CHAPTER 14 – THE IMMERSION #2
I’m behind the counter, wearing that same green apron.
My name tag says “Tara” in puffy, blue bubble letters.
There’s a line at the register and I’m laughing, actually laughing, because a guy in a beanie just tried to tip me with a scratch-off ticket and a half-eaten muffin.
The pink-haired girl is there, too, but she looks different—younger, maybe, and her face is rounder.
She bumps my hip, calls me “hustler,” and I giggle. I’m happy. I’m normal.
The memory is so sharp it makes my eyes water.
I press my forehead to the cold glass and will myself not to cry, not here.
But then something even weirder happens. The pink-haired girl inside looks up and spots me.
She freezes.
For a second, I think I’m invisible. But then she drops the rag and walks straight to the window. She’s looking right at me. Like she’s seen a ghost.
Her lips move: “Tara?”
I flinch back, panic lurching through me.
She bolts for the door, green apron flapping, pushing past a pair of trendy moms with matching strollers. She bursts onto the sidewalk, hair wild in the wind, and yells it out, loud enough for the whole city to hear: “Tara? Oh my god, Tara! Why did you quit without saying anything?”
I’m rooted for half a heartbeat. Then, I turn and run.
I run like my life depends on it. Down the block, past the bakery, around a construction site, ducking low to avoid being seen. I hear her chasing, sneakers slapping the wet concrete, but I lose her after two turns. My lungs are on fire. My heart is a wild animal, clawing to get out of my chest.
I stop in the shelter of a bus stop, hands on my knees, and gasp for air.
The city is a blur. My mind is worse.
Fragments smash through me: Me, screaming into a phone. A car swerving. My hands on the wheel. The phone flying from my grip, the screen shattering in slow-motion. Then darkness, cold and endless, an oblivion so deep I can’t feel my own body.
I gag, double over, and dry-heave into the gutter. Nothing comes out but desperate gasps.
When I stand, I see my reflection in the bus shelter’s glass. I look like a scarecrow, hair plastered to my face, eyes swollen from crying. I don’t look like Tara. I don’t look like Daisy. I look like both, and neither.
I press my palm to the glass, and in that instant, I know what I have to do.
The lake.
I don’t know why, but the answer is so clear it makes me shiver. The water is calling me, has been calling me for days. Maybe if I go there, I’ll find the missing pieces. Maybe I’ll even find myself.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, check the bus schedule taped to the inside of the shelter, and see there’s one headed for Lake Harriet in ten minutes. Fate, or just dumb luck, but I don’t care.
I dig in my pocket for coins, find enough for the ride, and sit on the metal bench, hugging my knees to my chest.
The city keeps spinning. Cars whoosh by, people hurry past, and somewhere back at The Daisy Cafe, the pink-haired girl is probably telling her coworkers about the ghost she just saw.
I wish I could tell her I’m sorry. I wish I could tell her anything.
But I can’t.
Not until I know who I really am.
The bus pulls up, brakes hissing, doors folding open like a pair of wings.
I get on, nod at the driver, and take a window seat at the back. The bus lurches forward, and the city peels away behind me.
I rest my forehead on the cold glass and watch the world slide by.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll come back for answers.
But tonight, I’m going to the water.
And I’m not coming out until I find every piece of myself, no matter how ugly or broken they are.
The bus empties out at a field of half-melted snow and gravel, and I’m the only passenger left by the time the doors hiss shut.
The sky is cloudy but the sun’s trying its best to burn through, making the mist rising off Lake Harriet glow with a kind of weird, holy light.
It’s so quiet here, I can hear my own breath scraping in and out, and the crunch of my boots on the frozen ground.
I walk down to the shore, shivering in a thin coat and jeans, and take it all in.
The lake is huge and flat, the water black except where the light hits it, making the surface look like a sheet of aluminum foil.
The air smells like wet leaves and rotting wood and something sharp, almost metallic.
I can see the dock ahead, the same one from my memory, stretching out like a bony finger.
But that’s not what stops me cold.
It’s the figure at the end of the dock.
Hunter.
He’s there, bundled up in a wool coat, hands jammed in his pockets. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, but I can tell he’s been waiting a long time. His hair’s a mess, dark and wild in the wind, and his whole body looks tense, like he’s barely keeping himself together.
I should run. I should scream, or maybe just turn around and disappear. But I don’t.
Instead, I walk out onto the dock, each plank creaking under my weight.
He hears me and turns, and the relief on his face is almost as brutal as the guilt.
“I knew you’d come here,” he says, voice hoarse. “I hoped, anyway.”
I stop a few feet away, arms wrapped tight around my middle.
“What do you want?” My voice is flat, empty.
Hunter studies me for a long time. “I wanted to see you,” he says. “To make sure you’re okay.”
I laugh, brittle. “You think I’m okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I think you’re hurting.” His eyes flick to the water, then back to me. “I’ve been reading about dissociative fugue. Sometimes water immersion can trigger memories. I don’t know. I thought maybe—”
“You thought I’d try to drown myself?” I snap.
“No!” He says it quick, then softens. “No. But I thought maybe you’d try to find answers here.”
The silence stretches. A breeze comes off the lake, colder than before, and I shudder.
Hunter looks at the water again, then back at me. “This was your favorite place when you were younger,” he says. “You’d spend hours out here. Even in the winter. You said it gave you peace.”
“Yeah?” I say, not trusting the memory.
He nods. “You’d swim out farther than anyone else. Even when the lifeguards told you not to.” He smiles, a little, but it doesn’t stick. “You said the water itself gave you courage.”
Something cracks inside me. I look at the lake, and I want to fling myself into it, not to drown, but to feel that courage, even for a second.
I step closer to the edge, and the dock wobbles. The mist is thicker here, swirling around my ankles.
Hunter takes a step, but stops himself. “I know you’re angry,” he says. “You should be because I lied about your true identity. I let you live as Daisy because I wanted you. I wanted to enjoy your curves without the condemnation of our family. Of the wider world. But I know now that I was selfish.”
I close my eyes and the memories come, sharper and faster now.
— Summers at the lake, shrieking with laughter, with an assortment of friends.
— The first time I saw Hunter shirtless, the way my stomach flipped, the flush of guilt and thrill. He was visiting home for some reason, so much older and already a man.
— Barbecues in the backyard, Hunter in charge of the grill, always burning the burgers. I’d sneak a raw onion onto his plate every time, and he’d pretend not to notice but always ate it anyway.
— The fight with Dad, the shattering sound of a glass hitting the tile, a woman screaming, and Hunter wrapping his arms around me so I wouldn’t shake apart.
My throat is tight, but I force the words out. “You’re not the only one who lied,” I say. “I lied, too. I let myself be Daisy. I wanted to be yours. I didn’t care about anything else. Not even finding out what my last name was.”
Hunter’s face breaks, the mask slipping. “Tara, you—”
I shake my head. “No. Don’t talk.”
Hunter kneels in front of me, close but not touching. “I’m so sorry, Daisy,” he rasps. “I should have told you the truth.”
I look up at him, eyes burning. “What if I don’t want to remember?” I ask. “What if it’s easier to just keep being Daisy?”
He searches my face, the question tearing at him. “Then I’ll love Daisy,” he says. “Or Tara. Or both. Whatever you want.”
A weird laugh escapes me, a bark of disbelief. “That makes no sense,” I whisper.
He smiles, broken but real. “Yeah. I know. But I’m willing to do it.”
The wind picks up, biting through my coat, yet I don’t care.
I take his hand, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the heat of his skin on mine.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
He squeezes my hand, gentle. “You don’t have to be.”
But I do. Because I know what I have to do.
I stand, wipe my face, and walk to the end of the dock.
The water is waiting, dark and cold and endless.
I turn to Hunter. He looks terrified, but he trusts me.
“Don’t wait for me,” I say.
He nods, understanding.
Then, without another word, I strip off my coat, sweater, and jeans, and stand in my panties and bra, shivering in the wind. The mist curls around my feet like smoke.
I dive in.
The shock is instant, like a thousand needles stabbing every inch of my body. The water is so cold, my heart stops for a second, then races.
I sink, eyes open, watching the light from the sky turn the water silver and white. For a moment, I feel nothing but pain, and then—
Memory.
— The car crash. The screech of metal. The phone flying from my hand. The world tilting, spinning, then darkness filling my mouth, my nose. Hands grabbing me, dragging me out. Screams. Heat. Confusion.
— Kissing Hunter outdoors. We were dressed up. The way his mouth lingered on mine, the heat in his hands when he brushed my hair from my face. The touch of his fingers on my breasts, and within my moist folds.
— The first time our eyes met in a sexual way. I don’t remember where, but I remember the flash in those blue eyes, the skin around his eyes tightening with desire.
— The way he studiously avoided me at a different family event, making me feel like I was insignificant and ugly.