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Show Woodworth/^O in waves, massaging at the roughness of Ruth's voice, the sore spot left by the sight of grease on Ned's chin. She would swim now, take all her clothes off and dive in, no matter how cold, how many people might wander by, might see. Would swim, if this weren't Boston Harbor; half ocean water, half water flushed from toilets, sucked from tubs, spat down drains. Marty feels the fist dissolve in her stomach, the warm wash of the drug behind her eyes. Sucks in deep whistles of air, half expecting clouds, stars, sky to rip loose and get swallowed, Then spits it out again, the constellations, the cumulus and the galaxies. In. Hold. Out faster and faster until it is almost a pant. Then stops, short, so that the sky goes black and the fingers of the tide rock her without rhythmn. "You're killing brain cells doing that," Rachael says from some place very far away-' "It's them or me," Marty answers, and hears her voice off in that same distant place. "Swear to me," Jake tells her, and grabs both her hands. She is shocked by his touch, and her mind flutters. Not swearing, but if anyone should see them. "What Jake?" What should I swear? she wants to ask, but there is no time. Her parents are walking toward them, arm and arm, with Ruth holding Megan's hand. Chapel. The Christmas service. Jake in a suit and tie, talking to her about swearing. He looks up, and sees them coming. And, in the light from the outdoor Christmas tree, she sees panic in his face. He turns, walks away from the light, and she follows. "Jake?" He keeps walking, ringing his hands, hands darting to his tie, flying about his face and head, just touching, |