Free At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen Page B

good work in my panic to consolidate for the trip. We’d been warned that our storage space on the freighter was limited—an irony if I’d ever heard one, since the ship’s raison d’être was storage. In the end, I’d found myself throwing things in randomly, frantically, sure that whatever I didn’t bring would turn out to be vitally important.
    As I left my room, I banged into the corner of the dresser so hard I cried out, and a horrible thought struck me. What if the waves never did stop? What if I was going to be like that forever?
    When I returned from the bathroom, Ellis was at the far end of my room, poking the empty grate with a fire iron.
    â€œEmpty, of course, and the radiators are off. A class act all around. No electricity, one bathroom, no heat. I’m going to get some wood, or coal, or dung, or whatever it is they’re burning downstairs.”
    â€œPlease don’t,” I said. “The fellow who let us in seems sensitive about fuel.”
    â€œSo what? I can see my breath.” He presented his profile and exhaled, loosing a gossamer wisp of vapor.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” I said. “There are lots of blankets. And I can always wear my robe to bed.”
    â€œAre you sure? I don’t mind dealing with Blackbeard.”
    â€œYes. I’m sure. Anyway, we’d probably burn the place down.”
    Ellis cracked a slow smile. “You mean like Hamlet House?”
    During our honeymoon in Key West, an unattended cigar of Ellis’s had nearly caused a catastrophe at an historic painted lady we’d nicknamed Hamlet House because the Prince of Denmark was a fellow guest. The prince, along with everyone else, was forced to change hotels, but since no one was hurt, the incident became funny in the retelling, a part of Ellis’s and my shared repertoire, a story we trotted out at parties.
    I knew that by bringing it up, he was trying to stir a fond memory and make things better between us, but what he didn’t realize was that remembering the fire in Key West just made me think of the horribly burned men I’d seen carried off the ship only a few hours earlier.
    â€œYes, like Hamlet House,” I said.
    â€œWe didn’t burn it down. Merely scorched a few rooms,” he said whimsically.
    I climbed into bed and shuddered.
    Ellis furrowed his brow, then set the poker in its stand and came to my side.
    We’d made a fragile peace after finally outrunning the U-boats, a truce that consisted mostly of giving each other as much space as possible in a situation where there simply wasn’t any, and talking only when absolutely necessary. But that didn’t mean my breakdown on the ship hadn’t happened, or that I wasn’t aware of how horrifyingly quickly proximity had bred contempt, or that I wasn’t still terrified and furious about being dragged along on this half-baked escapade. It was the stupidest and most dangerous thing we’d ever done.
    It was also pointless. I’d realized it the moment the driver commented on the life belt that remained around Ellis’s waist, and again when the bearded man asked why he and Hank weren’t serving, and I knew that it would keep happening. The very thing we’d tried to escape had followed us across the Atlantic.
    I opened my eyes and found Ellis staring down at me, his misery obvious. I knew he wanted comfort, a sign that things would go back to normal between us, but I couldn’t give it to him. I just couldn’t.
    â€œPlease, Ellis. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I’m completely and absolutely desperate for sleep…”
    His lips stretched into a sad line. “Of course. I know you’re exhausted.”
    He leaned over to kiss my forehead, and in that instant my resentment shattered, leaving behind an awful, piercing regret.
    No one had put a gun to my head and forced me to board the ship. I bore as much blame for my predicament as