One minute. My leg jounced and I gnawed my lower lip.
At two minutes, I got off the bench and knelt in the grass at edge of the pond. I kept half an eye on the watch and the rest of my vision trained on the still, murky water.
Three minutes. My heart crashed harder in my chest with every passing second.
At five minutes, I was sure he was dead. My free hand reached to splash the water gently. Then harder. Then frantic.
Evan rose to the surface, sucking in huge droughts of air. He wheezed and gasped, and I felt a little less guilty for freaking out and making him come up. He sounded like he was choking.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
When he’d caught his breath, he jerked his head back to get his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I…” I stood up and retreated back to the bench, feeling stupid. “Nothing.”
Evan glided toward the beach. His feet found the bottom and he strode up the sand toward me. “Jo? You okay?”
“I didn’t like that I couldn’t see you.”
Evan’s thoughts were so visible on his face, I felt like a mind reader. He was touched I cared, and sorry to make me worry. “I’m sorry, Jo.”
“It’s fine in a pool where I can see you. But out here…” I lost my train of thought watching the water droplets bead on his chest. Desire sunk deep in me. I’d forgotten how potent it was—a sweet ache in my lower belly like a warm, heavy stone.
I looked to see Evan’s eyes on me, amused. My cheeks flushed red. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“When am I not?”
I surreptitiously watched Evan get dressed. He looked so hearty and hale. Golden. By contrast I felt scrawny, pale and extremely unsexy in my tank top and loose cargo pants. I wished I’d covered up my arms, which were thin and marked with fading bruises.
Evan took our lunch stuff from the truck. We laid out the red-checkered quilt, and set up the picnic with the sandwiches, chips, ice tea, and fruit we had bought at the grocery store in Davis. I was ravenous and we both ate without talking.
Full and content, I finally closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun, basking in something that felt close to peace. When I opened my eyes again, Evan was looking at me over the remains of his lunch.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
I looked around at this peaceful little oasis in the middle of a flat and endless countryside. “I feel good.”
My gaze landed on the big blue whale with its smiling mouth and hand-drawn cartoon eyes. “I had a whale like that when I was a kid. A stuffed animal, I mean. My mother gave it to me. I loved that thing. I carried it with me everywhere I went. I called it…”
I turned my head into the memory. “Moby,” I said, shocked that it came to me. “Mama gave him to me and said I should call him Moby. Because it was the name of a whale in a famous book I would read someday.”
My breath caught as the memories emerged out of the gray fog and into bright, vivid color. I let out a surprised laugh and looked at Evan in wonder. The memories coming one after another, piling up.
“She was always encouraging me to read, my mother. I remember when she said it was the best way to explore the world when you couldn’t go anywhere. Her light was on so bright that day. You’re never stuck anywhere if you have a good book. Those were her exact words. I remember them. And her voice and her smile…”
I laughed, took a deep breath, and dried my eyes on a napkin. “I can’t believe it came back.”
Evan wordlessly reached over and held my hand, and we sat that way for a long time, basking in the sun, and me basking in the little piece of my mother I could now remember.
Eventually, Evan took another dip. He didn’t hold his breath again, joking his full stomach would anchor him to the bottom. The sun was dipping toward the horizon as we packed up and left.
As we drove away, I watched the blue whale in the rearview mirror. Fingertips touching the reflection as it grew smaller. I wished I had my cell phone so I could’ve taken a picture of it. Instead I held it in my memory, like a poem, written vivid, bright blue words.
We arrived in Tulsa around five o’clock and found a roadside motel with vacancy.
“I only have one room left,” the desk clerk said. “No smoking, king bed.”
I looked at Jo, half-expecting her contented, peaceful expression to darken with suspicion about the sleeping arrangement. The last thing I wanted to do was extinguish the happiness she’d found at the Blue Whale. It had shone so bright in her eyes for the entire drive. Her smile was easy and she laughed a lot. As we walked from the truck to the motel office, I saw she was standing up straight, not hunched-over and hugging her sides.
“You all right with one bed? We can go somewhere else.”
“No, it’s fine.”
I took a shower to wash the swimming hole water off my skin. When I came out of the bathroom, Jo was watching the news.