Swim Deep

by BETH KERY

  I don’t want to hear what the nightmare ghost says.

  Water spatters on my cheek… one drop, two. I realize it’s coming from her mouth. It’s not just water. It’s her blood. Her rotting essence.

  Horror and revulsion swallows me up at this point, squeezing out every last sense of identity, of self.

  My eyelids fly open (even though they’d been stretched open in horror, wider than they’d ever been in my life, just a microsecond ago). I inhale in a wheeze, as if choking hands had abruptly been removed from my throat.

  The room is exactly the way it had just been, in the dream. But the door is shut fast. Evan sleeps silently next to me.

  We’re the only two people in the room.

  Mentally, I scramble to believe it.

  The warm sunlight and the gentle sound of the surf on the rocks far below me diminished the power of the remembered nightmare.

  I drifted off to sleep, certain I wouldn’t dream up here, in my special spot.

  I awakened to the feeling of warm, dry fingers caressing my cheek.

  “Evan?” I mumbled. The touch didn’t feel like Evan’s familiar one. But who else would be touching me so intimately?

  When I opened my eyes, I stared for a moment, confused and groggy. Then reality hit. I gave a startled scream and scrambled like a crab on all fours backward on the blanket.

  The old woman remained kneeling, her hand still outstretched. Long, lank gray hair fluttered around her narrow shoulders. Her blue eyes appeared filmed over. I had the crazy thought that she saw me, but was also as blind as a bat in this bright sunlight.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” I demanded.

  “You’re burning,” she said. When I just stared at her uncomprehendingly, she pointed to her nose. “The sun is burning you. Where’s your hat?”

  “My hat?”

  To my amazement, she gave an exasperated shake of her head. She’d mistaken my bewilderment for backtalk. The tension in my muscles drained out of me. Her irritation had humanized her. This was no apparition, no daytime repeat of my nightmare. She stood up from the blanket. Her clothes—a food-stained pair of light blue pants and a flowered Hawaiian shirt—hung loosely on her frail frame. The buttons on the shirt had been fastened unevenly, so that several inches on one side drooped lower than the other. I realized her shirt wasn’t the only thing about her that was off. A distinct air of madness hung about her. Another suspicion struck me.

  No one is taking care of her. And she needs taking care of.

  “No one does what I ask,” she muttered bitterly.

  “I… wait,” I called when she turned and started to walk away, clearly miffed. Hurt? She stumbled on a stone and veered crookedly for a few steps, straining to keep her feet under her. I got up hastily, compassion and concern spiking through me. She seemed so fragile, so crazy. I reached for her upper arm to steady her. But she’d already found her balance. She looked up at me with those blind-seeming eyes, and again I saw that expression of exhausted annoyance.

  “You never wear your hat.”

  She shook off my hold and walked away.

  I asked Evan about the strange woman when I returned to the house. I found him in his study, as usual, staring at his computer screen with a particularly fierce expression on his face that faded when I called his name.

  He listened to my story with polite attention, although I imagined I could almost feel the magnetic draw of his work pulling him back to it.

  “Who do you think she was?” I asked him, leaning against his desk.

  His gaze roved over me. He gave a small smile. “She was right. You are sunburned, honey.”

  “Don’t you scold me as well.”

  He put up his hands in a surrender gesture. “There’s a woman who lives down the coast a ways. I imagine it was her.”

  “That’s strange. I’ve never seen another house while I was hiking.” His gaze sharpened on me, and I imagined he was about to question me about my solitary walks again. I hurried to deflect him. “You’re not concerned about her coming onto the property?”

  “She’s harmless enough. Even when I lived here, she was batty. She has some kind of dementia, I think. Rambled on about the craziest stuff every time I’ve run into her. I’m surprised she’s still alive.”

  “Someone should be looking out for her,” I said, irritated on the frail woman’s behalf.

  “I don’t think she wanders over here often. I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said, standing and stretching. My focus latched onto his movements, his powerful chest and outstretched arms. I felt his inevitable pull.

  “I’m sorry that work has gotten even worse lately,” he said, crossing one arm over his chest and pressing it into his body with the opposite hand, loosening his tight shoulder and triceps. “I think I’ll have a workout. Care to join me?”

  “I exercised earlier,” I replied. Alone.

  “I’ve been thinking about hiring someone to come out to help with some light chores around the house and being a sort of… companion for you until this damn merger is finished.”

  My gaze jumped to his face. I was completely taken by surprise.

  “What? A companion? You’re thinking of hiring someone to be my friend?”

  “Of course not,” he said, dropping his hands to the desk. He leaned toward me, his expression serious. Earnest. “I feel bad because work is taking up so much of my time.”

  “You say you feel bad about me hiking in the woods on my own, but not bad enough to come and join me.”

  I immediately regretted my sharpness when I saw his expression flatten.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Or maybe I should have,” I said, meeting his stare. “I don’t need a watchdog, Evan. And you don’t need to feel guilty. I’m fine.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a watchdog. That’s ridiculous,” he replied curtly. “We could use someone to do housework while you paint. And there are other things you’d like to do, things that I haven’t been able to do with you because of this merger. Like see the local sights, or go kayaking or diving, for instance? You could be enjoying yourself a lot more if—”

  “If I can’t do those things with you, than I’d rather wait until I can.”

  He exhaled slowly. My guilt amplified at his slightly annoyed, weary expression. I felt like a grumpy child.

  “Don’t be mad at me, Evan. I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I’m completely happy. We spend every evening and night together. It’s more than most couples do.”

  He gave a short laugh. Relief swept through me when he reached for my hand and drew me around the desk. He wrapped me in his arms and pressed his face to the top of my head.

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “You were, a little,” I mumbled against his chest.

  I looked up at the sound of his gruff laughter. I couldn’t help but smile at the warmth in his usually cool gaze.

  “Don’t look so smug,” he cautioned. “I’m not convinced that hiring someone wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “I’ll convince you,” I whispered. I went up my tiptoes and pulled his head lower, brushing my lips against his. He pulled back several inches, regarding me with a heavy-lidded stare. I held my breath, waiting…

  “You are very convincing, Anna,” he said before his mouth closed on mine.

  The memory of the old woman stayed with me. I couldn’t help but be concerned about her.

  A few days after our first meeting, I again glimpsed her rambling between the beach boulders in the distance. I called to her from the overlook. She paused, placing her hand on the surface of a granite boulder and looked around. I shouted hello again, and waved. A brisk breeze kicked up from the lake, plastering her print skirt and mismatched sweatshirt against her body. I saw her rib cage. Her thinness and frailty were uncomfortably
obvious.

  I thought of bringing her into the house and making her a hearty meal. Evan probably wouldn’t approve, but I suddenly didn’t care. I waved again, and then made a beckoning gesture to her. She was too far away for me to really say for certain, but I thought I saw her scowl as she squinted at me.

  Then she turned, slipped in the sand, corrected herself gracelessly, and scurried out of sight.

  Undaunted, I made a small basket of food before going up to the overlook the next morning. It took a few days before I saw her again, and could put the lunch basket to use. As I painted, I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye.

  I glimpsed the woman near the boathouse, walking along the dock, the white smock she wore waving in the wind. I tossed down my brush and hurried to get the basket. I rushed down the slope, luckily not falling on my face in my haste.

  She’d meandered toward the tree line on the south side of the property by the time I caught up to her.

  “Hello!” I called between pants.

  She turned and looked at me. Abruptly, she swung around and began heading again for the forest. I’d glimpsed her face. Her expression had been hunted, which made me feel guilty.

  “I’ve made you a lunch. I thought you might be hungry. It’s only peanut butter and jelly, an apple, and a granola bar, but the bread is fresh baked,” I rambled as I stared at her retreating back. She disappeared behind the cover of thick pine tree trunks and manzanita bushes, the white of her shirt slowly dissipating into invisibility. You lost her.

  But then, as I stood there, I experienced that uncanny feeling of being observed. I had an idea she’d paused twenty or so feet into the forest and looked back at me from the shadows as I stood in the bright sunlight.

  “I’ll just leave it here for you,” I yelled, holding up the basket for her to see and then setting it down carefully on a stone.

  I slowly backed away.

  The next morning when I went up to the overlook, I found the basket placed in front of the storage unit. I smiled to myself when I saw it was empty.

  My offering had been accepted.

  The basket wasn’t entirely empty, though. A maple leaf rested at the bottom. I would have thought it had just fallen there, but then I saw the edges of the leaf had carefully been placed into the weave of the basket, in order to keep it in place. I gently removed it, and saw the leaf was perfectly shaped and proportioned.

  It was her thanks, I realized.

  So I started leaving her a packed basket of food every day in the same location, in front of the storage unit. Every morning when I returned to the overlook, I found the basket with a leaf carefully placed into the bottom, and all the food missing. Maple, aspen, dogwood, alder: the leaf type varied, but the similarity was that each was perfect and obviously discerningly chosen by the woman. If it hadn’t been for the deliberately chosen and placed leaves, I might have suspected that a wild animal was gobbling up my offering every afternoon.

  For some reason, I felt no compulsion to tell Evan about these exchanges. It was a private little affair, between myself and the old woman. I pressed each of the leaves, side by side, in a thick sketchpad I kept in the storage unit.

  I had no actual glimpse of the old woman again for quite some time. But at least I was fairly certain she was getting one square a day.

  One afternoon, I left the overlook earlier than I usually did and went in search of Evan.

  Usually when I approached his office I could hear him talking or the quick tapping of his fingers on his computer. That afternoon, however, everything was silent except for the distant, muted sound of the waves hitting the rocks that could be heard through the opened French doors. I crept farther into the room, calling his name and glancing around for clues as to his whereabouts.

  The half empty cup of coffee on his desk and the fact that his computer monitor was still lit argued for the fact that he’d recently stepped away. Either he was taking a quick break, and would be back any moment, or he’d gone to the workout facility. I knew that he exercised daily, but he varied the times depending on his work schedule. He might return in a few seconds, or not for an hour.

  My gaze landed on the pair of car keys lying on the coffee table in the sitting area. These were precisely the reason I’d come.

  The same nightmare had continued to haunt me for a week and a half now. I’d grown desperate for a good night’s sleep, frantic enough to decide to drive into the closest nearby town, Tahoe Shores, and get an over the counter sleep medication. I’d been like a zombie on the overlook trying to paint earlier. My work suffered, all because of that horror that came to stand over me every night.

  And that was something for which I wouldn’t stand. My work was too important to me.

  “Evan?” I called again, but this time, in a quieter, muted tone, almost like I was afraid he would answer, which was ridiculous. When I got no reply, I went into quick action. I found a piece of paper and pen, scrawled a note, and left it on his computer keyboard, then snatched the car keys and rushed toward the door.

  I wouldn’t let myself think about why I was hurrying.

  Ten minutes later, the answer blared in my brain as I maneuvered the car on the twisting mountain road, my hands aching from my vise-like grip on the steering wheel. Evan wouldn’t have wanted me to drive this road until I’d gone out a few times with him in the passenger seat. In my head, his imagined response to my request to drive into town had sounded overprotective and cautious. That’s why I’d been so keen to avoid it.

  Now that I was here, terrified to let my foot leave the brake, a parade of cars and irritated drivers piling up behind me, Evan’s caution didn’t seem so unreasonable.

  The nine or ten miles into town took me an eternity.

  I’d just started to get into the groove of taking the tight mountain curves (although I’m sure the pissed-off drivers behind me disagreed) when I finally pulled into Tahoe Shores. I looked around, relieved for a straight stretch of road, but also curious.

  This is where Evan had grown up.

  The little town struck me as too sleepy and rustic to seem pretentious. But it was clearly affluent, nonetheless, with its sophisticated restaurants and boutique stores that catered both to ski and beach enthusiasts alongside Harrows, a mom and pop grocery store. Looking to my left and down the mountain, I could see the roofs of sprawling homes and the sapphire lake in the distance. Having gone a mile on what appeared to be the town “strip” and not seen a pharmacy, I backtracked to Harrows Grocery and parked the car in the busy lot.

  The teenage bagger at the checkout was quick and graceful with his hands, dark-haired, and sporting an amazing tan. When I asked about directions to the pharmacy, he gave me a quick once-over that somehow wasn’t offensive. Maybe it was because of his smile. I thought of a teenage Evan, so fresh, charismatic, and beautiful growing up in this idyllic town, his future unquestioned and golden. For some reason, a pain went through me. I guess it was that familiar longing, that wish… that hunger to know my husband better than I did.

  “You’re at the right place,” the kid said, waving toward the back of the store and giving me a quick wink. “The only place. Mr. Harrow is also the town pharmacist.”

  I’d never had a problem sleeping, so I wasn’t sure which sleep aids were the best. I waited for the gray-haired pharmacist—Mr. Harrow, presumably—to finish consulting with a customer, and then approached the counter to get his advice.

  “Just a minute,” he muttered distractedly, writing something in a log in a long, sloppy scrawl. He tossed down his pen, smoothed his pharmacist smock over a protruding belly, and glanced up at me. My first impression after observing him with the former customer had been that he was amiable and easy-going, even a little haphazard, given the stereotypical idea of the meticulous pharmacist. But from beneath shaggy eyebrows, his gaze was piercing and intelligent.

  “I’ve been h
aving some trouble sleeping, and I was wondering if you could recommend an over the counter sleep medication?”

  He took a moment to reply. I shifted on my feet awkwardly as he stared at me. Were over the counter sleep medications suspicious somehow? Were they like those allergy medicines that had to be regulated because drug dealers used them to make methamphetamine?

  “Vacationing here, are you?” he asked slowly, his gaze moving over my face.

  “No—“

  “But you don’t live here? I’ve never seen you around.”

  “Not here actually, not in Tahoe Shores. I’ve recently moved here from San Francisco, after getting married. We live in a place down the shore a bit… ”

  I realized I was rambling, giving away more information than was warranted because I had some stupid idea that asking about over the counter sleep aides verged on criminal behavior.

  “Where exactly do you live?”

  I opened my mouth, about to automatically supply an answer, when I suddenly caught myself. Irritation swept through me. I didn’t owe him any explanations. Even if the pharmacist was suspicious of me for some unknown reason, he should just get to the point. I tapped my hand once on the counter, straightened, and met his startled stare squarely.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  I was a little confused at his manner, but also increasingly curious. Maybe this was typical behavior in a small town, to feel out strangers a little, chitchat before getting down to business?

  “No, of course not,” the man said gruffly, looking a little abashed now that I’d called him out. He gave me the name of a few medicines and pointed out where they could be found on the shelf. I felt his stare on my back as I walked away.

  I left the store with the sleep aid. But I felt like I’d failed in my first small-town interaction.

  By the time I returned to Les Jumeaux, late afternoon shadows hung thick on the narrow entry drive. When I reached the clearing at the back of the house, my gaze immediately landed on the stationary figure of a tall man on the front porch. He leapt into action, stalking down the steps and coming toward me.