The Dark Beneath the Ice

by Amelinda Bérubé

  She shakes her head, watching me. Like she can’t look away.

  “No. But it’s not safe. Something’s following you. It’s not far off. I can feel it.” She hugs herself, leans away from me. “I’m not going to risk attracting its attention. Not here.”

  “What do you mean? What is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. I didn’t think this would be… I don’t know.” She shakes her hands out again and gathers the cards together, but she drops a few of them on the floor and has to bend to retrieve them.

  “I don’t understand,” I plead. “Please. I’ve been so scared.”

  “It’s complicated,” Niobe says shortly. “You need to come and see me at home. So we can deal with this properly.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, but I mean it. This is a question of safety. For both of us. And for Rhiannon.” She looks at me, unreadable. “I’m going to have to ask you to stay away from her.”

  “What?” I cry. The students at the back of the room look up at us. “I thought you said—”

  “Here’s my business card.” Niobe pushes it at me, cutting me off. “Call me so we can set something up. I don’t think I have to tell you how important this is. Right?”

  I open my mouth; she nods curtly.

  “Right. Go on, now. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I cram the card into my pocket and stand up, feeling every eye in the café on me. Rhiannon looks up, grinding out the butt of her cigarette with her heel, as I push my way outside.

  “So,” she says. “Was that useful?”

  “I should go,” I grate and turn blindly toward the bus stop.

  “Wait!” She comes jogging up behind me, catching my elbow. “Marianne, what the hell? What did she say to you?”

  “She said this was my own fault, basically. That I brought it on myself.”

  Ron stares at me. “Seriously?”

  “She seemed kind of upset. I don’t know what I did. She said I should see her at home.” I can’t meet her eyes. “She said I should stay away from you.”

  “What? You’re fucking kidding me!”

  “She said there’s something after me,” I say tightly, pulling my arm from her grip. “She said it was dangerous. I should go.”

  “That’s bullshit! She can’t just—what am I, five?” She’s practically vibrating with outrage. Seeing me retreat from her by a step, she subsides a bit, shoving her hands in her coat pockets and kicking at the pavement with her booted toes. “Look. Don’t let her go all Exorcist on you. She’s just jerking you around. Some things you’re supposed to banish with medicine, not magic.”

  “But what if this isn’t one of them?” I plead. “What if she’s right?”

  “You’re letting her get to you. Don’t buy into it. Seriously. Jesus, I should never have let her near you.” She looks around at me, her mouth set in a grim line. “Did she tell you how much it was going to cost?”

  “No.”

  “Right. She’s probably saving that for when you call.” She gives the sidewalk another kick, her lips twisting. “Fucking hell.”

  “But what she said. That’s exactly how it feels. Like there’s something following me. And whatever it is…Ron, she was scared of it.”

  “Look,” she sighs, “if you’re really worried, we can always try it ourselves.”

  “Try what?”

  “Talking to it.” She shrugs, then folds her arms, like she’s embarrassed by the suggestion. “Whatever it’s supposed to be. And if something talks back, then you can try her schtick.”

  “Do you think that would work?” I don’t ask whether it’s a good idea.

  “I think it’s bullshit. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’m in.”

  The wind picks up, tugging at my hair, scattering a few pinpricks of cold rain across my face.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Let’s try it.”

  She draws a long breath, gives me an edged smile. “Right. All right. Perfect. Let me look some stuff up. I’ll text you, okay?”

  • • •

  The concrete walls of the bus station slide past as the bus pulls away. I turn Niobe’s reading over and over in my head. It doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t dismiss it.

  Maybe I’m just clinging to that one card, the man with the leafy staff. Someone who will go to hell and back for me. Someone in my corner. You don’t have to go it alone. I close my hand around my phone in my pocket. The concrete gives way to the banks of the river as we turn onto the parkway. Is it possible? This isn’t a prince, Niobe said. There’s no one riding to the rescue. But Ron’s smile flashes through my mind.

  She didn’t have to come to the river with me. She didn’t have to meet me today. She looked me up. She asked for my number.

  God. I refuse to pursue that train of thought any further. Get a grip. She probably just feels sorry for me. And now that exams are over, she has the perfect opportunity if she wants to quietly disappear.

  I’m too tired to think about this anymore. I slouch in the hard seat, lean my head back. Closing my eyes is all it takes for sleep to pull me under. The roar of the bus drifts and fades around me.

  I struggle back to the surface. I’ll miss my stop. But when I open my eyes the light has vanished from the sky, from the water, leaving empty darkness stretching out forever beyond a crust of broken ice. I could fall into it.

  I jerk back from the window, jostling the person sitting next to me. But reality and daylight have reasserted themselves. Low clouds scud through the sky. The river is flinty with white-crested waves, the hills on the far side a gray haze. It’s June again and nowhere near cold enough for ice. I blink and blink, but the darkness doesn’t return.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to my seatmate, a woman wearing a long black coat and a floral-print hijab; she gives me a polite smile in response and goes back to her book. She didn’t see anything.

  Fear beats through my veins, pushing the clinging fatigue aside. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, twisted together in my lap, until the bus rounds the corner, away from the water, leaving it behind.

  8

  By Sunday afternoon, there’s still no word from Ron. I take my pills, which leave me light-headed and my stomach hot and roiling. I keep my phone in my pocket, the volume at max, willing it to chime, hoping I don’t sleep through it. I am not going to call her first. Soon. What does that mean? Soon like this month? Soon like tomorrow? Outside the water creeps higher; sandbags are piled on top of the seawall, around the drains.

  Maybe she’s not going to call. I can still feel Niobe’s stare boring into me when I close my eyes. I wonder what it was she saw. What she’s told Ron. Maybe it was enough to change Ron’s mind. Wouldn’t she have called by now, if she was going to? The memory of her expression turning closed and angry blurs into Niobe’s sudden wariness and leaves me feeling a little sick, wondering what I did, wondering whether Ron will turn that glare on me next time I see her. Telling myself I’m being ridiculous doesn’t help. I should never have opened my mouth.

  I keep the necklace on under my sweater, a heavy and unfamiliar weight against my chest. For protection, she said. The nights have passed dreamlessly—fourteen hours, fifteen hours in a leaden blink. Sleep. What a concept. Is it the medication working? Or the necklace?

  When the phone finally rings, I’m huddled in a corner of my bed with it, playing a mindless game. If I don’t keep busy, sleep steals over me and time slips through my fingers. I haven’t walked in my sleep again, I don’t think, but I wake up from those unintentional naps disoriented and afraid. Wondering what might have happened this time. The bedside light is already on against the gathering twilight, and the wind whistles around the eaves of the building.

  But it’s not Ron calling. I don’t know the area code; my phone says it’s in Californi
a. Telemarketing?

  No. Ingrid.

  She’s actually calling. I let my breath out in a long, steadying stream, let the water rise around me, cool and calm. I can do this.

  “Hey,” she says when I answer, and the worry in her voice makes my throat close up. “How’s it going? Are you okay?”

  “I don’t even know where to start.” My voice quavers. Keep it together. The phone stutters, fizzing static at me. “I’m…really glad you called.”

  “No problem. Sorry it took me so long.”

  There’s a pause. I clear my throat.

  “So how’s San Francisco?”

  That keeps us going for a while. She has a funny story about a chemistry period where some guys managed to sneak a dozen beakers and three stools out the window while the teacher’s back was turned before they finally got caught. The ringleader was a snarky hipster with dorky glasses, wiry arms, a killer smile. He’s painted murals in the cafeteria, wrote the school play.

  “That sounds kind of like a crush.” I barely know this script, but I can guess I’m supposed to tease her, or press her for gossipy details. I’m not sure how. It’s like a play where everyone got their parts somewhere around seventh grade, leaving me faking my way through mine.

  “Maybe crushing a little bit.” She giggles. I’m silent, glad she can’t see my face. “Don’t sound so worried. It’s not like he knows I exist. Georgia’s been asking around for me.”

  Oh God, do I sound worried? I have to keep my voice light. I close my eyes, imagine sun sparkling on the water.

  “Georgia?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one in the pictures I posted. You’d like her.”

  “Mm.” I don’t know what to say. There’s a pause, like Ingrid doesn’t know what to say either.

  “Sorry,” I come out with. “I’m not very good company lately. I just…” I just wanted to hear your voice. “Things are…kind of messed up, you know?”

  “Yeah. I get that.”

  Another pause. Words crowd my mouth, but I can’t speak. My mom went to the hospital. She saw me floating in midair. I think I might be possessed. I think something might be after me. I remember Ron’s first advice. Save yourself eighty bucks and go see a real doctor. With Ron, it had seemed just possible enough to blurt it out. But with Ingrid? I can’t imagine it, I can’t even think what she would say to me. The world where we sat in the sun talking about books is a bright bubble, impossibly distant. If I let the words fall they’ll vaporize it on impact. Matter and antimatter.

  “Marianne?”

  “Listen, I have to go.” The words are mostly natural, only a little rough around the edges. I don’t think she notices. “I…can I call you later?”

  “Sure,” Ingrid says easily. Relieved? “Whenever. Hang in there, okay?”

  I hang up and let the phone thump down onto the bed.

  I’ve never known how to tell Ingrid anything, really. She seems so serene, so far above all the frantic churning that fills my head. I couldn’t tell her about what had happened with dance. She never would have freaked out like I did; she never would have quit. If there was worry simmering under her relentless good cheer, it never showed. I was in awe of her. A little jealous.

  What am I to her? I still don’t know. Someone who needs her, maybe. She called, didn’t she? She said I could call her later. It might have been out of kindness. Out of obligation. I’ve been so careful not to let her see how desperately I’ve clung to her. How badly I craved a friendly face. My dance friends from my old studio fell away after I joined the conservatory. Our competitive class had been a tight little circle. They all celebrated with me when I got the letter inviting me to attend, but when I actually left, the circle just closed up and went on without me. When I quit, I never told them. I couldn’t bear the idea of them talking about it, low-voiced, while they stitched ribbons onto their shoes: what a fake I’d turned out to be, how I’d never deserved the spot in the first place.

  But Ingrid didn’t need to know about my dance meltdown. And she had it so together. If she could do it, so could I. I needed to know it was possible.

  In the picture of her in my head, she’s firelit and smiling. Our science camp went on one overnight trip. They took us on a tour of a mine where they used to dig for mica. The lake nearby was full of it, glittering, golden flakes suspended in the weedy water, sparkling in the sand. Ingrid and I spent a hot, hazy three days stomping through the woods, lagging behind the rest of our group on the winding trails through cathedrals of leaves, and later, talking in whispers as the August night breathed through the wide-open cabin windows. It was what I’d always imagined having a best friend would be like.

  We spent the second night on the beach watching a meteor shower. It was cloudless, moonless, the sky alive and infinite. Looking up into it made gravity seem precarious, like you could lose your grip on the world and tumble into the air. Ingrid and I lay side by side. She was cold, asked to share my blanket. We stared into the sky with sand in our hair, counting the meteors as they fell: flickering needles of light slicing down toward us. The laughing voices of the other campers fell away. We could have been the only ones there. It could have been just the two of us.

  That was the only time I ever heard her falter, the only time her armor showed any cracks. She spoke into a long silence.

  “Are you ever afraid—” She hesitated, started over. “Sometimes I think I’m not a very good person. You know? Sometimes it’s like any minute someone’s going to read my mind and find out how awful I am inside. Do you ever worry about that?”

  All the time, I didn’t say. I’ve never stopped.

  “I think you’re the best person I know,” I told her instead.

  Her fingers laced through mine under the blanket, her bare arm warm and smooth against my skin. She was a silhouette beside me, an outline against the sky. A star streaked down past her lips, burning.

  And I had this thought, this absurd, impossible idea. What would happen if I moved closer? What would happen if I touched her face, tipped it toward mine?

  But I knew the answer: it would ruin everything. And then I’d have no one at all.

  So I turned away, back to the sky, and drew the sound of the lapping waves over me. With her hand in mine, I let the murmur of the water pull me down until my heartbeat slowed, until I could remember that between us and those falling stars was an ocean of lifeless cold. Above us they burned themselves into nothing without ever making a sound.

  We weren’t in the same classes at school; I didn’t see her often. She was so much more outgoing than I was. She floated from clique to clique, and all they ever talked about was how nice she was. She tried to draw me in too, but I shrank from them. It wasn’t her fault I was too quiet, too awkward to fit in comfortably.

  Still, she never abandoned me. Sometimes we’d eat lunch together, cross paths in the library. We’d trade texts. I was okay with that. I savored those rare, luminous moments. I was so careful. I meted out every message, every smile, carefully spaced, determined not to stumble. Trying to inch closer to her without being obvious.

  I found out she was leaving through social media. On December first she made this chirpy, flippant post about how she’d get to skip winter. I sat at the kitchen table, my fingers ice cold on the keyboard, and watched the comments pop up: how lucky she was, how much they’d miss her. I had to add my own, to make her remember me. But I couldn’t think of anything that would stand out without being weird.

  My restless pacing carried me up to the terrace on the roof, the moth wings a blizzard in my chest, a storm of all the things I couldn’t say. I stood at the railing and hurled every possibility out into the icy expanse of the river, the cold wind whipping my hair back from my face.

  I should let her drift away if that’s what she wants. That’s what you’re supposed to do if you love something, isn’t it? What is it I’m even hoping f
or? That moment on the beach didn’t mean anything. It was just a thought. You’re allowed to think stupid, impossible things if you keep them to yourself. Nobody’s going to read my mind. I have to forget about it. Let it go.

  Still, even when I close my eyes, suspend myself between the light filtering through the ice and the endless depths, the fact stubbornly refuses to sink.

  She called. She did call.

  • • •

  I keep chewing over the rest of Niobe’s reading, hoping to figure out some way it’s relevant, shake loose hidden answers. Don’t be a victim. Take action. By doing what? I don’t even know what to google. When I hesitantly tap I think I’m possessed into the search bar—and refresh the page five times, trying to get it to load—the result is an avalanche of religious weirdness. Suspend your disbelief, I tell myself sternly, and sift through it anyway. The internet connection stutters and hiccups, and I smack the track pad in frustration.

  If you can’t stand the word of God, I read, that’s a definite red flag. I drag myself through an hour reading the Bible online, fighting to keep my eyes open. The King James version, to be extra authentic. But nothing unusual happens. Does boredom count, I wonder, scrolling irritably through endless lists of who begat whom.

  The rite of exorcism also turns up in the search results, but it likewise goes on approximately forever without saying anything helpful. Other sites warn me to throw out my tarot cards and Ouija board. Right. If that was the problem, shouldn’t all this have started after I talked to Niobe?

  There’s a prayer that comes up a few times. Experimentally, I read it aloud, first under my breath, and then again, louder. Does it make a difference how many times you say it?

  Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the divine power of God, cast into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander now throughout your world seeking the ruin of souls.

  Aunt Jen pokes her head into my room and frowns at me.