Submerged

He pulled a strand of linguine from his plate and fed it to the dog. She swallowed it in one gulp. He went through the ritual “one for me and one for you” until his plate was empty.

After their meal, Arizona settled on the rug by Marcus’s feet and quickly went to sleep. Ignoring her soft snores, he flipped through the television stations. One channel was showing a marathon of Flashpoint reruns. Man, he missed that series. He’d gone through Flashpoint withdrawals for weeks after.

He settled on a Clint Eastwood movie. One could never go wrong with Eastwood. It was one of the more recent films, produced by and starring the acclaimed film legend.

Halfway into the movie, he fell asleep.

And there was Jane and Ryan. They were laughing, playing on a coral pink beach with sand as soft as satin.

Marcus could feel the sand between his toes as he approached them, warm waves lapping at his feet as he strolled close to the surf.

Bermuda, he realized.

He recalled the day Jane had pleaded with him to go.

“We haven’t had a real holiday since Ryan was born,” she’d said, “and you could use a break. We both could.” She giggled and leaned close to his ear. “Besides, we could have vacation sex. Lots of it.”

How could he say no to vacation sex?

That night Jane appeared in the bathroom doorway, wearing some black slinky thing. “Do you like? I bought it online at Victoria’s Secret. For this trip.”

“Victoria’s Secret, huh?” He could see her hardened nipples through the lace. “I’m not sure it’s working.”

Her smile wavered. “What do you mean?”

Marcus tugged her against him. “It’s not keeping your secret. I know exactly what you’re thinking. And what you want.”

“You do, do you?”

Jane turned her face and he captured her lips.

“I do,” he said when he pulled away.

He’d spent the rest of the night showing her. Twice.

Now, in his dream, he watched them on the beach. Jane, all tanned and carefree, chased Ryan along the waterline. Ryan ran backward, taunting her. “You can’t catch me!”

Marcus started running after them, even though he knew it was a dream.

“You can’t catch us, Dad,” Ryan hollered.

Marcus ran faster, his heart pumping erratically. Gasping. Faster. Pulse racing. But no matter how hard he ran, the distance between them grew.

“Wait!” he cried out. “Wait for me!”

Still running, Jane grabbed Ryan’s hand. “You can’t catch us, Marcus.”

He watched in horror as their bodies faded in the sunlight and the waves washed away their feet. Then their legs and arms. When they disappeared completely, he let out a gut-wrenching howl of anguish.

He woke up, howling. “Don’t leave me!”

But he was alone, with the exception of Arizona, who sat on the floor beside the recliner and rested her head on his lap.

“I’m okay,” he said, stroking the dog’s silky fur.

The soulful look in her eyes suggested she disagreed.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t believe me either.”

From the clock on the mantle, he estimated he’d dozed off for nearly an hour. The Eastwood movie was still on, and good old Clint was loading up some deadly looking guns. The hero of the movie was out for revenge, and someone was about to pay.

“I know how you feel, Clint,” he muttered.

He’d give anything to be able to hunt down the person responsible for making his life a living hell. Except he had no one to blame but himself.

The flickering red light of the answering machine caught his eye. He’d forgotten to check it when he got home. Not that his phone was ringing off the hook these days.

“Marcus, it’s Wanda.” His mother-in-law. “Are you coming to Edmonton next month? For the… you know, the get-together? Give me a call when you can, dear.” There was a protracted pause. “Marcus, take care of yourself.”

He knew exactly what get-together Wanda was referring to—the annual memorial party for Jane and Ryan. Wanda had done the same thing every year since the death of her daughter and grandson’s death. She always held it around June twenty-third, Jane’s birthday. Once when he’d asked her why she didn’t hold it in May, the month Ryan and Jane had died, Wanda had told him she couldn’t function in May because of Mother’s Day. She didn’t consider that Jane’s birthday was close to Father’s Day.

He had attended the first two memorial parties. Three generations of family had gathered at Jane’s parents’ house, half of them drinking from morning to night, while the other half walked around in a grief-stricken stupor. Marcus had joined both halves, and everything had gone fine until one of Jane’s uncles shoved him up against a wall in the upstairs hallway.

“I can’t understand why you’re here,” the old man spat. “You killed ’em just as if you drowned ’em yourself. Where were you when they needed you? If you hadn’t been so selfish going off to that damned cabin by yourself so you could get high, they never would have driven out there. They were going to see you, you worthless piece of shit!”