―Hang up.‖ I heard that pretty distinctly. ―He told us not ...‖
Click.
After a few moments, a recording snapped on and helpfully suggested I hang up.
I did.
Okay.
His wife, probably.
Unless it wasn‘t.
Mrs. Anderson was in Minnesota, he‘d said. And had that been Mr. Anderson‘s voice? Well, how would I know?
Whatever.
Mr. Anderson had a life.
He sure as hell didn‘t need me in it.
c
That night, I read one of Matt‘s e-mails. He‘d had a bad day. His convoy had taken sniper fire, and he‘d had to do building sweeps, which he‘s said can get you killed just as fast as an IED. He managed to take out two snipers, but the third shot his partner and got away. The story was depressingly familiar, one I‘d read before. This time, though, I had trouble forming a reply because I really, really wanted to talk to someone real and not just electrons thrown halfway around the world. But I also knew that the kind of questions I had Matt just couldn‘t answer.
In the end, I sent nothing back. For the first time in forever, I didn‘t have the energy to make up a nice story, and that made me feel worse. Just because Matt was gone didn‘t mean he didn‘t need me.
Before bed, I went into my bathroom, closed the door. I turned on the shower and, as the water heated up, peeled out of my clothes. The right front pocket of my jeans was heavy, which was weird—until I remembered why.
I didn‘t recall slipping the knife into my pocket, but I‘d found it at lunch, while I hid in a bathroom stall. I wondered if Mr. Anderson noticed the knife was gone. If he had, did he suspect me? He‘d been all business during class, and then I‘d gone to the library. So either he knew and didn‘t care, or he didn‘t know. Whatever. I would have to figure out a way to slip it back into his desk.
Mr. Anderson‘s knife—the Kissing Crane stiletto—was warm from my body heat. I studied the blade as the shower thrummed and steam fogged the mirror, which was a good thing. I didn‘t like looking at myself—you know, my face or anything—and forget the donor sites on my thighs. I never got the urge to inspect my back. (Doctors, though, they love that kind of stuff: oh, that’s scarring very well. ) You know, Bob, there‘s this movie, Secretary, that got part of it right—for me, anyway. The girl‘s a cutter. The guy she falls in love with is kind of creepy-kinky, and it becomes this whole big sex thing; her suffering proves how much she loves him; blah, blah, blah . . . that kind of stuff. To the guy, her scars are part of her beauty. He bathes her, washes her hair, kisses every inch of skin, tastes every wound.
And now, here was Mr. Anderson‘s kissing knife. I liked the heft, the weight. How solid it was, like a promise. For a while that morning—before Danielle—I‘d felt safe in Mr.
Anderson‘s back room. Last night, he‘d taken care of me.
I eyed the bathroom door.
I could. It would be so simple. A quick flick of the wrist. A little pressure. I could do it.
So I did. For the first time in months, Bob . . . I locked the door.
18: a
The knob was cool and moist with condensation. The lock engaged with a tiny snick.
My heart was pounding. Still clutching the knife, I drew aside the curtain and slipped under the shower. Water drummed over my face and neck, sheeted over my chest, and swam down my stomach and along my thighs. The shower was already warm, but I inched the knob over, felt the sudden surge of heat. I kept going, letting the heat build, gasping as the hot water needled my breasts. The sound—a rushing, gathering roar—was nearly identical to the bellow of that fire so long ago and yet always with me. There was heat and steam and pain raining down—and Bob?
It wasn‘t all... bad.
Because there was the knife. His knife. I pulled out the blade, felt it lock into place.
This was the knife, the knife, his kissing knife....
The staghorn was rough, but the stiletto was smooth, bright steel that was first cool and then began to warm. I ran the ball of my left thumb along the edge . . . careful, be carefull... and felt how keen that blade was.
Careful.
Then I drew that tip, sharp as a pick, over the swell of my left breast, tracing myself
. . . carefully. Slowly. Like drawing myself into being, if that makes any sense. I gasped at the feel of the knife against my tingling skin because it . . .
It was...
It was what I wanted. Not blood, not from the kissing knife, no shriek, not that kind of pain. I walked along that knife‘s edge in the heat as my blood thundered in my ears and—
―Jenna?‖
I flinched.
The kissing knife slipped.
There was a sudden, bright, white lance of pain, and I stared, horrified, as a red rosette bloomed, the blood welling from where the kissing knife had nicked the skin just to the right of my heart.
―Jenna!‖ My mother knocked on the door. The knob rattled. ―Why is this door locked?‖
―I... Mom, I‘m...I‘m in the shower!‖ I managed through a sudden flutter of panic.
Shit, shit! I forced my shaking fingers to explore the cut then breathed out a tiny sigh of relief. The slice wasn‘t deep, just the tiniest of nicks made by the stiletto‘s razor-sharp point and barely there. An accident, it had just been an accident; I‘d slipped; I hadn‘t meant to really hurt ...
―Jenna, open the door this instant!‖
―No!‖ I watched as the water splashing over my breast pinked then paled. The bleeding was stopping already. God, that was a close call. What had I been thinking? This was crazy. There was no such thing as good pain. Was there? No, no! That was a movie; the mousy little secretary got her guy, but this was real life. Besides, there was no guy. ―I‘m in the shower.‖
Mom went on about how this wasn‘t part of the bargain, but I kept shouting back that I was in the shower and what did she say, what, what? By the time she huffed off, the bleeding had stopped completely. I knew this wasn‘t the end of it, of course. Once I was out, Mom would march me into her bathroom for a strip inspection because the light was even better there.
But she would miss it. For one thing, I always cut my stomach, my hips. For another, the slice was so clean, so neat, the lips entirely bloodless, there was no way she‘d spot it.
By the time I unlocked the door, the kissing knife was hidden, too: snugged right next to that pair of nail scissors behind my vanity.
Knowing the kissing knife was there? That I got away with it? That I could get at that knife—hold it, carry it, touch it whenever I wanted?
That I had a real piece of a memory—of Mr. Anderson caring about me, of a safe place—that wasn‘t all bad?
It was good, Bob.
It felt good.
Because it was mine, Bob. It was mine.
19: a
On the Wednesday before Mom‘s big party, Dewerman corralled me after class.
―Congratulations. Since you‘re the only student who hasn‘t chosen someone for a project, it‘s my pleasure to name you the lucky winner of Procrastinators Anonymous. First prize is one week in New Jersey and‖—he presented a note card with an elaborate flourish—―the only person no one else wanted. Be grateful. Second prize was two weeks in New Jersey.‖
I scanned the card. ―Alexis Depardieu? Like . . . the actor?‖
―No relation. This Depardieu was the Rachel Carson of marine mammology. She studied whales and dolphins, mainly, and wrote one book, Ladyfish, published posthumously the year after she died.‖
―Uhm . . .‖ As I remembered it, we‘d had to choose from people who‘d written novels or poetry or plays. Maybe that was why no one had chosen Depardieu. ―So why is she on the list? How did she kill herself?‖
Dewerman showed a thin smile. ―She didn‘t. Her ship collided with a whaling vessel off the coast of Japan in November 2000.‖
―An accident?‖
―That‘s one way of looking at it. Clearly, if she‘s on the list, maybe I have questions, right? So, go.‖ He made shooing motions. ―Learn. You‘ve got all next week to work on a proposal while we‘re on fall break. Now, git.‖
I gitted. As I went out the door, I saw Mr. Anderson coming down the hall to my right, so I peeled off to the left. When I looked back, Dewerman was gesturing with his mammoth coffee mug and Mr. Anderson‘s hands were in his pockets. Neither man looked my way. That was fine.
The library didn‘t have Depardieu‘s book, so I ordered it through interlibrary loan and then did a Google search. The Wikipedia entry was pretty dry. Here‘s the SparkNotes version, Bobby: Alexis Depardieu was French-Canadian and an only child whose father had died when his swordfish boat went down in a gale in the North Sea. Alexis was nine when her mom remarried a well-to-do lawyer; went to boarding school when she was twelve; was premed at McGill but switched to marine bio. Cambridge for a PhD and then she moved around a lot: Quebec, New Zealand, California. Taught at Berkeley, Stanford; started publishing on dolphin behavior and communications, blah, blah, blah.
In the late 1980s, Alexis connected with another marine biologist named Stephen Wright, a professor and a member of the Sea Stewards, this radical environmental group.
Alexis and Wright got arrested a bunch of times trying to free dolphins from aquariums and stuff. Got themselves fired from Berkeley and then joined up full-time with the Stewards, who were kind of Greenpeace-y, into harassing whaling ships, things like that.
Then, in 1997, off the coast of Antarctica, Stephen Wright was washed overboard as he piloted his Zodiac between a Japanese whaler and a humpback. This didn‘t stop Alexis for long. A year or so later, she was back with the Stewards aboard their flagship, Mystic Dreamer.
Then it was late 2000 and depending on whom you believe, Mystic Dreamer either accidentally collided with a Japanese whaling vessel or deliberately rammed it. Mystic Dreamer foundered. According to the survivors, Alexis ordered the crew into life rafts but stayed at the helm and radio where she continued to broadcast a Mayday. (The Japanese steamed off. I guess they figured the Dreamer‘s crew got whatever they deserved.) The last person to see her alive was the first mate. Mystic Dreamer went down and then it was au revoir, Alexis. The rest of the crew was rescued sixteen hours later by an Australian ship responding to Dreamer‘s Mayday. The end.