"Who says I wrecked it? I'm happy with what I made."
The frost disappeared from his eyes at once. "Are you? That's great. What is it?"
"You don't have to pretend you care."
He turned away. "I wasn't, but whatever. So, tonight's a game night so I need you here until eleven."
I hadn't meant to say it like that, hadn't meant to say it at all. "Forrest, I'm sorry," I began, but he kept talking.
"Same thing Saturday night. Jones plans to play me more, so I need a longer massage after both games to make sure I'm still okay for next week. We play Tuesday night, and then the team flies out to Denver late Wednesday afternoon. You go Thursday morning, and everyone comes back Friday."
He slid off the table and pulled a big travel agency envelope from his bag, dropping it on the desk without looking at me. "All your stuff's in there," he said, returning to the table and stretching out on his back.
That awful neutrality in his voice again. Because of me. He'd booked my trip, and he'd probably paid for it too since Filmore hadn't thought I needed to attend away games, and I'd responded by skipping his massage and refusing his support.
A sick self-hatred spreading like poison through my body, I made myself step to his side. When I touched his leg, I exploded into tears, unexpected and impossible to hold back.
He sat up and put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't," he murmured, sympathy and regret entwined in the single word.
"I'm scared," I choked out without meaning to. "I've never been so scared."
"Scared of what?"
"I don't know." The terror slithering through me was new, but all too real. "I don't know but I'm so scared and I can't handle it."
Desperate for comfort, I threw my arms around him and pressed my face to his chest. He tensed, and I realized I'd asked for more than he wanted to give.
My tears intensifying at the rejection, I started to pull away, but he slipped his arm around my shoulders and held me in place, his body still tight but beginning to relax against mine. His other arm went around me too, his hand stroking my back. "Let it out," he said, his voice soft in my ear. "It's okay, let it out."
His gentleness released something deep inside me, something longing to cry and cry and cry until it was dry, and I gave in to it, sobbing so hard I made almost no sound, just silent heaves as I let whatever was inside me do what it needed to do.
When I finally settled and lifted my head, Forrest kept one arm tight around me while he pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and passed it over.
I wiped my eyes. "Yet again, sorry."
He plucked me more tissues. "Nothing to apologize for."
"Yeah, whatever." I pointed at his black t-shirt. "You're soaked."
He shook his head with a faint half-smile. "You're kidding, right? It'll dry."
I blew my nose, and he said, "Are you okay?"
The warmth and worry in his eyes might have brought me to tears again if I'd had any left. "I have no idea, if you want to know the truth. I've cried more the last two days than I have my whole life. I think I'm done, though."
"Do you feel better?"
I considered. I felt weak, lightheaded, drained, but cleansed too, somehow purified. "I think so."
"Good." He squeezed me, then climbed off the table and picked up his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready to go."
"Why?"
"You can't seriously think I'd expect you to work after that."
"I'm okay now."
"Tess, come on. Go home, take a nap, relax."
"If I go home, I'll work on the miniatures." I sighed. "At least here I actually know what I'm doing."
He wavered. "It feels wrong to make you massage me."
"You're not making me, I want to." And I did. He deserved it more than ever, and I needed to do it.
He took one step closer to the table, but just one.
"Don't make me tell Filmore you're uncooperative," I said, trying a smile and almost succeeding. "He'll give you the look."
Forrest laughed. "You've seen the look, huh? It's something else." He eyed me. "Are you sure?"
I nodded, and he returned to the table.
"You'll rest this afternoon though, right?"
I smoothed my hands over his leg and didn't answer.
"Tess?"
"I don't want to lie to you."
He chuckled. "Then don't. Say you'll rest and do it."
"I can't, I really can't. I'm a full piece behind schedule now, and--"
He sat up. "Look, when Mom gets home I'll tell her you need more time. Another two weeks? Three?"
I shook my head. "You can't do that. If I don't follow through the first time, she'll never think she can trust me."
"I trust you," he said, suddenly low and intense, with passion utterly out of proportion to our conversation.
I frowned, confused, and he stared at me as if wondering how a ventriloquist had taken over his voice. After a few seconds' stunned silence, he said, "I mean, you're doing the best you can. That's got to be enough."
I raised my chin. "You know her. Is it enough?"
He couldn't hold my gaze.
"That's what I thought." I resumed the massage. "I can do it. It's tough, but I can do it. I can."
Who was I trying to convince, me or him?
Chapter Twelve
By Sunday morning I knew I'd been wrong: I couldn't do it.
I'd finished the starfish lemmings on Friday morning, after working nearly all day Thursday, but the next piece had stagnated despite the endless hours I'd put in Friday and Saturday and I didn't have the energy to think up a new direction.
And I definitely didn't have the energy for the swim meet, although the pool itself didn't help. Under the mostly burned out overhead lights, the water looked dingy and depressing. Worse, it felt far too warm and oddly slimy. It did smell like chlorine, but the weird unpleasantly organic undertone took away my usual enjoyment of the scent. The place felt more like a pond than a swimming pool, and a dirty pond to boot.
But the real problem was me. I alternated resting and swimming during the warm-up but never found my usual comfortable feeling in the water. I felt dehydrated and sluggish and drained, like I was hung-over, which I wasn't since I hadn't had a drink since the wine with Forrest on Wednesday.
"Butterfly," my childhood coach had always said, "separates the men from the boys and the women from the girls." At ten, I hadn't been sure which category I wanted to be in, but I'd loved the admiration on his face when I finished two hundred meters of butterfly, eight lengths, swimming strongly throughout.
He wouldn't have shown me admiration at the meet. Pity, perhaps.
I didn't usually swim individual medley, but I'd signed up so I could swim butterfly in a race before the one that really mattered to me. I was regretting it now.
One length of each stroke. It should have been nothing.
The first length, butterfly, nearly killed me. One length. Imagining the horror of the eight lengths I had to do later distracted me enough that I drifted sideways on my length of backstroke and smashed my arm into the solid plastic discs of the lane rope. The stinging pain forced me to focus on the present instead of on the upcoming nightmare, and the rest of that length wound up being my best swim of the day, although being able to breathe freely probably helped.
Breaststroke, though, with my face in the water again, was exhausting, and the last length, the freestyle that in my training I'd always hit hard and done well, left me so winded I couldn't climb out of the pool like the other swimmers and had to duck under three lane ropes to get to the ladder at the side. I didn't bother checking my time. Bad. No need for specifics.
I spent nine of the ten minutes before my real race trying to decide whether to go home. I wasn't ready to swim, and I knew it. But going home, giving up, felt terrible. I wanted to swim at the championship this year, so I had to qualify here or at the meet in two weeks. And at the rate I was going, I'd be dead
by then.
The announcer called my race and I sat for a few more seconds, struggling with myself, before pushing to my feet and following the crowd to the waiting area. I'd trained for this, I'd planned and practiced and driven myself hard for this, and I would follow through.
The spirit was willing, but the flesh wasn't so much weak as wiped out. I held myself back to a dog-paddle pace for the first two lengths, hoping to conserve energy, but as I started the third length I knew I'd already used what little energy I had.
I tried to reach into myself and pull up some extra power from somewhere, but though my mind ran its fingers into every corner and crevice, the storeroom was bare. I had no reserves. I tried to panic, but I didn't have the energy for that either.
Pressing on anyhow, because the only other choice was leaving the water mid-race and I'd never done that and wouldn't start now, I kept kicking and pulling, driving myself with everything in me. By the end of the fourth length, my left arm weighed three thousand pounds and wouldn't come out of the water as it was supposed to, and my right gained four thousand pounds and also refused to cooperate during the fifth.
Each time I finished a length, the temptation to cling to the wall like an exhausted barnacle grew stronger, but I couldn't bear to quit. Instead I thought of Forrest and how hard he worked and forced myself to push off again and keep dragging my increasingly undraggable bulk, the sickening ache filling my chest at the extent of my failure almost worse than the pain in my body.
When, after seventeen years or so, my fingers at last made contact with the final wall, my fellow competitors had all left the water and I received a round of applause that meant, "Oh, good for you, you poor thing, you suck but you finished." I'd clapped for people that way myself a hundred times over the years but it had never been done for me. I vowed never to do it to anyone else again.
Gasping, I hauled myself up the ladder and stood clutching its rails. Before my breathing could settle, my stomach revolted, and I spotted a garbage can just in time to lurch over and throw up. Someone draped my towel across my shoulders and set a water bottle beside me, and I looked up to thank her but had to turn away as I heaved again.
Finished, I shoved away the garbage can and sat on the deck sipping water and watching other people swim the way I'd hoped to. When I'd recovered, I pushed myself upright and took one tentative step after another toward the change room. Everyone I passed patted my shoulder or gave me a 'you-poor-thing-you-suck' smile.
I'd never felt so pathetic.
*****
"How'd it go? Well, I barfed, so not good."
"Before, during, or after?"
"Gross, not during. After."
Jen grimaced. "Bummer. I guess you're taking the day off?"
"God, I wish people would quit telling me to rest," I snapped, heading to the kitchen.
"Pardon?" Her tone made it clear she'd heard but wouldn't respond unless I was stupid enough to repeat myself.
"I said," I yelled back, then stopped. Jen hadn't told me to take time off. Forrest had, and my results in the pool suggested he'd been right. "I can't, I'm behind schedule."
"Should I leave?"
I leaned out the kitchen doorway and looked at her curled up on the couch with knitting in her hands and the remote control, a bowl of popcorn, and a drink within reach.
"You look like you've grown roots, so no," I said, laughing despite my foul mood.
She pretended to try and fail to lift her leg off the couch. "I'm sure I haven't."
I grabbed a banana and sat down beside her. "What are you making?"
"Shawl."
I stroked one finger over the ball of yarn, then did it again when it was even softer than I'd expected. "That'll be so gorgeous when you're done. Nice shade of blue, too. Not your usual choice, but I like it."
She pulled it close and gave me a mock glare. "Me too. So keep your filthy mitts off."
I grinned. "Fine, be that way. Speaking of filthy mitts, any word from your contractors?"
She rolled her eyes. "Does 'duh' count as a word?"
"They did not call you and say 'duh'."
"They might as well have."
She offered me the popcorn, but I declined, instead taking a tiny bite of banana and hoping my stomach would accept it.
"They've broken the pipe the toilet connects to, so they need to fix it."
"Let me guess, they don't have the right parts."
"Oh, you of little faith. No, they have the parts."
I pretended to keel over.
"But their cousin has the wrench they need and they can't find him."
A burst of grim laughter escaped me. "Are you sure you're not secretly on a reality show? This is insane."
She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm in your way."
"You're not," I lied loyally. "Not at all." I studied her then asked the question I'd promised myself I wouldn't ask. "Have you considered firing them and getting someone else?"
"Only every second I'm awake. But it's too late now. With how they've butchered the place, anyone else would charge a fortune to fix it. I just need it done, you know?"
I nodded. I did know. Jen and her live-in boyfriend of four years had broken up last year when he'd decided she wasn't domestic enough. He'd been engaged to another woman in three weeks, and Jen had launched into a full redecoration of the house her great-grandmother had left her to wipe out all traces of him. She'd done nearly all the work herself, with occasional inept assistance from me, but the bathroom had been beyond her. Beyond the contractors as well, it would seem.
"Should I turn off the TV so you can work?"
I shook my head. "I'll be fine."
"Okay," she said, returning her attention to the television. "Have fun."
Fun. Yeah, right. I stayed on the couch, unable to make myself get up. My banana-holding hand rested on my lap and I didn't have the strength to raise it to my face.
Jen glanced over. "Seriously, take some time off. You look like crap."
Thanks for the support. "I can't. I have to finish this piece and start the next one. Then the two after that."
She set her knitting on the coffee table and turned to face me. "I wasn't going to say anything, but I can't help it. You're killing yourself. Is it worth it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The single word sent fury spinning through me. "Because I want this career," I said, sounding out each syllable as if trying to explain something to her contractors. "And this is my big chance. I have to go after it."
"'Going after' and 'killing yourself' are two different things."
"Not from where I stand." I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the head rush as I stood up too fast. "It's only two more weeks and then everything'll be fine."
"Let's hope."
The dizziness turned to outrage and I glared at her. "You don't think I can do it? You don't think I'm good enough, or smart or artistic enough?"
Her eyes widened. "You're crazy enough, I'll give you that. As for the rest, I know you can do anything you want to do. I just don't get why it has to be like this."
"Because I love making the pieces!"
"Good," she said, and left the room.
I shut off the television, ate the banana so fast I nearly choked, and took a seat at my worktable. I could do this. Two more weeks, then I'd return to my usual life.
Two weeks, for four pieces. Less, actually, because I'd lose two days to the Denver trip.
I hadn't decided whether to contact Pam. She was probably still angry. But if she found out later I'd been there, would she be even angrier I didn't visit her?
Bottom line? We'd never gone this long without talking, almost a month since our birthday, and I missed her. Before I could change my mind, I went to my computer.
Pam,
I'll be in Denver this Thursday. Do you want to have lunch with me?
I hope you're well.
Tess
I reread it. Not exactly gushing, but at least I'd reac
hed out. I sent it off and immediately regretted it. She wouldn't want to see me, and if she did it'd only be to yell at me again.
Hoping to be told I'd done the right thing, I called our parents.
Mom said, "Oh, dear, I hope she doesn't feel offended. You didn't give her any choice."
"She can say no."
"Of course she can. I meant you didn't let her say when to meet."
I counted silently to five, willing my annoyance to fade. "I don't have much time, though, since I'm only there for the game."
"I know, Tess, but Pam's so sensitive. She's always been that way, you know."
Of course I knew. I'd have to know: everyone had told me so, all my life. Pam was sensitive and artistic. I was not. But I'd had artistic tendencies too, although nobody ever seemed to notice them. Ironic, really. They'd tried so hard to differentiate us and now all I wanted was to succeed in Pam's chosen career.
When I didn't speak, Mom said, "How are things with your job?"
"Which one, Forrest?"
"Don't tell me you've lost that job too."
"Of course not," I said, frowning. I hadn't lost my last job, the clinic had closed down. "But I'm also working on my art. His mother owns a gallery and she's agreed to see some of my pieces."
Mom made a sound like an old chair accepting more weight than it can handle, half-sigh half-groan. "Well, don't get your hopes up too high. It only hurts when you get proven wrong."
"I know," I said, trying to remember why I'd called, what I'd thought I'd gain from it. She was right, having your hopes dashed did hurt. Was her way better, a no-hope existence? My parents were never disappointed. But were they ever happy?
"Are you happy, Mom?"
She was silent for a long moment. "I've got so much, you know, I can't complain. I have you girls, and your father, and the house, smaller than the old one, of course, but enough for your dad and me. Sometimes it's better to just accept how things are and not yearn for more."
I yearned, though. So did Pam. So did Jen.
So did Forrest.
Once I got off the phone, I loaded my MP3 player with two hours' worth of fast-paced songs and walked to my table like Forrest heading for a two-hour yoga class. By forcing myself to sit still until I'd heard every last song, I managed to half-finish the miniature. It was based on one of Jayne's ideas, but I'd wanted to add my own flair. Flair was not forthcoming, though, so I gave in and built the piece to her specifications.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 38