Under Water (A Yellow Wood Series Book 1)

by Andrea Ring

  “Great.”

  ***

  I try to spin out dinner as long as I can.

  Jay and I talk about basketball, about tennis, about school, about my migraines, and then about Baby T getting her wisdom teeth pulled because I can’t think of anything else to say.

  But finally we’re alone, truly alone, on the couch in Jay’s family room.

  He bumps his shoulder into mine. “I thought it went pretty well,” he says.

  “What went well?” I ask.

  “Our date.”

  I smile at him. “It’s not over yet. Still plenty of time for disaster to strike.”

  He smiles back. “No chance of that. Except…”

  “Except?”

  He exhales loudly. “Except I’m so damn nervous my palms are sweating.”

  I laugh and take his hand in mine, rub it on my jeans. “Me, too. But since nothing’s gonna happen other than us talking, you have nothing to be nervous about.”

  Jay frowns but keeps my hand. “Why, Leni?”

  “I’m not ready,” I say simply. “It fucked everything up last time, and I’m trying to learn from my mistakes.”

  “It’s different now, though,” he says. “We’re different.”

  “I don’t see how,” I say. “We dated for a year last time. We talked every night for hours. You knew my every thought, and I thought I knew yours. If anything, we’re nowhere near where we were.”

  Jay gnashes his teeth. “I’m committed, Leni. I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.”

  I want to believe that. But I have no evidence that it’s true.

  “Jay, if you’re serious, we have time. Lots of time. I need to trust you again.”

  “How can you learn to trust me if you won’t give me a chance?”

  I almost snort. “I’m giving you a chance right now.”

  Jay sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “You’re right. I’m being an ass.”

  “Yep.”

  He smiles. “How’s your head?”

  Ever since I got sick, I’ve had blinding migraines. A small pain, manageable but irritating, beats at my temples. “It’s okay,” I say.

  Jay pulls me down so that my head is in his lap. He massages my scalp gently.

  “How’s that?”

  “Great,” I murmur.

  We’re quiet as he kneads my head, easing the tension I’ve felt all night. I’m starting to remember why I could never get Jay out of my heart.

  “Tell me about your remission,” Jay says suddenly, breaking the silence.

  I shift so I can look up at him. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well…is it for sure?”

  “As sure as these things can be.”

  “What are…like, what are the odds the…cancer will come back?”

  I swallow hard. “They cut it out. It’s gone. I only have a slightly higher risk of developing cancer than the average person.”

  “They cut it out?” he asks, surprised. “Why the chemo then?”

  “Precautionary,” I say.

  “So it wasn’t leukemia,” he says.

  “Leukemia?”

  He grins. “I did some research. Statistically, for your age, that was one of the most likely.”

  I smile and shake my head. “Not leukemia.”

  “What then?”

  I sit up and move away from him. “Can we talk about this some other time?”

  Jay scoots back close to me and looks serious. “I won’t laugh, Leni.”

  “What?”

  He holds my gaze. “If it’s breast cancer. I won’t laugh. You’re beautiful no matter what.”

  My heart melts a little bit more. “It’s not breast cancer.”

  “Thank God,” he says, reaching for me. He holds me close. “Thank God I can still touch them.”

  I laugh and bat at his hands. “Not now, you can’t.”

  “Can I at least kiss you?”

  I tip my face up to his. I take the kiss. It starts out slow and gentle, all molding lips and a tight embrace. Even when he caresses my mouth with his tongue, it still remains tender and heartfelt. I put every ounce of hope I have into the kiss, praying that Jay can be what I need. And that I can be what he needs.

  And when he breaks the kiss first, and cradles me to his chest, and drives me back to my car, and sends me home with a soft peck and a crushing hug, I even start to believe in that hope.

  ***

  Mom is sitting at the kitchen table when I get home. It’s 11:30, and I’ve never known my mother to be up this late without a good reason.

  “You okay?” I ask her. I’m exhausted and just want to go to bed, but my mother looks completely undone. I pull out the chair opposite hers and sit.

  Her breath hitches when she starts to speak.

  “Bea…”

  “What’s wrong with Bea?” I ask.

  “She…she fell off the swing at the park today.”

  “Is she alright?” I ask, voice rising.

  Mom nods. “Yes, she’s fine. Skinned knees. Bump on the forehead. Scared me half to death.”

  I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm. “It happens. Kids fall.”

  She nods again, her head wobbly. “I know. I just…I panicked. I took her to the ER.”

  “Then you know she’s fine,” I say.

  Mom’s quiet for a minute. I almost stand to go to bed when she says, “I thought I was ready.”

  No. I want her to shut up.

  “I thought I could handle it. I thought I needed to be a mother again. But—”

  “Don’t say it,” I whisper.

  Her eyes plead with me.

  “Don’t,” I beg her.

  And then tears spill down her cheeks. “I’m terrified every second of the day. I can’t sleep. I have to check on her three or four times every night. I can’t live this way.”

  “You have to,” I say. “Bea needs you.” I almost add that I need her too, but I know this would be a lie. “Maybe you should see Dr. Thorne again.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She helped you after Jeremy,” I say. “She’ll help you again.”

  “It didn’t last,” she says.

  “So keep going to see her. Don’t stop.”

  Mom sobs silently.

  “Have you talked to Dad about this?” I ask her.

  “He’d just think I’m crazy.”

  And he would be right, although no one can deny that my mother has just cause for acting this way. I just wish she would act differently. I wish she could be someone other than who she is.

  “Go to bed, Mom. You need to rest. I’ll check on Bea tonight. She’ll be fine.”

  I rise from my chair and head to the doorway. I hear her whisper, “But what about me?”

  ***

  The experts say grief is normal and that time heals all wounds.

  That hasn’t been my experience.

  I’ve been steeped in grief for over twelve years now, and my family is proof that it stains.

  Grief does not diminish.

  It is a broken clock, and you look at the hands—two o’clock—and years later you’re still looking at the clock—and it’s still two.

  It is a time machine, hurtling you back to the exact moment you least want to revisit, over and over.

  It is a yawning well, so deep, and you plunge into its icy depths and it steals your breath and leaves you no way to climb back out.

  It leaves its mark, like an unwanted tattoo, a shameful sign to the world of one moment in your life when you made a stupid decision.

  Chapter Eight

  “I can’t. I have to babysit,” I say, trying to sound disappointed.

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about it,” Jay says.

  I smile at him. “You know my mom. She never leaves me alone with Bea. I’ve had her to myself twice in her whole life.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” Jay says, shaking his head. “I have to watch my brothers all the time. How’d you ge
t so lucky?”

  I put my arm around his waist as we walk to class. “It’s not lucky,” I say. “She’s insane about Bea. She hardly lets her out of her sight.”

  “I could come over. Help you babysit.”

  I shudder at the prospect. “Not possible. You’re on my mother’s most wanted list.”

  “Still?”

  I don’t say anything, and Jay explodes.

  “Jesus, Leni, you still haven’t told them?”

  “Jay, I can’t. They’re not ready to hear it.”

  “Maybe you’re just not ready to tell them.”

  Jay glares at me, and I probably deserve it. “It’s not you,” I say. “Or me. It’s them.”

  “Why aren’t I good enough, Leni?” he shoots back.

  “You have to be the first guy in history who actually wants to spend time with his girlfriend’s parents.”

  Jay clenches his fists. “No, I just know your mother. She’s so damned over-protective, and I don’t want to lie and sneak around.”

  Kids in the hall are starting to take notice of our argument. I lower my voice.

  “She doesn’t care what I do,” I say.

  “Then it won’t bother her if you’re with me.”

  “As long as I don’t do it with you.”

  Jay’s anger is instantly gone, and hurt fills his eyes, spilling over into his shoulders and down. I actually see his body wilt.

  “I’m different now, Leni. Don’t you see that? But you keep throwing the past in my face.”

  I want to deny it, but I can’t.

  The bell rings.

  “I meant it when I said I’m here. But you’re not. Call me when you’re ready.”

  And he leaves me standing in the hallway.

  ***

  I come home right after school and start homework. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to accomplish while watching Bea.

  Someone knocks on my door. I open it to find Mom hovering awkwardly.

  My mother never seeks me out.

  “Mom,” I say. “Uh, do you need something?”

  She leans into the doorway without moving her feet, to peer into my room, I guess. I move aside and watch her.

  “I’m alone,” I say.

  “Of course,” she says. “I, uh, have something for you.”

  She straightens up, holds out her hand, and opens her palm. It’s a square-cut sapphire ring.

  “For me?” I gasp.

  She nods, and I take the ring.

  “It was Grandma’s,” she says. “Grandpa Jim gave it to her for their twentieth anniversary. She was hoping to give it to you on your twentieth birthday.”

  I look up from the gorgeous ring and meet her eyes. “Then why am I getting it now?”

  Mom looks down and shrugs. “I feel weird keeping it when it’s meant for you. You’re old enough. You should have it.” And she walks back to her room and closes the door.

  I slowly close mine and lean back against it. I slip the ring on the middle finger of my right hand, where it fits perfectly. Grandma had chubby fingers. I wish she had given me the ring herself, so I could have thanked her and heard her tell me its story.

  But she died of a stroke unexpectedly at age 62, five years ago. I suppose she thought she’d have more time. I don’t know why Mom would give it to me now.

  At 4:30, Dad comes in my room to tell me they’re leaving. I take Bea from him and help him smooth the lapels of his tuxedo that Bea’s scrunched in her little fists. They’re driving up to LA for some big gala my dad’s work is sponsoring. Mom usually finagles her way out of such events, but Dad insisted she attend tonight. And even though she spends fifteen minutes with me going over Bea’s evening routine, and reciting what she’s eaten today, and when I should expect her to poop, and who to call in every imaginable emergency scenario, I’m glad he insisted. My mother looks beautiful in her glittering black evening gown. She even looks a little bit happy.

  ***

  Bea is cranky and squirms in my arms, so I set her down on the rug and plop down beside her. She crawls into my lap and plugs her thumb in her mouth. I stroke her silken hair and cuddle her.

  Mom would probably kill me if she saw us. Seven o’clock is Bea’s bedtime, about an hour ago, and she’s supposed to go to sleep on time and fully awake, so that she learns to put herself to sleep.

  Screw that.

  I want as much time with her as possible.

  She’s wearing pink footie pajamas. I used to love wearing those as a kid. Bea’s feet have non-skid soles, but when I had mine, they were slick plastic. Jeremy and I used to run down the hallway and slide on the wood floors. He would giggle.

  I stretch out on the carpet and shift Bea so that her head is pillowed on my shoulder. Her eyes close, and her thumb slides halfway out of her mouth.

  I think about Jay and what he said today.

  He wasn’t wrong, and he was completely wrong.

  No one knows how badly my mom is struggling to stay afloat. I haven’t shared the problems at home with any of my friends. I should be able to tell Jay—once upon a time, he was the first person I ran to with any of my issues—but it’s like there’s a wall between us. Jay wants to breach it, but I’m scared to let him get that close again. The wall makes me comfortable, but it’s also keeping me from being truly happy.

  If Jay knew the whole truth, maybe he would understand.

  I’m not a liar.

  But I am the great evader.

  Chapter Nine

  Clark beats me to the coffeehouse again, and since I’m a half-hour early, I wonder if he lives there.

  “Wow,” I say. “You really couldn’t wait to see me again.”

  He laughs and purses his black-stained lips. “The same could be said of you.”

  I sit at his table and smile. “You caught me,” I say.

  “Not yet, I haven’t.”

  I don’t want to touch that, so I roll my eyes.

  He smiles. “So you’re ready for lesson two? Linda told me you’re interested in theories of truth.”

  I pull a notebook and pen out of my bag. “Go.”

  “No, I do not have a Prince Albert, although the idea intrigues me.”

  I choke. “Excuse me?”

  “I do have a tattoo at the base of my—”

  “Spine?” I squeak. I stare at him. He shakes his head. I blush. “And this tattoo is of what?” I ask, trying to get a grip on my voice.

  His eyes twinkle. “A revolver.”

  “You’re joking.”

  He bursts out laughing, but I can only watch him.

  “You’re joking?” I ask again.

  “Nope. I know it’s a little personal, but I’m starting out lesson two with no untruths between us. You asked a question and I answered.”

  I shift in my seat. “I didn’t ask about tattoos.”

  “A freebie. Feel free to reciprocate.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Clark smiles and stands up. “Let me get your coffee. Vanilla latte, right?”

  “You remembered that?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I’m a student. I study.”

  When he comes back, he explains the whole TMI thing.

  “See, there’s the pragmatist theory of truth that says the truth is valuable because it is useful. In this case, telling you the truth gives you reason to trust me, which is useful in developing our working relationship. If I hide things, hedge, or obfuscate, you won’t trust me and you won’t learn as much. Not useful.”

  “Obfuscate, huh? Big word for you.”

  He grins. “Objectivism is the theory that there is a reality that exists independent of the mind. The sky is blue, no matter if you’re color-blind. But Berkeley’s empiricist idealism holds that things only exist to the extent they are perceived. So the sky is blue for you, but to the color-blind guy, the sky is gray. And that’s his truth.”

  “I’m with you,” I say. “It’s objective versus subjective. Two camps. I like where you were going
with the pragmatist theory. For my thesis, I want to look at ways and means of assessing and employing universal truths, rather than the question, does truth exist.”

  Clark nods. “You’ll want to look at discussions of morality and ethics then, rather than truth explicitly. But some truth theories have an impact on universality. Take the basic question: what are the implications of knowing the truth? Some believe truth is never evil or cannot hurt in any way. Truth just is.”

  “Oh, truth can hurt, alright,” I say.

  “But why should it?” he counters. “If I say you look horrible in that shirt, why should it hurt you? It is truth. Knowing it, you can choose a more attractive shirt.”

  “That’s not truth, it’s opinion,” I say.

  “It’s my truth,” Clark says.

  “Fuck you.”

  Clark smiles. “It was just an example, Leni. I’m not really giving you my truth.”

  “So the tattoo was bullshit?” I ask.

  “Truth.” He leans back in his chair and watches me.

  I think about the possibilities of only telling the truth.

  “What are you going to do with your life, Clark?” I ask him.

  “Teach and write. Truth.”

  “Do you want a family?”

  “Someday. Truth.”

  “How do your parents feel about the way you look?”

  Clark leans forward. “They stay away from me, and that’s the way I like it. Truth.”

  “Are you happy?”

  His green eyes lock on mine. “Now, in this moment, yes. Truth.”

  I look away.

  “My turn. Are you happy, Leni?”

  I swallow. “Not very. Truth.”

  “Teen angst or something more?”

  “More. Truth.”

  Clark rubs his knuckles on his lower lip. “Tell me.”

  I sigh. Even if I wanted to open up to Clark, which I kind of do, I don’t know where to start.

  “This is too much,” I say.

  Clark props his elbows on the table. “Leni, we’re not only discussing philosophy, we’re living it. But I’m not here to force you to do anything. We can still talk about it without your secrets. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  I giggle nervously. “Tattoo information not withstanding.”

  He smiles. “It’s your choice.”

  He speaks those words as if he knows how much they mean to me. He can’t possibly know, but I want to believe he chose them deliberately anyway.