You told him four, right? Rand groused from the truck—one more thing for her to manage. He blurred then snapped into focus, frowning and hoisting a backpack.
She knocked again then turned the handle and let herself in. Mildew and acrid cleanser. She mounted the three stairs from the vestibule into the living room. A hushed movement mounded under a plaid throw on the couch and she slowly backed out. On the drive again, wind spattered grit and her lungs burned. But Rand had dumped their overnight bags on the ground and was rummaging behind the truck’s cab and she felt she should hurry and help, except she felt like balloons let go.
Call it, she told herself reasonably enough, but once started on that track she found she couldn’t stop. Call it, she thought, and forget living to tell the tale. Forget living. Without the diving, even if it meant near-dying, how would she know she was alive? And not back in the past with her dead. Dead herself.
Marilyn? Rand said loudly, sounding agitated. You want all this food shit inside too?
Don’t say it, she told herself. Do not say, How weird is this? Guess we better head on home. Don’t say, Sorry Rand. Putting you through all this trouble. What was I thinking? You’re right, guess I wasn’t.
She closed her eyes for a second and imagined his sneer. His, I’ll bet you’re sorry.
She strode forth and yanked the grocery bags from him. A slight twinge from her wrist but otherwise it seemed fine. Yes, Rand, she said firmly. I want it all.
He refused to budge as she edged past him and plunked the bags on the front passenger seat of the truck. She rummaged behind the truck’s cab for the beer stash. Hey, Rand said. You helping or not?
Leo, she said. That asshole. He’s upstairs getting off. Can you believe? Let’s crack a couple right here and wait a few. Pretend everything’s normal. We know how to do that, right?
No problems here—within the hour Rand and Leo were on the patio with the rusty outdoor grill fired up and she was in the kitchen opening a bag of fancy salad and scouring the cupboards and drawers for evidence of utensils and plates. In the fridge she located gelatinous bottled dressing. She sipped another brew and finally counted out three paper-and-plastic place settings—Leo’s probable paramour having apparently evaporated through the rear door. But mostly she considered tomorrow’s forecast. Possible thunderstorms. Ripping winds. She could hear the wind now, netting the occasional flash of the guy’s laughs. If Leo could get them out on his boat to the dive site tomorrow she’d have to really have her shit tight. No screw-ups on the roistering deck, in the mashing confusion mistakenly placing one piece of gear where another should go. No puking over the gunwales. No getting dehydrated-weak—asking for another hit, her already-damaged tissues unable to conduct nitrogen as effectively as healthy ones. How many more chances could she take? She’d been deep on air before, lots of times, had the self-mastery thing down, but never in such harsh conditions. Never managed herself so much, so deep. Now was her chance. She could check it off her list. She had her plan. Let no one—not Rand who she had over a barrel, not Bowman, not even herself—get in her way. She held her bottle up to the kitchen light. Half empty. She gurgled the rest down the sink and, straightening her back, winched herself tall.
The gusts kept up all through dinner which she only picked at and soon their florid rushes accompanied the movie she and Rand and Leo watched, one they’d all seen before. Leo periodically checked the marine forecast. When she and Rand retired early to the guest lair, she fell asleep immediately, an errant airstream hooking her ankles and hauling her upside down and far away, hair trailing below, the wind jubilant, black, if black were a sound.
She woke to find her husband practically on top of her. Mare, you awake?