“Does it hurt?” he asks, pointing to the mark I’m rubbing without realizing again. When people ask, I pass off the small jagged white line crossing the tail of my left eyebrow as another childhood shenanigan.
Talking about it is the last thing I want, but Carter told me about his. I know it was a difficult moment for him that should be repaid in kind.
“The foster father I had at fifteen was a drunk. One day he got mad because I didn’t get up fast enough to get him a beer. Smacked me with an ashtray.” I ended up in the hospital ready to run away and live on the street. Maybe catch a bus to Portland or Boston, anywhere but another foster family that treated me like trash.
Carter is grinding his teeth. The vein on his neck is protruding as an angry blush spreads up his face. Is he sick? His heart?
“Are you OK? Do you want me to drive?” I ask, slightly panicky.
Carter looks at me with warmth and swallows. “What happened next?”
“Carter your—”
“Please tell me.”
“Oh, OK.” I’m a bit overwhelmed by his intensity. “The Millers showed up at the hospital before I could leave.”
They were in their seventies, enjoying retirement, after having kids of their own and fostering for decades. The social worker on my case called them asking for a favor. Grams and Gramps didn’t hesitate. Literally saved me. I heard stories about other kids living on the streets.
“So yeah, it’s a reflex, I guess. Stress and fear take me back there.”
Alcohol is another issue. But I keep that to myself.
“Are you afraid now?” he asks, a hint of hurt in his voice.
“No, just anxious, I guess. You’re too silent.” I shrug.
“People are capable of sitting with their thoughts.”
“I know.” Silence means danger. Not knowing if it’s just the silent treatment or the calm before the storm. Can I be honest and tell him I’m so weak silence scares me? “It puts me on edge. Because I can’t read your mood and I don’t know what comes after the silence.”
The lines on his face soften and he looks at me too closely.
It unnerves me. Nobody has ever paid me so much attention.
“Nothing bad, I promise. Never something bad.” Carter unglues his hand from the leather steering wheel and engulfs mine in a steady hold. He’s pensive for a beat. “Did you know the first general-purpose electronic digital computer was developed in the forties, during World War II? It was huge. It filled an entire room.”
What’s he talking about? Is he having a stroke?
“This one was used only by the military. It wasn’t until the fifties that they built the first commercial-use one,” he continues with the energy of an excited kid talking about his dinosaurs.
Oh.
“I didn’t know.” I encourage him, melting like a toasty marshmallow.
“Computer predicted the outcome of the 1952 presidential election on live television. The invention of the microprocessor in the seventies changed everything.”
He keeps talking, my fears left behind in pieces on the twisting road until we reach a bay with a long white dock and the sign “Boat Rentals” pinned to a pole.
“Do you know how to drive this?” I look between his outstretched hand and the Wellcraft swaying along the water ripples.
Carter scoffs. “If your family aren’t members oftheyacht club, you don’t matter.” He pulls me into the boat and is careful to fasten my seatbelt.
My intention is not to prove further that we’re from such different words, but I can only look at him with a straight face for so long. My cheeks burn from the strain, but it’s a losing battle. I burst out laughing. It’s so absurd I can’t stop, holding my stomach.
“Do you even hear yourself?” I ask, wiping the tears out of the corner of my eyes.
He grins and smoothly guides the boat out of the dock. We glide out, the wind tousling his hair and playing with my skirts. Because in a moment of temporary insanity, I did put on the dress he wanted. It was impossible to think straight when he was so close,touching me.
