On Saturday night, people in the house had found additional reservoirs of energy, and I showed up just as a group of guys were unloading case after case of beer from the back of a van. I helped carry them up and realized that since the first night I'd seen Savannah, I hadn't had so much as a sip of alcohol. Like the weekend before, the grill was going and we ate near the bonfire; afterward we went for a walk on the beach. I'd brought a blanket and a picnic basket filled with late night snacks, and while lying on our backs, we watched a show of falling stars, staring in amazement as the flashes of white raced across the sky. It was one of those perfect evenings with just enough breeze to keep us from being either hot or cold, and we talked and kissed for hours before falling asleep in each other's arms.
When the sun began its rise from the sea on Sunday morning, I sat up beside Savannah. Her face was lit with the glow of dawn, and her hair fanned out over the blanket. She had one arm across her chest and another above her head, and all I could think was that I would like to spend every morning for the rest of my life waking up beside her.
We went to church again, and Tim was his regular chipper self, despite the fact that we'd barely spoken a word to him all week. He asked me again whether I'd like to help on the house. I told him that I'd be leaving the following Friday, and therefore I didn't know how much help I could be.
"I think you're wearing him down," Savannah said, smiling at Tim.
He raised his hands. "At least you can't say I didn't try."
It was perhaps the most idyllic week I'd ever spent. My feelings for Savannah had only grown stronger, but as the days wore on, I began to feel a gnawing anxiety at how soon all of this would be ending. Whenever those feelings arose, I tried to force them away, but by Sunday night, I could barely sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned, and thought of Savannah, and tried to imagine how I could be happy knowing she was across the ocean and surrounded by men, one of whom might come to feel exactly the way I did about her.
When I arrived at the house on Monday evening, I couldn't find Savannah. I had someone check her room, and I poked my head into every bathroom. She wasn't on the deck out back or on the beach with the others.
I went down to the beach and asked around, receiving mainly shrugs of indifference. A couple of people hadn't even realized she was gone, but finally one of the girls--Sandy or Cindy, I wasn't sure--pointed down the beach and said they'd seen her head that way about an hour earlier.
It took a long time to find her. I walked the beach in both directions, finally focusing on the pier near the house. On a hunch, I climbed the stairs, hearing the waves crashing below me. When I caught sight of Savannah, I thought she'd come out to the pier to look for porpoises or watch the surfers. She was sitting with her knees pulled up, leaning against a post, and it was only when I got close that I realized she was crying.
I'd never known quite what to do when I saw a girl cry. In all honesty, I never knew what to do when anyone cried. My father never cried, or if he did, it was never in my presence. And the last time I'd cried had been in the third grade, when I'd fallen from the tree house and sprained my wrist. In my unit, I'd seen a couple of the guys cry, and I'd usually pat them on the back and then wander away, leaving the whys and what can I dos to someone with more experience.
Before I could decide what to do, Savannah saw me. She hurriedly swiped at her red and swollen eyes, and I heard her draw a couple of steadying breaths. Her bag, the one I'd rescued from the ocean, was sandwiched between her legs.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"No," she answered, and my heart clenched.
"Do you want to be alone?"
She considered it. "I don't know," she said at last.
Not knowing what else to do, I stood where I was.
Savannah sighed. "I'll be okay."
I slipped my hands in my pockets as I nodded. "Would you rather be alone?" I asked again.
"Do I really have to tell you?"
I hesitated. "Yeah."
She gave a melancholy laugh. "You can stay," she said. "In fact, it might be nice if you came and sat by me."
I took a seat and then, after a brief period of indecision, slipped my arm around her. For a while, we sat together without saying anything. Savannah inhaled slowly, and her breathing became steadier. She wiped at the tears that continued to slide down her cheeks.
"I bought you something," she said after a while. "I hope you're okay with it."
"I'm sure it's fine," I mumbled.
She sniffled. "Do you know what I was thinking about when I came out here?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I was thinking about us," she said. "The way we met and how we talked that first night, how you flashed your tattoos and gave Randy the evil eye. And your goofy expression when we went surfing the first time, after I rode the wave to shore. . . ."
When she trailed off, I squeezed her waist. "I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere."
She tried to rally with a shaky grin but didn't quite succeed. "I remember everything about those first few days," she said. "And the same goes for the whole week. Spending time with your dad, going out for ice cream, even staring at that dumb boat."
"We won't go back," I promised, but she raised her hands to stop me.
"You're not letting me finish," she said. "And you're missing my point. My point is that I loved each and every moment of it, and I didn't expect that. I didn't come here for that, just like I didn't come here to fall in love with you. Or, in a different way, with your father."
Chastened, I said nothing.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think your dad is fantastic. I think he's done a wonderful job raising you, and I know you don't, and . . ."
When she seemed to run out of words, I shook my head, perplexed. "And that's why you were crying? Because of the way I feel about my dad?"
"No," she said. "Weren't you listening?"
She paused, as if trying to organize her chaotic thoughts. "I didn't want to fall in love with anyone," she said. "I wasn't ready for that. I've been through that once, and afterwards I was a mess. I know it's different, but you'll be leaving in just a few days and all this will be over . . . and I'll be a mess again."
"It doesn't have to be over," I protested.
"But it will be," she said. "I know we can write and talk on the phone now and then, and we could see each other when you come home on leave. But it won't be the same. I won't be able to see your silly expressions. We won't be able to lie on the beach together and stare at the stars. We won't be able to sit across from each other and talk and share secrets. And I won't feel your arm around me, like I do now."
I turned away, feeling a rising sense of frustration and panic. Everything she was saying was true.
"It just hit me today," she went on, "while I was browsing in the bookstore. I went there to get you a book, and when I found it, I started imagining how you'd react when I gave it to you. The thing was, I knew that I'd see you in just a couple of hours, and then I would know, and that made it okay. Because even if you were upset, I knew that we'd get through it because we could work it out face-to-face. That's what I came to realize while sitting out here. That when we're together, anything is possible." She hesitated, then continued. "Pretty soon, that's not going to be possible anymore. I've known since we met that you'd only be here for a couple of weeks, but I didn't think that it was going to be this hard to say good-bye."
"I don't want to say good-bye," I said, gently turning her face to mine.
Beneath us, I could hear the waves crashing against the pilings. A flock of seagulls passed overhead, and I leaned in to kiss her, my lips barely brushing hers. Her breath smelled of cinnamon and mint, and I thought again of coming home.
Hoping to take her mind off such gloomy thoughts, I gave her a brisk squeeze and pointed at the bag. "So what book did you buy me?"
She seemed puzzled at first, then remembered she'd mentioned it earlier. "Oh yeah, I guess it's time for that, huh?"
By th
e way she said it, I suddenly knew she hadn't bought me the latest Hiaasen. I waited, but when I tried to meet her eyes, she turned away.
"If I give it to you," she said, her voice serious, "you have to promise me that you'll read it."
I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "Sure," I said, drawing out the word. "I promise."
Still, she hesitated. Then she reached into her bag and pulled it out. When she handed it to me, I read the title. At first, I didn't know what to think. It was a book--more like a textbook, actually--about autism and Asperger's. I had heard of both conditions and assumed I knew what most people did, which wasn't much.
"It's by one of my professors," she explained. "She's the best teacher I've had in college. Her classes are always filled, and students who aren't registered sometimes drop in to talk to her. She's one of the foremost experts in all forms of developmental disorders, and she's one of the few who focused her research on adults."
"Fascinating," I said, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
"I think you might learn something," she pressed.
"I'm sure," I said. "It looks like there's a lot of information there."
"There's more to it than just that," she said. Her voice was quiet. "I want you to read it because of your father. And the way you two get along."
For the first time, I felt myself stiffen. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm not an expert," she said, "but this book was assigned both semesters that I had her, and I must have studied it every night. Like I said, she's interviewed more than three hundred adults with disorders."
I withdrew my arm. "And?"
I knew she heard the tension in my voice, and she studied me with a trace of apprehension.
"I know I'm only a student, but I spend a lot of my lab hours working with children who have Asperger's . . . I've seen it up close, and I've also had the chance to meet a number of the adults my professor had interviewed." She knelt in front of me, reaching out to touch my arm. "Your father is very similar to a couple of them."
I think I already knew what she was getting at, but for whatever reason, I wanted her to say it directly. "What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded, forcing myself not to pull away.
Her answer was slow in coming. "I think your father might have Asperger's."
"My dad isn't retarded. . . ."
"I didn't say that," she said. "Asperger's is a developmental disorder."
"I don't care what it is," I said, my voice rising. "My dad doesn't have it. He raised me, he works, he pays his bills. He was married once."
"You can have Asperger's and still function. . . ."
As she spoke, I flashed on something she had said earlier. "Wait," I said, trying to remember how she'd phrased it and feeling my mouth go dry. "Earlier, you said you think my dad did a wonderful job in raising me."
"Yeah," she said, "and I mean that. . . ."
My jaw tightened as I figured out what she was really saying, and I stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. "But it's because you think he's like Rain Man. That considering his problem, he did a good job."
"No . . . you don't understand. There's a spectrum of Asperger's, from mild to severe--"
I barely heard her. "And you respect him for the same reason. But it's not as if you really liked him."
"No, wait--"
I pulled away and got to my feet. Suddenly needing space, I walked to the railing opposite her. I thought of her continual requests to visit with him . . . not because she wanted to spend time with him. Because she wanted to study him.
My stomach knotted, and I faced her. "That's why you came over, isn't it."
"What--"
"Not because you liked him, but because you wanted to know if you were right."
"No--"
"Stop lying!" I shouted.
"I'm not lying!"
"You were sitting there with him, pretending to be interested in his coins, but in reality you were evaluating him like some monkey in a cage."
"It wasn't like that!" she said, rising to her feet. "I respect your dad--"
"Because you think he's got problems and overcame them," I snarled, finishing for her. "Yeah, I get it."
"No, you're wrong. I like your dad. . . ."
"Which is why you ran your little experiment, right?" My expression was hard. "See, I must have forgotten that when you like someone, you do things like that. Is that what you're trying to say?"
She shook her head. "No!" For the first time, she seemed to question what she'd done, and her lip began to quiver. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. "You're right. I shouldn't have done that. But I just wanted you to understand him."
"Why?" I said, taking a step toward her. I could feel my muscles tensing. "I understand him fine. I grew up with him, remember? I lived with him."
"I was trying to help," she said, eyes downcast. "I just wanted you to be able to relate to him."
"I didn't ask for your help. I don't want your help. And why is it any of your damn business, anyway?"
She turned away and swiped at a tear. "It's not," she said. Her voice was almost inaudible. "I thought you'd want to know."
"Know what?" I demanded. "That you think something's wrong with him? That I shouldn't expect to have a normal relationship with him? That I have to talk about coins if I want to talk to him at all?"
I didn't hide the anger in my voice, and from the corner of my eyes, I saw a couple of fishermen turn our way. My gaze kept them from coming closer, which was probably a good thing. As we stared at each other, I didn't expect Savannah to answer, and frankly, I didn't want her to. I was still trying to get my mind around the fact that the hours she had spent with my dad were nothing but a charade.
"Maybe," she whispered.
I blinked, unsure that she'd said what I thought she had. "What?"
"You heard me." She gave a small shrug. "Maybe that's the only thing you'll ever talk about with your father. It might be all he can do."
I felt my hands clench into fists. "So you're saying it's all up to me?"
I didn't expect her to answer, but she did.
"I don't know," she said, meeting my eyes. I could still see her tears, but her voice was surprisingly steady. "That's why I bought the book. So you can read it. Like you said, you know him better than I do. And I never said he's unable to function, because obviously he does. But think about it. His unchanging routines, the fact that he doesn't look at people when he talks to them, his nonexistent social life . . ."
I whirled away, wanting to hit something. Anything.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice low.
"Because if it was me, I'd want to know. And I'm not saying it because I wanted to hurt you or insult your father. I told you because I wanted you to understand him."
Her candor made it painfully clear that she believed what she was saying. Even so, I didn't care. I turned and started up the pier. I just wanted to get away. From here, from her.
"Where are you going?" I heard her call out. "John! Wait!"
I ignored her. Instead I picked up the pace, and a minute later I reached the stairs of the pier. I pounded down them, hit the sand, and headed for the house. I had no idea whether Savannah was behind me, and as I neared the group, faces turned toward me. I looked angry, and I knew it. Randy was holding a beer, and he must have seen Savannah approaching because he moved to block my path. A couple of his frat brothers did the same.
"What's going on?" he called out. "What's wrong with Savannah?"
I ignored him and felt him grab my wrist. "Hey, I'm talking to you."
Not a wise move. I could smell beer on his breath and knew that the alcohol had given him courage.
"Let go," I said.
"Is she okay?" he demanded.
"Let go," I said again, "or I'll break your wrist."
"Hey, what's going on?" I heard Tim call out from somewhere behind me.
"What did you do to her?" Randy demanded. "Why's she crying?
Did you hurt her?"
I could feel the adrenaline surge into my bloodstream. "Last chance," I warned.
"There's no reason for this!" Tim shouted, closer this time. "Just relax, you guys! Knock it off!"
I felt someone try to grab me from behind. What happened next was instinctive, over in a matter of seconds. I drove my elbow hard into his solar plexus and heard a sudden groaning exhale; then I grabbed Randy's hand and quickly twisted it to its snapping point. He screamed and dropped to his knees, and in that instant I felt someone else rushing toward me. I swung an elbow blindly and felt it connect; I felt cartilage crunch as I turned, ready for whoever came next.
"What did you do?" I heard Savannah scream. She must have come running once she saw what was going on.
On the sand, Randy was wincing as he clutched his wrist; the guy who'd grabbed me from behind was gasping and on all fours.
"You hurt him!" she whimpered as she rushed past me. "He was just trying to stop the fight!"
I turned. Tim was sprawled on the ground, holding his face, blood gushing through his fingers. The sight seemed to paralyze everyone except Savannah, who dropped to her knees at his side.
Tim moaned, and despite the hammering in my chest, I felt a pit form in my stomach. Why did it have to be him? I wanted to ask if he was okay; I wanted to tell him I hadn't meant for him to get hurt and that it wasn't my fault. I hadn't started it. But it wouldn't matter. Not now. I couldn't pretend as if they should forgive and forget, no matter how much I wished it hadn't happened.
I could barely hear Savannah fretting as I began to back away. I eyed the others warily, making sure they'd let me leave, not wanting to hurt anyone else.
"Oh, geez . . . oh, no. You're really bleeding . . . we've got to get you to a doctor. . . ."
I continued to back away, then turned and climbed the stairs. I moved quickly through the house, then back down to my car. Before I knew it, I was on the street, cursing myself and the entire evening.
Ten
I didn't know where to go, so I drove around aimlessly for a while, the events of the evening replaying in my mind. I was still angry at myself and what I'd done to Tim--not so much the others, I admit--and angry at Savannah for what had happened on the pier.