He takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck. “A few of us decided to have a little party on the beach,” he says, his gaze still fixed on the ocean. “It wasn’t even a party … just a get-together with a few of Cara’s friends. My friends could come too, of course, but these were mostly people from her school … everyone except Jamie and me.”
A seagull squawks nearby, skimming the surface of the water.
“Cara and I got to the party around nine that night. I think we were the last ones to get there,” Blake continues. “Somebody had already built a bonfire, and people were roasting marshmallows, playing guitars, throwing Frisbees … ”
“Were they drinking?” I ask hesitantly “Were you?”
His eyes turn flinty for a nanosecond, but then they soften again. “I never drink,” he says firmly. “When you survive cancer, you never take anything for granted again, and you’ll be damned before you’ll voluntarily screw up your own health. I’m sure other people in the group were drinking, but—”
“Was Cara?” I interject.
“No,” he says. “She didn’t drink either, and she definitely wouldn’t drink on a date with me. I take my responsibilities very seriously when I’m with a girl. I take good care of myself and I take good care of the people I’m with.”
I tighten my lips, wondering if the irony is striking him, but he seems unfazed. I’m also a little put off by his machismo, but he’s probably just trying to impress me … right? This is something every dad would like to hear when his daughter goes on a date, I guess. Blake seems very smooth about those kinds of things.
Uncle Mark’s words echo in my ear—almost too smooth—but I shake them impatiently from my thoughts. I’m clearly overthinking again.
“So, yeah, I guess some people were drinking, and somebody probably passed around a joint or two at some point, but nobody was wasted or anything. Cara and I were totally sober.”
“Were any of them swimming?” I ask haltingly.
“Swimming? No. Well, yeah … of course. I mean, we were at the beach in the middle of June, for crying out loud. Every once in a while, somebody would jump in and take a swim.”
“And that’s what Cara decided to do?”
“Yeah.”
I detect the slightest edge in his voice. Am I going too far, asking too many questions? Is this even any of my business?
“I told you, Anne, you can ask me anything,” he says, softening his tone as if he’s reading my thoughts. “Yes, she decided to go for a swim. Yes, I beat myself up every day for letting her do it.”
Letting her do it. My stomach clenches a bit.
“But what was the big deal?” he muses, more to himself than to me. “You’re at the beach, you jump in for a quick swim … ”
“So you guys were all sitting around, then she … ”
“Um, Cara and I had actually gone off alone to take a walk,” he says, “just the two of us. We’d been hanging with the group all night and wanted a few minutes alone. We walked for a while, then she said, you know, she wanted to cool off, jump in the water, take a little swim … ”
“So she was wearing her bathing suit?”
Again, his eyes turn flinty. “No, Anne, she was wearing a parka,” he snaps. “I mean, it was June, after all.”
I feel my cheeks turn warm, and he reaches abruptly for my hand. I instinctively pull it away, but then I reluctantly let him take it.
“I’m sorry, baby. Geez, why do I sound like such a jerk sometimes? It’s just … the guilt does such a number on me.” He takes another deep breath. “She had her bathing suit on under her shorts and T-shirt. She asked me to hold her clothes.”
I nod, and he continues. “We were right here, right around these rocks, and I waited on the beach while she took a swim. The surf was rough—I didn’t know how rough until later. The water looked calm enough, but apparently there was a strong undertow. I didn’t know that … but even if I had, I don’t think I would’ve really been concerned. She was a good swimmer—we’d been swimming in undertows our whole lives—and besides, I figured she’d just jump in and jump right back out again.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and more stray raindrops graze my face.
“When did you realize she was in trouble?” I ask, my heart rate quickening as I contemplate that she was just a few yards, maybe even just feet, from where I’m sitting now. How could Blake not have noticed things were going wrong?
How could he not have gotten to her quickly? Yes, it was dark and the surf was rough, but sitting here now, my vantage point seems so different than the vague images conjured up by the story of a drowning. The impact hits me with a thud: This was no story. This was a girl’s life.
And death.
“I never saw her go under,” Blake says quietly. “Like I said, I thought she was basically going to jump in the water then jump out again, so I wasn’t thinking, ‘I can’t let her out of my sight for a second.’ It wasn’t like that. It’s like if somebody goes to refill a drink at a burger joint, you’re not going to sit there and watch her the whole time.”
Right … except that it was dark and the surf was rough …
“So, you know, she wades into the water, turns around a couple of times and waves at me … ”
Blake’s voice breaks and he drops his head, emitting a choked sob. I press my palm against his thigh.
“We don’t have to talk about this,” I tell him in a whisper.
But he holds his head back up, his eyes moist but resolute. “While I was waiting for her, I texted my mom … Hey, Mom, love you … then she called me. Does it sound crazy to talk to your mom on a date? I dunno … it’s just the kind of relationship we have. Mom called and we talked for a couple of minutes—five tops. I told her we were having a good time, that I’d be home soon, that I’d get up early the next morning to take her to church … ”
The waves are crashing closer now, the larger waves spraying us with fine mists of seawater as the tide closes in.
“And when Mom and I finished talking,” Blake says, his muscles tensing, “I looked back out into the ocean … and she was gone.”
He pauses and looks deeply into my eyes. “Just like that. She was there … then she was gone.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “That’s … that’s awful.”
He nods and swallows hard. “I stood around for a couple of minutes waiting for her head to pop up out of the water, and when it didn’t happen … ”
“You went to get Jamie?” I prod tentatively.
Deep breath. “Yeah.”
“And you were still holding Cara’s clothes?” I ask.
Blake’s jaw drops. “Jesus, Anne!”
I sputter, trying to form a response, but nothing really comes out.
“You just don’t get it,” he says, a touch of contempt in his voice. “I was worried about a girl’s life and you’re wondering if I remember holding on to her clothes or dropping them on the beach?”
“I … I didn’t mean … ”
“Jesus, even the cops didn’t get that specific,” he snaps, and I fleetingly wonder why not. Because Blake’s so wholesome? So believable? Almost too smooth …
I meet his eyes for the first time since his story began, suddenly feeling the slightest bit indignant myself. My composure seems to deflate his haughtiness. He stares at the sand and continues his story in an almost whiny voice.
“So I ran to get Jamie,” he says.
“Jamie was still with the rest of the group?” I clarify.
Blake nods. “Yeah. He was still at the bonfire, a half a mile or so that way.” He points in the direction we walked from.
“So you went and told everybody she was missing?” I ask, my muscles tensing as I contemplate whether I’m consciously trying to catch him in a lie.
“Yeah,” he says. “Then Jamie and I hopped on
the jet ski to look for her.”
I bite my lip. “And I guess everyone else was looking for her too? Running up and down the beach? Jumping in the water?”
He studies my eyes, then looks out at the sea again.
“No, just Jamie and I went looking. There was no point in a lot of chaos or having other people risk their lives by jumping into the ocean.”
But hadn’t he just said … ?
I sit up a little straighter. “So … you didn’t tell everybody right away?”
He shrugs. “I guess not. I guess I just pulled Jamie aside at first and told him.”
“But … but if you’d told everybody, at least they could have followed you to where she was swimming and stood on the shore helping you and Jamie look for —”
“No, Anne, that’s not how it happened.” Irritation flashes in his eyes.
Pause. “Okay.”
He wipes a raindrop from his brow. “Like I said, I didn’t want a lot of chaos, and, you know, for all I knew, maybe Cara had gotten out of the water while I was on the phone with my mom and I just hadn’t noticed. I really expected to pass her on the beach when Jamie and I went looking for her, heading back to the bonfire and wondering why in the world I was worried.”
His face crinkles like a leaf and his head drops into his hands. He sniffles loudly, then looks up again.
“So, no,” he continues, his voice still shaky, “it wasn’t like I was screaming and waving my arms like a maniac, shouting for the entire group to start a search party.” He shakes his head ruefully, then adds, “Christ, when I say it out loud, I’m like, ‘Idiot, why didn’t you do that?’”
“I get it,” I say unconvincingly, not sure if I’m consoling or humoring him, not sure how I feel about anything at this point. “It can be hard to know how to interpret a situation,” I continue, “and until you’re clear on what’s going on, you don’t want to overreact … ”
“Exactly,” he says with conviction, the thunder getting closer. “Exactly. I didn’t want to overreact.”
He clamps his lips together to steady his trembling chin. “And you wonder why I feel so guilty.”
The seagull swoops onto the water’s surface again, then soars into the air.
I’m tempted to stop asking questions now. Just when I start distrusting Blake, he sucks me back into his sympathies; his grief seems so raw, so genuine. But I’ve come too far to let this story fizzle to a halt. This story’s not over yet.
I clear my throat and say, “So you and Jamie looked for Cara on the jet ski?”
He glances at me and looks a bit disoriented, as if his self-flagellation has predictably been the point in the past when people stopped asking him any more questions. Why are you still yammering? his expression seems to say. Don’t you know this is where you’re supposed to show some respect and shut the hell up?
Still, he manages to collect himself and answer me.
“Right,” he says in a tight voice. “We tore through those waves looking for her. The rip currents were bad that night, but we were flying through the water. My adrenaline was totally pumping by that point. Once it was clear she hadn’t gotten back out of the water, man, that’s when I panicked. I kept screaming at Jamie, ‘Hurry, hurry! She’s drowning!’”
“But … no signs of her?”
He drops his head. “It felt like we stayed on that jet ski forever. Neither of us wanted to give up. If we went just a little farther, a little deeper, maybe we’d see her bobbing around, thrashing in the water … ”
I shiver.
“But … nothing,” Blake says, then mindlessly grabs a small shell and flicks it into the ocean. “That’s when we ran back to the rest of the group. ‘Call 911,’ we yelled. Then the police came, and pretty soon they had the Coast Guard out here, and … ”
His face crinkles again and he squeezes tears from his eyes. “That’s what happened,” he says, his voice breaking.
We sit there for a long time, more ocean spittle peppering our faces, more stray raindrops skittering against our bare arms, more thunder churning ever closer.
So there it is: he’s told the whole story now, from start to finish. He said I could ask him anything, and his churlishness at certain points notwithstanding, he’s answered my questions. Yes, some details seem odd, but overall, the story hangs together. I mean, people do drown, right? Some even in broad daylight with dozens of people around. Cara’s circumstances were the worst possible: swimming on a dark, isolated stretch of beach in a rip current. And the police certainly believed Blake. The news clippings made it clear no one ever considered Cara’s death suspicious or criminal. Her parents wanted Blake to speak at the memorial service, for crying out loud. Occam’s razor: the simplest explanation is usually the right one.
I sit quietly for a few moments trying to collect my thoughts. It’s wrenching, torturous, draining to hear a story like this, particularly sitting at the very spot where it happened. I wonder whether a single monster wave swamped Cara that night, or if the rip current pulled her deeper out to sea than she realized, or if she knew exactly what was going on and swam like mad against a too-strong current, flailed for her life, uttered desperate screams that no one could hear amid the crashes of the waves. I shudder.
Of course, Blake can’t answer those questions. But there are a couple more that maybe he can …
He picks up another small shell and fingers it idly.
“I heard something crazy today,” I say quietly.
“What?” Blake asks.
“Just … speculation, stupid gossip … ”
“I’ve heard it all,” Blake says, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “You can tell me. What did you hear?”
I squeeze my arms together. “That maybe Cara wanted to disappear. I mean … not that she wanted to die, but that she wanted to … disappear.”
Blake huffs dismissively. “Sounds like a real genius was floating that idea. God, I hope her poor parents haven’t heard that one—that’s all they need. Why don’t people realize when they’re running their mouths that actual people with actual feelings are involved?”
“Right, it was stupid.”
“So did this rocket scientist toss out a theory about why Cara would want to disappear?” Blake says, his voice dripping with disdain.
A gust of wind suddenly buffets my hair. “Again, it was just stupid speculation … you know, the typical reason teenage girls disappear. That maybe she was … pregnant.”
I jump as Blake snaps the shell in his fingers in half.
Nineteen
Crash!
Just as Blake breaks the seashell in half, a jagged, blindingly bright bolt of lightning flashes in the sky, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it makes me tremble.
Then the storm unleashes. Cold, fat raindrops pelt our heads, rain so heavy and torrential that it’s hard to see Blake just a few inches away. Within seconds, I’m as soaked as if I’ve just jumped into the ocean.
Blake grabs my hand. “Let’s go!”
We start running down the beach, back toward the car. The boggy sand slows our stride, but Blake keeps pulling me along, tugging roughly at my arm, so roughly that I wonder a couple of times if he’s pulled it out of the socket. I’m breathless by the time we reach the car. Blake opens the passenger door for me, then runs around and gets behind the wheel, pulling a hoodie from the back seat and throwing it to me. I dab my face and hair with it, shivering as Blake starts the engine, his windshield wipers flapping furiously. He runs his fingers through his sopping-wet hair.
“Want the hoodie?” I say, rubbing my sore arm.
He grunts in response, his expression dark.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.
Silence.
“Blake … ?”
He drives in silence for a moment, then glares at me from the c
orner of his eye. “What’s wrong?” he repeats sarcastically. “Other than feeling like a drowning cat?”
More silence.
“Didn’t mean to snap,” he finally says.
I study his face, hugging my arms together, as Blake’s eyes peer out the windshield. “Why did you freak out when I mentioned that rumor about Cara being pregnant?”
“Because it’s bullshit!” he says, making me jump as he pounds his fist on the steering wheel. “You think her mother would get a charge out of hearing that one? As if she hasn’t been through enough?”
The mother you supposedly bring flowers to every Sunday?
I set my jaw. “I wasn’t talking to Cara’s mother; I was talking to you. I told you I had some questions, and you told me I could ask you anything.”
“Not bullshit! I didn’t tell you to ask me bullshit!”
My mouth drops. “How am I supposed to know what’s bullshit and what isn’t?” I sputter. “I don’t know anything about any of this! All I know is that I somehow keep getting pulled into other people’s drama.”
“Yeah, Anne. Keep blaming me for all your issues.”
My issues?
“You’re getting really good at that,” he says, snarling. He glares straight ahead, squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white.
“You’re driving too fast,” I say, but he ignores me.
I shiver again. Who is this person? Why do I feel so good about him one minute, so confused the next?
Dr. Sennett’s words echo in my head: Wanting it to be right doesn’t make it right.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I’m not overthinking anything; maybe I’m under thinking. Maybe I’m giving him too many passes.
“You’re being rude to me,” I say in a brittle voice.
Blake ignores me.
I take a deep breath, then forge on: “I have a question.”
More silence—he’s still glowering as he speeds toward my house in the pounding rain—but now, his petulance is just emboldening me.
Tragedy Girl Page 12
