Or the scars.

To be fair, Bob, only someone with my history would know what she was looking at. Most people—even you—would‘ve missed the one on her throat because of the way the photo had been doctored. But look at the close-ups in an old, pre-Photoshop picture or movie next time, Bob, and you‘ll see what I mean. Guys‘ faces are always sharper, more chiseled, angular. But in the old black and whites— Mildred Pierce, Stella Dallas, Casablanca—the women‘s faces are much softer, a little dreamy. That‘s because the close-ups were filmed through fine gauze draped over the lens to hide imperfections makeup couldn‘t: freckles, zits.

Scars.

The only reason I spotted the one on her throat was because Mrs. Anderson wore a filmy Indian-style blouse with a scoop neck and long, bell-shaped sleeves. The scar was more like a dimple and very small, about the size of a nickel and a shade paler than her skin. In normal light—in color—it would probably be as pink as a newborn mouse. I knew because I‘d been on a ventilator for a long time, too. My trach scar had been just like hers until Dr. Kirby took a scalpel to it. What I‘ve got now is, well, invisible. You‘d never know I‘d had a hole cut in my throat for that tube at all. The doctors are right, too: I scar so nicely.

But, for whatever reason, Mrs. Anderson still wore hers, just as she‘d chosen to keep that thin worm along the underbelly of her left wrist. I didn‘t know if she‘d cut her right wrist because that hand rested on her stomach. Ten to one, she probably had sliced and diced that wrist, too, although maybe not as well. Most people are right-handed. So, statistically speaking, she‘d have done her left first. By the time she switched, the bleeding would‘ve started, and she might have been pretty shaky, light-headed. Now I‘ve never done anything like that, but I knew more than a couple kids, boys and girls, who had. So trust me on this one, Bob.

My gaze ticked back to their wedding picture.

No scars.

Well.

A door opened from far down the hall. When Mr. Anderson walked into the family room, I was studying a psychedelic landscape: a bird‘s-eye view of blinding white farmhouses with electric blue roofs caught in the orange slant of a setting sun. He said,

―You like it? I love that painting.‖

―It‘s really interesting,‖ I said. Mr. Anderson looked the way he had the first day we‘d met: fresh from his shower, hair moist and a little curly at the temples. Of course, he was fully clothed this time around: jeans, moccasins, a forest-green turtleneck that brought out the auburn in his hair when he crossed beneath a shaft of strong sunlight. I cut my eyes back to the painting. ―I like the way it changes depending on the light. Who‘s the artist?‖

―Harold Gregor. Obama has one of his paintings in his office, too, so I guess I‘m in good company. Hungry?‖ He led the way into the kitchen, still talking about the evolution of Gregor‘s technique. I followed, but my mind wasn‘t on art.

Because I now knew things no one else did or had ever mentioned at school.

Sometime during their marriage, Mrs. Anderson had tried to kill herself.

Then Mrs. Anderson had gotten pregnant.

So where was the baby?

And, really, where was she?

28: a

Mr. Anderson decided we‘d had enough adventures for one day and made lunch. I remember it perfectly, Bobby-o: goat cheese omelets and a green salad with preserved pears in balsamic vinegar, strawberries and slivered almonds. While I tore lettuce for the salad, he disappeared into a pantry and reappeared a few seconds later with a baguette that he sliced, drizzled with olive oil, and then popped into the oven to toast. After spinning the lettuce dry, I rubbed the toasted slices with garlic, and then Mr. Anderson spooned on a mix of chopped artichokes, roasted red peppers, and diced mozzarella. A minute before he turned out the omelets, he told me to put the bruschetta under the broiler to melt the mozzarella.

Lunch was delicious and, despite everything, I was ravenous. I was so used to thrown-together meals and leftover pizza, I‘d forgotten what really home-cooked food tasted like. You could tell that Mr. Anderson was comfortable around a kitchen, the way he handled the knives and pans, even flipping the omelet and doing a pretty good imitation of Julia Child: ― You must have the courage of your convictions! ‖ He got me to laugh, which felt good, and we had fun. I ate every last bit of my omelet and had seconds on the salad and four pieces of bruschetta. We ate in a nook that looked out on the lake and didn‘t talk much, we were both so hungry. Then Mr. Anderson pulled out a freezer bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies to go with hot mint tea.

When we were done, I started to clear the dishes, but Mr. Anderson waved me down. ―What‘s the hurry? You got somewhere to go? That‘s the trouble with people.‖ He fingered up another cookie and bit into it. ―They don‘t take time to just enjoy the moment.‖

―Sorry,‖ I said, sitting back down.

―And stop apologizing,‖ he said with mock severity, and when I laughed, he grinned. ―You look a thousand times better than you did on the trail. You had me worried there.‖

―Sor—‖ I stopped myself, tried again. ―I‘ve never had that happen before. I mean, I‘ve had cramps, everyone does, but never bad enough I couldn‘t run.‖

―Maybe your body‘s trying to tell you something, like . . . stop running.‖ His words hung there, charged and loaded with meaning. When I glanced over, he was blowing on his tea, his gaze fixed on the lake, but the invitation was clear. The silence stretched and thinned. He sipped from his mug, said, ―We don‘t have to talk about anything you don‘t want to.‖

Danielle had said he liked the broken ones. Mrs. Anderson was proof of that—wasn‘t she? Well, maybe. Not everyone wears their scars on their skin. Perhaps Mr.

Anderson hadn‘t known right away or been able to help her enough once he did understand.

For all I knew, he was really sensitive now to how people hurt inside, where no one could see, because of what she‘d done to herself. That would explain why he tried so hard with someone like me. Maybe Danielle, too.

But . . . really? Who cared? Mrs. Anderson wasn‘t here, and neither was Danielle.

Mr. Anderson was the first person in what felt like forever to give a damn about me. Fine, he liked to help people who were hurting. So BFD, you know?

It was all so push-me-pull-you, Bob. Like I was in this game of tug-of-war with myself.

Because the other problem was how could I tell him that it wasn‘t a question of just one thing? If this was only about dirty old Dr. Kirby, that would be easy. But there was Matt and my parents and Grandpa MacAllister, the psych ward, the thoughts I still had. The urges to cut—and I couldn‘t tell him that the kissing knife was kind of keeping me from doing that either because then I‘d have to admit I‘d stolen it. And there was also school, trying to fit in, wondering if I should even bother.

Thinking about all that was exhausting. Despite the hours I‘d spent getting shrink-wrapped, I still wasn‘t sold that talking did a whole heck of a lot except let everyone else know what was going on inside your head. It‘s not like talking ever made anything go away.

The other thing was . . . I didn‘t know what the rules were, not yet. Come on, Bob, you know: some friends you only talk to about clothes, while others keep your secrets and vice versa. Every relationship has rules. Ours was just beginning. No, that‘s not right. My relationship with Mr. Anderson was turning into something different than it had been.

Yet, whatever his motives, who cared? I liked the change. I liked him just for who he was. He made me laugh and feel more comfortable in my own stupid skin. No way I wanted to blow that.

―Thanks,‖ I said, finally. ―For the offer. It‘s nice knowing there‘s someone who . . .‖

I wanted to say cares but settled for something not so loaded. ―Someone who wants to listen.‖

―Always,‖ he said.

As he washed and I dried, he asked what my plans were for the rest of the vacation.

I told him about my English project, which he‘d heard about from other students, and Alexis. It turned out that he‘d read her book a while back, when he was in college.

―And had great ambitions.‖ He gave a rueful laugh. ―I was going to save the world.

I really got into all that Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, Alexis Depardieu stuff. Born Free was one of my favorite movies.‖ I‘d never seen it, so he told me about Joy Adamson then said,

―Look, before we go, remind me to look in my study. I think I have something about Depardieu you might not have stumbled across.‖

―Were you going to be a marine biologist?‖

―Mammalogist?‖ He hunched a shoulder. ―Maybe. It was a dream. When I was a sophomore at Stanford, I did a summer internship with this guy who studied dolphins. We ended up in Japan. We were trying to document this massive dolphin hunt, but we got caught. Believe me, there‘s nothing worse than spending a couple nights in a foreign jail.‖

―Wow. Were you scared?‖

―Yes. I believed in what we were doing, but I was still just a kid in college. All I could think of was what my dad was going to do to me when I got out. The guy from the American embassy came on the third day and sprung us in two more. Then he packed us on a plane and that was that.‖

―What did your dad do?‖

―He pulled me out of school and sent me to Madison. Don‘t get me wrong. It‘s not like Madison is a bad school, but California . . .‖ He shook his head. ―People are so different there, much more open. The light‘s different, too, and the air in the mountains is cleaner and you feell. . . bigger somehow.‖

―What made you get interested in dolphins?‖

― Flipper. And I thought the fourth Star Trek movie was a heartbreaking work of staggering genius,‖ he said, so seriously that I cracked up. He grinned. ―Honestly, cetaceans are so cool. Those stories about how they rescue divers and swimmers? I saw it happen my freshman year.‖

―Really?‖

―Dead serious. There was this one guy, a sophomore, who had this fascination with great whites. He must‘ve seen Jaws a hundred times. We took diving lessons together and we surfed. So, one day we‘re out with another friend and he‘s on his board, and this baby great white just wallops him. They do that, you know, this head-butt thing where they try to knock out their prey. Then, while you‘re unconscious, they eat you. So my friend, he‘s paddling along and then.‖ He slapped his hands together. ―Just wham. His board kicked into his face and then he was flying one way and his board was going another. I heard him scream and I jerked around just in time to duck as his board shot over my head. I saw him in the water, maybe thirty, forty feet away. At first, I thought he‘d hit a rogue wave and gotten thrown, but there was blood on his face and in the water—and then I saw this gray torpedo closing in fast, and I just knew.‖