Take It to the Grave Part 4 of 6

by Zoe Carter

  “I was tryin’ to help,” Mom says again, as if I’ve argued with her. Maisey wedges herself between us, as if to protect Alice. The sight of my baby sister looking so fierce makes me want to laugh.

  What does she think I’m going to do, attack our mother? Not that I haven’t been tempted. I glance at the gold wristwatch Warwick gave me for my birthday. How am I going to survive this day?

  “Look at the time. I guess I should go check on Elliot. He’ll be waking up from his nap any minute, if he hasn’t already. See you later.”

  The forced cheer in my voice makes me want to cringe. Where and when did I acquire this singsong way of speaking? Genny’s and Tessie’s influence must have rubbed off.

  Maisey is still glaring at me, and Alice stares at her shoes, a chastened little girl, unable to meet my eyes.

  “Okay,” my sister says, squinting at me like I’m someone she doesn’t recognize.

  That uncomfortable sensation of being a Stepford wife returns. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.

  But what does Maisey know about the pressures I’m under? She probably sees all this luxury and assumes my life is easy. She doesn’t get how difficult it is to keep Warwick and his mother happy.

  As I leave, my sister puts her arm around our mother, but Alice pushes her away, staggering deeper into the garden. Maisey’s face falls, and she gives her fingers a vicious twist. Once again, I wonder what’s wrong with her.

  Why does she keep trying? Can’t she see Alice is a lost cause?

  I leave them be. It’s nothing I’ll ever be able to resolve.

  The house is quiet and blissfully cool when I return. After checking to ensure no one is around, I let myself into Warwick’s office. It’s an exaggerated expression of his masculinity, all dark wood and oversize chairs. His desk is bigger than most people’s beds, even though I’ve yet to see him do any work here. For all his talk, work has never been Warwick’s thing.

  My husband’s bar is concealed in an oversize globe. Despite the hour, I fix myself a vodka tonic. How Mother would love access to this room. In preparation for Alice’s visit, any alcohol in the house had been put under lock and key. Bridget had thought I was overreacting until she met my mother. We give Alice just enough to keep her from going into withdrawal, but there’s more to it than that. My mother would cause a scene if we didn’t let her have a cocktail with everyone else, or wine with dinner. I imagine Eleanor’s reaction if she ever witnessed one of Alice’s full-blown temper tantrums. I’d rather die.

  The ice-cold bite of the tonic water is refreshing. It’s not long before the smooth warmth of the vodka makes me feel better, stronger. I pour myself another before locking Warwick’s office and checking on Elliot. He’s fast asleep, his fingers curled into a teeny fist.

  Lucky baby. I wish I could sleep through this day. Wake me when it’s over.

  With my son napping, I’m at loose ends. It’s tempting to accidentally wake him, but that would be cruel. Might as well make good use of the time by putting some effort into finding the perfect outfit. I want Warwick to be proud of me again, to appreciate what a gorgeous wife he has.

  Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

  Caleb invades my mind. I remember the way he looked at me yesterday, his eyes glowing with admiration. “I wish you would come with me, Sarah...”

  No, not Caleb. Don’t think about Caleb. Caleb is dangerous. Think about Warwick. You’re married to Warwick. Caleb rejected you, remember? He had his chance and he blew it. It’s too late to go back now.

  It’s impossible to please both, in any case. Warwick prefers it when I’m fully made up, with heavy shadow and red lips. Caleb was always into natural beauty, fresh-faced Nivea girls (like Maisey?) with clean, shining hair pulled into ponytails. He’s the reason I didn’t wear a stitch of makeup as a teenager. After that I’d piled it on in a pathetic attempt to get back at him, even though he wasn’t around to notice or care.

  Compromising, I apply another layer of mascara and some eyeliner and leave it at that. Slipping one of the 1950s-style dresses my husband loves over my head, I’m pleased to discover it’s no longer a battle. The fabric slides over my hips without a whimper of protest. It hasn’t fit this well since I learned I was pregnant with Elliot.

  Turning to the side, I smooth the dress as I check my figure. My stomach howls, sounding mournful, but I ignore it. I may be starving most of the time, but it’s worth it. I’m finally starting to resemble myself again, no toilet paper or popcorn required.

  As I drain the second vodka tonic, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The booze, the gaunt, strained expression, the haunted eyes surrounded by thick makeup. The resemblance is terrifyingly clear.

  My God, I’m turning into Alice.

  The thought makes me shiver.

  Maisey

  Caleb and I were walking along the beach, arm in arm again. We’d made a habit of this, going for a walk along the sand every chance we got. This special time, with just the two of us, no Sarah, no Alice, no in-laws and no Lucy, who could be quite exhausting. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in another’s company in years, and I could already feel us growing closer. I curled my toes in the sand. This time I was going barefoot. It was freeing.

  And yet, that memory of Frankie, of me racing to pull him out of the pool, haunted me. My mother had gone to prison for Frankie’s death. I’d tried to make an effort with her, and after spending a little more time with her, the guilt was eating at me like acid on grime. Even though Peter was gone, she still drank. Because of Frankie? Because of...me?

  I kept trying to avoid it, but Lucy was being a bitch. Now that I’d uncovered it, she wanted me to face what I’d done. Constantly, that memory woke me, intruded on my daydreams. I could barely look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t go near my nephew. How could I go anywhere near another child? After the horrific crime I’d committed? I was disgusted with myself. I hated myself. Lucy was the one who was holding me together, but even she was struggling. If it weren’t for these little reprieves with Caleb, where I could fool myself into thinking everything was fine, everything was normal, that I wasn’t the most evil of human beings, I think I’d go crazy.

  I turned my attention to the distraction that was Caleb.

  “I still think pasta is better,” he said, and I grinned.

  “Nope, noodles, baby. Especially in a spicy peanut sau—” I stopped talking, focused on the single white arm waving feebly just beyond the surf. A young man was out there—a teen, from the looks of it. He was clinging to a surfboard, but his wave was half hearted, as though he was exhausted.

  I eyed the water. He was caught in a riptide, I could tell, the waves converging in a triangle closer to the beach, but the whitewash showed the undertow.

  I took a step, then froze. I looked back at the house, then out at the surfer who was clinging weakly to his board. I had started this walk as an escape, but we were still within sight of the house, where my sister was, the person who had helped me cover up my part in Frankie’s death. Where Alice was, the woman who had gone to prison for the negligence that had resulted in the drowning death of a child in her care. My baby half brother. Floating facedown in the pool. My family was so near, as was the weight of the past. The sand I stood in was like concrete clinging to my ankles. I swallowed noisily, and cold sweat broke out on my brow.

  The boy waved again, but he lost his grip on the surfboard and slid beneath the waves.

  You should do something, Lucy prodded. You were a lifeguard. You know what to do.

  I can’t. I can’t go in the water. Ever since the day of the picnic, water frightened me. I kept seeing Frankie, pale and lifeless, floating.

  This is a chance to redeem yourself.

  Do I deserve that? God, Lucy, I’m so scared.

  Shh. It’s okay. I’m here for you.
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br />   The boy surfaced. Waved. Subsided below the water. Caleb looked at me briefly, then reacted. He whipped his shirt up over his head and kicked his loafers off as he raced across the sand, his uneven stride more noticeable in a run. He was in prime condition, well-muscled and fit, despite his injury. He ran into the sea, lifting his knees high above the waves, his arms arcing out for balance but looking more like angel’s wings as he tried to wade through the crashing foam, before diving under the crest of an oncoming wave.

  I watched, my hand to my mouth, as Caleb struggled against the swell. I wanted to go in there, I wanted to dive, to swim—I knew how to do that, but I couldn’t move. Frankie. My mind went through various scenarios, picturing actions I could take, consequences, at lightning speed. Caleb had entered the surf at the wrong spot, I could tell, and was now struggling against the current to reach the surfboard. I bit my lip, feeling absolutely useless. How long had it been?

  My heart pounded in my chest, and I shifted my weight from leg to leg, the rocking a surrogate action for the rescue. I looked past the crashing waves, only to see Frankie, so thin, so pale, so eerily still, floating in the water. I blinked a couple of times. No, there was Caleb, his strokes a little sluggish, and then he stopped, treaded water for the briefest of moments as he took a breath, and dived.

  Frankie was in the water, facedown, like a zombie in aquatic slumber. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face, and I took a shaky step forward. No. I sobbed, my hands covering my mouth as I tried to relegate memory to the past, and vision to the present. Where was Caleb? Why couldn’t I see his head above water? Please, don’t be like Frankie.

  There was a body, facedown. Small and lifeless. I threaded my hands in my hair, gritting my teeth as I tried to stop slipping back in time.

  Lucy, please, help me.

  I can’t. You’re doing this, not me.

  I heard this sound, like a feral cat caught in a drainpipe, and pulled at my hair. The sharp sting of follicles ripping from my scalp brought my focus back, and I realized that feral cat, those raw, keening whimpers, was me.

  Waves. Pool. Waves. Caleb. No, Frankie. Panic, cold, chaotic, set me shivering. Trembling. Please, where was Caleb? Again, Frankie’s lifeless body, floating in the water, clouded my vision. Lucy stepped in with the force of a hurricane, pulling me away into a sea of black. I stayed in the darkness, for how long I don’t know. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Why did I feel so panicked? I let the darkness envelope me, cradle me. The darkness was my friend. Just like Lucy. It kept me safe.

  Maisey! You can come back now! Lucy’s voice called me, whipping away the dark curtain.

  I blinked. Caleb and the kid were standing in the surf. Well, Caleb was standing. The kid had collapsed to his knees once he was out of the foam, coughing as he cleared an enormous amount of water from his lungs, returning the fluid to the sea. Caleb thudded him on the back, then straightened, hands on hips, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. His chest was heaving, his features drawn, but his relief was evident. Caleb was safe. Just like that. My heart started to slow in its frantic beating. I trotted over to them. The kid wiped his hair off his face, and I saw he was about fifteen, maybe sixteen. Much older than Frankie.

  “Dude, you saved my life,” the surfer rasped. “Thanks.”

  He looked like he was about to cry. I rubbed his arms and looked him in the eye. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re going to be fine.” The wild look in his eyes calmed, and he swallowed, as though consciously trying to calm himself. His eyes glimmered, and he blinked back the tears.

  “Thanks,” he repeated. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

  “Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “Do you want me to call someone? Your mom?”

  The kid cringed. “God, no. She’ll kill me when she hears about this.”

  “She’ll be happy you’re alive,” I corrected. He nodded.

  “Then she’ll kill me. Nah, I’m good. I don’t live far from here.” He turned to Caleb. “Thanks again, mister.”

  Caleb waved a hand, then shrugged. “All good.”

  The kid dragged at the surfboard that was still dancing in the shallows, then used it to help him to his feet. He smiled, a mixture of uncertainty, embarrassment and gratitude, before he gave Caleb the thumbs-up. “Thanks.” We watched as the kid walked along the beach with knees apart, as though trying to make sure they didn’t give way on him. He angled gradually toward another path between the dunes. He kept looking over his shoulder, at the surf, at Caleb—at the lifeguard who had stood by and done nothing, too petrified to move.

  How long had I blacked out for this time?

  My lips pressed together, curling in as I realized Caleb was fine, the kid was fine and the kid most definitely wasn’t Frankie. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and I could hear the catch, feel the wobble in my chin. I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to steady myself.

  I can’t believe I’d frozen. I’d never done that before. I used to be a lifeguard, for fuck’s sake. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I do that? Or rather, how could I do nothing? My cheeks cooled, as though all the blood rushed down to where my feet were rooted in the sand. I had never not saved a life. Not after Frankie. Frankie. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, didn’t know how I could stand by while someone drowned. My stomach clenched.

  I was all about saving lives. It’s what I’d lived and breathed for the last few years. How could I balk? What was wrong with me? I looked back at the house. What was this christening, this time with my damaged family, doing to me? It was ruining me.

  “Maisey, are you okay?” Caleb asked, eyeing me as he reached down to pick up his shirt. He used it as an improvised towel, dabbing at his chest.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, nodding. I stared at him for a moment, then looked away. I wasn’t focused on the half-naked man in front of me. He was no longer the trim teenager who used to throw me into the pool. No, the Caleb I’d known had grown into a man I found it difficult to recognize, outside of the civilized veneer of clothing. He was so different, and yet all I’d been able to think about, all I’d seen, was Frankie.

  Caleb held out his arm toward the house, and I slowly fell into step alongside him, the serenity of our walk long gone. I stared down at my bare feet.

  That boy had looked like he’d been in the water for a little while—long enough to try and swim back and exhaust himself in the process. I kept picturing the day Frankie had died, so many times now. I was haunted by it. Plagued by visions of Frankie, of that whole afternoon, of that vulnerable little body, so still.

  Doesn’t add up, does it? Lucy’s voice was quiet in my head, which was strange for her.

  What do you mean?

  God, think about it, Maisey. For once, instead of hiding from it, think about it!

  It had been so fast. I replayed that drink at the sink. I was so stunned at the time, so shocked that all it took to snuff out a life was just a few moments of looking the other way. My brow furrowed. Maybe because Frankie was so colicky, so fractious, so frail and sickly, the water had taken him quickly.

  Seriously? You’re a nurse, for fuck’s sake. It was rare for Lucy to swear.

  He’d been too weak to struggle, to fight, too young to save himself, I argued. Time must have flown, the seconds whizzing by as I’d filled my glass and raised it to my lips, forcing the liquid down my throat. It had obviously been long enough.

  But that boy... Lucy commented. He’d been weak, exhausted. He’d disappeared under the waves for maybe a little longer than Frankie had been alone in the pool.

  What are you saying, Lucy?

  That boy survived today. Actually, he’d walked away, pretty much unharmed. And he was in the water way longer than Frankie.

  Well, I can’t be sure how long, can I? I blacked out again. My comeback was snide, snappish.

  Think ab
out it, Lucy chided.

  Okay, fine. So the boy was in the water longer than Frankie, and had survived... So—if I’d left Frankie for a fraction of that time, was that really long enough for him to drown? I stumbled, caught myself and plodded on.

  Now you’re getting it.

  For the first time ever, I tried to map out everything in a timeline, but then I shook my head.

  No. I didn’t like going there. I never liked going there. I started walking faster. I wanted to run. That usually worked. Running hard, muscles burning, my body and mind focused on keeping balance, keeping my breathing regular... It all helped to put these thoughts, these horrific images, out of my mind.

  Because that’s what we’re good at, right, Maisey? Running?

  Except Caleb was walking alongside me, and I couldn’t run away like I wanted to, like I was used to doing.

  You need to talk to your sister.

  I agreed. This—this didn’t make sense. I needed her to confirm some details for me. I didn’t know what to believe. Did I kill my brother, or not? Did I pull Frankie out of the pool, or did the neighbor? I couldn’t trust my mind, damn it.

  Hey, I take exception to that.

  You know what I mean.

  I needed to talk to Sarah. Everything was all such a jumbled mess inside my head, like a photo album caught in a vortex, visions spinning out of control, faster and faster.

  I’m helping you, though, Maisey. I’ll protect you.

  I don’t need protection, I argued. I need the truth.

  I needed to talk to my sister, just to get everything to stop spinning out of control. I was having too many blackouts at the moment. Couldn’t focus. Emails from work, from anyone, just didn’t make sense. I was in such a state of flux. I couldn’t stay in one place for long, as the inertia was dizzying. I had to keep moving, had to keep these thoughts, these memories, at bay. Constant motion was always good to get away from constant motion, I kept telling myself, only wherever I went, I brought the black, mental storm with me.