How to Save a Life(9)

Books and that water park they’d built last summer.

We’d visited as a family when it first opened and I’d hated it. The noise, the crowds, the churning water. I swam in the smallish pool with fifty other people and thought I was drowning. But alone, at night, when the water was still and quiet…then it was perfect. I don’t know what drew me there the first time, but once I started sneaking over at night, I couldn’t stop.

Through the window, I watched the night deepen. I waited.

By nine in the evening, the house was quiet. Norma and Harris were early risers. They never checked on me. I slipped downstairs and out the back door. Past the detached garage, down the gravely drive and out into the street.

I half-jogged to Funtown Water Park through a night thick and stifling with heat. I hit the perimeter and scaled the fence easily, having done so nearly every night for the last four months.

The park was empty. The three slides—short, medium, and tall—were shut off. The stand of water guns, sprinklers, and spraying arches was quiet. All the bored teenagers who worked there had cleared out. As winter came on, it would be closed permanently, and maybe locked up tight. That thought used to curl my guts, until I reminded myself I’d be long gone by winter.

I headed to the northeast corner, to the rectangular pool reserved for adults to dip in and where private lessons were sometimes given. It was only fifty feet long, and nine feet deep at its deepest, but that was enough for me. I kicked off my boots, stripped off my socks and jeans. Wearing just my boxers and t-shirt, I jumped in.

Cool water slipped over my skin. I felt calmer, at peace. I swam to the deep end, weightless. I held perfectly still and emptied my mind, while huffing a few deep breaths, sucking air deeper and deeper. When I couldn’t hold any more, I slipped under.

The underwater lights cast faint glows in the dimness, turning the water a greenish hue.

I pushed the breath in my lungs down deep, where my body took what it needed, molecules at a time. I held very still, waving my arms only enough to keep me under.

Under the surface, I closed my eyes. I don’t know what prompted it, but an old memory—my oldest memory—played out like on a newsreel or home movie.



The man was huge, tall like the tallest tree. The boy was small—maybe three years old, staring up at the man, unblinking.

The man put his hands on his knees and bent low, a confused smile on his face. “Where’d you come from, little man?”

The boy’s words burst out on a current of barely restrained sobs. “Are you a fireman? Mama said to find a fireman. If you ever need help, that’s who you ask.”

“I am a fireman. Just not in uniform yet.” The man’s eyes took in the boy’s dirty overalls, his mussed hair, and the note pinned to his shirt. He hoped this wasn’t what he thought it was. “Where is your mama now?”

The boy’s face crumpled into tears he tried to hold back. “I don’t know. I think she said goodbye.”

The man straightened and looked around, praying this wasn’t happening, that the kid’s mom would coming running up, calling for him, thanking God he was all right, she’d been worried sick…

The man unpinned the note from the boy’s shirt.

Take care of him, please. Please.

His heart sank. He called over his shoulder. “Harry? Better call Gloria at CPS. We got a safe haven situation here.”

Another, bigger man came out of the garage, his face twisted in alarm. “No joke?”

“No joke,” said the first man. He handed the note to Harry, and then knelt in front of the kid. He wanted to hug him and tell him it was going to be all right, but that was a lie. He laid his heavy, thick hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You ever seen a real firehouse, kid?”

“No,” the boy said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Well, come on. I’ll show you. Grand tour. Get you warmed up too and maybe something to eat?”

The boy nodded and took his hand, squeezing hard.

The man held on tight, waited until he could speak again. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Evan.”



My chest constricted and my mouth opened, ready to suck in a lungful of water. I pushed to the surface, gasping. By the time I was done wiping the water off my face, the memory retreated. The deep, hollow pain remained.

I drew in more air, my lungs greedy. That was a good sign, at least. That had to be longer than three minutes. Had to be.

I had no way of timing myself. My cell phone was old and I was paranoid of bringing it near the edge of the pool. If it got ruined, I’d have to buy another, and I needed every dime I had to get the hell out of Planerville.

I sucked in air, treaded water, and let the memory of the firehouse fade out. I couldn’t look back, only forward.

Only a few more weeks and I’d escape this town and everyone who knew me. I’d go somewhere and live by a lake or an ocean or a river, alone, and never feel like this again. No one would know me. I’d start over. No freakshow reputation, no stints at the local mental institutions, no accusing or suspicious or hateful eyes. I’d start over. I’d be new, somewhere else.

I’d be free.





I dropped off my poems with Ms. Politano in the morning and then came to her room just before lunch to hear the verdict. She looked up at me as I entered and smiled in a way that freaked me out. I could handle—and expected—teachers to focus on the content of the poems, not so much my actual talent, or if I had any in the first place. Teachers are required by law to report child abuse when it’s suspected. I always had to explain it was five years ago and the key players were all dead and gone.