Beautiful Savage

by Sorbe, Lisa

  He claimed he told me about the cheating because he valued honesty.

  Then he remined me about our prenup.

  And me? I just looked at him and wondered what had happened to my friend.

  Because in the beginning, our beginning, that’s what we were.

  While he spoke, I cried on the inside. Was absolutely wrecked on the inside.

  On the outside, though, I displayed the sort of personality that Nicholas preferred – calm, cool, collected.

  Ours wasn’t a marriage of love; I knew that by then. Still, it took everything I had to hide my emotions, the ones with sharp nails and biting teeth that wreaked havoc on my mind and flayed my heart. The first ten years of our marriage ravaged my spirit, yet I didn’t dare leave. Couldn’t leave. I’d given up too much, lost too much of myself to survive on my own.

  Okay. To give myself some credit, I did think about leaving. A few times, actually. Back in the early days, when Nicholas’s distance would become too much to bear, I’d think about packing a suitcase and hitting the road, maybe end up in some quaint little town where I could wait tables during the day and writing sweet poetry at night. It was all very romantic; I’d daydream about the diner where I’d serve friendly, familiar faces. And then, after work, I’d hole up in the little farmhouse that I’d rented, listening to the fire crackle in the winter and appreciating the sweet smell of prairie grass in the summer. There, I could press my pen to paper, write my way back to the girl I used to be. But the dream was flimsy at best, and eventually my mind would drift to unpleasant places. I’d remember my old landlord, the one who accepted sexual favors more readily than a check. I’d recall the way he smelled like onions and swelled in my mouth before he came. And, most importantly, I’d remember the helplessness I felt, the knowing that no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough. That I’d never be enough.

  One way or another, I’d always end up on my knees.

  Besides. What if what was out there was worse? I’d given up on love, but at least I had a grand roof over my head and fine food on my plate. I didn’t have to work anymore, didn’t have to strive so hard to make ends meet. No longer did I have to give up so much of myself in return for so little.

  My marriage to Nicholas had become about survival. And survival, I understood. It’s what I’d been doing my whole entire life.

  Getting by. Making it from one day to the next. Wary and cautious, with my guard always up.

  I never dropped my guard with Hollis. Not once.

  Only with Nicholas did I dare do the unthinkable. It was only for a brief time, but still. I offered him everything I had, opened right up and bared my heart. I craved him, the man who became my husband. I relaxed into his life, into his world, and – metaphorically speaking, at least – it killed me.

  • • •

  I rise the following morning feeling strangely heavy. Despite the bomb I dropped on Hollis last night that probably shrapnel-ed the shit out of his marriage, I don’t feel happy.

  I don’t exactly feel depressed, either. Just to make that clear. Progress was made last night, and believe me, I appreciate it.

  But there’s something inside me, a tether of sorts, keeping my mood down, pulling me back from the high I should be experiencing. And I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  So I do what I’ve been doing lately.

  I take to the water.

  Marla was still in bed when I left, and I took special care not to wake her while feeding Gus and gathering my gear. The woman, after all, needs her sleep. Goodness knows she’s not going to get much (if any) rest in the foreseeable future. Not when she gets home today and realizes that her husband knows she stretched the truth about her last marriage like a stringy roll of saltwater taffy. Hollis wasn’t a happy camper when we ended our call, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  Granted, this whole debacle isn’t a marriage breaker. After all, she didn’t cheat on Hollis. But she did lie to him, and that’s almost worse. I mean, if she lied about that, what else has she lied about? He has to be wondering…

  Liar, liar, dirty liar.

  Over the course of the summer, I’ve purchased two kayaks, each different and unique in its own right. The one I choose this morning is built for the sea, and it cuts through the water with ease, so light it hardly feels like there’s anything between me and the throbbing pulse of the Great Lake. The waves rise and fall in time with my blood, drum against the side of the boat with a determination that matches the beat of my heart.

  And I like it this way. I’m wild and free, no one and no thing. It doesn’t matter where I’ve come from or where I’m headed. All that exists is the now, the ever-present now, and each breath I take mirrors the motion of my arms, the rotation of the oars as they slice through the water…in and out, in and out.

  I hug the shoreline, meandering about a mile before turning back. It’s quiet out here, along this stretch where nothing but dense forest presses against the rock-strewn beach. There’s nobody on the water, just like there’s never anybody on the water, and alone on this beautiful and desolate stretch of the lake, I can finally just…be. The sun is hot on my shoulders, but the breeze is cool on my skin, and the tether that’s been holding tight to my happiness finally releases its grip.

  In the distance, I see another kayaker heading in my direction, and whoever it is raises an oar in greeting. I give an obligatory wave, noting the way the person’s boat wobbles precariously atop the lake’s choppy surface. Whoever he or she is doesn’t seem to be very experienced; from what I can tell, the person isn’t even wearing a life jacket.

  Probably a tourist. Someone who naively assumes that this lake is like any other.

  But it’s not. It’s a beast, a behemoth, a living entity that takes what it wants, regardless of whether you want to give it. Ford taught me this, taught me to have respect for this ancient lake, where things both wonderful and frightening occur on the regular.

  I roll my eyes and push through the water. In this direction, I’m fighting the wind, and my muscles ache pleasantly with the added effort needed to row. My kayak dips to the left, but I’m ready and able to right myself in the next breath. The kayaker ahead of me doesn’t seem to be so lucky, and her kayak almost capsizes.

  I say her, because I’m close enough to recognize the boat. And the person inside of it.

  Marla.

  Great. And now she’s fucking screaming.

  Marla must have gotten out of bed right after I took off. Then, seeing me hit the water, I can only assume she grabbed the remaining kayak and followed.

  Ignorantly so, because it’s quite apparent she’s never done this before.

  She’s not wearing a life jacket. Or a wet suit.

  I maneuver a wave, moving faster now. What the hell is she thinking, coming out here like this? But that’s the problem, it seems that’s always the problem – Marla doesn’t think. She just goes about her day like a Marla-sized bowling ball, without thought of anyone else.

  I’m close enough now to see the expression on her face. A mask of fear has her features screwed tightly in a bizarre grimace – it looks like she’s about to take a bite of an invisible, worm-filled apple – and it’d be comical if what happened next didn’t happen.

  She tips.

  Marla flips over, right over, and a wave washes over the bottom of the kayak, pushing it down before it bobs back up to the surface. But she’s under now, and her oar, which she flung in fear upon tipping, is drifting uselessly next to the upturned boat.

  Instinct rushes me forward, over the surface faster than I’ve ever gone, the need to provide rescue bred into my bones by some invisible God who’s obviously never had to experience the trials of human life firsthand. But then, a funny thing happens.

  I resist the program.

  Instinct of a different nature pulls me back, stills my hand when I reach the capsized kayak. I brace the paddle in the water and stare at the belly of the boat, knowing the struggle that’s going on beneath it b
ut just feeling…numb.

  And I think…what if?

  What if?

  What if I did nothing?

  What if I just floated here, next to the capsized kayak, and…waited?

  Waited to see if Marla could pull herself from the cockpit, crest the surface on her own.

  And if she can’t, well… It’s not like I’m not actively holding her down.

  Having her out of the picture entirely would make life so much easier. Turns out Marla the Martyr isn’t so nice; she’s a schemer and a liar and she’ll do anything she has to in order to get what she wants. What if she doesn’t let Hollis go? What if she spends her days scheming and plotting and planning to get him back? Just as I’m doing now. He can divorce her, can leave her and love me and only me. But she’s the mother to his kid, and she’ll always, always, fucking always be in his life. In our life. A constant reminder, a temptation of old desires.

  Unless.

  Unless.

  Unless.

  I hold my breath and start counting.

  My chest fills with pressure as early as fifteen seconds, and I want to breathe.

  Invisible hands wrap around my throat at thirty seconds, and I want to breathe.

  When a fire breaks out in my lungs, sparks against my ribs, I lose count entirely…and I want to breathe.

  My vision starts to darken around the edges, so I close my eyes. Time stands still, and I need to breathe.

  In my dark world where oxygen doesn’t exist, lights pinwheel like fireworks behind my lids. Every cell in my body screams, begs, pleads for air.

  I don’t remember hitting the water. I barely remember slipping beneath the surface and out of my kayak.

  Never having performed a rescue of any sort, it’s probably a good thing I was so out of my head from lack of oxygen that instinct in the form of something larger took over.

  Because the next thing I’m aware of, Marla and I are above water, and like a frantic animal, she’s trying to climb on top of my shoulders. I curse and try to push her off, annoyed and frustrated and not feeling at all like myself. What the hell just happened? What did I do?

  Holy shit. What did I almost do?

  I’m only wearing a partial wet suit, covered from the waist down, and the contrast in temperature between my upper and lower body give me the sensation of being set on fire in a frozen landscape. My bare skin burns from the frigid water, and a weighted cold presses against my covered legs, my hips.

  Marla is coughing and sputtering in my ear, and I can’t help but think it’s a miracle that I don’t have to perform CPR. Because despite whatever miraculous energy coursed through my veins and propelled me into action moments ago, I doubt even It could pull the technique from a mind that had never done it before.

  So I just slap her on the back, hard and harder, pretending I’m trying to help clear whatever water might be lingering in her lungs. When I start to enjoy myself a little too much, I give her one final whack before pushing away and swimming after my kayak. I grab it and the oar, and then call over my shoulder, asking Marla if she can grab hers. We’re still a ways out from the house, but the shore isn’t far, and since I have no desire to try and get Marla back into her kayak so she can just tip over again, figure it’s the best option.

  But Marla is a wreck right now. She can barely tread water much less go after the boat. And there’s no way that I can haul two kayaks and a hysterical woman back to shore. So, with a heavy heart, I watch as my spare floats out into the lake, most likely destined to fill with water and drop to the bottom, like so many shipwrecks before it, coming to rest forever in an ice water grave.

  Fucking Marla.

  “Can you swim?”

  She’s crying and sniffling and doesn’t seem to hear me. So I shout her name, short and sharp, and she jerks as if slapped. “Can. You. Swim?” I enunciate each word, like I’m talking to someone extremely slow-witted.

  She nods and then shakes her head, her face scrunching up even more as tears stream down to mingle with the lake water on her cheeks.

  I groan and glide over, keeping one hand on my kayak and beckoning her with the other. She doggie paddles a few strokes and latches on, clutching my shoulders and strapping herself to me like she’s a damn backpack. Her weight pushes me down, and fishy water finds its way into my mouth, down my throat.

  I should have let the bitch drown.

  After I drag our sorry asses to shore, I collapse, roll over, and vomit.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  I’m back at Ford’s place, in bed, a tangle of sheets around my waist and my forehead clammy with sweat. My hair is a ratty nest on top of my head, and I can still smell the fishy lake water clinging to my skin.

  The scent makes me want to puke.

  Again.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, taking the mug from Ford and dipping my nose over the steam. When my stomach doesn’t rumble, I take a sip, savor the flavor. “I never get sick.”

  “Well, that,” he says, pointing at the mug, “is miracle broth. My mom’s special recipe. She sends some home with me every time I visit. Which means I have, like, twenty containers in my freezer. So drink up.”

  It’s delicious, and I do.

  He takes a seat beside me, resting his hand on the leg I have sticking out of the covers. Cupping my knee, he slides his palm up my thigh, pressing his fingers in deep and kneading my muscles. After my quarter mile swim this morning, toting both Marla and the kayak, my body aches all over.

  It also seems I’ve come down with the flu.

  The timing couldn’t be worse. Nicholas comes home in a week, which means my summer of freedom – of free love and free spirit – is coming to an end. My husband may not be hip to my whereabouts when he’s a plane ride away, but when we’re back and living in the same house again, he’s sure to notice if my side of the bed is empty more nights than not.

  I won’t be able to explain away my absence.

  Which means I either have to step up my game or put my plans to woo Hollis on indefinite hold.

  And Ford?

  I don’t even want to think about that.

  So I don’t. I just ooze back into the pillows and melt into his touch, pretending that what’s happening right now is my true reality, my actual reality, and everything else – my past, my marriage, even Hollis – is really just someone else’s life, one I merely read about and can close the book on any time I want.

  Of course, that’s not the case. And while one part of me knows this, the other chooses to remain in denial.

  I’m pretty good at that. The whole living in denial thing.

  But I’m currently in denial about that, so lay the fuck off. M’kay?

  When Ford crawls in next to me, I try to push him away. “I’m gross.”

  He nods, wrapping me up in his arms. “You are.”

  I want to smack him and laugh at him, but I’m too weak to do either.

  “You’re going to get sick, too.”

  He brushes a kiss over my forehead and says, “Probably.”

  And we sit like that for a while, propped up against the headboard of his bed, until I fall asleep.

  • • •

  When I wake, I feel a hundred percent better.

  Ford is nowhere to be seen, but Gus is stuck to my thigh, and when I move, he flings his head up and throws a where do you think you’re going? look over his shoulder. One ear is stuck up and turned inward – a doggie form of bedhead – and I reach out, flip it over, and then give him a reassuring scratch under his chin. Then, because I’m sticky and stinky, I slip from the bed and into the bathroom, where I run the shower as hot as I can handle it. The fresh water feels divine, and when I step out fifteen minutes later, I feel like an entirely new woman. Not even a hint of nausea ripples through my system, curdles in my stomach. If anything, I feel better than I have in years.

  I find Ford in the kitchen, reading from a newspaper of all things. It’s early evening, and beyond the windows, the sky appears t
o be on fire. Everything in the room has an orangey glow about it, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to nature’s flamboyance. But the effect is warm and cozy, and even the yawning shadows seem to stretch in greeting rather than gloom.

  Ford looks up when I enter, smiles, and my heart does a wonky little flutter. Suddenly I want nothing more than to eat that smile right off his face, tasting his lips, his tongue, even his perfect teeth. He immediately hops up, and in two long strides is at my side. Bracing his hands against my shoulders, he peers down at me, lifting a brow in assessment. “You look…completely better.”

  “I feel completely better.” Smirking, I rise up on my toes and kiss him, slow and deep. “Your mom’s miracle broth worked, well, a miracle. I’ve never had a twenty-four-hour flu last less than twenty-four hours. She should market that shit.”

  He laughs, making a move toward the fridge. “Let me get you some more.”

  “No.”

  Ford crosses his arms. “Becca. You might be feeling better, but you still have the bug. You need fluids and nutrients, or you’re just going to come back down with it again. Could be tonight, maybe tomorrow.” He shrugs. “You’re in the eye of the storm.”

  Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. “Ford, I’m good. I don’t even have a flu hangover.” He cocks his head, like he doesn’t believe me. “In fact, and oddly enough, I’m starving. Do you have any steak?”

  He barks out a laugh. “Steak? Are you serious?”

  My stomach grumbles, though this time it’s from hunger instead of discomfort. “Or a cheeseburger?” Now that I’m thinking about food, it’s all I can think about. “And fries. Oh, wait! Chili cheese fries. With jalapenos. And a large vanilla shake with chocolate drizzle. Oh, my God. That sounds so good right now.”