Learning Not to Drown Read online

  Dedication to come.

  Acknowledgments

  I was only able to come so far in writing Clare’s story on my own. There are so many people to thank for their support and insight.

  I’ll start with my best friend and husband, Mike, who not only provides me with encouragement and support but who is also an excellent brainstorming partner and critique buddy.

  Caitlyn Dlouhy, who believed not only in my book but also in my ability to improve it, and gave me the essential feedback I needed in order to make it better than I thought possible.

  Amazing agent Jennie Dunham, who found the perfect house and the perfect editor.

  Kim Turrisi, Lin Oliver, and everyone over at SCBWI.

  Jean O’Neill and Vanessa Lasdon. Encouragement. Support. Advice. A quiet place to write. Best critique group ever. I can’t thank you enough.

  Keith Hunter. Irreplaceable. I miss you.

  All my friends and family who have shown me support or helped me with details or shared their own stories with me, especially: Otis, Abba and Jojo, Tracy Nathan, Tony Cupstid, Mark Wakefield, Linsey and Dave Farrell, Pam and Chris Zam, Jordan Berliant, Michael Green, Ryan Demarti, Jonathan Schwartz, Karen Ellison, Danny Hayes, the Lauras, Lisa Ling, Miriam, Megan and Blanca, Donna, Muto, Jason, my parents, Bill, Tammy, Zita, and George.

  Mrs. Smith, for teaching me everything I need to know about knitting and a whole lot more about compassion and unconditional love. You are the best honorary grandmother.

  My two favorite creative writing teachers: Mike Buctha, who encouraged all things writing when I was in middle school and high school, and Joann Rocklin, who taught the class that made me come back to doing the thing I love most.

  Sue and Carolyn, who helped me hold hands with my own skeletons.

  Edwin Ushiro, for the swimmer he painted inspired by Clare.

  Also thanks to all the people over at Atheneum who helped turn my manuscript into an actual book.

  And to you. Thank you for reading. You’re awesome, and I’m glad to have been able to share this with you.

  Chapter 1

  Learning Not to Drown

  THEN: Age Eleven

  With a breeze, summer became autumn. Under sunny skies the lake was full of children and silver-pocketed rafts, until the wind picked up, vacating the water and bringing night chill to day. Ripped from the branches, the first few leaves in fall oranges, reds, and yellows reached the ground.

  My wet bathing suit soaked through my shirt and shorts. Goose bumps rippled my arms and legs. Home would be warm, with a welcome change of clothes and hot chocolate.

  I pedaled faster, turned into our driveway. Then stopped short.

  The front door window was broken.

  I could see the clear, jagged edges that held to the frame.

  Slowly I got off my bike. Rolled it to the tree next to the house, my hands turning white from gripping the handlebars. I leaned my bike against the trunk, my eyes still on the window.

  I moved closer, then closer. My shoes crushed the glass on the ground into smaller pieces. Inspecting the shards that clung to the frame, I paused only for a few seconds before I turned the doorknob and walked inside.

  The drops on the linoleum floor were round. In sixth-grade art class I had tried, again and again, to draw a perfect circle. I couldn’t do it without the compass attached to my pencil, stabbing the paper in the center. My freehand circles were always wavy, lopsided. I didn’t think it was possible to make a perfect circle without the compass. But here, right in front of me, were perfectly round, bright red droplets. Mom always said that we had thin blood. That’s how I knew it was one of us.

  I could have gone back outside. Waited at a neighbor’s until I was sure Dad was home from work. He was used to blood. He was used to corpses.

  But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but I followed the droplets.

  They were a much better trail than breadcrumbs. The blood would stain the floor, stain the carpet. It wouldn’t be picked by birds. We’d always be able to follow it.

  The sharp sounds of an argument and a nasty smell— body odor and alcohol, and another that I couldn’t recognize—stopped me for a moment. Maybe I should have left then.

  Curiosity gave me bravery. I turned the corner.

  Family Skeleton

  NOW

  Skeletons don’t like to stay in closets.

  Most families try to lock them tightly away, buried beneath smiles and posed family pictures. But our Family Skeleton follows me closely with his long, graceful stride.

  I guess people in my town think they have a pretty clear picture of Skeleton. Their whispers have haunted me most of the seventeen years of my life, stalking me almost as closely as he does: prison, prison, prison. Shame, shame, shame.

  They don’t see him like I do. His eye sockets expand and shrink. His cartoon jaw morphs from smiles to frowns, from serious to surprise. He’s at least six feet tall, and when his bones stretch, he can dunk a basketball without his big toe coming off the ground. He’s quite talented.

  When he wants to relax, he lounges in a silk smoking jacket with a Cuban Cigar and drinks brandy from a warm snifter. He might have a drinking problem, but I don’t want to be presumptuous.

  I think Mom, Dad, Peter, and Luke see Skeleton clearly. After all, they are my family. Although I can’t be sure, since Mom and Dad rarely talk about him, and Peter leaves the room whenever he appears.

  Skeleton is the constant reminder of the crimes committed by my brother Luke. I’m used to Skeleton’s taunts, his lanky fingers pointing, the click of his bones when he cartwheels across the room. I’m used to him reminding me he will always be a part of my life story. He will always be there to warn that every action has a reaction, every crime has a consequence.

  And the more he hangs around, the more my reputation decays.

  Skeleton didn’t always exist—our family photo album shows me what reality was like before he started to appear. But I was too young then to own that memory now, a pre-Skeleton memory. My reality, my memories are like spinning pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that never make a complete picture.

  And I can’t help but think, maybe, if Skeleton would go away, we could have perfect again.

  Chapter 2

  Perfection Versus Reality

  THEN: Ages Two and Four

  Our family photo album always sat in the living room on the lower shelf of the square dark wood coffee table, available for anyone to look at anytime. When I did, I always turned to the same page—the pictures giving me the memory I didn’t have, the memory of what perfect felt like.

  In the photos I am two years old, and my little-girl curls peek from under the brim of a pink sun hat. Warm sand is under my legs. Mom sits next to me in a navy-blue bathing suit and bug-eyed sunglasses, with a bright yellow shovel and bucket between us. I look out toward the water with a fascinated stare at Dad; Luke, age fourteen; and Peter, age six—all swimming—my hands together in a clap. Under the picture, my mother wrote in swirling handwriting: Clare couldn’t wait to get into the water with her brothers!

  The next picture was an action shot of Dad holding me in the lake, both hands splashing, water drops suspended in air, my eyes shut and mouth open in surprised bliss. Luke is mid-laugh with an arm around Peter as Luke’s hand shields them both from the splash.

  There was a photo of Luke and Peter, kneeling next to a large sand castle—The Masterpiece!—Peter filling the moat with water from the yellow bucket. Squatting next to Luke, my head is down, as I pull his arm with one hand while pointing at the rising water with the other.

  The last was a group shot of Mom and Dad kneeling behind us, me squinting and smiling between my brothers. With the lake as the background, the descendin
g sun on our faces left our shadows long in the sand. Mom wrote: None of us wanted the day to end!

  That family, together and happy, not wanting the day to end is one I know only from those pictures.

  Two years later Luke went away.

  My first real memory was of a nightmare. A nightmare in full color. The air an icy blue.

  There was the house—just like ours, even with our yellow-flower cups. It was so quiet, the refrigerator didn’t even growl. I walked through the halls, feeling the carpet squish between my toes as I called for my parents, for Peter and Luke.

  The sound was pulled into the walls.

  I looked up, up at Mom’s pictures. My bare toe hit something solid and cold. Peter. Frozen. Frozen with his eyelids open, the eyeballs missing.

  Ran through the house. Found Mom, then Dad. All frozen. All missing eyes. When I put my hand to my face, my skin was hard and cold. My fingers found the holes where my eyes had once been. I stopped moving, my feet ice-cubed in the carpet. Where was Luke? I waited for him to come save us.

  He never did.

  Grandma Tovin was staying with us when I had that nightmare. I barely have any other memories of her, since she died when I was five. That night she woke me up and held me. My hands clutched the side of her nightgown and wouldn’t let go. Grandma pulled her favorite rosary out of her pocket—the one with dark red beads—and told me that when she had a bad dream, she liked to pray. So together we said Hail Marys, my fingers rubbing each bead. When we were done, I was still so scared, she let me sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room with her for the rest of the night. But I didn’t want Grandma—or Mom or Dad or Peter. I wanted Luke, and Luke was gone.

  The next morning Grandma told Dad that I must have somehow watched one of his garbage scary movies. And that sweets before bed cause nightmares. When Skeleton heard this, he bent in laugher, holding his ribs so they wouldn’t shake off. Then, done laughing, he pointed proudly at himself. Grandma ignored Skeleton, hung her favorite rosary in my room. She told me that if I had another nightmare and she wasn’t there, I could hold it and pray and it would protect me. But it didn’t work. The nightmares kept coming. And Luke was never there to save me.

  Chapter 3

  Interruption

  NOW

  “When you mince the garlic, make sure it’s really tiny,” my mother says as she hands me a cutting board. I pull a knife from the top drawer. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Chicken and rice with broccoli. After you’re done with the garlic, chop half an onion.”

  “Sounds good.” I study Mom for a second. She’s concentrating on the rice, slowly stirring it in the pan to coat each kernel evenly with olive oil. Her brow is smooth. Shoulders back and relaxed. It’s a good time to ask.

  “I saw Drea’s mom today at school. She told me more about the trip they’re doing this summer—the one where they’re touring colleges.” I start slowly, peeling the dry skin off the garlic clove. “Two weeks, six campuses. All in California and Oregon. They invited me along.”

  “Oh, Clare. I don’t think so.” She answers so quickly, like she didn’t even listen to what I asked.

  Still. An “I don’t think so” isn’t a complete no.

  I try again.

  “But, Mom.” The knife slices effortlessly through the garlic. I stop to reposition my fingers out of the way. “I’ve gotten a ton of brochures from different schools. It’s confusing. I really need to see what’s out there in person.”

  “What about your summer job and saving for college? Don’t you think that is more important?”

  I knew she was going to say that.

  “I called Lucille Jordan and talked to her. She says that if we choose the right time, I can have two weeks off. And if I pick up extra shifts, it won’t really effect how much I earn this summer.”

  Mom looks down at my cutting board. “The garlic needs to be little bit smaller.” Then, “And how much would this trip cost you? Transportation, food, lodging?”

  “Ms. P said they’re still working out all the details, but it won’t cost too much. I don’t have to worry about hotel rooms since we’ll just get an extra cot for me. And she’s driving, so I’d just have to pitch in for gas.”

  Mom wipes her hands on the kitchen towel. “Clare Bear, I just don’t see the point. There are perfectly good colleges within driving distance of here. Your money will go farther if you live at home. Get your AA from the community college, like Peter. Then look at universities for the last two years. It’s smarter, Clare. Don’t waste your hard-earned money on a trip looking at schools we can’t afford.” Her voice lowers at the end, edging on compassion. I frown. It is logical. Financially the smartest thing to do is to stay at home and go to the local CC. I swallow that thought and hold it for a moment, allowing it to swirl inside me. I feel queasy. Almost instantly. Living at home until I’m twenty. I just can’t do it.

  I need to go on this trip. I need to get away. One last try. I take a second to compose my thoughts. Ready. Riiiinnng.

  Interrupted.

  Mom hands me her wooden spoon. “Keep stirring the rice—when it’s golden, add the chicken stock.” She reaches for the phone.

  Maybe I can ask Dad. Maybe he could convince Mom. Yeah, right. It’ll be canned lecture 101 about how there’s a perfectly good school forty-five minutes away.

  “Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” Mom says.

  It’s Luke. It has to be. Who else calls collect?

  The rice has turned from white to yellow, some of the grains already golden brown. Careful not to spill, I stir the chicken stock in as my mother’s voice, suddenly bright, cries out “Luke? Hi!”

  I tap her on the shoulder and quietly say, “I want to say hello.” She nods. Then points my attention to the stove. Individual bubbles slowly start to rise up though the rice. Boiling now. I stir it one last time and turn the heat down, covering the pan.

  “A few days early? That’s wonderful! So I’ll be there to pick you up on the twenty-seventh.” Back to slicing, I put my attention toward the onion, smiling. It sounds like we’ll be seeing Luke sooner than expected.

  “What do you mean?” Despite Mom’s even tone, the vein in her forehead has surfaced. I catch her eyes for a second. She turns to face the wall, as if that will keep me from hearing the rest of her conversation. Pretending not to listen, I cut into the onion, letting the eye-burning odor release.

  “Luke, I think it’s best if you come straight home. Who is this friend you’re planning to stay with?”

  I slice quickly, then stand back to give my eyes a break.

  “What kind of work?”

  There’s nothing left to prepare for dinner. Wanting to stay nearby, I wash the cutting board and knife, fidgeting with drying it longer than I need to, taking in as much as I can from our kitchen side of the conversation.

  “Yes, the job sounds like a good opportunity. But, Luke, don’t you think it would be best to be with your family, not this so-called friend, who you don’t know anything about?” I want more information. I want to hear Luke’s voice and find out from him all the details. Cautiously I tap Mom on the shoulder. She waves me away.

  I take two steps toward the living room and stop to listen as she says, “Fine. When will we see you?” She sighs. Pauses. “Stay out of trouble, and get home as soon as you can. I love you.” Another pause. “Good-bye.”

  Before I even think to stop her, she hangs up the phone.

  “Clare. Get back into this kitchen.” Her tone is sharp. “I did not say you were done helping me with dinner. Do you think these dishes are going to do themselves?”

  I clench my jaw and return. Lower the dishwasher door and pull out the plates. The vein in her forehead is pulsating now. Any chance I had to convince her to let me go on the trip with Drea is now gone.

  Mom pulls out a pan, then slams the cabinet door. She should be happy. Getting out early and a job lined up? Isn’t that a good thing? Even if Luke can’t come home right away?
r />   She’s angry enough that I probably should keep my mouth shut, but she got to talk to Luke and I didn’t.

  “How’s Luke?” I ask.

  “Fine.” She drops the pan onto the stovetop. The clank echoes, filling the room.

  “He’s getting out early? That’s good, right?”

  “Yes.” She turns the burner on high; the flames shoot up, engulfing the steel in wisps of blue.

  “When will he be home?” I dare to ask, stacking the plates as I put them away.

  “Eventually.”

  I’m tired of her one-word answers. “What kind of job did he get? Did he say when he was going to call back? I wanted to talk to him.” I pout.

  “You can’t have everything you want,” she practically yells at me. Olive oil and garlic and onions hit the pan, hissing from the heat. I clamp my mouth shut and start to load the bowls and cups piled in the sink, my own anger brewing. Mom could at least answer a few questions for me. “Speaking of which,” she continues. “You will not be going with Drea and her mother this summer. No ifs, ands, or buts. And don’t even think of asking your father. The subject is closed. Finish the dishes and get out of my kitchen.”

  My mother continues to bang cabinet doors and slam drawers shut as she cooks. One call from Luke could have put her in a better mood, could have helped me convince her to let me go on this trip. I feel my anger shifting from Mom to Luke. He set her off and ruined my chances.

  On the way out of the kitchen, I make eye contact with Skeleton. He raises his hand in a salutation. Just a little wave to let me know he’s here. He’s been watching. I ignore him and hurry to my room.

  The ruckus in the kitchen slowly quiets to, at last, silence. I know the chicken is in the oven, the rice is simmering, the broccoli steaming. And I also know that Mom is now in the living room, standing in front of her Christmas ornament collection. Handcrafted by her father out of glass, silver, and crystal over open flame, then etched or tapped with fine details. Papa used the skills he had practiced for more than ten years to create the perfect five ornaments as a gift for Granny when my mother was born. And when Luke was born, Granny passed the gift along to Mom. They hang on a graceful display shaped like a Christmas tree on the second shelf down from the top of the oak bookcase—just above eye level—to admire year round. The perfect height for Mom to be able to unhook each ornament with ease and meticulously shine it before gently rehanging each treasure. She looks insane when she does it—the ritual of laying out five different cloths and glass cleaners and vinegar, the tin of silver polish, the white gloves, the way the corners of her mouth tip up just slightly as her brow tilts down in concentration. Peter used to lick his fingers and leave a single print on each ornament. Then the two of us would bet each other M&M’s on how long it would take her to make them perfect again. I know she is staring at all five ornaments now, noting the dust spots and smudges. She is checking her watch, maybe looking over her shoulder at the kitchen. The risk of ruining dinner will pull her away. But if Peter and I were to make a bet right now, I’d put ten M&M’s down that the ornaments will be gleaming by tomorrow morning.