Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  “Maybe. And… I don’t know what else.”

  “You were hit hard last night. Did you sleep much?”

  “A couple hours, I think.” I sit up, slower this time, push my pillow behind my back, and lean against the headboard. Max shifts and rests his muzzle on my thigh, his golden-brown eyes appearing worried as he stares at me.

  My mom reaches over and pets him. “He takes good care of you, but he takes up a lot of the bed.”

  “He stays on his side.” I reach for him again. “Well, mostly.”

  She gets up, goes around to the other side of the bed, and straightens the blanket I keep on top of the covers for Max, then looks down at me. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  I begin to shake my head but think better of it. “Nothing.” I knead the base of my neck and shoulder. “I have to get going. Get in the shower, and…” My eyes are heavy, my head heavier.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I have to work.”

  “It’s Saturday, darling.”

  My mind swims through sludge as I try to make sense of what she’s said. “Are you… sure?”

  “Very sure. The only thing you need to do is take care of yourself today.”

  As my mind clears, memories flash like the lights of the California Highway Patrol cars and ambulance as they arrived at the scene last night after someone stopped to help me and called 911.

  “They’ll have more questions for me today. The officer said they’d want to talk to me.”

  “That’s fine. When you’re ready, you can talk to them. But first”—her tone is firm now, and I know I’m in for a lecture or at least a strong suggestion—“you need to see a doctor. I know you refused a trip to the ER last night when the ambulance arrived, but I’m your mother, and you will not get away with that with me.”

  “Mom—”

  “Of course, I will respect your choices, but if your doctor can’t see you today—and I expect that will be the case on a Saturday—then we will make a trip to the ER ourselves. Also, if you don’t already have an appointment scheduled with your therapist, I strongly suggest you call her first thing this morning and at least leave a message for her. You sustained not only physical injuries last night but additional trauma too. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that. You’ll also need to call whomever you need to speak with at the university and let them know you’re taking several days off next week.”

  “Glad to know you’ll respect my choices.” I toss the covers off, not letting her see the pain that simple movement causes. Still feeling like that seven-year old, I scoot to the edge of the bed and drop my legs over the side. “Oh…” I close my eyes and let my head hang. Max, my fearless German shepherd, whimpers at my side. I lift my head and look at him. “I’m okay, buddy.” Then I look at my mom. “I can’t take several days off. I’ve never missed a day of teaching.”

  “Well, that’s fortuitous, isn’t it? You have a strong track record and plenty of sick time, I assume.”

  She’s right, of course. She’s always right.

  I concede and realize I’m grateful to do so. “Thank you,” I whisper as I crawl back into bed.

  “No need to thank me.”

  I place my hand on her arm. “No, Mom, really. Thank you for being here—for all you do. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “There’s no place I’d rather be. If your dad were still alive, he’d be right here with us, you know that. We both would have moved in with you. After what you went through, and I’m not just talking about last night, he wouldn’t have let you out of his sight.”

  “I know.” I swallow the ache in my throat. “I miss him.”

  “I know you do. So do I.”

  As tears well, I know my mother is right—I need to take care of myself and the details following last night’s accident. Is that what it was, an accident? It hardly seemed accidental. I rub my temples. “I’ll make calls later. I just want to sleep a little more. Do you mind taking over the morning routine?”

  “That was my plan. I’ll make breakfast and take care of everything.” She gets up and goes to the large window in the room and pulls the drape across the louvered blinds where morning light is seeping through the slats, and then she turns back. “Maxwell, you come with me.”

  Max’s ears perk, and he looks from my mom to me.

  “Go ahead. Go eat, buddy.”

  That’s all the encouragement he needs. He jumps off the bed and follows my mom to the bedroom door, where she pauses. “You sleep, love. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I lie back down, rumple my pillow, and shift from one side to the other, attempting to find a comfortable position. I want nothing more than to lose myself to sleep for several hours. But just as I drift off, the sensation of being hit from behind jolts me again and I jerk back up, heart and head pounding.

  I stare into the dark room where the events of last evening replay, as they did throughout most of the night and early morning hours. I reach over and pull the chain on the lamp on my nightstand and diffuse the memories with soft, warm light.

  I suspect sleep will elude me.

  The question that swarmed my mind all night returns. Who tried to run me off the road? There’s only one person I can think of, but he’s in prison serving a sentence for assault. If he were released early, I’d have received notification. That’s my right as a victim and witness.

  The earliest he’s eligible for parole is June 1.

  As of today, that’s still more than one hundred days away.

  February 6, 2017

  After spending several hours in the ER on Saturday afternoon, I was told what we already suspected—I’d sustained a whiplash injury. Fortunately, it’s nothing rest and time won’t heal. I spent most of the remainder of the weekend in bed or on the sofa, letting my mother take care of me.

  But this morning I need to make a call. Still in my robe, I slip out of my bedroom, Max trailing me, and cross the house to my home office, where I gently close the door so I have some privacy.

  I sit at the desk—the mission-style oak desk that was in my office when I was still seeing clients. Its straight lines and heft seem to offer strength. Max curls himself on top of my feet, offering warmth and comfort. I open my laptop to google the number I need. I’ve waited until just after 9:00 a.m. when I’m sure the government offices are open. So when my call is transferred to the appropriate department and I get a recording asking me to leave a message, I sigh in frustration.

  “This is Denilyn Rossi—D-e-n-i-l-y-n R-o-s-s-i—I’d like to check an inmate’s status and confirm the date of an upcoming parole hearing.” I leave my phone number and times I’m available to take a call. After I end the call, I follow up with an email requesting the same information.

  It’s time I stop obsessing about his parole hearing and date of release and, instead, take a healthy step to put my mind at ease by ensuring nothing has changed.

  To make certain he is still incarcerated.

  Especially after what occurred Friday evening, although, as the detective I spoke with yesterday assured me, they will also verify that information.

  But this was a step I needed to take for myself.

  Just as I’m about to get up from my desk, my phone rings. I pick it up and see that it’s Ryan calling. “Hi there.”

  “Where are you? I was worried about you when you didn’t show up this morning. Are you sick?”

  I hesitate. “Not sick, not exactly, anyway.”

  “What’s going on? I don’t remember you ever missing a day of work.”

  “Actually, I was in an accident on Friday evening. I’m nursing a case of whiplash and some bumps and bruises. Nothing major. But the doctor, along with my mother, of course, advised me to take a few days off to rest.”

  “Wow… What happened?”

  I take a deep breath. “Someone ran me off the road—into the canyon wall.”

  “Intentionally?” His tone is incredulous.

 
“Yes, it appeared it was intentional.”

  “They targeted you?” I can almost feel his anger, fire-poker hot, through the phone line.

  Part of me wants to lay my head down on the desktop and cry, but I’m not sure I have the energy for even that. “I don’t know. But because it appeared intentional and because of my history, they’re assuming it was targeted until they can prove otherwise.”

  “Is Mathison out?”

  “I…” Hearing his name tossed out trips me up. “No. I… don’t think so. I’m supposed to receive notification of parole hearings or a release date. I haven’t heard anything, but I did call to confirm that nothing’s changed. I’m waiting to hear back.”

  “Okay.” His tone softens. “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  “In the meantime, what can I do for you? What do you need?”

  What do I need? The list is endless. I need security. To know I’m safe—my family is safe. I need to move on with my life, to put that horrendous year, that horrific night, behind me. I need to know there isn’t someone trying to kill me again. I need everything to go back to the way it was.

  Before.

  Long before any of this began.

  I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the ache there. “Nothing, really, but thank you.” Then something occurs to me. “Oh wait. There is one thing. As far as anyone at work is concerned, this was just a car accident. I don’t want a lot of speculation and conversations—”

  “No, no, of course you don’t. I understand.”

  After ending the call, I stare at the desktop and follow the grain of the oak with one finger. Mathison. Bradley Mathison. The name is branded on my mind, never to be forgotten. He’d been right—I had known his name, but I couldn’t place him the first time he confronted me. And it was several months before I did place him. It was Ryan who finally named him—who reminded me of how I’d known him. Of how we’d known him.

  I sit at my desk for a long time staring out the window where the day has dawned in muted tones of gray again, as though the rain has washed the earth of all color. A fine sprinkling, like lace, veils my view. Trees are barren. Silence is sovereign. Not a bird sings. The landscape, all of life it seems, is bereaved.

  “Trust is a choice.”

  Yes, but when death reigns, it is a difficult choice to make.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Adelia

  May 7, 2017

  I toss in the still unfamiliar bed, in the dark, unfamiliar room. I throw the sheet off me and move to a spot where my body hasn’t yet warmed the sheet and mattress. I keep my eyes closed, willing myself to sleep, but the constant muffled roar of the river in my ears, like a lion stalking its prey, disturbs. Finally, I push myself up and pull the earplugs from my ears and throw them, one at a time, at the wall across from the bed, an action I regret when pain ripples through my upper arm.

  Despite the rigor and discipline of getting my body ready for this mission, my muscles ache from my first trip down the Kaweah. A strap of pain crosses my back. I get out of bed and slowly lift my arms above my head and reach for the ceiling, stretching the muscles in my back. I do the stretch several times, working to loosen the muscles and relieve the pain.

  I yawn, look at the bed, and decide it holds no comfort for the moment. Although I left the air conditioner on, the room is stifling. There are no vents in the master bedroom, which appears to have been an addition to the original house. I kept the windows in the room closed in an attempt to shut out the thunder of the river, but it’s always present.

  Sleep won’t come anytime soon.

  Instead, I wander out of the bedroom and through the house to the kitchen, where I get a glass of water. After I’ve quenched my thirst, I open the slider and step into the ink of night. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark, but soon I see the ghostly shapes of the trees—sycamores, willows, and cottonwoods, branches stretched wide—along the bank upriver.

  Somewhere above, the face of the moon blooms almost full. According to the lunar calendar, the moon will reach its fullest two nights from now.

  When the moon is full…

  I consider the invitation a few of the guides issued to me as we carried rafts to the storage units at the end of the day. “Hey Adelia, you up for a moonlight trip down the river?” I’d heard one of the other female guides snicker when she heard them include me.

  I glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Then I looked at the guys. “Sure, I’m in.”

  He’d laughed. “Okay. We go Wednesday.”

  I didn’t let them see what I was feeling as my pulse pounded in my ears. Perhaps the invitation was issued to the old lady as a joke—I have more than a decade, at least, on most of the guides. But it’s an invitation I couldn’t decline. Instead, I silently gave thanks for the opportunity, one I knew I needed to take advantage of to refresh my skills.

  I’m not sure what’s coming; I only know it will occur when the moon is full.

  Only the best make it down this river at night, and only when the moon is full and the sky clear. I look downriver where light reflected from the moon shimmers on a deep pool that sits atop one of the rocky ledges the river falls over. Beyond the ledge, the water churns, its white froth visible even in the dark. There the water becomes a swirling hydraulic—a place where the Kaweah can hold those without strength and experience in its sucking grasp.

  “But I have both strength and experience.” I speak the reminder to the river and myself.

  The only reply I receive is the steady rumble of the tumbling water, and my fury for this river rises. Not only has it pulled me back here, but it has pulled me from what matters most.

  I close my eyes and see his dimpled cheeks and hazel-colored eyes. Those eyes with a smile in them, always. How I long for the innocence behind that smile to last forever. Yet I know better. It’s only a matter of time. Already, just over the last year, he’s grown two more inches and he’s traded “Mama” for “Mom.”

  My little Nicky…

  I’ve spent each day since his birth, if not at his side, no more than a few minutes’ drive away. Now it would take the better part of a day to get to him. I won’t see him for more than a month. The sacrifice feels like too much.

  Yet he is why I’m here, I remind myself. He is why I allowed this river to pull me back. But it isn’t just the river…

  It is time for death to give way to life. More than time.

  My life since his conception has focused on protecting him. Every thought, every choice, every action. I would give my life for his. I will give my life for his if necessary. But that protection has come with an unforeseen cost. A toll. One which, for his sake, I can no longer pay.

  I’ve created a prison, and it’s time for freedom.

  I am here to fight for his freedom.

  That is my singular focus. My only goal.

  But…

  With the river’s roar reverberating in my ears, and that churning hydraulic yearning to yank me in, doubt tempts me.

  I can say I still have the strength, mental and physical, to navigate this river with the light of the moon as my only guide, but is that true? Will I be ready by the next full moon, June 9th? Suddenly it feels as though the days are slipping away, dragging me under, and my breath catches. Then my breathing ceases, as though water has filled my lungs.

  I gasp once and then again. Then I draw deep of the night air.

  “No,” I whisper. I turn away from doubt. “You have no place here!”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, peace settles my soul. And with it, knowing dawns…

  I’ve long seen the Kaweah as my foe, my adversary. But tonight I understand for the first time that I must make it my ally.

  I must fight this battle with the river, not against it. For it isn’t the river that’s held us hostage. The river only played a role, but it was not and is not my adversary.

  That title belongs to another.


  I watch the ever-moving river awhile longer.

  It is never static, always changing, the water level rising and falling, dependent on nature, the Creator, for its being.

  Just as I am dependent.

  I close my eyes once more and raise my face toward the heavens, an acknowledgment, again, that I have not come alone. If I am still, there is another who will fight for me. Then I open my eyes and take in the firmament above—points of light as far as the eye can see dot the black canvas—another reminder of the power that upholds me.

  “Thank You,” I whisper.

  Then I turn and walk back into the house, shut and lock the slider, and return to the bedroom, where I open the shutters and push open the windows in the room. I leave the shutters open so the cool breeze of the night stirs in the stagnant room.

  I climb back into bed, the roar I’ve worked so hard to shut out now the song that lulls me.

  The river will be my ally.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Denilyn

  December 2009

  It was close to midnight by the time the detectives left the house with the only evidence I had to give them—a charm bracelet with the single charm attached, two additional charms, and the mailing box and label. I answered question after question, although most of them I had no answers for.

  Jay stood at my kitchen island. “You’re comin’ home with us.”

  Although Jay’s tone was emphatic, I wanted nothing more than to fall into my own bed. I glanced at the clock on the microwave, then looked at Gabe. “You said Keith was trying to get a flight out of Seattle, right?”

  Gabe pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “Yeah, but I haven’t heard back.” He looked at the screen. “He hasn’t let me know if he’s on his way or not. And Jay’s right—you’re not staying here alone.”

  As much as I wanted to assure them I’d be all right, what if… I didn’t want to consider the possibilities. My shoulders sagged with fatigue. “Let me just grab a few things.” I turned to head upstairs then looked back. “Thank you both for being here and for…”—I didn’t have the energy to say more—“you know.”