I rifle through my suitcase and pull out my swimsuit, cap, and goggles. When I first started seeing Jay as his patient, he asked me what I did for exercise. At the time, I was working at the bookstore and basically going home at night, where I would watch TV, eat a microwaved frozen meal, and go to bed depressed and exhausted. But Jay, a great believer in the mind-body connection, encouraged me to exercise. In high school, I’d been on the swim team, so I rediscovered an old love. Since Jay and I’d been married, I’d gradually given up my trips to the Y, secure and happy with my husband, my mind on other things.

The hotel pool is empty and the lights low, the blue-green water deep and enticing. The sharp chemical smell is welcoming. I slip into the shallow end, stand still a moment, and touch the scar on my arm. After I’d been rescued and taken to the hospital, I recall the doctor probing the cuts, which were infected and suppurating. I remember the pain and my tears as he cleaned and bandaged Keith’s initials. My mother took care of the wound the next couple of weeks until it healed. She’d yank off the old bandage and clean it with cotton balls soaked in stinging alcohol. Then she’d apply ointment from a special tube and put on a new bandage. She never said anything while this process occurred, except “Be a big girl, Melinda. It’s not that bad.” As though it was a scraped knee, an ordinary childhood mishap. I clear my throat. Seeing Keith today helped put that behind me as well. The scar is a battle wound. And I’ve finally won the war.

I pull my goggles down over my eyes, feel the familiar suction as they cling to my face, and kick off from the wall. The water is perfectly cool, like silk, and I glide slowly, doing an easy crawl. It’s quiet underwater, like being in another world. My muscles warm as my arms reach and my legs propel me across the pool. My mind clears as I turn and start back, lap after lap, one flowing into the next until time slips by and I’m ready for sleep.

CHAPTER 54 - Rita

CHAPTER 54

Rita

“OKAY, ALISON, START WALKING,” JOE SAYS.

He and I stand in the cold morning air in the Mountclair Tavern’s parking lot. Agent Metz takes a couple of steps, her phone in her hand counting the minutes. She turns and walks backward.

“Shouldn’t I drink a couple of beers first for accuracy’s sake?”

Joe smiles, and she turns back around and keeps walking along the side of the road.

“Maybe later,” Joe yells after her. “Work first.”