Drowning Is Inevitable (4 page)

“I'm sorry,” I said.

I opened my eyes to the sound of twigs crunching and saw Maggie and Jamie walking toward us. I take back what I said before. On nights like these, Jamie had three choices: he could be the witness, go home, or get backup. Maggie leaned over Max's wet form and drew her hand back. I flinched at the sound of the slap she gave him, hard against his face.

She leaned closer into his face and yelled, “The last thing she needs is everyone in town knowing she jumps off cliffs for fun! If you tell anyone about this, I promise you, you'll regret it.”

I could tell he believed her. Then she turned to me.

“I know you think there's a black hole waiting for you, but you can go around it.”

Max looked truly remorseful. He locked eyes with me and said, “I'm sorry. I wanted to jump off a cliff, and I didn't want to do it with anyone but you.”

It was one of the nicest things he'd ever said to me. He hefted himself off the bank and walked away from us, dripping, never looking back. Jamie helped me up and I avoided his eyes, not because I'd done anything that terrible but because I knew I'd aged him.

Maggie looked at me hard, her lips twitching like she was getting ready to say more. Instead of ranting, she turned and led the way back to her car. We stayed a couple paces behind her.

Jamie whispered, “Don't be mad at her. She doesn't like being scared.” Then, his voice louder this time, “Maggie's the kind of girl you'd go the whole world to find.”

It was like he was reminding us both. I wasn't mad; I agreed.

Riding back to Fidelity Street, my clothes wet and clinging, I thought about the moment underwater when it had stopped being my decision whether I stayed there, when my reflexes had screamed,
“Swim!”

Maybe there was something inside you that wanted to stay alive and would scream to be heard, no matter what you'd been through. I wondered whether it had been like that for my mom, whether she'd changed her mind as the black current of the Mississippi River pulled at her. Flipping my hands over to study my scars, I wondered if she had fought.

Late in the night, my cell phone rang, Jamie's familiar ringtone filling the air. I answered it.

“Bob Costas,” he said.

“Carly Simon,” I countered.

“Selena Gomez.”

“G-Greg … I mean, wait—”

“No, you lose this round. And George Harrison.”

“That's what I was trying to say.”

“I know. Drew Barrymore,” he said.

“Bob Barker,” I countered.

“Ooh, double whammy.”

It was a game we played anytime one of us couldn't sleep, filling up the night air between us with names. You had to name a celebrity using the first letter of the last name the other person said.

“Bette Davis,” he said.

“Good one. David Letterman.”

“You find a way to bring David Letterman into every game.”

“What's wrong with David Letterman? He's sexy.”

Jamie laughed.

“What?” I said. “He's smart, and smart's sexy.”

“Good to know,” he said.

There were a few moments of silence. “Did you find any answers at the bottom of Thompson Creek?” Jamie asked.

“No, just more questions.”

“Your mom wasn't there?”

“No.”

“You'll find her,” he said. “Was it a rush?”

“Like nothing else.”

More silence.

“Good night, Olivia.”

“Good night.”

S
ummer in St. Francisville was hot; the kind of hot that could kill old people and babies. The weatherman routinely told us we should stay inside until dark. You'd think this would prevent the town from planning outdoor activities, but St. Francisville loved a festival. I secretly loved them, too. The music and spirit were special, despite the heat.

It was the second day of my favorite festival, The Day the War Stopped. When I was little, I didn't understand the significance, I just liked watching the parade and seeing everyone dress up in clothes from the 1860s. The festival was a reenactment of the funeral of a Union captain, one John E. Hart. You might think it strange that a Union captain got a festival every year in Louisiana, but Hart was a Mason, and he died on his ship when it was docked along the bluff on Bayou Sara. At the time, dead bodies were chucked over the side, not without ceremony, and the fighting continued. However, according to Masonic rites, Captain Hart needed to be buried on land. The Union soldiers sent word to the Masons in St. Francisville, and after some negotiating, they agreed to bury him. The Masons met the soldiers at the dock with a coffin, white flag and all, and marched Captain Hart through town to Grace Episcopal Church, where a preacher was waiting, and they buried him. The town put down the war for four hours to bury a brother. The beauty of this didn't escape me, and neither did the irony. Captain Hart died by his own hand.

The procession began at the banks of the bayou and then continued into town. When I was little, I'd fall in at the end of the line. No one ever stopped me as I broke through the crowd, stepping into the street to take my place. I'd work my way closer to the coffin, and I couldn't help but look up at it. Once everyone was in the graveyard, I'd take a left instead of a right and go sit at my mom's grave. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and imagine the tribute was to her.

Most years, Jamie walked with me. It was never a plan we made, just this unspoken thing between us. We'd sit with Lillian as the rest of the town rewatched Captain Hart's funeral. As we got older, we stopped walking in the procession altogether and came straight to the cemetery.

I tried not to linger on the fact that the people of this town, who looked at me with nervous eyes, gathered once a year to recreate the funeral of a suicide victim. I knew it wasn't the death they were honoring but the bonds of brotherhood. I also knew I wasn't being fair, but I felt scorned. My dad tried to help me understand. He said it wasn't malice, it was regret. The people of the town—the good and the bad alike—were made of one fabric. If there was a tear, we all felt it. When my mom died, my dad said the whole town felt it, and everyone gathered around my grandmother, trying to hold her up. Lillian was everyone's daughter.

This year, Jamie and I planned to meet Maggie at the art tents before going to the grave We met under my tree and started walking, but Jamie stopped suddenly in front of his house.

“What time did you tell Maggie we'd be there?” he asked.

“No certain time. Why?”

“I just remembered I have something for you.”

He walked toward his house. I saw his dad's truck in the carport and slowed my steps. Jamie noticed.

“Don't worry. He's working the night shift now. He's sleeping.”

“Okay.” I planted a smile on my face and pretended that walking into his house didn't make my stomach hurt.

I used to be as comfortable in Jamie's house as I was at my grandmother's. We played hide-and-seek all over the house, and every Tuesday night was game night. We played board games, all four of us gathered around the kitchen table while Mr. Benton read aloud the rules of whatever game we were playing. He was a stickler for the rules, but if you won, he'd make you feel like a million bucks, like you were the smartest kid that ever lived because you'd beaten him at Candy Land. It made me sad to be in Jamie's house with those memories. I was pretty sure it made Jamie sad, too, but he didn't talk about BDD days.

Mrs. Benton was sitting at the table sipping coffee as we snaked around the kitchen and down the hall toward Jamie's bedroom. She acted like she didn't notice us, not even a blink. I held my breath as we passed his parents' room. The door was open a crack, and I caught a glimpse of Mr. Benton on the bed.

The first time he'd hurt Jamie's mom had been after one of our games. For a while, after he lost his job, we pretended not to notice that Mr. Benton was sad and drunk. We all ignored his mean comments. But one night we couldn't. Mrs. Benton told him he'd had enough to drink and tried to take the bottle away from him. He pushed her, and she fell into the table, the glass in her hand shattering on the floor all around her. He didn't help her up, just walked away from her. That was our last game night.

Jamie picked up his journal from his bed and added it to the collection on his shelf. I stood and ran my fingers over their spines.

“What do you put in all of these?”

He shrugged. “Just stories, ideas.”

He went to his dresser and slid it over a bit. It made a loud scraping noise against the hardwood, and Jamie stopped instantly, his head snapping in the direction of his door. I stopped breathing and started praying, something I never did unless I was in Jamie's house.
Please, please, please don't let that have woken him up
. I didn't look at the door, only Jamie's face. It seemed an age before he blinked. No noise came from his dad's room. Relief washed over his face, and he dropped to his knees and pulled up a loose floorboard.

I met him on the floor. He slid a few planks toward me and revealed a hole beneath the floorboards. There were two journals stacked inside it.

“Those are more personal,” he said. He reached his hand in and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to me.

I knew instantly what was in it. “She left another one? When did you get this?”

“Last night. I went by the graveyard on my way home. It was in the flowerpot. I was going to bring it over right away, but your lights were out. So I put it somewhere safe.”

My mom's childhood best friend, Beth Hunter, wrote her letters, and she always put them in the concrete flowerpot at her graveside. I had never met her, but my mom's bedroom wall was speckled with pictures of her. Beth was smiling in all of them, her face usually tight up against my mom's. It'd been over a year since the last letter. I quickly tore open the envelope.

When I was younger, I didn't read them. Not out of some sense of moral high ground, but because I couldn't read cursive. I kept all of them where Lillian had kept things that were important to her: in a shoebox under her bed. The box held ribbons from pep rallies, movie ticket stubs, her lift ticket from her one and only ski trip, a matchbook from a café in New Orleans, my dad's class ring.

Beth and my mom had made all these plans, this life list that was still tacked to the corkboard hanging in my mom's bedroom. I assumed Beth had her own copy, because according to her letters she was working her way through it. There were 126 things on this list. I knew because I'd counted each one again and again, memorizing the things my mom wanted to do but never did, this life she didn't live. Each new letter detailed something on their list. So far, I'd crossed off twenty-eight things. Beth snuck into town and left a letter each time she checked something off, telling my mom what she'd missed. I still didn't know how she managed to do it undetected, because this town missed nothing.

I quickly read the new letter.

“Which one?” Jamie asked.

“Number thirty-six, move to New Orleans.” Beth didn't go in order. So far my favorites were: live in Denver and work at a ski lodge, spit gum off the Golden Gate Bridge, and wait tables in Hawaii. Some things were easily done, like be kind to a stranger, and some were huge and seemed like they could never be crossed off, like number eighteen: love everyone all the time. I knew that before I went to bed tonight, I'd put this letter with the others and cross number thirty-six off my mom's list. I was going to find Beth someday, but like a lot of things I was going to do, so far nothing had come of it.

Jamie put the planks back in place, and even though he was as careful as possible moving his dresser to its original position, it still made a noise. He froze again, and I hated that he had to be so quiet in his own house.

The bed squeaked as Mr. Benton got up. Jamie looked from the door to the window, like he thought it might be a good idea to jump out of it instead of trying to get out the door. With Mr. Benton you never knew who you were going to get, the monster or the man.

Jamie quickly herded me toward the door. “Let's go.”

We skirted past them in the kitchen, Mr. Benton wrapping himself around Jamie's mom, all soft touches and words, kissing apologies across her cheek.

“I'm sorry. I love you. I love you,” I heard him say, his hand running over the fading finger marks on her face. She didn't say anything, but her eyes said she was tired of being loved that way.

“I'm sorry,” Jamie muttered once we were outside.

“It's okay.”

We didn't talk about it on the way downtown. We never talked about it.

We were walking behind the bank building when we saw Max across the parking lot. I hadn't seen him since we went cliff diving, and there was this weird morning-after feeling. He was leaning against the side of his truck.

“When are you and him gonna figure things out?” Jamie asked.

I didn't get to answer him, because we suddenly came face-to-face with my dad.

He nodded. “Jamie.”

Jamie nodded back. “Mr. Hudson.”

“Do you mind if I talk to Olivia for a minute?”

“No, no, sir.” Jamie looked at me and said, “I'll go find Maggie. We'll meet you later.”

“Bye,” I said.

“It's hot out here,” my dad said. “Walk with me to my truck. I've got some water in my cooler.”

I was about to tell him I wasn't thirsty, but he gave me a look that said not to argue. Once he got to his truck, he started pacing.

“I heard you went cliff diving at Thompson Creek.”

My eyes shot over to Max, who looked back at me questioningly.

My dad followed my stare. “He didn't have to say anything. In this town, even the trees talk.” He rubbed the back of his head, something he did when he was really upset.

“It wasn't a big deal. A lot of people do it,” I said.

“It might not be a big deal for a lot of people, but we both know it is for you. How can you be so immature?” His eyes burned into mine.

“I'm not immature, I'm seventeen. My actions are age appropriate.”

For a second I didn't think he had anything to say to that, but then he lashed out. “If you want people to stop comparing you to Lillian, then stop acting like her.”

“I don't know how to be different,” I admitted. A hard lump formed in my throat, because the truth hurt.

His head dropped. Most dads wanted the world for their children; mine just wanted me to live through my mistakes.

Time passed. I'm not sure how long it was, but I sensed when he wanted to be released of his parental burdens and obliged. “I'm going to her grave, if you want to come with me.”

He looked younger at just the mention of her. For a second I glimpsed the boy my mom had loved, and that made me sad. I also knew that it would do the trick, and what his answer would be.

“No, you go ahead.” He stepped backward, putting distance between himself and me. “I'll go with you next time.” He said that every time.

Once he'd turned the corner, I looked back over at Max to see him still watching me. He motioned for me to join him, but I had a dead girl to visit. I shook my head and walked in the direction of the graveyard.

When I went to the graveyard, I tried not to look at the tombstone itself. There was something jarring about seeing her name in stone, her birth and death dates the same, just separated by eighteen years. Instead, I leaned against it. The cemetery was beautiful. The oak trees were older than the town itself. I wondered at the things they must have seen.

I saw Jamie and Maggie down the street, making their way toward me. They were talking, and Maggie said something that made Jamie laugh. Once they got to me, they plopped down on either side. I rested my head on Jamie's shoulder, a habit. We turned our attention to the funeral procession as they carried the empty coffin down the street and into the graveyard. We didn't say anything as the ceremony began, the gun salute to Captain Hart our soundtrack, the cold of the stone pressing through my shirt.