Burying Water

by K. A. Tucker

  That’s what Amber told me, anyway.

  Now all I see in the fridge is fresh fruit and vegetables, some high-end cheeses, yogurt, and weird-colored bread. Fresh steaks ready for the grill. Alex would know what to do with all this stuff. Not that I’d ever let her cook this weekend.

  Even though she said she wasn’t hungry, I load a plate up with some fruit and cheese and yogurt. Miraculously, I find sweetener in the cupboard, which I add after making her coffee. I move fast. The last thing I want is to discover that Amber has suddenly become a light sleeper and have her appear in the kitchen.

  When I climb the stairs to my attic apartment, I discover Alex cocooned in that wool blanket. Asleep again. I set everything down on the nightstand next to her and then, grabbing my keys and wallet, I head out, locking the door behind me.

  It’s almost four o’clock when I hear the water running upstairs.

  She slept all day. I know because after I raced out to Bend and back with a trunk full of parts, I kept checking in on her. With me, normally, hours go unnoticed when I’m in my garage. With this car sitting in front of me, I’d expect those hours to turn into days. But I watched that damn clock on the wall all day long, creeping up the stairs several times to make sure she was okay.

  She says she’s fine and I can’t see anything besides what’s on her face, but I’m still worried. How long can a person sleep?

  “Alex?” I take my time climbing the steps, my footfalls extra heavy so she hears me coming. When I get to the top, she’s standing in front of the small side window, an awed smile brightening her injured face.

  “It’s even more beautiful out here than I imagined.”

  I come up behind her, probably too close but I can’t help myself, and look out the window to see what she sees—snow-capped mountain peaks, the sky smeared with shades of pink and purple from the setting sun. “You should see it here in the summer.”

  “And look!” She points to the old woman’s two horses, grazing on a bale of hay by the barn. “I wish I could go see them.”

  “Maybe another time.” I very gently brush the strands of hair off her face. “Feeling better, Sleeping Beauty?”

  She dips her head to hide the coy, crooked smile. “Starting to. I’m going to take a bath, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t. It’s nothing special in there, though, Alex.” Definitely not like her house. Or an eight-hundred-dollar-a-night hotel room.

  “It’s perfect. Really. I just need some towels and I can’t reach them. Can you help me?”

  “Right.” The storage in there is odd, the only cupboards running along the high side and eight feet up. I follow her in and then maneuver around her in the tight space to dig out the fresh towels. “What’s that?” I ask, watching her sprinkle white granules into the bath.

  “Epsom salts,” she explains with a shrug. “It helps.”

  Sounds like she’s been here before, even though she says she hasn’t. Gritting my teeth, because she doesn’t need to hear my complaints—her body is complaining enough right now as it is—I hand her the towels and then slip out around her.

  She shuts the running water off. “Did you get any work done on your car?” I glance back to see the door open a sliver and her slowly easing her shirt up over her head. Numerous black bruises—as if from fingers digging into flesh—mark her back and waist.

  “Yeah, brakes and a good tune-up,” I mutter, yanking the fitted bedsheet over the mattress. I hate knowing she was with him at all, but to see proof like that? I keep my head down and make the rest of the bed, listening to the sound of her naked body slip into the water.

  Since seeing her cowering in the kitchen yesterday, I haven’t had a single thought about her besides getting her somewhere safe. Not in the long car ride here, not lying in bed next to her last night, not even while in the shower.

  Now, though . . . I can’t claim that anymore. Which means I probably need to get the hell out of here. “Hey, I’m going to head back downstairs to work on—”

  Her phone begins ringing.

  A splash of water sounds. Alex, sitting up. “Is that him?”

  I check the screen. “Unknown.”

  There’s a long pause and then, “That’s him. Can you please bring it to me?” The sound of the shower rings scraping against the metal rod tells me she’s drawing the curtain. Closed or open, I can’t say. Either way, it’s a see-through material.

  I push through the doorway, trying to keep my eyes up and toward the glow from the small window above the tub until I’m close enough to focus on just her face.

  She reaches out to take the phone from me, splashing drops of water on my arm. “Stay?” Bright reddish-brown eyes plead with me.

  With a nod, I sit down on the floor, my back pressed against the outside of the tub. And I listen.

  “Hello?”

  The harsh tone blasts through from the other end and, though I can’t pick up the words, I know it’s him.

  “Yes . . . No . . . Yes . . . I’m fine.” He talks for a minute straight and she simply listens. “Okay, Viktor . . . Okay . . . Love you too . . .”

  My stomach clenches.

  “Yes, in a few days. Good night.” She hangs up. The phone appears in front of me, her hand extended over my shoulder. “Can you please take it before I drop it in the bath?”

  I do, her wet fingers slipping over mine in the process. “What’d he want?”

  “Nothing. Just checking in, I guess.” She sighs. “I was just beginning to relax, too.”

  I turn, just far enough to see her from the neck up. “Still glad you came?”

  She manages a smile. “Yes.”

  Although I shouldn’t bring it up, I can’t help it. “Do you regret the night in the hotel?”

  I don’t move as she shifts closer to me, until her head rests on the edge of the tub, just inches from mine. “I don’t regret that night, Jesse, and I never will. I just felt incredibly guilty for doing it because I knew it was wrong. It’s . . . When I married Viktor, I truly believed it was forever. I never thought I would end up being this person who sleeps with another man. And yet, here I am, only four years later. A cheating wife.”

  “An abused wife, who’s been cheated on countless times herself, and who was hurt and angry,” I correct her.

  “That’s an excuse, not a reason.” A hollow-sounding laugh escapes her lips. “I guess we’re all capable of doing bad things. I was just being self-righteous, thinking I might be above that.”

  This hollow, cynical version of Alex that I’m seeing now . . . this is what a guy like Viktor has made her into. “Do you still feel guilty?”

  She toys with the collar on my flannel shirt, her wet fingers grazing my neck, sending shivers down my back. “I still know it’s wrong.”

  And I know that if I don’t leave right now, I’m liable to do something to take things too far. And I also know that she’ll let me.

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a pizza guy deliver to my door,” Alex says between mouthfuls. “And I’ve definitely never sat on the floor like this.”

  I smile, propping up the layer of pillows around her back for her. I found some in the old cedar chest and then grabbed a bunch from my mom’s living room. “They don’t normally deliver this far, but they do it for us. Amber and I used to sit around the fireplace like this when we were little kids, in the winter. We had these long metal pokers, and we’d melt marshmallows and then make S’mores.”

  “Hmm . . . S’mores. I’ve heard about those.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously?”

  She giggles, tucking a strand of melted cheese into her mouth. “My mom stepped off a plane from Russia when she was twenty-four, to begin working sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. I wasn’t raised on Western culture’s traditions.” She rests her head back to share my oversized pillow, the smell of her freshly washed hair erasing my appetite for pizza.

  “What were you raised on?”

  A faint smil
e touches her lips. “She used to tell me fairy tales before bed. About fences made of human bones and witches that killed little ducklings.” Her face scrunches up. “Horrible fairy tales. They gave me nightmares.”

  It’s not funny but I can’t help laughing, which gets her laughing, which gets her wincing and touching the side of her face.

  I slip my arm under her shoulders and pull her to my chest.

  “I’m going to leave him, Jesse. I’m going to tell him that I know about the cheating and it’s not working out. I don’t want his money. Maybe if I agree to just walk away empty-handed, he’ll let me?”

  Somehow, I doubt it. “How do you think his ego will take it?”

  “I don’t know.” She tips her head back, her big eyes peering up at me. “I’m kind of scared, but . . . I figure, what can he do, really?”

  That depends. The more I think about Viktor and his dealings with stolen cars, the more worried I get for Alex. I don’t know much about that world, but I have to think he’s got more at stake than chump change. Otherwise, why would the risk be worth it? “What do you know about Viktor’s business dealings? The non-legit ones.”

  She purses her lips, as if afraid to admit that she has even suspected anything below-board. “Viktor keeps that stuff to himself and I don’t ask. I’ve met Rust. I’ve met some of his other business partners. Most of them are Russian. We even hosted a garden party last summer and had them over, with their wives. I cooked this whole big spread of things that Viktor used to have growing up in St. Petersburg. He grew up in a wealthy home. Anyway, they all seemed nice.” She rolls her eyes. “Although we went through a lot of vodka that night.” She pauses. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you don’t know anything that he doesn’t want to get out.”

  She shakes her head. “No . . . For once, I’m happy to be the oblivious wife.”

  And so am I. Because the oblivious wife is the harmless wife. “So, where are you thinking you’re going to go?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I look down at her face to see the flames dance within her eyes as she stares intently at the woodstove. “This should be easy, right? People pick up and start over at thirty and forty years old, with kids and everything. I’m only twenty-two. I should be able to chalk this up to a bad mistake of my youth and move on. But I don’t know where to begin. I have nothing besides what he’s given me.”

  “It’s all just stuff.”

  “You don’t get it!” Her voice rises with frustration. “Look where we are!” She throws a hand up in the air. “In this cute little secluded apartment at your parents’ house that was just sitting here, waiting for you. I have no family to run to. No real friends that I can count on. I have no one.”

  Tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear so I can see more of her face, I whisper, “You have me.”

  She pulls the wool blanket up around us and, roping her arm around my waist, she rests her head against my chest and squeezes me tight. I want to squeeze her back—I want to do more than just squeeze her—but I’m hesitant, for so many reasons beyond just her injuries. So, I settle for weaving my fingers through her long hair.

  “That night in the hotel . . . now that I know what it can feel like . . .” Her voice drifts. When she speaks again, it’s with a hesitant whisper. “I want to feel that way again. With you. I just can’t now. Not until all this is sorted out.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  We lie among the fluffy pillows, listening to the fire crackle, smelling the burning leaves—I stuffed a few handfuls into the woodstove, just because I love the smell of burning leaves.

  Her breathing evens out, her heart beats steady against my side.

  I absorb all of it.

  As I fall fast and hard.

  “What’s down here?”

  “If I tell you, then it’s not a surprise.”

  “And you’re sure your family won’t come out here?”

  “Yup. My mom and sister are in comas and my dad’s at some charity police force luncheon. Besides, no one’s been down this way in years.” I ease the Barracuda down the old, uneven path. Normally I wouldn’t think to drive it down, but it’s too far for Alex to walk while she’s still healing. And I really want to see her dip her fingers into a lake for the first time.

  Up ahead the water is sparkling in the noonday sunlight. The blue skies are what I miss most about home. Portland always feels gray in comparison.

  “A lake!” Alex turns, her own eyes now sparkling brighter than any sun rays on water.

  I shrug. “You said you’ve never been to a lake.”

  “And you actually remembered . . .” She doesn’t wait for me; she climbs out of the car and begins walking toward the sandy clearing where my sister and I used to set up for the day, back when we’d come out here to swim in the summertime.

  I follow her, the wool blanket that she can’t seem to part with tucked under my arm.

  “This is just . . .” Her words drift. She stands at the water’s edge, wrapped in my old gray-and-taupe flannel jacket, inhaling the crisp air, her eyes taking in the trees and mountains facing us. “This is me. This is what I want. I could trade it all today, for this. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever stepped into a place and just known that you were meant to be there?”

  “Kind of.”

  She glances over her shoulder at me, waiting.

  I pick my path toward her, unfolding the wool blanket out as I approach. From behind, I wrap the blanket and my arms around her slender body, pulling her into my chest. “One night, I got out of my car to help this girl with a flat tire. I didn’t know it right then, though. But I was meant to meet her.”

  She tips her head back to set a light kiss on my jawline, sending my blood racing through my body and my arms tightening around her.

  A flock of snow geese that were resting across the lake suddenly take flight, their wings flapping against the water, kicking up splashes that glimmer in the sun.

  Alex smiles. “That water must be cold.”

  I release her from my grip long enough for her to dip her red-painted fingertips in. She pulls back immediately with an exaggerated shiver.

  “See that stream over there?” I stretch an arm to point out the small branch coming off the lake. “It’s fed off the mountain thaw. So is this lake. There’s kind of a funny story to it. The stream runs all the way down into our neighbor’s property. Our neighbor, Mr. Fitzgerald—he’s gone now—didn’t like it so close to their barn. For years, he’d try to stop it. My granddad would help him. They’d dump gravel and dirt. One year, they built a dam. But every single spring, the water would find its way onto the Fitzgerald property.” I chuckle, remembering the two old men standing over the stream, scratching their beards in wonder. “Finally they just gave up and let it be. Realized there was no stopping it. The water was going to go where it was meant to go.” I feel a smile touch my lips. “My granddad used to tell us that story every spring, when we came out here after the thaw. Of course, it wasn’t just a story to him. He turned it into a life lesson about telling the truth. I had a problem with lying when I was little,” I admit, sheepishly. “He said the truth is like that water: it doesn’t matter how hard you try to bury it; it’ll always find some way back to the surface. It’s resilient.”

  I feel her body relax into my chest. “I really like that story. I want to be like water, too. I want to be resilient, to go where I’m meant to go.”

  I graze her cheek with my nose. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  She gasps and pulls away to turn and face me, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “I know what tattoo I want now.”

  Beans. I assume that’s his nickname, given he’s tattooed the letters on his knuckles. Otherwise he’s a dumbass.

  A dumbass whose wary eyes drift between the two of us, frowning every time they land on Alex’s bruised cheek. “What are we going with today?”

  Alex’s bright eyes are full of determination. “A tattoo.” Once
she decided that this was what she wanted to do, there was no convincing her otherwise, banged-up body and all. Luckily we’re the only ones at Get Inked—a small but reputable shop in Bend.

  He smirks—we are in a tattoo parlor, after all—and then asks, “Do you know what you want it to look like?”

  “I was thinking something to do with water. Like a symbol or something.”

  “Hmm . . . Can’t say I’ve done one of those. Let’s see what we can find.” With a fast flick of his hand, he turns his oversized monitor to face us. He hits a few keys to open up a search engine for “water symbols.” All kinds come up.

  Alex immediately zeros in on a circular symbol with waves inside. “That one.” She nods. “Here.” She touches the right side of her pelvis, where I imagine her panty line might run.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask in a low voice. “What about . . .” What is Viktor—the guy who dictates what she does, what she wears, her hair color, everything—going to say about a permanent mark on her body? And without his permission.

  She sets her jaw with defiance. “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Beans mutters. To him, it’s just another design to etch into a body. To her, it’s a decision she is making without consultation with or authorization from Viktor. A decision made by her, for her.

  To me, it’s Alex making a permanent mark on her body with something that represents us, even in an indirect way. And the idea of that makes my chest swell.

  After printing out the symbol and filling in all the required paperwork, Beans leads us into one of the rooms and instructs Alex to lie down. “You’ll need to roll your pants down and push your shirt up,” he says, while removing the needle from its sterile packaging.

  “You sure you want that there? It’s going to hurt,” I warn her.

  “I can handle it.” She eases herself up onto the table and lies down, adjusting her clothes as instructed, the dark bruises over her midsection and hips glaringly obvious under the bright lights.

  She definitely can handle it. She’s already handled so much more. As dainty and fragile as Alex appears, she’s a lot stronger than I’ve given her credit for.