CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Twenty, Twenty-One
At nine thirty this morning I left Hopkinton, Massachusetts, and I am now entering the town of Wellesley, somewhere around mile eighteen, I think. I am running the Boston Marathon. Sort of. It’s not the real marathon day because I don’t want that pressure. Next month, I will stand in Newton and watch the real one as it takes place, and I’ll hand out water and orange slices to exhausted runners at the finish line. While I admire those who have the ability to run on race day, it’s not for me. I don’t like the competition and the crowds. I just want to run the route and I want to finish. I don’t care how long it takes.
The weather is on my side today. This last Wednesday in March is cool and dry. Weather around Boston is very unpredictable, and some marathon days have been dreadfully hot and humid, leaving even well-prepared runners in bad shape. I’d fall apart in shitty weather, so I’m lucky. I’ve been carb-loading for a few days and I’m hydrated. My sneakers are a reliable pair that I broke in over the past month.
What’s working against me? If I continue this pace, I’ll come in at over five and a half hours. That’s a damn ridiculously long time to run, and my stamina is nearly depleted as it is. Yet I can’t imagine that I can pick up my pace. Eighteen miles is longer than I’ve ever run, and I’m hurting like I never have before. Fighting to do something that I’m not meant to do is scary. The fear of failure is scary. The average women’s time is closer to four and a half hours, but because I want this so much, I don’t give a shit if it takes me nine hours; I just want to finish.
Not only am I a slow runner, but running on an unofficial day means that I have to deal with sidewalks and cars and traffic lights.
However, I do have some help with that.
I take a quick glance at Zach, who is driving a few yards ahead of me with the hazards on. I love him for how he’s unabashedly blocked intersections and ticked off drivers by trying to keep a clear path for me as often as possible. At this point I’d welcome the excuse to stop at a traffic light, and I groan inwardly every time I hit a green.
My legs are jelly, and I have never been this exhausted in my life. I just can’t do it. Accepting defeat is my only option now. I stop running and bend over, shaking my head as I turn off my music. F*ck this. Zach beeps the horn repeatedly, and I shake my head. He backs up and yells out the passenger window to me.
“No way, Blythe. You can do this.”
“I can’t,” I manage. Jonah barks loudly out the window.
“Look ahead. Look up there.” He points up the hill. “Look what she did for you!”
Even in my state, I have to laugh. Estelle is just in my sight. She has traded in her usual high-fashion look for sleek neon-pink spandex and matching sneakers.
I restart a slow, painful jog on Commonwealth Avenue to reach her, steeling myself not to think about how far I still have to go, all the way through Wellesley and up Heartbreak Hill in Newton before I can reach the finish line in downtown Boston. She and the others were supposed to meet me at the finish line, but my sagging spirits are lifted.
“What’s up, bitch?” she asks as I come to a stop.
“I’m done,” I pant.
“No, you’re not. I came out here for spring break. I could have been in f*cking Barbados or something, you know, but I’m not. Worse, I got all dressed up like an a*shole for you, so now put your music back on and just run like I know you can.”
“I just can’t.”
Estelle glares at me and puts my music back on. She grabs my arm and pulls me ahead. I have never seen Estelle do anything resembling exercise, so to see her run is nothing short of amusing. And it gives me the kick I need to keep going.
She’s been in therapy since the end of last summer. They all have. And while she and James are not officially together, they are “on hold” the way Chris and I once were. I think they are going to make it, and I’ve been impressed with my brother’s compassion and patience.
Estelle jogs with me for a bit and then blows me a kiss and darts away to join Zach. He beeps the horn again, and Estelle points from the window.
I smile again. Now Eric is waiting for me. He’s got earphones in, too, and he pumps his arms up and down as I approach. He gives me a nod and then joins me. We run silently. It’s always been so easy to be with Eric, and today is no different. Our hours of silent studying together have instilled in us an ability to enjoy a comfortable silence. He’s had a hard year, and it was only a month ago that he and Zach got back together.
I stumble over a crack in the pavement, and Eric puts his hand on my back. I am soaked in sweat, and I wipe my forehead with my hand. As much as this run is killing me, I cannot stop. Whatever pain I am feeling is so much less than what my friends have been through, and I have illogically convinced myself that if I can finish this marathon, I will be completing some piece of all of our stories. That doing this will secure our healing. It’s dumb. But now that I am seeing my friends, I am even more dedicated to finishing.
I brace myself because I have just reached Newton, the most challenging part of this route. It’s got four hills, the last of which is my reason for running this race. Heartbreak Hill: the ninety-foot incline that’s set between mile twenty and twenty-one. And it’s a Goddamn bitch. It’s where more people quit the race than any other spot. It comes at the worst possible time in the run, when runners who are much stronger than I am give up.
Eric knows where we are. He keeps his hand lightly on my back and together we run the first hill. When he drops back to join Zach and Estelle, I’m not sure how I am going to go on. I drop my head and consider whether or not this is worth it.
And then someone grabs my hand and runs with me. James. He gave up his spring break to be here with me, too. I’m sure the lure of seeing Estelle was appealing, of course, but my brother loves me. He’ll be back with me again in Maine this summer. I don’t think that either of us misses our parents’ house in Massachusetts that much. It never felt like home without them. The house on Frenchman Bay? That is the family home.
“Thank you for everything, Blythe.” He looks straight ahead as he runs. “I’ve never told you how courageous you were that night of the fire, but you did everything. You saved my life, and I’m sorry that I was so ungrateful. You’ve done more for me since that night than I deserved. I know that. I love you a lot. I really do.”
“I love you, too,” I pant. “And I still miss them.”
“We always will. But you’ve made it easier for us. We’ll be okay.”
The second hill hurts like all hell, but together my brother and I run through our loss. We run through the fire and our parents’ death, though his lies, through my coming undone, and through the relationship that we nearly lost. We run through the rebuilding and the survival. James holds my hand tightly, and he wipes his eyes once as we finish this leg.
The third hill. I am at my weakest now. It’s my turn to wipe my eyes as James passes me off to Sabin. Sabin will always have a special piece of my heart in a way that nobody else ever could. He’s not exactly like a brother, but he’s not just a friend. I stop my music and start to say something.
“Don’t talk, and don’t start crying yet! I’m so proud of you, B. I know you’re tired. You’re almost there. A little bit more. We can do this.”
I nod and let my hand disappear in his.
He has trimmed down a good deal of his waistline this year, and he looks wonderful. And sober. Six months of inpatient rehab and therapy have been intense for him, and I think he’s had the hardest time of everyone because he had forgotten the most. Or blocked it out. He was allowed to leave rehab for short periods after the first three months, so I have seen him a few times since last summer, including at Christmas when he was at my house in Maine. He chopped wood by hand and lugged it into the house, setting it in neat piles by the fireplace. In the evenings he did the dishes and then played his guitar for me. Sabin even spent hours on my computer helping me sort through old family pictures and putting them into an album that we had printed up. I got pretty bored after a few hours, but Sabin thought the pictures of me as a little kid were a riot, and he pestered me for days to wear my hair in pigtails. He was somewhat withdrawn over the fall and winter, quieter than he usually is, but during the past few months he’s started to sound more like himself again. Just without the booze. He never stopped being loving, caring, and sweet anytime that I talked to him during this year of recovery, but I’m happy to see that the goofy and loud parts of him are returning.
“Dude, running sucks,” he says as we reach the peak of the hill. “You are one tough girl.”
I am barely running now, just shuffling really, when we near the base of Heartbreak Hill. “You ready?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s too hard. I don’t want to do this.”
He drags me forward. “Don’t stop moving. It’s the worst thing you can do. I read that. This is hard, but it’s not too hard.”
“I can’t. Why did I try this?” I pant.
A voice other than Sabin’s answers. “Because you believe in this.”
I love this voice. It cuts through everything that is hurting and reaches right to my heart.
“Chris, I hurt. Everything hurts.” He is next to me, and he grabs my free hand so that I have two of my most adored people on either side of me, holding me up as I run.
“I know, baby. Sabin is right, though. You can do this.”
“You’ll stay?” I ask. “To the end?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t do this without you.”
“And I can’t do this without you. We’re going to run Heartbreak Hill together.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know. But you have to keep moving. Come on.”
Now I turn to look at Chris. As always, he takes my breath away when I see him. We’ve lived together in Bar Harbor for seven months, but every day I am staggered by the sight of him, and every day I fall more in love.
He hands me a bottle of water and smiles. “Thought I’d return the favor.”
I drink a third of the bottle. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
Sabin takes the bottle so that we don’t have to carry it and then kisses me on the cheek. “He’s got you. You guys can do this. Go! Go! We’ll meet you at the finish line.” He walks to Chris’s truck which Zach has been driving and hops into the bed. “Go, sweet girl! Run! Both of you!”
Sabin, Estelle, Eric, James, and Zach cheer as Chris and I start to run the hardest hill. The truck lets out a long, loud honk and they speed along Commonwealth Avenue and head for downtown Boston. I hand Chris the other earbud and we run to the same song that we listened to like this so long ago in his dorm room at Matthews when he first told me to run through the pain.
Heartbreak Hill is indeed a f*cking bitch. The steep incline is cruel and unforgiving at this stage of the run. People say that it’s all downhill after this, but it’ll still be a hell of a run. Going downhill takes control.
“Slow and steady, sweet girl,” Chris says. He keeps my slow pace. He is as strong as ever, but he doesn’t make me feel weak. He makes me feel capable despite how I falter in my run.
Chris and I live a quiet life in Bar Harbor. I mean, except for the loud sex. Of which we have plenty. I’m still freelance writing for the magazine, but I’m working on a novel also. This was Chris’s idea. I have no idea if it’ll go anywhere, but I’m enjoying giving it a try. Chris has immersed himself in Acadia National Park, and he’s become quite a good guide, leading us on challenging hikes and day trips. He got a job in the park’s administrative office and has surprised himself by getting involved in all the boring details, like the park’s budget. We’ve met some people who live in the area, and occasionally we have another couple over for dinner or go out with friends for an evening. Chris’s coworker owns a sailboat and has offered to take us out when the weather warms up a bit.
The winter months there would be considered impossible by some people, but Chris and I don’t mind. His truck can drive over nearly any snowfall, and we have a lot of supplies shipped to us. I’m quite happy not to leave the house for days at a time. Jonah keeps me company while I curl up with a blanket and my laptop and write by the fireplace. Our life is blissfully low-key. Except for when James and all the Shepherd siblings come to stay. Then it’s the best kind of chaos possible. Christmas was absolutely insane. Annie came out, too, and I think we all want her to adopt us. Except for Sabin, who still flirted with her like only he can. They will all be back out this summer, and James and Sabin have more plans for restoring the house, including sanding the wood floors and redoing the deck. Annie is staying with us for just a week, though. She has a boyfriend now, and they’re going to rent a place near us for the summer. She wants to be available for us—or, I’m guessing keep an eye on us—without having to live with seven recent college grads. I can’t blame her.
For months Chris resisted seeing a counselor. When his father died in the late fall, however, I insisted. He wasn’t sad about his father dying, but he was less relieved than I think he expected. There are pieces of his past that I cannot help him work through. He does talk to me, but it’s going to be a long time before he chooses to share everything. Or maybe he won’t share everything, and that’s okay, too, but he knows that I am always available. I’ve gone with him a few times to talk to the counselor. Hearing his stories is hard for me, and I have been battling my own rage and sadness over his childhood. I had amazing parents who died too soon, and he had an abusive, sick father who died too late.
When we are at the midway point of the hill, he wipes tears from my cheeks as we run. This moment is both incredibly painful and equally freeing. He knows how to read my body, and he knows when I’m about to break.
“I am overwhelmingly in love with you,” Chris says as he matches my steps. “I’ve spent most of my life thinking that my father never gave me anything but pain. But that’s not true. He did give me something. Someone. You. He gave me you. Last summer, you asked me to believe in us. I don’t believe in much, as you know, but I do damn well believe in us. Forever.”
Reaching the peak of Heartbreak Hill is easy now.
“We’ll make it to that finish line, won’t we, Blythe?”
“Always.”
We run through the remnants of our pain, and more importantly, we run for our present and for our future.
Together we kick heartbreak’s ass.
Acknowledgments
While writing may often be a solitary process, the times when it isn’t require a certain strength from those who dare to get involved with a moody, stubborn, exhausted, overcaffeinated author. I owe thanks to so many people.
My asssociate publisher at Amazon Skyscape (US), Tim Ditlow, believed in Left Drowning before knowing what exactly this book would become. An act of faith if ever there was one.
The indescribably talented Kate Chynoweth did the most spectacular editing job any author could dare to hope for, and she brought out the best in me and in this story.
Lots of love to my most tolerant agent, Deborah Schneider, for telling me that I “wowed” her. (I suspect I may have wowed her with chaos, but she’s too nice to say so.)
Another round of thanks to Lori Gondelman for proofreading and all-around handholding during the birth of yet another book. Jenny Aspinall, Marlana Grela, and Chrystle Woods all read chapters at various stages and were immeasurably helpful and supportive. Huge thanks to my cheering squad!
Thank you to Karen Lawson for connecting me with the very kind Dr. Barnett, who explained medical facts in shockingly understandable language.
Julia Clark, assistant Chief of the Orland Fire Department, and Michael Ferreira, First lieutenant of the Upper Greenwood Lake Fire Company, both volunteers in Maine, graciously donated their time to walk me through more detail than I knew I would need, but that I demanded anyway. Both of them are amazing, tough, and unspeakably brave. Stay safe, you two.
Andrea DiMella endured emergency phone calls to answer my repeated questions about running. She is an angel. And disgustingly athletic and non-lazy.
Carmen Comeaux jumped in at the last minute and did a remarkable job tackling my comma issues. Not only are her grammar skills solid, but she left delightful comments in my manuscript that made me giggle. Who knew that Track Changes could be funny?
Damonza created an incredibly beautiful and striking cover (I am once again so grateful to have him as one of my self-publishing resources), and Benjamin Carrancho did a gorgeous job formatting Left Drowning for the ebook and for print.
Mad love and respect to my father, Carter Umbarger, a most brilliant psychotherapist and even more brilliant father. Thank you for helping these characters stay real. I love you, Daddy. And equal adoration to my mother, Susan Conant, who gets both the blame and the credit for getting me into this business. I am very lucky to have such wonderful parents. Not everyone does.
My readers and bloggers gave me the ability to continue writing. I don’t know how to thank them for all the reviews, the enthusiasm, and the humbling love. I lean on them more than they will ever know. Endless gratitude to each of them for sticking with me.
And, oh, my fellow authors. There is no way I could have survived the Left Drowning process without them. Endless love, thanks, and admiration to Michele Scott, for her daily (sometimes hourly) assistance as a friend and talented writer and to Tracey Garvis-Graves for her unfailing and powerful championing during my darkest hours. To Andrew Kaufman, because he never failed to holler, “See? Now they’re listening to Jessica!” when I needed it the most. To Abbi Glines and Tammara Webber, for being rocks of sanity in a chaotic world. To Colleen Hoover, because sometimes you really do just need some damn flowers. And to Jamie McGuire, for also being a rebel with a cause.
To my twenty: I love all of you, and I would have undoubtedly collapsed without your strength. Fight the good fight, girls. Our power together is immeasurable.