Red Water: A Novel

by Kristen Mae

  Huh? Of course we haven’t heard from our piece of shit dad. Why would she think—then it suddenly hits me why I’ve been feeling so sick and anxious, why Liza is missing mom more than usual. Friday is the two-year anniversary of our mother’s suicide. My body knew it even before I did. And Liza must be caught up in some sad, childish hope that our father would have had…an attack of remorse or something? Or maybe a morbid curiosity about how his offspring have held up. Shame on me for not remembering. Shame on me for being so absorbed in Garrett that I would forget my own mother. Of course Liza wouldn’t forget. She’s the good one.

  The tears come suddenly and silently, pouring out of me like they’ve been stored up and waiting for me to realize they needed to be shed. I crawl into bed and turn my body toward the wall, tuck my knees into my chest and wait for the grief to pull me into sleep.

  * * *

  A couple of days later and the grief has morphed into a familiar, choking tension, a rage that gurgles up in me and can’t find release. At my lesson yesterday I fell apart in front of Professor Yarvik and started babbling about how I don’t belong here, how I’m a fraud. My hands were shaking so badly she let me leave early, placing a tentative hand on my shoulder as I started out the door and then drawing back when I flinched away from her touch. Maybe I should have said something about my mom’s death day coming up, so she would understand. But the words stayed trapped in my throat.

  Now it’s Tuesday and I’m on my way to meet Garrett for a run in the neighborhood adjacent to his. It’s still dark out, so early that my shoes scraping along the sidewalk make that lonely, echoing sound that is only possible at pre-dawn. When the world wakes up, it comes alive, all its bits and pieces pulsing and breathing at once so that the littler, subtler sounds get swallowed up in the chaos. But now—now I can hear things like the soles of my shoes scratching along the cement. The world feels like a hollow barrel.

  Garrett is already waiting, a dark silhouette in the shadows beneath the trees, and the shape of him there makes me suddenly uneasy—Is it definitely him? My mind has gone to that last text from Liza Sunday night: Nothing from Dad, and for a flash of a second, the gray figure beneath the tree, the patient, observing set of the shoulders, makes me think of my father, how I’ve always imagined he might stand if he were ever to come back for us. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck are standing up.

  But then Garrett steps out of the shadows and into the yellow light of the streetlamp, and my shoulders drop with relief. My mother’s death day makes my brain do weird things.

  “Good morning,” Garrett says, looking at the phone strapped to his arm. “Ready?”

  I nod. I’m tired, it’s too early for me, and the last thing I want to do before sunrise is fucking run, but I need to have my thoughts driven out of my head. I need to have some pain inflicted on me, and I want Garrett to be the one to do it. Even now as he stretches one leg at a time, balancing on one while he bends the other, he is the poster child for stability. I think I could reach out and push him, and he still wouldn’t fall.

  He taps his phone a few times. “Different direction today, and we’re doing intervals, if you think you can handle it.” Garrett is different on running days, all business, as stern and serious as a drill sergeant. He doesn’t seem like the same person who ordered me to masturbate in the middle of his kitchen.

  “Malory?”

  I shrug, the space between my legs still pulsing with memory. “I can handle it.”

  “Stretch first,” he says, and he demonstrates, leaning forward over his legs and then standing and rolling his ankles.

  We start slow to warm up, jogging in the middle of the empty street where Garrett says it’s better for our knees, and then he takes me through a repeating pattern: run as hard as I can for thirty seconds and walk for two minutes to rest. At first I think thirty seconds is a tiny burst, a trifle of spent energy, and that two minutes will be plenty of recovery time, but I am soon reminded how easily time is distorted when you’re enduring something painful. By the third repetition, thirty seconds feels like an hour and two minutes like a blink.

  But it’s better than last week when Garrett made me keep the same pace the entire time. I like pushing myself to the edge again and again and again. I like the recoveries in between, where I get to walk in a circle with my hands on my hips, chin high, chest heaving, even though there is never enough time. And I like being here with Garrett, having him yell at me—Push through, push through, push through!—then running harder and letting him see that I am tenacious despite my obvious weakness.

  “Last fast interval,” he says. “Give it everything.”

  And we take off, him far ahead after only three strides because of his longer legs and superior physical fitness. I push myself, though, and I know I’m probably only fifteen seconds in but my lungs are screaming and my legs feel like they’re disappearing, like I’m a sketch and someone is erasing me from the hips down. Up ahead, I hear the timer sound on Garrett’s phone and I know I’m supposed to stop, but he’s so far ahead of me and I want to catch up, no, I want to pass him. I pump my arms, hit the pavement hard with my feet, fly past Garrett as he’s saying, “Malory, that’s it,” but I’m still going. I run until there’s an intersection and I’m forced to stop—double over, really, a sharp cramp searing my side.

  Garrett jogs over, easy and calm.

  I’m going to throw up. I groan and stumble to the grass where I heave and retch but nothing comes out. Ugh, and Garrett is seeing this, too. Disgusting. God.

  “Did you hydrate?” he asks.

  I heave one more time and try to gather myself, my hands on my knees. I know I’m supposed to keep moving to let my body cool down. “I forgot. I just…woke up and dressed and came down.”

  “That was foolish.” His voice is clipped; chiding but not angry. “And why are you pushing yourself so hard? You went way over what I told you to.”

  “I don’t know…I just needed to…”

  He waits. I stand and face him, but the sun is rising at his back, so I can’t see his expression; he’s only a silhouette, lit from behind.

  “This week,” I say. “It’s not been great. I’m out of money, I’m falling apart in my lessons, and…and…” I’d rather have him believe it’s performance anxiety than find out I’m upset about my mom. And maybe upset about him too, though that one is impossible to explain. What am I upset with him about? That whenever I think of him I can’t catch my breath? I shake my head and turn to walk back to the dorm.

  “Hey.” He grabs my hand and pulls me back to face him. “You’ll make more money playing downtown. You’ll get better at your lessons. I think that whatever you just stopped yourself from saying is the thing that’s bothering you most.”

  He might as well have punched me in the gut. I turn away and breathe deep. “My mom…the anniversary of her death is Friday.”

  In my peripheral vison I see him nodding, but he doesn’t say anything else, which is exactly the right thing to do. What the fuck can you say? When we arrive back at my dorm, he stops me under the oak tree and enfolds me in his arms before turning back toward home.

  I listen to the sounds of my shoes against the concrete sidewalk, on the steps up to the dorm. Though I’m alone and it’s still too early for students to be emerging for classes, the hollow echo is completely gone.

  The world is alive and breathing again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That evening after class I play downtown, performing long after darkness falls. But I earn enough that I can relax about my dwindling bank account.

  Daphne is at her laptop when I open the door. “Hey,” she says without looking up.

  “How’s it going?” I push my cello into the corner and fall onto the bed. I feel the burn in my hamstrings from the sprints I did this morning with Garrett, but I don’t mind the hurt—I know it will turn into strength.

  She sighs. “Fine.” The word comes out like a question.

  I lift up on my e
lbows and look closer at her. She’s pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes. “Daphne—hey, seriously, are you okay?”

  She shrugs. “I thought you were going to meet me for hip-hop.”

  Shit. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you, thought I told you—I already went running with Garrett this morning.”

  “It’s cool. I was saving a spot for you, though. I felt a little dumb telling people that spot was saved, and then…”

  “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. If that ever happens again, I promise I’ll let you know.”

  She shrugs again. “It’s okay. I know you’re busy.” Her shoulders look frail, or at least more so than usual, but I tell myself it must be the light from her laptop, draining the color from her face. I reach over and flick on my desk lamp. It makes her look even paler.

  “Maybe the Thursday class?” she offers.

  “Umm…I’ve kind of already made plans to run with Garrett again. Friday?”

  “No hip-hop on Friday.” Her voice is doleful, a deflated balloon.

  “Oh.” I sit on the edge of the bed. I think she wants pity, but I’m not really in a place to give it right now. I’m exhausted and achy and thinking about my dead mom and I still have to read a chapter of macroeconomics tonight. Tomorrow I have to wake up at seven if I want to make it on time to meet Bethany.

  “We could hang out Friday night, maybe?” She throws me a hopeful glance over her laptop screen. “Me and some girls from down the hall are going to a party.”

  I pull my economics book off my desk and flip to chapter four. “Sure. That sounds cool.” It doesn’t. My throat constricts when I realize I just made plans to go to a kegger with some chicks I don’t even know on the anniversary of my mom’s death, but I don’t say anything. It’s probably a good idea to stay busy that day anyway.

  * * *

  Thursday morning, Garrett and I do what he calls a ‘tempo run,’ starting off slow, at barely a jog, for ten minutes; then switching for seven minutes to a fast pace I couldn’t handle but for his belief in me; and then running another ten slow. I hate this workout the most, but I endure it, because of him. He is tough and rooted and solid. Everything I wish I were.

  Later that morning, if you can call 8:15 late, Bethany and I are sitting on the floor of her practice room sipping hot coffee and nibbling donuts she’s brought from Starbucks. She always does this, always brings delicious things for me and insists I don’t give her money for it. Does she know how broke I am, or is this a thing people do? Am I supposed to reciprocate?

  I catch her staring hard at me and realize I’ve said almost nothing all morning.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Of course. Fine. Just…thinking about my mom, I guess. Death day, and all.”

  “Wait, what?” She freezes with her coffee midway to her mouth.

  Shit. My morning run must have relaxed my tongue along with my nerves. “Sorry, I… Forget it. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  She sets her coffee cup on the floor. “So your mother died…and the anniversary of her death is…today?” Her green eyes are wide.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “How did she die?”

  I take the last bite of my donut instead of answering her, but she waits out my chewing. Finally, I say, “Suicide.”

  Her face falls.

  Pity, ugh, it’s just so fucking gross. “It’s been two years,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”

  “Well.” The way she purses her lips at me tells me she’s not buying my bullshit. “I’m not going to pretend to know how you feel, but you have every reason to be distracted and sad this week. At the very least you should have another donut.” She slides the box toward me.

  I give her a grim smile and reach for a glazed.

  “Meanwhile,” she says, “can I play my Bach prelude for you? I need you to drill me and teach me to be an awesome performer like you.”

  I love her for changing the subject. “I told you, I’m not awesome, I just practice more than anyone else. But I’ll drill you, on one condition.”

  “What?” She says around a mouthful of donut.

  “Come with me and my roommate to this party tomorrow. I promised her I’d go, but I’m really not feelin’ it.” And I don’t want to stand Daphne up again.

  “You mean, like…a real party with like…loud music and sweaty drunk people?” She narrows her eyes at me.

  “Don’t forget, it’s my mother’s death day.”

  “Oh, Malory, you are cold.” I laugh, and she shakes her head in mock exasperation. “Obviously,” she says, “I have no choice.”

  Later that afternoon when I’m up on the riser in studio class, something goes weird with me—with my playing. It’s my new Popper etude, and yes, it’s hard, but I’m not stumbling because I don’t know the music. I’ve drilled this again and again and again until my fingers have just about bled. I’ve recorded myself and played it back and analyzed my pitch and tone and articulation. And I’m not actually sure I’m truly stumbling—the class doesn’t seem to have caught on that I’m having trouble. But there is a panic in my fingers, a delay between my brain and the notes as if the music is happening without me. I’ve lost control. I watch my fingers climb the finger board like they’re running, running away, and then they turn into my legs and I’m in the woods with Garrett and he’s barking harder, harder every time I want to give up and wider, wider when I’m naked and Hey, my mom’s dead and Where did my dad go? Why does no one give a fuck that he ran off and abandoned his kids? Why is he alive and my mom isn’t? And why was I not aware enough and smart enough and brave enough to stop it all?

  I come back to myself with a start, jerk my head up to look around at the class—they’re clapping like usual. I finished, I guess, I must have, but I have no memory of playing the second half of the Popper at all. It takes me several minutes to catch my breath.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My phone lights up with a message from Bethany: I’m downstairs! I run down to let her in and bring her back to my room so we can finish getting ready for the party. Daphne’s here too, standing at her mirror straightening her hair.

  So, yeah, it’s death day. Bethany brought me a daisy this morning and made me cry, but those are the only tears I’ve shed today. I still haven’t talked to Liza, though—surely that’ll break the dam.

  “Guys, I’m gonna go call my sister, okay?”

  Bethany gives me a knowing nod, and Daphne shrugs. I haven’t told her. I don’t know why. I feel guilty that she told me about her sister dying and I haven’t said a thing about my mom, but I promise myself I’ll tell her the next time there’s an opportunity.

  In the hall, Liza’s face appears on my phone screen. She’s smiling, but with her head tilted and her lips pursed, like she’s sorry we have to see each other under these unfortunate circumstances. “Hey there,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  “We can Skype on other days too, you know, like, not just ones that our mom killed herself on.”

  I grimace. “I know. Are you okay?”

  She waves a hand. “Pfft. Of course I am.” Silence. “Of course I’m…not. We’ll never be okay again, Mal.”

  “Don’t say that,” I tell her. “We’re working our way through the stages.”

  “What stage are you in today?”

  This is a thing we do sometimes. “Denial. I’m about to go to a party and pretend it never happened. How ’bout you?”

  “Anger.”

  I nod and take a deep breath.

  “I want to kill him. And I will, if I ever get the chance.”

  “Liza.”

  She shrugs. “What, is the CIA tapping our call? They wouldn’t convict me, anyway. He’s a fucking psycho and everyone knows it.”

  My skin is crawling. I know she needs to talk like this, that it’s her way of dealing, but it’s too heavy for me. Maybe because I actually believe she would kill him. “Okay, Liza. Easy. Can we talk tomorrow?”

  “You’ll really ca
ll tomorrow?”

  “I will if you want me to.” I know she means to say I haven’t been great about texting, but I’m going to pretend I misunderstand her. I have a tight, guilty feeling in my chest.

  “How could I not want you to? I’m stuck here with…” She looks around, which means Aunt Bonnie is in the trailer with her.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Listen, I’m going to send you another hundred this week, okay?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “You don’t need it?”

  She doesn’t answer. She’s got her chin on her knees now. The camera angle shifts a little and I can tell by the posters on the wall behind her that she’s in our bedroom.

  “Anyway,” I tell her, “I want to. It’ll be there by Wednesday at the latest.” Even if I have to play for three hours downtown. Maybe I can try playing somewhere else…the mall, or the outdoor shopping centers nearby.

  She fidgets. “Miss you.”

  “Miss you too, little sis. Two more years and you’ll be here with me.”

  “I hope.”

  I flinch at the lack of hope in her voice. Maybe I shouldn’t have left her. I could have taken a couple of years off to practice and busk and take lessons. It wouldn’t have set me back much. “Grades?” I ask.

  “Straight A’s, same as before.”

  “Don’t fuck up.” I say it light, as if I’m joking, but we both know that sometimes Liza gets so angry she forgets to care. She’s read thousands of books, but I swear she would bomb a test just out of spite.

  “I won’t,” she says. “I’m actually trying. Plus, I have musical theater now, and that’s really fun.”

  “I’m so glad you’re doing that.” I smile at her.

  “Me too.”

  “Okay. I’m gonna go. Love ya.”

  She pretend-kisses the phone, and we disconnect.