Read Online Dead in the Water by Nancy Holder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Holder
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Burens—and she pushed them down and swung her legs over the bed. Her knees brushed the wall and her bare feet touched the linoleum floor. It was damp. The ship was sinking!
She planted her left foot, pressed down. Not soggy, just damp. The night air was humid; ocean air was full of ocean. With a click of her teeth she dismissed her panicky thought. Foolish old woman. Falling asleep watching a movie. And now imagining the ship was in trouble—
The dream. Something like that in her dream. Herself falling into the water, having to jump in, and there was something there. She squinted, concentrating. Something in the water.
No, it had been
someone
in the water. Waiting for her.
Well, dreams like that were natural. People on planes dreamed about crashing. And people on boats …
No, not just people on boats. People whose husbands were missing at sea, they had dreams like that.
She rubbed her arms and pushed herself off the bed and stood practically cheek by jowl to the wall. Such a tiny cabin. Not at all like the brochure, and not even that much cheaper than flying. Well, that was all right; she wasn’t a very big woman, and she was on the sea where Stephen had sailed; traveling over the very same droplets of water, maybe even the exact location where he had—
Her throat closed up. He had not gone down. He had
not
.
She edged along the side of the bed and felt with her hand for the sliding partition to the bathroom. Her heart was finally slowing down. As she groped for the handle, she thought about the afternoon, and the way she had prickled inside, as if she’d been electrified. That awful claustrophobic pressure. She’d had a foolish thought, one she’d barely acknowledged: Perhaps Stephen had tried to contact her. To warn her that the ship wasn’t safe, that she should jum … that she should leave it. That she should have left it. And now, the dream.
“Oh, come now, come now,” she muttered in a tight voice through a film of tears. She was being silly. Stephen had not communicated with her. Her belief in the possibility of another world had grown only slightly stronger in the eleven months since his disappearance, though it was strong enough to pursue avenues that once she and he would have scoffed at.
For the belief, the
certainty
, that he was still alive, would not leave her alone. On
Oprah
she’d likened it to knowing your spouse is in the next room, although you can’t see or hear him. You just know he’s home.
You just know it.
The flimsy partition slid open beneath her hand. To her left, the sink gleamed in the lamplight; beyond it, the toilet. Oh, gleaming throne of Psyche, she thought wryly. With a flourish, she lifted up nightgown and sat down. The floor was damp in there, too.
Around her, the ship creaked and groaned. That vessels were so noisy had been a surprise. The engines rattled andmen stomped constantly down the halls and outside on the deck, thumping in their work boots, the masses of keys fastened to their jeans with huge turnbuckles jangling like Marley’s ghost. Up and down, back and forth, and everything squeaked and squealed and shuddered. It was a miracle she’d fallen asleep with all the racket going on. The van Burens had been but one grace note in the symphony.
She sat forward on her elbows and waited, realizing she didn’t have to go after all. With an embarrassed humph, she rose and walked the few feet back into her cabin.
The sheets on the twin bed heaped into a long cocoon like a body. She saw the head, the shoulder, the hip, the foot, and the resemblance was unnerving. She studied it for a moment, trying to recall the last time Stephen had slept with her. Blue pajamas. The ones with the navy piping. His eyes were bluer than Paul Newman’s, she always liked to say.
Weak yellow light cast shadows on the white sheets and the dingy walls, and the thin brown curtain that covered the porthole above her bed.
The ship creaked. The form on the bed became nothing to
She planted her left foot, pressed down. Not soggy, just damp. The night air was humid; ocean air was full of ocean. With a click of her teeth she dismissed her panicky thought. Foolish old woman. Falling asleep watching a movie. And now imagining the ship was in trouble—
The dream. Something like that in her dream. Herself falling into the water, having to jump in, and there was something there. She squinted, concentrating. Something in the water.
No, it had been
someone
in the water. Waiting for her.
Well, dreams like that were natural. People on planes dreamed about crashing. And people on boats …
No, not just people on boats. People whose husbands were missing at sea, they had dreams like that.
She rubbed her arms and pushed herself off the bed and stood practically cheek by jowl to the wall. Such a tiny cabin. Not at all like the brochure, and not even that much cheaper than flying. Well, that was all right; she wasn’t a very big woman, and she was on the sea where Stephen had sailed; traveling over the very same droplets of water, maybe even the exact location where he had—
Her throat closed up. He had not gone down. He had
not
.
She edged along the side of the bed and felt with her hand for the sliding partition to the bathroom. Her heart was finally slowing down. As she groped for the handle, she thought about the afternoon, and the way she had prickled inside, as if she’d been electrified. That awful claustrophobic pressure. She’d had a foolish thought, one she’d barely acknowledged: Perhaps Stephen had tried to contact her. To warn her that the ship wasn’t safe, that she should jum … that she should leave it. That she should have left it. And now, the dream.
“Oh, come now, come now,” she muttered in a tight voice through a film of tears. She was being silly. Stephen had not communicated with her. Her belief in the possibility of another world had grown only slightly stronger in the eleven months since his disappearance, though it was strong enough to pursue avenues that once she and he would have scoffed at.
For the belief, the
certainty
, that he was still alive, would not leave her alone. On
Oprah
she’d likened it to knowing your spouse is in the next room, although you can’t see or hear him. You just know he’s home.
You just know it.
The flimsy partition slid open beneath her hand. To her left, the sink gleamed in the lamplight; beyond it, the toilet. Oh, gleaming throne of Psyche, she thought wryly. With a flourish, she lifted up nightgown and sat down. The floor was damp in there, too.
Around her, the ship creaked and groaned. That vessels were so noisy had been a surprise. The engines rattled andmen stomped constantly down the halls and outside on the deck, thumping in their work boots, the masses of keys fastened to their jeans with huge turnbuckles jangling like Marley’s ghost. Up and down, back and forth, and everything squeaked and squealed and shuddered. It was a miracle she’d fallen asleep with all the racket going on. The van Burens had been but one grace note in the symphony.
She sat forward on her elbows and waited, realizing she didn’t have to go after all. With an embarrassed humph, she rose and walked the few feet back into her cabin.
The sheets on the twin bed heaped into a long cocoon like a body. She saw the head, the shoulder, the hip, the foot, and the resemblance was unnerving. She studied it for a moment, trying to recall the last time Stephen had slept with her. Blue pajamas. The ones with the navy piping. His eyes were bluer than Paul Newman’s, she always liked to say.
Weak yellow light cast shadows on the white sheets and the dingy walls, and the thin brown curtain that covered the porthole above her bed.
The ship creaked. The form on the bed became nothing to
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