, Dr. Jones. How are yo
u?”

  “Fine. Is everything okay at home?”

  I gulp. “Uh…yeah. I mean, no, but I’m fine. My mother is sick. I had to stay home with my little sister.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “Oh, dear,” she says. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, let me bring you some lunch. You must be stuck at home. Can I do that, at least?”

  “Uh, wow. Okay. Thanks. That would be great.”

  “I have your address. I’ll be there around noon.”

  We say goodbye, and I stare at my phone. I’ve officially entered an alternate universe. How is it I’m moving out, dating a freaky-looking bad boy, and having lunch in my home with Dr. Jones? My life is unrecognizable.

  ***

  I try to straighten things up for Dr. Jones, but Bea is like a miniature tornado. She pulls books off the shelf faster than I can replace them. She brings toys out of her room and strews them about the house faster than I can pick them up. She leaves sippy cups around, and let me tell you, they are not spill proof. And I discover there’s a good reason Mom only lets Bea eat in her high chair.

  I finally give up. Dr. Jones will just have to deal.

  Promptly at noon, Dr. Jones arrives with sandwiches from Old Towne Grinder.

  “Clark said you like turkey and tomato, no mustard, and regular Coke,” she announces, handing me a bag and a drink.

  “Thank you,” I say, waving her into the living room. “Do you mind eating on the couch? It’s easier for me to keep an eye on Bea.”

  “Of course,” she says, taking a seat and unwrapping her sandwich. “Do you mind if I ask about your mom?”

  “No,” I say around my straw. “I don’t know much. She was staying with my aunt in Pasadena and started throwing up. My dad drove up last night to meet them at the hospital.”

  “Vomiting? Like the flu?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  Dr. Jones gives me a searching look, and I make the decision to trust her.

  “Pills,” I say. “Overdose. Plus, we argued on Christmas. I think it’s all my fault.”

  She sucks in a breath. “Deliberate?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, Leni, I’m so sorry. But you can’t blame yourself.”