Burying Water (22 page)

“I can’t remember the last time I had a pizza guy deliver to my door,” Alex says between mouthfuls. “And I’ve definitely never sat on the floor like this.”

I smile, propping up the layer of pillows around her back for her. I found some in the old cedar chest and then grabbed a bunch from my mom’s living room. “They don’t normally deliver this far, but they do it for us. Amber and I used to sit around the fireplace like this when we were little kids, in the winter. We had these long metal pokers, and we’d melt marshmallows and then make S’mores.”

“Hmm . . . S’mores. I’ve heard about those.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously?”

She giggles, tucking a strand of melted cheese into her mouth. “My mom stepped off a plane from Russia when she was twenty-four, to begin working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. I wasn’t raised on Western culture’s traditions.” She rests her head back to share my oversized pillow, the smell of her freshly washed hair erasing my appetite for pizza.

“What were you raised on?”

A faint smile touches her lips. “She used to tell me fairy tales before bed. About fences made of human bones and witches that killed little ducklings.” Her face scrunches up. “Horrible fairy tales. They gave me nightmares.”

It’s not funny but I can’t help laughing, which gets her laughing, which gets her wincing and touching the side of her face.

I slip my arm under her shoulders and pull her to my chest.

“I’m going to leave him, Jesse. I’m going to tell him that I know about the cheating and it’s not working out. I don’t want his money. Maybe if I agree to just walk away empty-handed, he’ll let me?”

Somehow, I doubt it. “How do you think his ego will take it?”

“I don’t know.” She tips her head back, her big eyes peering up at me. “I’m kind of scared, but . . . I figure, what can he do, really?”

That depends. The more I think about Viktor and his dealings with stolen cars, the more worried I get for Alex. I don’t know much about that world, but I have to think he’s got more at stake than chump change. Otherwise, why would the risk be worth it? “What do you know about Viktor’s business dealings? The non-legit ones.”

She purses her lips, as if afraid to admit that she has even suspected anything below-board. “Viktor keeps that stuff to himself and I don’t ask. I’ve met Rust. I’ve met some of his other business partners. Most of them are Russian. We even hosted a garden party last summer and had them over, with their wives. I cooked this whole big spread of things that Viktor used to have growing up in St. Petersburg. He grew up in a wealthy home. Anyway, they all seemed nice.” She rolls her eyes. “Although we went through a lot of vodka that night.” She pauses. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wanted to make sure you don’t know anything that he doesn’t want to get out.”

She shakes her head. “No . . . For once, I’m happy to be the oblivious wife.”

And so am I. Because the oblivious wife is the harmless wife. “So, where are you thinking you’re going to go?”

“I don’t know yet.” I look down at her face to see the flames dance within her eyes as she stares intently at the woodstove. “This should be easy, right? People pick up and start over at thirty and forty years old, with kids and everything. I’m only twenty-two. I should be able to chalk this up to a bad mistake of my youth and move on. But I don’t know where to begin. I have nothing besides what he’s given me.”

“It’s all just stuff.”

“You don’t get it!” Her voice rises with frustration. “Look where we are!” She throws a hand up in the air. “In this cute little secluded apartment at your parents’ house that was just sitting here, waiting for you. I have no family to run to. No real friends that I can count on. I have
no one
.”

Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear so I can see more of her face, I whisper, “You have me.”

She pulls the wool blanket up around us and, roping her arm around my waist, she rests her head against my chest and squeezes me tight. I want to squeeze her back—I want to do more than just squeeze her—but I’m hesitant, for so many reasons beyond just her injuries. So, I settle for weaving my fingers through her long hair.

“That night in the hotel . . . now that I know what it
can
feel like . . .” Her voice drifts. When she speaks again, it’s with a hesitant whisper. “I want to feel that way again. With you. I just can’t now. Not until all this is sorted out.”

“I’ll wait.”

We lie among the fluffy pillows, listening to the fire crackle, smelling the burning leaves—I stuffed a few handfuls into the woodstove, just because I love the smell of burning leaves.

Her breathing evens out, her heart beats steady against my side.

I absorb all of it.

As I fall fast and hard.

“What’s down here?”

“If I tell you, then it’s not a surprise.”

“And you’re sure your family won’t come out here?”

“Yup. My mom and sister are in comas and my dad’s at some charity police force luncheon. Besides, no one’s been down this way in years.” I ease the Barracuda down the old, uneven path. Normally I wouldn’t think to drive it down, but it’s too far for Alex to walk while she’s still healing. And I really want to see her dip her fingers into a lake for the first time.

Up ahead the water is sparkling in the noonday sunlight. The blue skies are what I miss most about home. Portland always feels gray in comparison.

“A lake!” Alex turns, her own eyes now sparkling brighter than any sun rays on water.

I shrug. “You said you’ve never been to a lake.”

“And you actually remembered . . .” She doesn’t wait for me; she climbs out of the car and begins walking toward the sandy clearing where my sister and I used to set up for the day, back when we’d come out here to swim in the summertime.

I follow her, the wool blanket that she can’t seem to part with tucked under my arm.

“This is just . . .” Her words drift. She stands at the water’s edge, wrapped in my old gray-and-taupe flannel jacket, inhaling the crisp air, her eyes taking in the trees and mountains facing us. “This is me. This is what I want. I could trade it all today, for this. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever stepped into a place and just known that you were meant to be there?”

“Kind of.”

She glances over her shoulder at me, waiting.

I pick my path toward her, unfolding the wool blanket out as I approach. From behind, I wrap the blanket and my arms around her slender body, pulling her into my chest. “One night, I got out of my car to help this girl with a flat tire. I didn’t know it right then, though. But I was meant to meet her.”

She tips her head back to set a light kiss on my jawline, sending my blood racing through my body and my arms tightening around her.

A flock of snow geese that were resting across the lake suddenly take flight, their wings flapping against the water, kicking up splashes that glimmer in the sun.

Alex smiles. “That water must be cold.”

I release her from my grip long enough for her to dip her red-painted fingertips in. She pulls back immediately with an exaggerated shiver.

“See that stream over there?” I stretch an arm to point out the small branch coming off the lake. “It’s fed off the mountain thaw. So is this lake. There’s kind of a funny story to it. The stream runs all the way down into our neighbor’s property. Our neighbor, Mr. Fitzgerald—he’s gone now—didn’t like it so close to their barn. For years, he’d try to stop it. My granddad would help him. They’d dump gravel and dirt. One year, they built a dam. But every single spring, the water would find its way onto the Fitzgerald property.” I chuckle, remembering the two old men standing over the stream, scratching their beards in wonder. “Finally they just gave up and let it be. Realized there was no stopping it. The water was going to go where it was meant to go.” I feel a smile touch my lips. “My granddad used to tell us that story every spring, when we came out here after the thaw. Of course, it wasn’t just a story to him. He turned it into a life lesson about telling the truth. I had a problem with lying when I was little,” I admit, sheepishly. “He said the truth is like that water: it doesn’t matter how hard you try to bury it; it’ll always find some way back to the surface. It’s resilient.”

I feel her body relax into my chest. “I really like that story. I want to be like water, too. I want to be resilient, to go where I’m meant to go.”

I graze her cheek with my nose. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

She gasps and pulls away to turn and face me, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “I know what tattoo I want now.”

Beans. I assume that’s his nickname, given he’s tattooed the letters on his knuckles. Otherwise he’s a dumbass.

A dumbass whose wary eyes drift between the two of us, frowning every time they land on Alex’s bruised cheek. “What are we going with today?”

Alex’s bright eyes are full of determination. “A tattoo.” Once she decided that this was what she wanted to do, there was no convincing her otherwise, banged-up body and all. Luckily we’re the only ones at Get Inked—a small but reputable shop in Bend.

He smirks—we are in a tattoo parlor, after all—and then asks, “Do you know what you want it to look like?”

“I was thinking something to do with water. Like a symbol or something.”

“Hmm . . . Can’t say I’ve done one of those. Let’s see what we can find.” With a fast flick of his hand, he turns his oversized monitor to face us. He hits a few keys to open up a search engine for “water symbols.” All kinds come up.

Alex immediately zeros in on a circular symbol with waves inside. “That one.” She nods. “Here.” She touches the right side of her pelvis, where I imagine her panty line might run.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask in a low voice. “What about . . .” What is Viktor—the guy who dictates what she does, what she wears, her hair color, everything—going to say about a permanent mark on her body? And without his permission.

She sets her jaw with defiance. “Yes.”

“All right, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Beans mutters. To him, it’s just another design to etch into a body. To her, it’s a decision she is making without consultation with or authorization from Viktor. A decision made by her, for her.

To me, it’s Alex making a permanent mark on her body with something that represents us, even in an indirect way. And the idea of that makes my chest swell.

After printing out the symbol and filling in all the required paperwork, Beans leads us into one of the rooms and instructs Alex to lie down. “You’ll need to roll your pants down and push your shirt up,” he says, while removing the needle from its sterile packaging.

“You sure you want that there? It’s going to hurt,” I warn her.

“I can handle it.” She eases herself up onto the table and lies down, adjusting her clothes as instructed, the dark bruises over her midsection and hips glaringly obvious under the bright lights.

She definitely can handle it. She’s already handled so much more. As dainty and fragile as Alex appears, she’s a lot stronger than I’ve given her credit for.

Beans turns around and falters at the sight of her bruises, shooting a glare my way.

“He didn’t do this to me,” Alex says, reaching out for me.

“None of my business. I’m just here to ink you,” Beans mumbles, transfer ready.

I hold her hand and her gaze the entire time—through every wince and every teeth clench, every smile—as Beans carves a small round symbol into her body. And when he’s done, I refuse to let go.

“I’m not taking you back to your house tonight, Alex,” I announce, blocking her entry into my Barracuda.

She frowns. “But we have to go back. You have work, and I—”

“I’m not taking you back there until I have to.”

She stares at me for a long time, and then she nods. “Okay, Jesse.”

TWENTY-SIX

Water

now

“You should go visit Amber,” Ginny suggests from her perch, a purple-and-blue quilt stretched out on her lap.

“I tried. She’s sleeping.” I’m pretty sure she has a hangover from last night at Roadside, since I saw Meredith driving in with her car, followed closely by Sheriff Gabe. “Why?”

“Because your fidgeting is giving me a headache.”

I slide my hands under my butt. “Sorry.” I’ve been torn between preparing Ginny and surprising her, knowing that neither will go over well. When Teresa phoned this morning to ask if she and Zoe could come out at two this afternoon, I decided on something in between. That’s why, when I hear the crackle of tires on loose gravel, I blurt out, “So I have something to tell you.” I’m not even looking at her as I continue. “I met a nice lady at the store. She told me that she was selling her twelve-year-old daughter’s horse because . . .” I relay the situation in a quick, planned speech that I practiced several times in the mirror. “It’s just the two of them and you don’t have to say yes, but I figured you could use the money and you could make this little girl very happy. She’s been crying over her horse for days.” When the red Honda Civic rounds the corner, I add, “This lady bought your quilt. The latest one, with the horses on it.”

I dare to glance at Ginny once before I get up to meet Teresa and her daughter, Zoe, a pretty, wide-eyed girl with wavy brown hair. The expression on her face is completely unreadable.

But she hasn’t reached for her broom yet, so I guess there’s that.

“Two hundred a month for her own stall, plus any veterinarian bills. And she has to use my veterinarian.” She lops on a spoonful of mashed potatoes—I made the real kind; not that awful boxed stuff—and then takes a helping of a pot roast that I thought I’d try out. “And it’s just her and her mother on this property. No one else. Not this useless hunk of an ex-husband, not any coaches or trainers. Just those two.”

I nod. I had already figured as much and warned Teresa. She seemed fine with it, and was impressed with the barn and the land. And Ginny, as cranky as she can be, seemed to take to Zoe right away, asking her questions about Lulu’s habits and which stable she might prefer.

I thought that I might get whacked over the head with that broom, but when I left her on the porch to make dinner and read a bit, she was unusually quiet and content. “So, can I call her after dinner and tell her? I know Zoe’s probably waiting anxiously.”

Ginny studies the meat on her fork intently as she chews a mouthful and swallows. “It was a stable hand.”

I frown.

“He was in his late twenties. A big, burly man. But soft, like a teddy bear. Earl was his name. He worked for my dad for three years, one month, one week.” She twists the fork around. A bead of gravy drips down and hits her plate. “Four days. I was about that girl’s age when I first met Earl. I was in those stables every single day, rain or snow, it didn’t matter, helping to muck out the stalls and care for the horses. We had so many back then, it was hard to keep up.” She frowns at the meat. “At first, he just said hi to me. Asked how school was. I was an odd child—wary of people, even then—so I kept my distance. Eventually, though, he became a friend. He taught me how to climb trees. That’s what won me over. He was an excellent tree climber.” She finally eats the piece of meat, her jaw moving slowly, precisely. “After . . . my daddy did most of the work around here, with my help. It was
a lot
for just the two of us. I’m no idiot. I know that what happened to me isn’t common and that I could have a thousand stable hands through here with no issues. It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t ever be around another one.”

“Yes.” I bob my head rigorously to emphasize my agreement.

“That Zoe girl, she really loves horses. She lit up around our Felixes.” Ginny’s narrowed gaze follows the horizon out over the mountains. “My daddy always said that I lit up around the horses, too.”

What is it about this blanket?

I wouldn’t describe it as soft. In fact, it’s almost abrasive. Yet, leaning against a pile of cushions in front of the burning woodstove with a book from Amber, and wrapped within my checkered wool blanket from The Salvage Yard, I feel more contented than my limited memory can recall.

Perhaps I feel particularly cozy given the thunderous storm outside. Apparently we’re sheltered from the kind of rain that the east coast of Oregon gets, thanks to the mountains, but we don’t get away completely. The radio station playing at work today called for everything from catastrophic winds to clear skies in the span of an afternoon. Dakota and I made a bet—loser buys coffee. I, of course, chose clear night skies, both because I like to take in the stars from my balcony before I go to bed and because Dakota always buys coffee for both of us.

I’ll definitely be buying the coffee tomorrow.

A bolt of lightning zags through the sky outside and my attic apartment fills with light. The booming crack of thunder comes almost immediately after. And then the old brass lamp that shines over my book pages cuts out, along with the one other light I have on in my apartment.

Unease begins to slide down my back. The fire glow provides enough light to guide me to the kitchen drawer, where I know that there is a flashlight. It’s not big, but I can find my way around the apartment with it.

Another loud crack of thunder has me diving to the window to check the Welles property. There’s always a spotlight shining on one corner of their house—bright enough to cast a light to the fence line, emphasizing Meredith’s promise that I can come to their door at any time, day or night. Now, though, it’s as if that guarantee has been snuffed out. I don’t know that I could even make it to their house without tripping and injuring myself, the darkness is so consuming.

I look out the other windows. I even unlatch all the deadbolts and chains that I use every night and open the door. I meet only black nothingness.

That, and a cold, mean rain that pelts my face and dampens my shirt. Pushing my door shut, I relock the door and wrap my chest with my arms. I guess I’ll just have to wait it out. Taking my seat by the fire again, my blanket pulled to my chin and my knees pulled to my chest, I watch the flames lick the glass panel of the woodstove.

When footsteps pound up the stairs outside and someone knocks, I’m on my feet instantly, moving for the door. There are only a few people it could be—Ginny or one of the Welleses—and they’ll be getting soaked out there, so I begin unlatching the deadbolts again.

But then my hand falters. That voice in the back of my head adds another person to the list of possible visitors: the faceless man who showed himself to me once in a dream. Who hurt me terribly. I know it’s not realistic and yet, as I see the doorknob wiggle, a part of me panics.

A fist pounds against the other side. “Water! It’s me!”

My heart skips a beat.

I’m safe
.

I fumble with the remaining locks and throw open the door, ushering in Jesse.

“Hey,” he says through a shudder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, just because . . .” He lifts a hand to rub the back of his head. His hair’s so short that it barely messes it. “The power’s out. I don’t like when the power’s out.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” I admit. “How long do you think before it’s back on?”

“Honestly? Depends on where the break is, but it could be all night.” Flashes of lightning fill the room, and I can see that his flannel jacket and the T-shirt underneath are drenched.

I have the urge to find him something to change into, but nothing I have would fit him. My closet is full of hand-me-downs from Amber and Meredith, along with a few basic things from the secondhand shop in Bend. I forced Amber to go in. She wasn’t crazy about the idea but I enjoyed paying for some clothes with my own money, even if they weren’t new.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait it out, then.” I wander back over to my spot by the woodstove and wrap myself up in my blanket, hoping he’ll stay. I like not being alone right now, but more than that, I like the idea of being with Jesse.

Without a word, he grabs another log, the handle squeaking as he opens the woodstove and feeds the fire. Hungry, the flames flare, casting a brighter glow and illuminating Jesse’s profile, his eyelashes long and thick.

I instinctively reach up to my scar, my index finger running along the thin ridge. I’ll never have an appealing profile, not from my right side, anyway.

When the tiny door screeches shut, he pulls his jacket off, exposing his T-shirt beneath, the front of it wet. I’m suddenly thankful for the relative darkness, as it affords me the chance to gawk at the ridges on his stomach without being too obvious.

“Don’t like the furniture in here?” he murmurs, stretching his jacket out on one of the wicker chairs—a skeleton now that I’ve confiscated the cushions for my nest.

“I do, I just . . .” I frown. “I felt the urge to lie on the floor, I guess. It makes me feel cozy.”

“Does it?” His eyes drift over the pile of cushions that I lean against. “Well, in that case . . .” He kicks off his running shoes and then dives down next to me. Tucking his shoes under the woodstove, he adjusts the few stray pillows and lies back, stretching out his long body.

From my angle, higher and slightly behind him, I can watch him shamelessly.

And I do.

“Was this ours?” He nestles his head against the cable-knit pillow.

“Yeah. Your mom’s very generous.” Meredith’s spring cleaning involved bringing perfectly good bedding and blankets and books over to my door—things to dress up the space, give it life, she said. Some of these things still had price tags on them. “Do you want tea?” I reach for the mug I was drinking. “I can’t make you one right now, but you can have mine if you’d like.”

I feel his eyes on my face and I wish we were facing the other way, so the shadows could hide what I don’t want him to see. Finally, he drops his gaze. “I’m not a tea drinker.”

“Coffee?” His single nod answers me. “Let me guess . . . black?”

The muscle in his jaw pulses. “What made you think that?”

I shrug. “Just a guess. You look like a black-coffee drinker.”

“And what does a black-coffee drinker look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that. I guess you remind me of someone who drinks black coffee.” Now I sound even more stupid. “I watch people a lot, wondering what makes them who they are.” I watch what kind of food they load onto the conveyor belt at the grocery store, and what they order at Poppa’s, the local greasy diner that serves the best coffee in town. I watch the way some people dart across a busy main street while others wait for the light so they can use the crosswalk; the way some parents offer annoyed shushes to their children’s incessant chatter while others provide calm answers; the way a group of women will sit at a coffee shop table, their eyes circulating, their words laced with critical comments, while at the next table another group sits, oblivious to anyone else and just enjoying one another’s company. I watch and I wonder what makes people who they are. Is it the sum of learned behaviors and experiences? And if they, like me, can’t recall those experiences, would they still do those things in the exact same way? Or would they deviate?

How similar am I to who I once was? Would I have gotten excited stepping out of a thrift shop, my arms loaded with someone else’s castaways? Would I have willingly cooked meals for a crotchety old lady who doesn’t have the words “thank you” in her vocabulary?

Would I have turned my judgmental nose up at a “free spirit” like Dakota?

I think about these things. I think about the fancy dress and the diamond jewelry I was found with, my platinum-blond dyed hair, and how that girl ended up shoveling horse shit out of stalls. And loving it.

“That makes sense,” Jesse finally offers.

I giggle. “No it doesn’t. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

The tiniest dimple pokes his cheek. “You look like a two-and-a-half-milks, one-sweetener kind of coffee drinker.”

“That sounds ridiculous.” He must be mocking me now. “I’m one cream, one sugar.” That was how the first cup Amber ever delivered to me in the hospital was made. I realize now that I’ve never tried anything else.