Page 46 of Truth Be Told
I haven’t actually garnered the strength to make a move, but the mourners seem to read my mine. They all turn their heads to look at me, emotionless expressions upon their faces.
I take a step back, the only sound the whipping of the wind until my heel meets with a gravestone. I trip over it and reach out for anything to take hold of, but end up landing on my back.
At the same time that the thud reverberates through my body with shockwaves of pain, I’m suddenly back at the shore. I look around and then bring myself to my feet, clapping off my hands. The funeralgoers are gone, but I’m not alone. In front of me are the back of several strangers, staring out into the water and talking among themselves in panicked voices.
My feet are bare. I wiggle my toes, and sand embeds between them.
“Did you see that?” one says to another, pointing into the water, which contains nothing more than a blank horizon and waves. “That guy just tried to help her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. It was him. I saw it with my own eyes.”
They turn around. Maybe I’m invisible. Maybe they’ll see right through me. I become aware of a strange sensation covering my body. My clothes suddenly feel sticky, and although the wind is the same here as it was in the cemetery, it now chills me to the bone.
“He’s all wet. Yeah, it was him alright.”
I hold my arms out to the side of my body and gaze down at myself. Sure enough, my entire body is soaked with seawater. Dripping, even, and the sand at my feet starts to darken as it grows wetter.
“Yeah,” he points, “he tried to save her, but he’s the one who fucking did it.”
“No,” I shake my head. “It wasn’t me.”
“Yes, it was.” One of them comes closer, holding out his finger. “Don’t lie.”
He’s right, and I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t me. That was instinct.
“It’s icy,” I try to say, but the words come out weak and pathetic. I clear my throat and say louder, trying to defend myself, “The roads are slick.” As if that somehow justifies it.
“She didn’t do this to herself, you prick.” He’s full of rage. Who does he think he is? If he cares so fucking much, why didn’thedive into the damn ocean and try to save her?
My fingers form a fist at my side, that previously unheard-of fury flowing through my veins. But it’s not only embarrassment and the regret of failure that’s fueling the fury. It’s pain, too. It’s the fact that I want to rush back into the water, but these people are stopping me, while attacking me at the same time.
My muscles relax as the sound of the waves lapping at the sand draw me back to where I need to be. I’m no longer worried about the men in front of me. I don’t give a shit what they think of me, or what they saw, think they saw, or what they’re going to say about me to anyone else. They can accuse me of whatever they want. All I need to do is get back into that water.
I walk forward and try to break through them, but their bodies form a kind of wall.
“Stop, man. You can’t help her now. You’ll kill yourself, too. Stop and wait for the cops.”
What are they talking about? Don’t they know I can swim? “Let me go,” is all I can manage. I throw my weight into them, but it’s no use. The three of them together are stronger than me, and they succeed in holding me back.
When I tell all this to Stella, she listens closely, not once interrupting, even though at times it looked like she wanted to break in to give me a hug or something.
“Jesus,” she says quietly when I finish, shaking her head. “Cohen, this isn’t okay. You need to tell someone.”
“Tell someone what?”
“Well…” she stands and starts to pace the room. She slows, approaching the next question with tenderness. “They accused you of something that you didn’t do. Right?”
“Stella, it was a dream.”
“Oh,” she says. “So they didn’t they really say all that?”
I shake my head. “No. That was the dream, and my subconscious mingled in there, fucking with me.” I stand too. “That’s the thing about my nightmares. Well, about everyone’s nightmares, I guess. They’re based off something real, but they’re twisted. Distorted.” I turn to her. “Don’t you ever get dreams like that?”
She nods quickly. “Of course I do.” She comes over to me and swoops her arm around my waist, dropping her cheek against me. “So what’s the real story?”
I glance down at her. She makes me want to open up, but something inside me won’t allow it. “Stella,” I say, “that story’s even longer.”
