Page 45
I know science. I know that it is possible for someone to survive a cold-water drowning, and they‘ve been working over Mitch for a long, long, long time. I think it was Rebecca who once told me that they work longer if they think you‘ve got a good chance of pulling through. I guess that explains me.
But it‘s been awfully quiet these last few hours. Awfully quiet . . . and I am so afraid to really let myself know what that means.
Weird, how I didn‘t quite understand what Mitch was trying to tell me when he said that, but I do now. He felt the way my mother did when those Marines came to the door.
Mitch‘s fear was fed by the same fire that kept me recycling Matt‘s e-mails over and over and over again.
Because if you can just hold off the moment when you must confront reality, time stands still and you can keep pretending that life will continue as you‘ve known it: that nothing—not even something as wonderful and as terrible as love—has broken your world beyond repair.
So I think I‘ll stay here a little while longer. There‘s plenty of time to get off this gurney and open that door and rejoin the rest of you.
There‘s all the time I have left on Earth.
There‘s the rest of my life.
When I do leave this room, I don‘t know what will happen next. My mom‘s in a coma; she might die. Dad . . . I don‘t think he‘ll change, no matter what. Matt is dead. And Mitch—
d
I just thought of something.
If Mitch is . . . If he‘s really gone, they can use his skin for my mother. If he‘s an organ donor. Knowing Mitch, he would be. They‘ll parcel him out in little pieces, an eye here, a kidney there. So why not his skin? They could flay his body and cocoon her with him. That last living bit of all that he was would help heal my poor mother—and how ironic would that be?
For that matter, my heart is broken. So maybe they‘ll give me his. It‘s something to shoot for.
And maybe, in all that, Bob?
There is forgiveness.
e
I just remembered Danielle and David. It‘s still Friday. No . . . Saturday? I‘ve lost track. But Monday will roll around soon enough, and Danielle will get her abortion. Or she won‘t. Either they‘ll get in touch with their folks, or Mitch was lying.
But I was on the ice with him, Bobby-o, and you weren‘t. So I don‘t think he was. I think everything Mitch said out there—every word—was the truth.
Every. Word.
f
You probably want me to regret Mitch. You want me to see that he lied, was some kind of predator; that I‘m a victim, like you said. But Mitch was broken, too, in his way and just as much a hostage to his past and his mistakes. Maybe by trying to fix me, he was also healing himself in the only way he knew how.
Oh, I can just hear you now. You and every therapist who ever lived will say that I‘m rationalizing, that I‘ve identified with a monster, just like those kids do who are kidnapped and live in a cage for twenty years. You‘ll want to see me as damaged somehow, and then you‘ll try to cure me. Well, I got news for you, Bobby-o.
Cured is just a synonym for coming around to your way of thinking.
Cured is the word you use when I finally agree.
But here‘s the problem with that, Bobby-o. You and the therapists can yammer until you‘re blue in the face, but I just can‘t agree with you and probably never will.
Because Mitch gave me love. He handed me back my life and that doesn‘t make me a victim.
When I close my eyes, Bob, he‘s there, right in front of me, and all I see in the dark is him.
All I see is him.
g
Oooo, you just knocked, Bobby-o. I know it‘s you. Oh, sure, nurses and doctors knock, but they never wait for an invitation. They just barge on in. I think they hate closed doors. Come to think of it, they‘re a lot like parents that way.
Anyway.
I know you‘re chomping at the bit to get at what‘s in this little machine. Well, Bobby-o, here‘s what I say to that.
These are my memories. They are my feelings, and you can‘t have them. Because you‘ll use them against Mitch, dead or alive, and I can‘t let you do that. Not everything Mitch and I had was a lie, and he saved me, Bob: first when he said I had to let him go, and again when he saw that I would die if he didn‘t stop trying to save himself.
So now it‘s my turn to save him.
You want to crucify Mitch? Find someone else. Because these words are mine, Bobby-o; they are mine.
That‘s not to say that I won‘t give you back your recorder, though.
Just give me a sec while I find that little red button, the one labeled era Acknowledgments
Every book is tough. Every relationship, whether it‘s between two people or a writer and her book, is about taking risks. This story was extremely difficult because my intent was to present a situation in which there are no stereotypical predators or victims.
Only a very special editor tolerates and champions that kind of ambiguity. Lucky for me, Andrew Karre is of that rare breed and for this, I offer my sincerest thanks.
Jennifer Laughran has proven yet again to be a fabulous advocate and a writer‘s dream-agent. Thank you, Jenn, for getting what this was about and taking the plunge.
For my stalwart husband, David: I could tell you how wonderful and patient you are, and there still wouldn‘t be enough hours in the day.
One last word about this book: Are these damaged people? Absolutely. Are there monsters in these pages? Yes; one, for sure. Yet many relationships are bound as much by hatred as love; growth may come from damage; and reality is complex.
In my experience, the truly evil are few and good people, with the very best of intentions, often make very bad decisions and get in way over their heads before they know it. People drown, quietly, before our eyes, all the time.
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