When the beluga was finally free, she blasted out of the circle of divers. The pod chattered and whistled, and then all the whales converged on the divers so quickly there was no time to get aboard their Zodiacs. Alexis thought they were toast.
Instead, the whales circled as the one they‘d freed gently pressed the bulbous hump on her head— melon, Alexis called it—against each diver. When it was Alexis‘s turn, she wrote: ―At the whale‘s touch, I felt my questing soul calm. It was as if I had been asleep my entire life and then suddenly come awa—‖
b
The phone jangled.
The sound catapulted me out of the book and back to the real world. I fumbled with the handset. ―Hello?‖
―Hello . . . Jenna?‖ A pause. ―Are you all right?‖
My answer was automatic, awkward: ―Yes, I‘m . . .‖ I was still so deep in the web of the story I had a hard time making sense of the words. Then my brain caught up, and I sucked in a breath of surprise. ―Mr. Anderson?‖
―Yes.‖ He sounded concerned. ―I was just calling to see how you were doing. I would‘ve called yesterday, but . . . Are you all right?‖
I swallowed, all thoughts of Alexis Depardieu pushed aside. ―I‘m fine. I was just reading. Something for English.‖
―Oh.‖ A pause. ―Well, okay. I didn‘t mean to disturb you.‖
―No, it‘s fine, really. I just . . .‖ I glanced at my clock: nearly noon. Two hours had evaporated. ―Wow, I lost track of time.‖
―Must be a good book.‖
―It is, actually. I wasn‘t expecting it to be. Anyway . . .‖ I slicked my lips with my tongue. ―I‘m fine.‖
―Good. I was just checking in. You know, after what happened Saturday night, you‘ve . . . you‘ve been on my mind. I would‘ve called yesterday, but I thought that was too soon and your parents—‖
I jumped in. ―My parents are away for a couple days. They left Sunday morning.‖ I explained about Meryl then said, ―So I‘ve got the house to myself until Thursday.‖
―Oh.‖ Pause. ―Well, what are you planning to do with all your free time besides read?‖
―Uhm . . . well, I‘ve started running again.‖ I screwed up my courage. ―In fact, I went over to Faring Park yesterday.‖
If he was surprised, he didn‘t sound it. ―Yeah? I run there. How‘d you do?‖ I told him and he said, ―So that‘s . . . hang on . . . about a seven-minute mile, give or take about four seconds. Not bad. You run today yet?‖
I shook my head then remembered he couldn‘t see. ―Not yet.‖
―Neither have I. Want some company?‖ He said it lightly enough and then added:
―If you‘re not too busy. No pressure. I did a long run yesterday, so I‘m going easy today, only five or so.‖
―No.‖ My heart was racing. ―I mean, sure, I‘d love some company.‖
―Great. Well, you know where the park is, right? How about we meet there in, say, an hour?‖
I said that would be cool, and he said to bring a change of clothes because he knew this little place for lunch, and then I said that sounded nice and hung up and was out the door in fifteen minutes.
Depending on how you look at it, Bob, you might say that was the worst decision of my life. Depending.
26: a
After the first mile, Mr. Anderson said, ―So how are things with your parents? I mean, in general.‖
I‘d already told him about the glacial freeze on Sunday morning, so I said, ―How do you mean?‖ We were going at an easy ten-minute-mile pace, and I had plenty of breath for talking. Not that I‘d done any, I was too tongue-tied and awkward. Before leaving, I‘d obsessed on which outfit to wear. When I‘d started running again, I‘d ordered two new pair of compression shorts, pants and matching tops, along with new shoes. The shorts were broken in, but the tops not so much and I thought the grungier I looked the better. I mean, I was run-ning—with an older man—not going on a date (which I‘d never been on anyway).
In the end, I paired navy blue compression shorts with a baby blue racerback tank that hid my grafts well enough in case I peeled a layer; a white running bra; a lightweight training jacket; and good wool socks for the trail. The day was a carbon copy of the one before, though a little cooler because Mr. Anderson had suggested a loop around Faring Lake. By the end of the first mile, my muscles were warm; I was sweating, my body moving in a comfortable rhythm, though I had to lengthen my stride a little to keep up with Mr.
Anderson‘s longer legs.
―Welll. . .‖ Mr. Anderson glanced at me, then away. That plum-colored bruise was nearly lost in the high color splashing his cheeks. Sweat was just beginning to bead on his muscled shoulders and his throat glistened. ―Maybe none of my business, but you mentioned that you were worried about your mom.‖
My stomach knotted. I was glad we were running so Mr. Anderson couldn‘t really see my face. ―I might be overreacting.‖
―Or maybe not. You‘d be surprised how long people can trick themselves when the truth‘s right in front of them.‖
So I told him about the night we‘d gone to the store and Mom hadn‘t been there, and what I‘d started thinking about. What I‘d seen at the party. ―If they‘re not having an affair, then I think they‘re really close to one.‖
Mr. Anderson didn‘t answer for so long I worried I‘d done something wrong.
Maybe he hadn‘t bargained on this. It was one thing to ask how my parents were; it was another when the crazy girl spilled her guts. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but I worried that would make me sound stupid, like a little kid, so I just ran.
After another half mile, Mr. Anderson said, ―So you think that‘s why your parents decided to take an extra couple days? Your mom wants a divorce and your dad might be trying to talk her out of it? It‘s just as likely that they‘re enjoying one another‘s company and need some time away.‖
From you. He didn‘t say that, but I heard it anyway. I knew he was right. My parents needed a time-out from their crazy lives which included their nutsoid daughter.
How dumb was it, me believing that Mr. Anderson was doing anything other than just being nice to the whacko new kid. He had to be thinking about what my dad had said: that I‘d been on a psych ward and had problems. Mr. Anderson was probably regretting he‘d ever called and counting the minutes until we made it to the parking lot.
This is what happens. This is what happens when you forget that only Matt understands. You can talk to Matt. His e-mails never change, he never . . .
All of a sudden, I was sprinting, running as fast as I could, full out, legs thudding, arms pumping, my chest going like a bellows. I heard Mr. Anderson call my name, but I didn‘t look back, just kept going faster, faster, my brain yammering: run, run, run faster, must get away, must run faster. If I ran fast enough, maybe my skin would split, peel off, float away, and then I would be like that beluga whale, finally free to get as far from my life as I...