We’ve been at sea for only a little while, but with the land fading away at our windblown backs, I’m filled for the first time with a very strange feeling about this trip.
I think it’s called hope, and it’s definitely a very positive vibe.
Jake’s sense of humor has really taken the edge off the kids—well, at least off Mark and Ernie. Carrie continues to look beyond miserable, and I’m worried about her.
Jake’s so good with them, though. Why can’t I be better? I do love them more than anything.
Give it time, Katherine. Be patient.
I do notice something a little different about him, however. Jake, that is. Usually he’s Mr. Laid-Back, and for the most part he’s that way now. But there’s something else thrown into the mix, although I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it has to do with this being Stuart’s boat.
Whatever the reason, he does seem more focused. Or is it a different word I want? Responsible, perhaps?
Of course, he does have the responsibility of being our captain, something he made clear the moment we left the marina. He gave the kids some time to settle in, unpack their gear, and get their sea legs. “Then we’ll go over the rules,” he told them.
Rules?
I didn’t think Jake Dunne knew the meaning of the word.
This is the guy who’s never much followed anything except the wind. He’s never actually owned a car or a home, never voted in his life, and as far as I know never paid a dime of income tax. He owns only two things in this world: a duffel bag full of clothes and a vintage 1968 Harley-Davidson. He bought the motorcycle the day he decided not to return for his sophomore year at Dartmouth. Instead he took a job crewing on some millionaire’s sailboat.
An “extended semester at sea,” he called it.
His father called it something else. The biggest fucking mistake you’ll ever make, Jake, mark my words. This is the beginning of the end for you.
But Jake didn’t care. His parents already had Stuart, the golden boy, the firstborn, the one walking the straight and narrow down at Wharton. As roads went, Jake much preferred, in the words of another Dartmouth dropout, Robert Frost, the “one less traveled.”
I allow myself a secret and forbidden thought: No wonder I’ve always been attracted to him.
“Hey, Katherine?” he calls out.
It’s possible that he’s psychic. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.
I walk back to Jake, who’s at the wheel of the boat, his absolute favorite place on earth to stand. He told me that once, and only once, since Jake doesn’t repeat himself.
“Can you gather up the kids?” he asks. “I want to go over those rules I mentioned. I know they don’t want to hear them, but too bad.”
“Sure thing.” And then I mutter, “Rules. This should be interesting.”
I duck belowdecks, where I immediately see Carrie and Ernie in the galley. Ernie’s snacking on double-center Oreos—no surprise—and Carrie’s looking at him as if he’s a big fat pig. Also no surprise.
While Carrie’s still too thin, at least she’s not in the bathroom throwing up lunch—purging, as it’s called. I’ve noticed that her teeth aren’t stained and her hair is regaining its fullness—good signs. Both the school psychologist and her nutrition counselor at Yale said she’s making progress, so I shouldn’t nudge her about her eating.
I won’t go there.
But would it kill her to cheer up a bit? Snap out of it, kid! You’re stuck on this beautiful boat with all of us, so get used to it! And I’m here for you, Carrie. I am.
“Uncle Jake wants to have that talk now,” I announce. “Where’s Mark?”
Carrie and Ernie both point toward the sleeping quarters. I head in that direction while the two of them climb up on deck, as if they’re about to be drawn and quartered by good old Uncle Jake.
“Mark?” I call out.
He doesn’t answer, which is his usual response. So I check each cabin and he’s nowhere to be found.
“Mark?” I call again.
And finally he answers. “Busy here. I’m in the head,” he says. “One minute.”
I’m about to tell him to come up and join us when he’s done. Then I hear it, that incriminating sound. Ssssssst.
And I completely go apeshit.
Chapter 8
I BANG ON THE DOOR so hard I think I’m going to break the lock. “Open up this instant!” I yell. “Mark, open the door now! I’m not kidding, buster.”
I hear the porthole window snapping shut and that telltale sound again. Ssssssst. Now all I can smell is the air freshener. It reeks of potpourri.
Or should I say pot-be-gone.
Mark finally opens the door and tries to look innocent as a newborn, which is pretty hard to do with glazed-over eyes. I lay into him so hard and fast he doesn’t know what hit him. He’s just lucky it’s not my fist. That’s how pissed off I am at my oldest and most immature son.
And when he tries to deny he was smoking, I yell even louder. I’ve taken way too much of his crap lately.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I hear over my shoulder. “What’s going on?” asks Jake, who has Ernie in tow.
I fold my arms and take a deep breath, trying mightily to reel in my anger. It’s a losing battle, though. “Why don’t you ask the little stoner here,” I say. “We’re barely under way and he gets high!”
This finally brings a little half-smile from him. “Gee, I’m sorry, Mom. Should I have waited a whole day?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, Mark. It doesn’t become you. You’re in enough trouble already,” warns Jake.
“What, like you never smoked pot when you were younger?”
There it is, the quintessential teenage gotcha question. As Mark lobs it into Jake’s court, he looks like the smuggest sixteen-year-old living on the planet.
But Jake doesn’t buy any of it.
“Yeah, I smoked weed, buddy, and you know what it did? It helped turn me into a huge asshole and idiot for a while, kind of like the one you’re being right now.”
Game. Set. Match.
Mark has no comeback, no return. He’s not used to Jake’s being angry at him and he’s speechless. The only sound is a stifled giggle from Ernie.
“Rule number one of the boat,” says Jake. “No getting stoned.” He sticks out his palm, practically in Mark’s face. “Now hand it over. All of it.”
With a defeated sigh Mark reaches into his pocket and surrenders a tin of Altoids. Needless to say, it’s no longer housing curiously strong mints.
“Here,” Mark snarls. “Don’t smoke it all in one place.”
Jake cracks the slightest of smiles as he stuffs the tin into his back pocket. Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking how lucky I am that he agreed to come with us.
Then something dawns on me. “Who’s steering the boat?” I ask.
“I gave the wheel to Carrie,” says Jake. “She’s fine. It’s like driving a car in an empty parking lot.”
No sooner do the words leave his lips than the boat suddenly swerves hard right, tossing us like a salad!
I go down, and my head hits the floor—smack! I nearly black out. My brain flickers on, off, on.
“Carrie!” yells Jake, scrambling to his feet. “What are you doing up there?”
She doesn’t answer.
The boat rolls violently again, upending Jake for the second time. He falls hard on Mark, knocking the wind out of him.
“Carrie!” yells Jake again.
No answer.
The boat finally steadies and we quickly rise to our feet. What the hell’s going on? Jake leads the mad dash up to the deck.
Frantically, we look around. Carrie’s not at the wheel.
Carrie’s not anywhere.
Chapter 9
NEXT JAKE POINTS out to sea and screams at the top of his lungs, “Man overboard!”
My heart plummets as I turn and track his finger off the starboard side, where I see Carrie’s blond head bob, then slip beneath the water.
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For a split second of panic I lock eyes with Jake before his instincts take over. “Grab the wheel and come about!” he tells me.
Then he grabs a life preserver and dives headlong off the boat.
I watch him surface and begin to swim until Ernie reminds me, “The wheel, Mom!”
Finally my instincts kick in, those gained from two summers of sailing Sunfish boats at the YWCA camp in Larchmont, New York, as a teenager, combined with whatever I gleaned from being Stuart’s first mate on this boat when he was alive and we sailed together every other weekend. It isn’t much practical experience, but it’s enough to tack the sixty-two-foot Family Dunne. I yell at Mark and Ernie to watch for the swinging boom as I furiously spin the wheel. I can’t see Carrie anywhere. I keep checking on Jake’s progress, his powerful arms ripping through the water in pursuit of my daughter.
Oh, God, please don’t let her drown!
She must be hurt—it has to be that, I’m thinking. She was a superb swimmer at her prep school, Choate, first team, all this and that, trophy after trophy. She could tread water for hours if she had to. Now she can’t even stay afloat.
“Hurry, Jake!” I yell, not that he can hear me out there.
Mark and Ernie edge over to the side of the boat. All they can do is watch helplessly, same as me. None of us are particularly strong swimmers, and suddenly I’m incredibly guilty about that, and everything else.
Jake reaches the spot where Carrie went under, although it’s hard to know for sure with the shifting waves. I see him take a deep breath and disappear, leaving the life preserver behind. Why did he do that?
But then I figure it out—it’s for me to have a target.
I steer for it as the boat does a full one-eighty, cutting back through the wind. There’s still no sign of Jake or Carrie, though, and all I can do is think about that feeling of hope I had just a short time ago. It’s slipping away, so fast I can’t stand it!
I strip off my sweater, yanking it up over my head. “I’m going in after them!” I tell the boys.
“No!” says Mark. “You’ll only make it worse!”
What’s worse than losing Carrie?
I know Mark’s probably right, but I don’t care. I step up on the edge of the boat, about to dive, when Ernie shouts, “Look! Mom, look!”
It’s Jake!
And, in his arms, Carrie!
They’re both gasping for air as he grabs the life preserver and pulls it in close.
“All right!” exclaims Ernie, raising his hand for a high five from Mark. But Mark leaves him hanging. He’s too busy watching something else.
That’s when I see it too. I was so relieved I almost didn’t.
Something’s not right. In fact, something is very, very wrong.
Chapter 10
JAKE JUST COULDN’T BELIEVE the pain shooting all through his body. His heart was pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. His arms, his legs, his lungs—everything ached.
From the boat, Carrie had looked so close—a good dive and a couple dozen strong strokes to reach her, that’s it. But in the water she felt much farther away. A million miles!
No matter.
He got there somehow. He had her now! This wouldn’t be a repeat of his brother—no, Carrie wouldn’t be another Dunne claimed by the sea. She was alive.
Only now she was maybe too much alive.
As Jake struggled to hold her nose and mouth above water, Carrie kicked and screamed wildly in his arms. What was wrong with her?
“Carrie, I’ve got you. Just relax,” urged Jake, trying to sound calm against her panic.
That’s what this is, isn’t it? he thought. Carrie was still panicked from almost drowning. She was scared to death—literally. That’s why she was fighting him.
He tried again, louder. “Carrie, it’s me. It’s Uncle Jake! Stop fighting me.”
He was sure she’d snap out of it any second. She’d realize she was safe and calm down.
But she didn’t. If anything, she was getting worse, twisting and thrashing around like a tornado in his arms. A ninety-eight-pound killer tornado! Where was she getting so much strength?
Meanwhile, Jake had none to spare. His muscles were spent, his thighs and calves beginning to seize up and cramp. For the first time in his forty-four years he actually felt his age.
Forget the calm voice. Jake yelled at her. “CARRIE! STOP IT NOW!”
Her name and a couple of other words were all he could get out of his mouth before it was filled by a swell of salt water burning the back of his throat.
He managed to hold on to her with one arm; with the other he clung to the life preserver. Carrie was splashing so wildly now he could barely see her or anything else. Certainly not the boat. Do I scream for help? he wondered, thinking it might be his only choice.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when he felt Carrie slip out of his grasp. She immediately sank beneath the surface without so much as a struggle. What the hell’s going on?
Jake sucked in a quick lungful of air and went after her headfirst. Damn it! The water was too murky to see through. The best he could do was feel around for her. She was going to drown, wasn’t she—just like Stuart.
Ten seconds . . . twenty seconds . . . thirty seconds . . .
He felt nothing!
Except his lungs about to explode.
Then, a few more feet down, as his head began to ache from the pressure, he felt something, the soft, slippery feel of flesh. Carrie’s arm!
Jake pulled on it fast and hard, as if he were starting a lawn mower and had only one try. Hang on, girl. Up they went, breaking through the surface without a moment to spare. They both gasped. Air had never felt so precious to him.
Jake even found the life preserver again. For a second time he’d saved Carrie. And for the second time it seemed as if—
No, he thought. This can’t be happening.
But as he continued to struggle with her, what else could he think? She was no longer just kicking and screaming, she was violently pushing him away!
Carrie knew exactly what she was doing. She had known all along.
Jake was certain of it now.
His niece didn’t want to be saved. Carrie was trying to drown herself.
Chapter 11
MARK THROWS UP HIS HANDS in disgust. He can’t believe this, and neither can I. “What the hell’s Carrie trying to do, drown him?”
“Shut up!” I say. “Please, Mark. Not now.”
That’s only because I know it’s a good question, one that’s too painful to answer. It certainly does look that way, though. Worse, Carrie seems to have the upper hand. Jake outweighs her by eighty or ninety pounds, easy, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The way she’s fighting him, he can barely stay afloat, let alone hold on to her.
“Carrie, it’s going to be all right!” I yell. “Let Uncle Jake help you! Carrie!”
That’s when the awful truth comes blaring out of her mouth. “Let me be!” she screams back. “I don’t want anybody’s help! Let me go!”
Let me go?
My knees suddenly go weak. Oh, dear God. Carrie didn’t fall overboard, she jumped. She tried to kill herself!
And she’s still trying.
Again I’m about to dive in the water to help if I possibly can. I can’t stand here and watch this—I have to do something! But again I stop at the last second.
The sound of Jake screaming in pain freezes me. There’s blood streaked on his forehead. Carrie must have scratched him with her fingernails.
As the blood trickles down his face, Jake’s expression immediately changes. That does it! No more Mr. Nice Uncle! He’s had enough of this.
With a thunderous grunt he swings his arm around Carrie’s neck, taking her in a tight chokehold I’ve seen cops use in the emergency room at the hospital.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see someone do that to one of my children.
Carrie’s still kicking, but with her arms restrained against
her chest, Jake can now drag her over to the side of the swimming platform at the stern. Mark, Ernie, and I reach out and grab her by her wrists and ankles. We pull her onto the platform, landing her like a fish.
“Stop it!” she wails. “Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!”
My heart is breaking into a million little pieces.
We walk her up to the deck, where she flops around, throwing a tantrum. Finally she curls up in the fetal position, crying pitifully. It’s contagious, and I start crying too. I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to say to her. What can I do for Carrie?
“A little help here, guys,” comes Jake’s out-of-breath voice from behind us. We turn to see him treading water— waiting—next to the platform. He’s a lot harder to pull up than Carrie, but we finally get him onboard too.
“Thank you, Jake,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
For a few very strange moments all we can do is exchange confused looks, saying nothing. Eventually Jake speaks up. “Boat rule number two,” he says between heavy breaths. “No trying to kill yourself.”
The line doesn’t lighten anyone’s mood, but as I catch Jake’s eye I realize that that wasn’t his intention. He’s serious, and so is what just happened.
First things first, though.
Carrie’s freezing, shivering from head to toe.
“Mark, go grab some towels,” I say.
He nods, taking off belowdecks. Within seconds, however, he’s standing at the top step to the main cabin, a panicked look etched across his face. He doesn’t have the towels.
“We’re in deep shit,” he says. “I’m not kidding either.”
Chapter 12
WHAT NOW? That’s the exhausted look I give Jake, and he gives it right back to me. I have no idea what Mark has discovered, but I know from his tone, the quiver in his voice, that it’s definitely something.
And it’s definitely very bad.
“Ernie, stay right here with your sister,” I say, falling in line behind the still dripping Jake, who looks as if he’s answering the bell for about the fiftieth round in a prizefight. The two of us head belowdecks so Mark can fill us in on the latest crisis.