Left Drowning(5)

“Oh God.” I drop my head into my palm.

“I’m friends with a true champ. This is fantastic.” He folds his arms across his chest and beams.

“Fantastic, indeed. So, so fantastic,” I mutter.

“Listen, new friend Blythe, thank you very much for the coffee, but I have to get back to my dorm and get some sleep.” He helps himself to my phone and begins typing, then pulls out his own phone and coaxes me into telling him my number. “There. Now we have each other’s digits. What dorm are you in? I’m in Leonard Hall, room 402, if you want to stop by.”

“Okay. I’m in Reber. Room 314.”

“Cheer up.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re beautiful when you smile.”

And then the whirlwind that is Sabin exits the building, stage right.

I shake my head. That was … that was …

That was kind of nice. In fact, I am noticeably moved.

And then I am crushed—overwhelmed, really—with sadness. That small interaction is the best thing that has happened to me in ages. And how goddamn awful is that?

Of course, this guy has no idea what a mess I am, and he’d probably never have come over to me if he knew that I am such a despondent dope. I sigh. He will find out sooner or later. Probably when he sobers up.

But the encounter has undeniably energized me, and I decide to take what remains of my first coffee—the second one was polished off by Sabin—and head down to the lake. Today I will be able to say that I did something unexpected. This walk will be my important gesture.





CHAPTER THREE


The Stone Skipper


I pull my sunglasses from my backpack and start what I’m guessing will be a long walk to the lake. My encounter with Sabin, while somewhat disconcerting, has put me in an uncharacteristically good mood and motivated me to finally make this first trip down to the water. It is pretty silly that I’ve never gotten myself to the lake here, especially after my insistence on applying only to colleges near water. True, I haven’t ventured down to the lake in almost four years, but the whole time I’ve known it was here. That mattered. Access to water is, despite my generally precarious mood, a stabilizing force for me.

I zip up my sweatshirt against the morning chill but notice the sun is already gaining strength; it will warm up to the 60s in a few hours, I’m guessing. Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is … well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I realize how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition.

Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it.

What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess. Which makes sense given that stagnant is sort of just a synonym for depressed.

I shake off my lame attempt at self-analysis, put on my earphones, and listen to an NPR news podcast on my phone for the rest of the walk. When I reach the lake, I find a path that takes me through some overgrown brush and lands me by patches of grass and pebbly sand that skirt a small beach area. The lake is stunning, especially at this still-early time of morning. I take off my earphones. It is almost totally quiet except for the occasional lap of water. This spot appears to be on the less popular side of the lake, but I can see a larger beach area and a few docked boats on the opposite shore.

I sit and wiggle my butt into the sandy ground until I have carved out a comfortable sitting spot. The air is fresh and reviving. I can breathe. Why have I never come here before?

Well, I know why.

The love/hate relationship that I have with water. Well, mostly I love it. Yet it’s also a reminder of a past that I’m both clinging to and struggling to outrun. I may not have come to this shoreline yet in my years at Matthews; but I knew it was here, and that mattered. I wanted to be able to come here when I felt ready. Apparently I am ready today, because it feels glorious to be here. The light is extraordinary. Photographs and paintings invariably cheapen morning light, but the real-life version can be stupendous. Like it is right now.

Reality is not necessarily my friend—then again, neither are dreams—but this moment, this reality, is beautiful. I am alone without being lonely, for once, staring across the water and watching the sun begin its climb into the clear blue sky.

When I scan the shoreline, though, I see that I am not alone. There is one person.

He stands about twenty yards from me, just at the edge of the water, wearing only worn jeans and blue sneakers, no shirt. His profile is silhouetted against the growing light, and I watch him as he stares across the lake. His black hair falls nearly to his shoulders in soft waves. He has to be at least six feet tall, beautifully long and lean. He isn’t bulky like a weight lifter, but he looks incredibly strong.

I’m watching him so intensely that I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply.