In Medias Res Read Online Free Page B

that encompassed everything from the rugs to the shower curtain to the toothbrush holder to the sand dollar–covered wallpaper.
    The half-bathroom on the other side of the hall seemed like something of an afterthought. Unlike the other rooms, which contained several breathtaking photographs of the beach, its beige walls were unadorned.
    The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. The white four-poster bed stood out in sharp contrast to the ocean blue walls. French doors led to the patio and backyard. A pool covered by a blue tarp beckoned me.
    “First things first.”
    I retrieved my suitcases from the living room and dragged them down the hall.
    I unzipped the sturdy Samsonite bags and began to unpack while I sat cross-legged on the floor. I sorted through the neatly folded clothes. Pile after pile of T-shirts, tank tops, shorts, jeans, bathing suits, and swimsuit cover-ups joined me on the floor. I felt like the recipient of an unexpected shopping spree. Until I reminded myself that all the “new” things that surrounded me were my own. Things I had bought and paid for months, if not years, before.
    The garish guest bedroom aside, at least I had good taste.
    After I put the clothes away—I stowed some in the closet and some in the white cottage-style dresser at the foot of the bed—I opened the French doors and walked outside. I made a beeline for the small pool. I knelt next to it, lifted the cover, and stuck one hand in the water to test the temperature. It was colder than I’d expected but not cold enough to keep me out.
    Trying not to spill any of the leaves that had settled on it since it was put into place, I pulled the cover off the pool and laid it aside. The tall fence surrounding the backyard afforded me complete privacy, so I discarded the rest of my clothes and dove naked into the frigid water.
    “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
    The voice in my head was my brother’s. The shock of recognition turned my swan dive into a belly flop. I surfaced gasping for air, the chlorinated water burning my nasal passages. I held on to the side of the pool as I tried to clear my lungs.
    My first swimming lesson. Patrick was eight; I was six. He had taken to swimming right away and already had a year of lessons under his belt. We were at one of the public pools in Wheaton, our hometown. I remembered my fear of the water and Patrick’s noble attempts to put me at ease. I remembered the instructor, an eager young man whose main goal in life was to drop out of college and move to California to become a lifeguard. I remembered my parents watching from the sidelines, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anxiety and pride.
    I remembered.
    Not everything. Just bits and pieces from my childhood. My first pets—a pair of goldfish named Bert and Ernie that had both gone belly up after six months. My first real Christmas—Santa brought me an EASY-BAKE Oven and I spent the afternoon churning out miniature cakes that Patrick scarfed down as soon as I could frost them. Patrick ended up with a stomachache and I ended up with an aversion to baking. Now when I want to satisfy my sweet tooth, I leave the preparation to the experts.
    Like the flashes in the airport, these memories had come when I stopped obsessing over my situation and allowed myself to think of something else. Trying to prompt more recollections, I kept swimming until my arms felt like they were going to fall off my shoulders, but none came.
    I dragged myself out of the pool exhausted but hopeful.
    “I’m not a lost cause yet,” I told myself as I gathered my clothes. “I can do this on my own.”
    Famous last words?

Chapter Four

    I took a shower to wash the chlorine out of my hair. After I dried off, I pulled on a white terrycloth robe I found hanging in the closet. I wanted to take a look at the cache of home videos that lined the bookcase to the right of the entertainment center, but hunger got the best of me.
    I put on a pink Oxford shirt and a