Glimmer

by Phoebe Kitanidis

  I let him slip his hand in mine and guide me across the street from school. I’m expecting him to talk at me in that vacuous way people have been doing, small talk, surface talk, about a movie plot or a YouTube video I haven’t seen. But Dan doesn’t do that. He just walks with me. Every once in a while squeezing my hand a little. I’m surprised at how comfortable, how natural, the silence between us feels. Makes sense, I guess, if we’ve been going out forever.

  Suddenly I remember Project California. Was Dan supposed to come with me? After two years, I’d probably built him into all my future plans. But he seems so happy here, I can’t imagine him wanting to take off. Is that why I was waiting, to sell him more on my plan? Or had I given up?

  I have to know. Was I planning a future with this guy or getting ready to set him adrift? If it’s the second one, then, well, it’s not like I’d forgive myself for cheating, but at least I’d hate myself less. “Wow, the weather’s nice today,” I say. Lame start, but I’m going somewhere with this. “Of course it’s probably nicer in California.”

  “Uh . . . no it’s not,” he says, in a tone that suggests not loyalty but confusion about how I could miss such a basic fact. “Everyone knows we have the world’s best weather in Summer Falls. It’s that whole glacier effect, or whatever they call it.”

  “But we don’t have surfing. Not like California.”

  He gives me a funny look. “Why do you keep bringing up California?”

  He may be dumb, but he’s not an idiot. Dan, my boyfriend of two years, doesn’t even know that I’m planning to leave town.

  Elyse, Elyse. How could you be so sneaky and two-faced?

  Dan and I arrive at the Summer Falls Community Center and Pool. The guy at the registration counter smiles at us as he checks us in. I still have no idea what our jobs are. I keep trying to find a way to subtly ask without asking.

  “Meet you after we suit up,” Dan says.

  “Right.” I trudge to the women’s locker room, which is packed with moms helping little kids change for swim lessons. Many of the little kids smile at me, the moms too.

  Wonder of wonders, at the bottom of my backpack, in a clear plastic bag, is my suit. A black, blue, and red one-piece racing swimsuit—the ugly kind that’s made to look athletic instead of sexy and ends up looking even sexier for it. I peel off my clothes and slide into the stretchy suit. Then, facing the three-way mirror, I gather my hair to put it up and that’s when I see what my shirt was covering. Ugly greenish-yellow marks bloom all over my shoulders and back. I blink at them in confusion. Some are finger-size. Some fist-size. Bruises. Those are bruises. I feel dizzy and sit down hard on the locker bench.

  Someone else did that to me; someone hurt me. Someone with big hands grabbed me roughly and pinched my skin with enough brutality to leave marks. Who would treat another person like that? Who would treat me like that—and why would I let them? The liquid terror swirling through my insides crystallizes into anger. From the color, these bruises are maybe three or four days old. Who could have done this to me in the last four days? Marshall would never hurt me. He didn’t even hit Dan back after . . . Dan. With sickening clarity I remember how his hairy, tan arm snaked out to clock Marshall in the back of the neck. Just for hugging me. Is that why I didn’t tell him I was running away to California? Was I afraid of my own boyfriend?

  The locker room is silent, empty. All the 4:00 p.m. swim-lesson kids have gone. If I’m supposedly their instructor, I’d better pull myself together and join them or I’ll lose my job. I pull up the back of my suit as high as I can, but that only covers half the bruises. I yank the scrunchie out and let my hair fall loose over my shoulders. So much for giving myself a boy haircut. The long hair I’d thought of as vanity was really armor.

  In the pool area, the smell of chlorine threatens to overpower my nose and the echoes of laughing kids overlap one another and become one song, but all my senses are focused on Dan.

  He’s perched way up in the lifeguard chair on the right, looking down over his territory like a stern alien overlord in his mirrored sunglasses. The chair on the left is empty.

  Oh.

  I’m a lifeguard too.

  I climb the steps with swift, sure footing—proving I’ve done this many times—and discover that the view from the lifeguard chair is amazing. There’s a beginning swim lesson in the kiddie pool and an intermediate stroke clinic at the shallow end. Lap swimmers share the lanes not being used by the swim team. But one of the best parts is watching the parents watch their kids. The tender expressions on those faces—the parents, not the kids, because the kids are pretty much entirely focused on being terrified or excited. (Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.) It makes me wish I were one of those kids. To start over, start fresh, not have made so many mistakes. Get another chance. Of course I wouldn’t really want to be a kid. Kids get forced to do things by their parents, like take swim lessons. They’re powerless against anyone bigger, stronger.

  I touch the back of my neck. It’s tender, like someone grabbed me and pinched hard. I sneak a glance at Dan. His sun-browned face looks haughty, rigid.

  Suddenly Dan blows his whistle and I realize I’ve been watching him instead of the swimmers. A little girl in the deep end of the pool is floating on her stomach, not moving. What’s she even doing over there? My heart’s racing as we both dive into the water after her. No air bubbles coming from her nose or mouth. Together we lift her from underneath. But the moment her head’s above water, her eyes pop open and she lets out the breath she was holding. She bats her eyes at Dan. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “What, you were pretending to be in danger, for attention?” I realize my voice sounds harsh, but I can’t believe this kid. “That’s bad. Never do that again.”

  The girl’s lower lip trembles, and Dan gives me an incredulous look, like, Cut the kid some slack. “Think about it, Zoe-bird,” he says to her in a nicer voice. “What if some other little girl needed our help for real while you were joking around?”

  Zoey frowns. “She would have drowneded?”

  Dan puts on a sad face on behalf of the imaginary victim. “A lifeguard’s time is too important to waste on pranks.”

  Watching him be so sweet with her, I’m suddenly reminded of the night before, the way Dan yelped and then laughed when I stepped on his foot. Like a big, gentle dog that tolerates ear-pulling from toddlers. Was it possible I rushed to conclusions about my bruises? Maybe some kind of accident caused them. Or maybe I’m just one of those people who bruises super-easily.

  By the time Dan and I have deposited her on the shallow end and are through lecturing her together, there are tears in her eyes. I feel bad for yelling, but it’ll be good for her to remember this so she doesn’t do it again. It’s only once we’re heading back to the lifeguard stand that I realize what a miracle it is that my body remembers how to swim, how to rescue a distressed swimmer, how to be a lifeguard. The muscle memory is there inside me. It gives me hope.

  Two middle school boys break into a splash fight, laughing and shoving each other.

  “No horseplay,” I hear myself say, but of course they don’t stop. Before I can take a step toward them, out of the corner of my eye I see one of the lap swimmers break out of his lone spot in the far lane and start ducking under the lane dividers on his way to the deep area. Bad etiquette. Also—oh, no way—he appears to be wearing a full-body swimsuit circa 1900. His white swim cap shimmers lightly as he heads straight toward the girl who faked drowning.

  My heart’s thumping. I want to run as far away from this pool as possible, but I’m a lifeguard. I steel myself and jump into the pool after her. But I’m never going to make it. He’s so fast. He grabs her from behind, his long, ghostly fingers on either side of her small head. I hear her exhale a sigh and then she relaxes, falls back, her head underwater. Where did the ghost go? I pull the girl’s body up and swim her over to the side. Zoe’s small body is racked with coughs, but her open eyes are wide with shock, not vac
ant like Hazel’s were. She came back. “Just hold on to the side and keep coughing it out,” I say, rubbing her back. “You’ll be okay.” I hope.

  A smattering of applause echoes throughout the pool area. I hadn’t realized we had an audience. Why are they applauding? I didn’t get to her in time. I didn’t save her from the ghost.

  Her mother dashes over to me from a chaise on the far side of the pool area. “I can’t thank you enough, Elyse. You’re a wonder. You jumped in before I could even see she was unconscious.” She’s grateful, but she doesn’t sound really . . . scared. Like she never really thought anything could go too seriously wrong.

  No one else saw the ghost swimmer. No one but me.

  I had wondered why Marshall couldn’t seem to see the ghosts around us, but I’d never stopped to ask myself why I could. I think back to the photo-album pictures of little-girl me, drawing “imaginary friends.” The ghosts weren’t imaginary, and they definitely weren’t my friends. Maybe I was drawing them because it was lonely being the only one who could see them.

  When our shift is over at six, we climb down from the chairs and head toward the locker rooms.

  “That was pretty light today,” Dan says. “Only two heatnap rescues, and one was a fake.”

  I stare at him. On a normal day we’d have to rescue multiple people from drowning? “Huh.”

  “Got energy for that hike?” he adds slyly, and leans in to peck my lips. I can taste his Chapstick, can smell his chlorinated hair and sunscreen—nice summer smells—and his musky boy scent. I think about it: hiking up to the falls with Dan. Having a real conversation with him. Kissing him more. Seeing if we could have a chance together. But his whole life is hikes and parties and hooking up. My life is invisible ghosts, unexplained bruises, and Marshall at my side—Marshall, who’s no less mysterious than our missing memories themselves. Dan and I just don’t fit together, if we ever did. It’s not fair to keep stringing him along just because I dread telling him the truth.

  “I have to talk to you,” I say. His eyebrows go up, and then I just bite the bullet. “After graduation . . . I’m moving to California.”

  “Is that, like, a joke or something?” He smiles, crinkling the skin around his eyes. “I can never tell when you’re being crazy and when you’re just a step ahead of me. Okay, okay, I’ll bite. Why California?”

  “To find myself? Break away from here and find my calling?” Things I can’t do here.

  “Lifeguarding is a calling,” he says seriously. “When you first tried to talk me into taking the course in Green Vista, I was only doing it to be around you more. Because, let’s face it, you’re smokin’ hot. But now . . . now I know how vigilant you have to be to save lives. It’s changed my whole perspective. Like it woke me up.”

  “Really?” I talked him into lifeguarding? I changed his life?

  “Absolutely, Elyse.” He runs his hand through his messy hair and gives me that golden-retriever grin. “So . . . when do we leave for California?”

  We? He’s saying he’ll come with me—even though he clearly doesn’t want to leave his hometown? My stomach flip-flops, dreading the conflict ahead. “Dan . . . we’ve been together a long time, and you’re obviously a great guy, but I don’t even know who I am right now. I can’t make a commitment to anyone.”

  “You already made a commitment.”

  “I’m really sorry, Dan,” I tell him. “I’m just not the same person I was, and I don’t want the same things. . . .”

  “But how could anyone want more than this?” He gestures behind him, toward the pool area, the swimming children and doting parents. “What’s gotten into you, Elyse? Just a few weeks ago you were showing this off to all your friends.” He touches one of the rings on my left hand. A white-gold band with a tiny diamond. Just a chip. I hadn’t even noticed it before because it has no sparkle, but now my eyes are glued to it.

  Holy shit, that’s what that ring is? I’m engaged to him? Maybe it’s just a promise ring, please, god?

  “You’re not listening, I said we’re done!” I twist the ring off, thrust it into his hands, and run into the locker room. I did it. I broke up with Dan, which means I’m not a cheater anymore. No. I’m still a cheater; nothing will change what I did. But I made it as close to right as I could.

  Only, Dan doesn’t seem like the type of guy to just let a girl—the girl who changed his life—walk out on him. Anxiety chills my limbs as I wonder what kind of ex-boyfriend Dan will be. What if he clings to denial, like Liz about my amnesia? He’s liable to blow his savings on a truckful of roses and show up at Preston House pleading with me to take him back. If guilting me into being his girlfriend again doesn’t work, what would he try next? Stalking me? And then there’s his loyal football buddies. They could gang up on Marshall and really hurt him. The ring may be off my finger, but I know this isn’t over yet.

  Chapter 22

  MARSHALL

  To kill time before meeting Mr. English at Mollie’s, I zigzag down Main Street and wander down side streets, checking out smaller storefronts. Trying to get a feel for this place that Elyse grew up in.

  The downtown sidewalks are crowded; first Friday night of the season. I bump into Jim and Candace holding hands on Main Street, dreamy looks in their eyes. Jim’s traded his button-down shirt for an orange “I ♥ Summer Falls” T-shirt, and Candace is feeding him some kind of pastry from a pink waxy paper bag that smells like cinnamon. They’re too besotted to notice me.

  Across the street in the town square, the young homeless woman’s busy balling up tiny pieces of bread and arranging them artfully on the statue of W. P. Preston. Pigeons and sparrows and crows surround her, adding to her aura of insanity as they peck at the morsels of bread left on Preston’s austere bronze face, his giant boots, and the crotch of his trousers. When one pigeon poops right in the statue’s lap, she cackles, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. What keeps her out of the asylum?

  I turn the corner onto a tiny side street just in time to see a familiar figure step in front of me. It’s Elyse’s mom.

  “Hey, Liz!” I wave—and that’s when I see the sign on the door of the building she just exited. “Pleasant Nights Motel.”

  “Oh god.” Liz looks mortified. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here.” My face must look pretty shocked—Elyse’s mom’s having an affair?—because she quickly adds, “It’s not what you think. I just . . . well, sometimes I get real tired, I guess. I don’t even remember booking the room.”

  I look down at the duffel bag over her shoulder and feel a tightening in my gut. “You just woke up in a hotel room . . . and don’t know how you got there?” Not a sign of stellar mental health.

  “We all have moments,” she says as if trying to reassure herself. “Especially at my age.” Right, thirty-three is the onset of senility.

  She glances down at her watch and bites her lip. “Shoot, dinner’s going to be late. . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Jeffry can figure something out.” Actually, that guy didn’t seem tech-savvy enough to nuke a plate of leftovers. But I had to say something. To reassure her that things would be all right, even if I’m not sure they will be.

  As she walks away, her shoulders look sadly uneven, the left one dragged down by her heavy duffel strap. The bag’s neon red vinyl, a screaming clash with her faded pink sundress. Liz packed a bag and checked into a motel, but now she can’t remember why? And from the sound of it it’s not the first time. I have to share this with Elyse. We have to help her mother—somehow—before it’s too late.

  —

  I arrive at Mollie’s Milkshakes at the same time as Mr. English. It’s packed to the gills, mostly with high school kids. Couples especially. It’s a hot day, but the ice cream’s cooling them down, as well as the huge fans hanging from the rafters. Sunglasses rest on top of sun-bleached heads. Spaghetti-strap tank tops and sundresses show off tan arms.

  A few people look up to see us, and from one of the group tables two girls call out simultan
eously in flirtatious voices, “Hi, Mr. E!”

  “Emma. Bryn.” Joe nods at them stiffly, his smooth cheeks turning pink. His silver-tongued classroom act is gone—here, he’s just an awkward young guy in owlish glasses. Really young, I realize. In the bright sunlight, his unlined face looks not a day older than any of ours. Despite his stodgy teacher costume of khakis, shined loafers, and blue button-down shirt, he could be our peer.

  He catches me watching him. “So,” he prompts, eyebrows raised, “you brought her notes, I take it?”

  My mother’s notes. I remember the book Miss Niffenhauer was talking about. “Are you a journalist too?”

  “Journalist?” His head jerks back as if I’ve insulted him. “Marshall, are you messing with me?” His thick lenses seem to magnify the worry and eagerness in his blue eyes. “My god. You don’t even know who I am, do you? It’s me, Joe. Joe Clifton. From the Institute?”

  What Institute? “You’re . . . not Mr. English?”

  “Mr. English is just my cover story. I’m the occultist assigned to investigate your mother’s . . . well, your mother’s death.”

  I can’t feel my arms and legs. It feels like I’m floating an inch to the left of my body.

  “Good gracious, this is bad.” Joe is so taken aback, he pulls off his Coke-bottle glasses and sticks both temple tips in his mouth. His eyes look normal-size now, but his face looks even younger and smoother. His eagerness to please reminds me of Ruta, his nerdiness of Jeremy. No wonder we were friends. “But Eva’s defense spell should have protected you!”

  “Spell?” My heart pounds. “You’re talking about a magic spell?”

  Joe looks overwhelmed. “What other kind of spell is worth talking about? Marshall, what’s happened to you? This is worse than a few heatnaps. It’s like you’ve been erased from the ground up.”