“You’ll flip me!” I hear a voice yell. “Are you drowning?”
I can’t tell if Sarah A is in trouble, or if she’s purposely trying to tip the kayak. She looks like she’s drowning, or at least she looks like how I imagine a person who’s drowning would look. But I don’t want to capsize anybody. And I can’t keep wrestling with Sarah A in this deep water. My muscles are tired and I can’t seem to take in enough air. I don’t try a third time. I let go of her. And I let go of the idea that I can neatly save everything by pulling this unwilling person back to shore.
“Sarah A?” I yell. “I’m going back.”
She continues to flail as the kayak approaches. But she’s not trying to tip the boat. She’s in trouble. She keeps slipping under the water. Then it happens. She goes under and she stays under. I watch the top of her blonde head disappear. It doesn’t resurface.
“She’s drowning!” I yell.
Gail is wearing a life jacket. She rolls the kayak on its side and slips into the lake.
“I’ve got her,” she says.
I watch Gail lift a very pale Sarah above the waterline.
“Can you make it back to shore?” she asks me.
I nod. And then roll over onto my back, kicking hard to make it to the dock. I don’t bother asking her about the welfare of the kayak. I figure in matters of life and death, boats don’t figure into the equation.
I make it back before Sarah A and Gail. Sarah C and Sarah B are waiting for me. They each grab one of my arms and haul me onto the dock. John Glenn nervously runs back and forth.
“Are you okay?” Sarah B asks. “Did you swallow water?”
I cough and roll onto my side.
“Hit her back,” Sarah B says. “She’s filled with water.”
“I don’t think that’s what you do,” Sarah C says. “It’s not like she’s choking on a grape.”
They each sit beside me. Sarah C brushes my wet hair away from my face, and Sarah B holds my hand. John Glenn protectively sniffs my soggy sneakers.
“You don’t look blue,” Sarah B says. “That’s a good sign.”
I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. I didn’t save Sarah A. I couldn’t save Sarah A. I left her in the middle of a lake to die.
“She wouldn’t let me help her,” I say.
“She’s fine,” Sarah C says. “She was acting crazy. She could have drowned you both.”
“Maybe if I could have gotten a better grip on her heel,” I say. “Or if I could have reached her calf.”
“People who are drowning are totally dangerous, because they’re so panicky,” Sarah B says. “I think that’s part of the reason life preservers have such long ropes.”
“If I was on land, I bet it would’ve been different,” I say.
“She’s fine,” Sarah C says.
“She is so not fine,” I say.
I open my eyes and turn to look at Sarah B and Sarah C. Their faces look so kind and concerned. Do they always look this way? I close my eyes again. The warm dock feels solid and pleasant beneath me.
“We’re going to check on Sarah A,” Sarah C says. “Don’t go anywhere.”
John Glenn curls up next to me. It feels so nice to have a dog. I can hear Sarah A being lifted onto the dock by the other Sarahs.
“Let’s set her on the dock,” Gail says.
All three of them haul Sarah A out of the water.
“I’m okay,” Sarah A says. “I got in over my head.”
“We know,” Sarah C says.
“She’ll be okay,” Gail says. Her voice is low and strong.
“Thanks so much,” Sarah C says.
“It’s what any decent person would have done,” Gail says.
“I’m just thankful you’re a decent person,” Sarah B says.
“Your friend is staying in that cabin there, right?” Gail asks, pointing to Sarah A’s weekend cabin.
“Yeah, for a couple of nights,” Sarah B says. “I’m staying with her tonight.”
“That’s good. Do you need help getting her to her cabin?” Gail asks.
“We’ve got her,” Sarah C says.
“I’m fine,” Sarah A says. “I don’t need any more help.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you. Even if the circumstances were fairly dramatic,” Gail says. “Stop by later if you want. I’ve got to fetch my kayak before she makes it to Lake Superior.” Gail waves good-bye.
“Wow, you have huge biceps, do you work out?” Sarah B asks.
“At my age, lifting weights is highly recommended,” Gail says.
“What’s your age?” Sarah B asks.
“If you must know, I’m a spry sixty-five.”
Gail does not look like an elderly person to me. She looks like the kind of person who hikes.
At the mention of the word “kayak,” John Glenn leaps to his feet and commences barking.
“John Glenn, no,” I say.
“You named your dog John Glenn?” she asks.
“Yes.” I’m tempted to ask Gail her professional opinion about this. She’d know whether or not I’d score brownie points for writing a college essay about my shelter rescue dog. But it seems a bit inappropriate to bring up now, after this near-death experience.
“That’s too bad about John Glenn,” Gail says.
“Did he die?” Sarah B asks.
“No, not too long ago he caused a serious car wreck in Ohio. He failed to yield and put himself, his wife, and the driver of the car he hit in the hospital.”
“That’s awful,” Sarah C says.
“Well, accidents happen,” Gail says. “You girls really should stick closer to shore. This is a pretty wide lake.”
She smiles and waves and jumps into the lake.
“Thanks!” I call again.
All four of us wave, even the somewhat stunned Sarah A.
“What now?” I ask.
“I think you should rename John Glenn before you write that essay,” Sarah C says.
“Really?” I ask.
“What about Neil Armstrong?” Sarah C asks.
“What about Lou Gehrig?” Sarah B asks.
“That’s so weird,” I say. “Did you know that they were all members of the same fraternity, Phi Delta Theta? So was the twenty-third U.S. president, Benjamin Harrison, and the architect Frank Lloyd Wright.”
“That seems like a lot of useless information,” Sarah A says.
“What?” I ask.
I’m a bit surprised and saddened that after her near-death experience she’s so eager to spew negativity.
“Nobody but a nerd would know that Benjamin Harrison was a U.S. president,” Sarah A says.
“I knew that,” Sarah C says.
Sarah A sits up and coughs. Then she rolls her eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah A says. “You don’t need to rename your dog. He looks like a John Glenn, and just because an ex-astronaut failed to yield, it doesn’t make him a bad guy.”
I like this idea.
“You’re right,” I say. “His name stays.”
“So now what?” Sarah B asks.
“Do you really have to spend the night here?” I ask. “Couldn’t you spend it with one of us?”
“My dad totally wouldn’t mind,” Sarah B says.
Sarah A blinks several times.
“Roman is going to come up to visit,” Sarah A says.
“Forget Roman,” Sarah C says.
“But I like Roman,” Sarah A says.
“What about his pheromones?” I ask.
“I like those too,” Sarah A says.
“But you haven’t smelled his pillow in weeks,” I say.
“I’ve been smelling the real thing,” Sarah A says.
“You could call him on my cell phone,” I say.
“What would I say?” Sarah A asks.
“That you’re staying at my house,” Sarah B says.
Sarah A gathers her wet hair between her hands and twists it hard, wringing the lake’s water
from her ponytail.
“Let’s get your stuff and get out of here,” I say.
Sarah A nods.
“It’ll be a snug fit,” I say.
Sarah A grabs her drink from the roof and offers to let Sarah C ride shotgun, because of her long legs. This is the first time Sarah A has ever made that considerate gesture.
“Do you have enough room back there?” Sarah C asks.
“No,” Sarah A says. “And I’ve got a wet dog on my lap.”
“It’s only an hour and a half home,” I say.
We all laugh.
“Hey, I’ve got some bad news,” Sarah C says.
“What?” I ask.
“Those papers I printed out. They’re not what we thought they were,” Sarah C says.
“What are they?” Sarah A asks.
“They’re the freshmen entrance requirements for Western Michigan University. Actually, I think it’s stuff you can download off their website.”
“No way,” Sarah A says.
“Yes way,” Sarah C says. “Did Gail tell you that she worked for Michigan?”
“I thought she said Michigan,” Sarah A says.
I turn on the radio. This is sort of disappointing news. None of us want to go to Western. We want to get away from home and have a real college experience.
“What should we do with that stuff?” Sarah B asks.
“I’ve got a huge Dumpster at my house. I say we throw it out and all turn over a new leaf.” This feels like the absolute right thing to say. To take our old selves and huck them right into the trash. That’s what I’ll do with all my stolen stuff, too. I won’t bury it. I’ll toss it. If I’m really at a new place in my life, I need to start acting like it.
At first, nobody says anything.
“I’m finished with crime. It’s behind me,” I say, jerking my thumb over my shoulder.
“Me too,” Sarah B says.
“Me three. I fail to see the upside anymore,” Sarah C says. “Also, you guys can start calling me Lisa again.”
“What?” Sarah A asks. “Are you kidding?”
“No,” Sarah C says.
Sarah A lets out a big breath.
“But being part of the Sarahs is so much fun,” Sarah A says.
“It was so much fun,” I say. “But also stressful.”
“Wait! Wait!” Sarah A yells. “Stop driving!”
I pull off to the side of the road and stop the car. Sarah A unlocks her door and pushes it open.
“We’re in a moving vehicle,” Sarah B says. “Don’t do that.”
“I don’t want to be in this car,” Sarah A says.
“I know it’s a tight fit,” I say.
“No. I’m not finished. If you want out, that’s fine. But I’m not done. I’m still a Sarah. I don’t care if I’m the last one.”
“You can’t mean that,” I say.
“But I do,” Sarah A says. “I’m not done. I’ve still got the guy phase to look forward to.”
“We don’t need to call it that anymore. We could just start dating,” Sarah C says. “It’d be more fun than thrashing innocent trees at night to try to manipulate people into breaking up so that we can forge relationships with them.”
“Roman is coming up tonight,” Sarah A says. “I’m not ready to quit.”
“Doesn’t Roman have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“It’s rocky,” Sarah A says. “They won’t last another week.”
“You don’t know that,” Sarah C says. “Personally, I’ve lost all respect for Roman Karbowski. He’s stringing you along, Sarah A.”
“Maybe I want to be strung,” Sarah A says.
“Don’t you want a boyfriend who you don’t have to share?” I ask.
“I like Roman. I’ve always liked Roman. We’re, like, destined,” Sarah A says.
“Listen. Roman Karbowski is the kind of guy who will rip your heart out of your chest and throw it down an elevator shaft just to watch it go boom,” I say.
Sarah A bites her lower lip. “But before the ripping and the part where my heart goes boom, I bet things will feel really great.”
Sarah A starts to climb out of the car.
“Don’t do it,” Sarah B says.
“Have some self-respect,” Sarah C says.
“We’re a half mile away from your cabin,” I say.
“Walking will dry me off,” Sarah A says. She slams the door. Sarah C rolls her window down all the way.
“I thought you were ready for a change,” Sarah C says.
“I like my life. And now I have a chance at Roman. All right, I can understand no more destroying trees and stuff. And I get that we don’t want to commit any more crimes. But I am who I am. I like being a Sarah. And I don’t ever want to stop.”
“But if you’re the only one, then you’re not a Sarah anymore,” I say.
Sarah A looks down. I think she’s crying, but when she glances at me I can see that her eyes are dry.
“I guess you’re right,” Sarah A says.
We watch her turn around and walk along the road’s shoulder toward her campsite at Yankee Springs. She is so strong. In all the wrong ways.
“Do I keep going?” I ask.
“I guess so,” Sarah B says.
I don’t feel like there’s a good option here.
“Should we try to wrestle her into the car again?” I ask. “She’ll probably have much less energy.”
“That’s not our job,” Sarah C says. “People have to make their own decisions.”
I know she’s right. I know I can’t dedicate my future to physically restraining Sarah A every time she’s on the verge of doing something stupid. As I drive past the Shell gas station I slow down.
“Last pit stop for a while. Anyone need to go?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” Sarah B says. “But don’t you need to go? You haven’t gone in a long time.”
“I’m good,” I say. “Sarah C, remember when you asked me what I think about before I pee myself?”
“Yeah,” Sarah C says.
“I’m usually stressed-out about a crime I’m about to commit. And then somebody looks at me. Not a glance, but a real hard stare. I guess I think they’re seeing parts of myself that I don’t want anyone to see. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. Then I feel this tingling sensation and I have to pee.”
“I think that’s called ‘anxiety,’” Sarah C says.
“Then why did it happen in kindergarten? What crime were you committing then?” Sarah B asks.
“I’d accidentally taken Madeline Murphy’s pencil box instead of my own. I was trying to put it back on her desk without anybody seeing. But Mr. Larsen looked right at me while I was doing it, and I wet myself.”
“I imagine that was hard to live down,” Sarah C says.
“You have no idea,” I say. “Being unpopular in grade school is like enduring trench warfare before mustard gas was banned.”
John Glenn barks. It sounds like he wants something.
“What do you think Sarah A is doing?” I ask.
“She’s probably still walking,” Sarah B says.
“We shouldn’t have left her,” I say.
“I bet a piece of her is wishing that she’d just stayed in the car with us,” Sarah C says. “She’s all alone.”
“It would suck to have your family ship you off to a hotel and then a cabin,” Sarah B says. “Sarah A so doesn’t belong in a cabin.”
I try to picture what she’s doing. Maybe she’s wrapped up in a towel. Maybe she’s curled up on her bed and attempting to take a nap. I guess I thought, in the end, that standing up to Sarah A would make me feel a lot like how I felt when I stood up to Big Don. But it’s not the same thing at all. Because Big Don is a jerk. And Sarah A, while she may act like a jerk, is a wounded person who has real issues. And I care about her.
“It’s rotten to think of Sarah A up there totally wet and cabin-bound. Does she even have a towel?” Sarah B asks.
“This isn’t how i
t’s supposed to end,” I say. “Endings are supposed to be happy. We’re supposed to wind up entirely transformed and on a positive course. This feels so, so … unpleasant.”
“This is real life,” Sarah C says. “Endings aren’t scripted. They just happen.”
John Glenn presses his body between the front seats and sets his snout down on my wet pants.
“How do you know this is the end?” Sarah B asks.
“Because things couldn’t go on the way they were,” I say.
The scenery flies by. Tree. Tree. Fence posts. Car. Mailbox. Pasture. Dead raccoon.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
I tap on the brakes.
“Are you turning around?” Sarah C asks.
“Maybe we should,” Sarah B says.
I flip on my blinker and prepare to make a three-point turn.
“It’s the right thing to do,” I say.
“She might not come,” Sarah C says.
“That’s true,” I say. “But at least we can say we tried.”
“The more I think about your analogy, the more I think you’re right,” Sarah C says.
“About life being like a moving sidewalk?” I ask.
“Not that one.”
“About life being like a path?” I ask.
“No, the hallway metaphor,” Sarah C says. “It’s as if Sarah A thinks she knows what’s behind the Roman Karbowski door, but she doesn’t really know. She has no idea what she’ll get. And she’s passing by all these other doors.”
I imagine my metaphor. I picture door after door. They spread out before me and behind me. They go on and on. I don’t know why I’ve made them so mysterious. They’re not magical. They’re just doors. Open it or don’t open it. And then move on. You shouldn’t spend your life wondering what’s on the other side. Just look. Just open it. Open as many as you want. Go ahead and see what’s there.
“She still has time to figure it out,” I say.
We drive and drive. Then I pull into the Yankee Springs parking lot for a third time. Sarah A is sitting at a park bench by herself. The shade of a pine tree casts a dark shadow over her. She looks at us and turns away.
“I’ll go,” I say.
I get out of the car and slowly walk to where Sarah A sits. A breeze stirs leaves across my path and I crunch over them. Sarah A turns to face me. Her bottom lip trembles. I don’t say anything. I just move toward her. I can sense the other Sarahs watching me. I feel new and certain. Maybe change doesn’t take as long as I thought. I don’t know how this will end. All I know is that I’m not doing this out of guilt or obligation or pity. I am Sarah A’s friend. And I go to her because this is what I want to do.
Crimes of the Sarahs Page 24