“I know.” She sighs and puts the pan away. Throws the towel on the counter. “Come on. Let’s go do something fun.”
1:12 p.m.
She focuses her mind.
It’s cold in the water, but the afternoon sun is warm on her face, her hair.
Janie bobs in place, knees bent, arms straight but not locked, trying to balance. The life vest knocks about her ears. Her well-toned arms are like sticks shooting from the vest’s enormous sockets. Janie’s glasses are safely stowed inside the boat, so everything is blurry. It’s like looking through a wall of rain.
She takes a deep breath. “Hit it!” she yells, and then she is yanked forward, knees knocking, arms shaking. She grips the rope handle, knuckles white, palms and muscles already sore from two previous days’ efforts. Lean back, she remembers, and does it. Let the boat pull you up.
She straightens, sort of.
Wobbles and catches herself.
Her bum sticks out, she knows. But she can’t help it. Doesn’t care, anyway. All she can do is grin blindly as spray slaps and stings her face.
She’s up. “Woo hoo!” she yells.
Megan is a gentle driver at the wheel of the little pea-green speedboat. She watches Janie in the rearview mirror like the good mothers watch their children, her brow furrowed in concern but nodding her head. Smiling.
Cabel faces Janie, in the spotter position at the back of the boat, grinning like he does. His teeth gleam white next to his tan skin, and his brown hair, streaked with gold from the sunshine, flips wildly in the wind. His nubbly burn scars on his belly and chest shine silvery brown.
But they are both just blobs to Janie from seventy-five feet away. Cabe yells something that sounds enthusiastic but it’s lost in the noise of the motor and the splash.
Janie’s legs and arms shiver as they air-dry and then get slapped with spray again. Her skin buzzes.
Megan keeps them close to the willow-treed shore. As they approach the town’s beach and campground, Megan eases the boat into a wide semicircle, turning them around. Janie tenses into the turn, but it’s only a mild bump over the wake. Once they straighten out again, Janie moistens her lips, and then, determined, she gives Megan the thumbs-up.
Faster.
Megan complies, and speeds toward the dock near the little red-brown shellacked cabin, one of six dotting the shore at the Rustic Logs Resort, and then she continues past it. Exploring new territory.
I am such a badass, Janie thinks. She squints and makes a daring and ultimately successful attempt to cross the wake again as the two in the boat cheer her on.
By the time Janie senses it, it’s already too late.
A woman lies sunning herself on a water trampoline, skin gleaming from tanning oil and sweat.
Janie can’t make out the scene, but she’s all too familiar with the warning signs. Her stomach twists.
Janie flies past the woman and becomes engulfed in darkness. There’s a three-second-flash of a dream before it’s all over and she’s out of range again. But it’s enough to throw Janie off-kilter.
Her knees buckle, skis tangle underneath her, and she flips forward wildly, water forcing its way into her throat and nostrils. Into her brain, it seems, by the way it burns. A ski slams into her head and she’s forced back under the water. She’s not slowing down.
If you fall, let go of the rope.
Der.
Janie surfaces, coughing and sputtering, her head on fire. Amazed that the oversize life vest is still attached, though she’s all twisted up in it. Feels queasy after swallowing half the lake. She wipes the water from her stinging eyes and peers through the blur, disoriented, wishing for her glasses. Ears plugged. When weeds suddenly tickle her dangling feet, she eeps and her body does a little freak-out spasm of oogy-ness, after which she tries not to think about being surrounded by big yellow-orange carp . . . and their excrement.
Blurg. Not fond of this, hello.
Boats whine in the distance.
None of them sounds like it is coming to rescue her.
Finally she hears a muffled chugging. When the motor cuts, Janie calls out. “Cabe?”
It’s still the only name that feels safe on her tongue.
1:29 p.m.
In the boat, Cabel wraps a towel around her. Hands Janie her glasses. “You sure you’re okay?”
His eyes crinkle and he’s trying not to grin.
“Fine,” Janie growls, peeved, teeth chattering. Megan checks out the bump on Janie’s head, and then hauls in the tow rope.
Cabel coughs lightly and then presses his lips together. “That was quite, uh, quite the display, Hannagan.”
“Are you actually laughing at me? Seriously?” Janie rubs her hair with a towel. “I almost died out there. Plus my brain is now infested with plankton and carp shit. You’d better watch it, or I’ll blow a snot rocket at you.”
“I’m . . . eww. That’s disgusting.” Cabe laughs. “But seriously, you really should have seen yourself. Right, Megan? I wish we had a video camera.”
“Dude, I am so Switzerland,” Megan says. Rope stowed, she revs up the engine and swings the boat around, back to the dock.
For the second time today, Janie’s not laughing.
Cabel continues over the noise. “I mean, the flip was one thing, but the drag, that was something entirely out of control. Your legs were flying. Remember rule number one of water skiing?”
“I know. Sheesh. When you fall, let go of the rope, I know. There’s just a lot of shit to remember when you’re out there.”
Cabel snorts. “A lot . . . yeah, a whole lot of shit to remember.” He laughs long and hard, wipes his eyes and tries to get control of himself. “Shouldn’t ‘let go of the rope if it’s drowning you’ be sort of an automatic response, though? Basic survival technique?”
She glares at him.
He stops laughing and gives her a helpless, innocent look. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Go suck a mean one,” Janie says. She turns away and squints through her glasses, locating the sleeping woman on the trampoline, now a tiny island in the distance. You still don’t catch it all, do you, Cabe?
He probably never will.
“Get over yourself, Hannagan,” she mutters. “You’re on vacation, damn it. You’re relaxing and having fun.” It sounds wooden.
“What’s that, sweets?” He slides over to her on the bench seat.