“Boston is very far away. The Internet is not.”
4
The rower’s name was Grace.
Remember her?
She was staring at me from across my dad’s kitchen table.
She was tan and fortyish and flushed from the sun, and there was a white spot of zinc on her nose that looked like yogurt. She had freckles and she wore a formfitting rowing suit that showed some serious cleavage.
And me? I wore a ratty orange towel draped over a T-shirt that said:Shave the Whales, which I thought was hilarious when I bought it at Hot Topic in the ninth grade. It was soaked in stagnant lake water.
We had been in exactly these positions for the last half hour, ever since Grace had hoisted me from the freezing lake, rowed me to the shore, and driven me back home to wait for my father. In this time, which felt very long, but was probably very short, we had exchanged exactly six sentences. Actually, “exchange” probably isn’t the right word.She had spoken five of these sentences, which were, in order:
Oh my God!
What were you doing jumping like that?
Seriously, are you okay?
I’m Grace.
Where do you live?
I had spoken one sentence, which was:
Up the hill with my dad.
And since then we had reached a bit of an impasse.
Outside in the driveway I could see Grace’s Jeep with her small boat mounted on top. Ascull. The word had come to me out of nowhere while I was gliding to the shore, sunlight burning through my eyelids.I am in a scull,I thought.I am being rowed in a scull. It was sleek and red, and it was currently pointing toward the house like an accusing finger.
I knew it was my job to say things now, to give Grace some sense of the reasoning for my crazed leap lake-ward, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t even sure I could form words. The only thing I knew was that I wanted desperately for this woman to leave, and at the same time, I wanted her to stay exactly where she was.
I had no idea when my father would be back. Most of hisjobs, when he had them, were just a day or two long. But who knew, maybe a gerbil had a stroke and he was urgently needed somewhere in Maine. In which case, Grace and I would be sitting here looking at each other for the next few hundred hours.
Who would be the first to crack, I wondered. I imagined she must have a job, a family. Anyone who looked so tan and put-together must have these things. She probably had a doting husband who did something with people’s endocrine systems while she pursued her love for... antique lighting fixtures? She would have to give in eventually. She had a life to return to.
Which made one of us.
Our staring contest, however, was never given a chance to run its course. This is because just when I was getting the upper hand, I heard the screen door rattle in its frame. Then I heard my father’s unmistakable too-loud voice echo through the hallway.
“Tessie!” he shouted. “Is that you?”
He shuffled into the living room, slamming the door closed behind him.
“Tessie,” he boomed. “Are you home? Whose car is that outside? It’s parked in my spot!”
I could almost see through his eyes as he passed his drabfurniture. Did he even notice it anymore? The cracked coffee table. The stained couch. The wallpaper in the hall, starting to peel. Finally, he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen where he stopped and remained still for what must have been at least ten seconds. He looked from me to Grace the Rower, both of us silent.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “Anyone want to let me know what’s going on?”
I glanced up at his face, which had always been young and handsome compared to the faces of other dads. He had me when he was just nineteen. Today, however, he looked a little tired. His wide brown eyes were red-rimmed. And his long hair, which was just starting to go gray, glittered with sand. He wore a black suit and in his right hand, he held his favorite tote bag, which read:DEATH: IT’S A LIVING.
“Who are you?” he asked Grace. Then he turned back to me and said: “Tessie, what’s happening?”
I wasn’t yet able to speak. And neither was Grace.
