I sighed. It is what it is.
Sylvia somehow squashed two six–packs of Gatorade, two bags of chips, and a small cheesecake on ice into my day pack. Will was bringing sandwiches. Dad asked me three separate times about my cell: did I have it with me, was it charged, was the ringer on? It was annoying, but I gave him a big hug and told him I’d be fine. Then I saw him frowning at Will and wished I could take the hug back.
“Samantha, do you get car–sick?” Mickie asked as we finished loading the Jeep.
“Sometimes, a little,” I admitted.
“Okay,” she said, “Will drives and you ride up front. Narrow, curvy roads don’t sit well with Will. He hurls if he’s not driving.”
“Mick—geez,” Will groaned.
I chortled, then turned it into a throat clearing as I climbed in beside Will. I’d found Mickie’s abrupt manner intimidating in the past, but she was kind of funny.
We began the drive, crawling through Oakhurst, Sugar Pine and Fish Camp.
“The Valley’s going to be full,” said Will, pointing at the line of hulking RV’s ahead of us. “How about we stay up top? The high country will be less crowded and a few degrees cooler.”
“Illilouette?” asked Mickie.
Will nodded. “Illilouette is this great waterfall that people never see because you have to hike in to find it. Above the falls, there’s a beautiful stretch of creek. Mostly hikers think of it as something to get across, not an actual destination. Which is fine by us, eh, Mick?”
Mickie nodded, grinning.
The Jeep gained elevation and the digger pines disappeared; sugar and ponderosa pines took over. Shrubs and greener ground cover replaced yellow, dry grasses. When we reached Wawona at four–thousand feet, the air was fresher, cooler, scented by resinous pine with the hint of horses and barns nearby. I felt excited. “Wawona” and “Illilouette” were names I knew from my mom’s paintings of Yosemite.
An hour later we pulled into the large parking lot at Glacier Point and scampered up to the trailhead. I gawked at the overlook, recognizing Half Dome at once; even in profile it was unmistakable. To the right of it, I could see two thin, bright ribbons of white that had to be waterfalls.
“Nevada Fall up top, Vernal Fall below,” Will said when I asked if either of those were the waterfall we’d be hiking to. “Illilouette, our fall, is hidden below us.”
Knobbly domes of granite perched everywhere, the spaces between filled by the dark greens of pines and brush. Far in the distance I could see jagged peaks, covered with snow even in late August.
Mickie asked politely if I wanted to walk out to Glacier Point itself. I didn’t. I said I had a memory of standing there with Mom, and she dropped it. “We should probably get going anyway,” Mickie said. “We want time to hang out plus the time it takes to hike there and back again.”
The climb down to the creek was lovely. The path had been well–maintained. “Our donations at work,” said Mickie. She explained that the National Park itself couldn’t afford the upkeep on all the hundreds of miles of trails and that an organization collected donations to help out.
We saw a few other hikers, mostly smiling backpackers coming out from the high country with a week’s worth of grime and sunshine on their faces. The trail was far from quiet, however.
“Hear the waterfalls?” called Will, ahead of me on the path.
“It sounds like the ocean—like waves crashing,” I replied. We rounded another switchback and the reverberation changed, becoming like a thousand voices whispering together. Nearer, I noticed smaller noises: the crunch of ground granite beneath my feet and the slap of webbing straps as my pack jostled.
The trail descended rapidly, carving through brush and thickets. We could see the burned out remains of pines, but shade was infrequent.
“I didn’t think it would be so hot, just hiking downhill,” I said as we stopped at an icy rivulet crossing the trail.
Mickie smiled and handed me a scrunchy. I put my hair up, and the breeze on my damp neck felt like heaven.
As we descended into the valley of the Illilouette Creek, the ponderosas clustered into a forest which provided shelter from the intense sun. The wind rumbled through the branches above us, and I felt small and insignificant beneath the murmuring giants. The trail continued in relentless zigzags to the creek below, changing from granite–gravel to dark, rich soil.
And then the trail diverged, without the rusted metal trail markers we’d seen at other forks. I paused, confused. Will passed me taking the left path, and Mick passed me to the right.
“My side has the view,” Will called back to me.
“My way’s faster,” Mick hollered.
I followed Will. The brush cleared and I inhaled sharply at the vista. Before us, Illilouette Creek twisted ninety degrees and plunged to become a waterfall. We stood without speaking, watching the churning water as it raced to the cliff’s edge and over falling down, down, down. If I fixed my eye on a bit of spray, it appeared to tumble in slow motion, like it wanted to avoid the inevitable crash. It made my throat clench and I felt sad somehow.
“Three–hundred–seventy foot drop,” Will said. He looked over, caught my expression before I could hide it. “Hey, let’s go find a place to sit and eat.” He punched my shoulder and I smiled. We continued down the path, our shoes kicking up moist, earthy smells.
Through the trees, I caught flashes that had to be water. Soon Will and I were bouldering, scrabbling alongside the creek looking for his sister.
“Found her,” Will called to me.
A patch of gravelly sand had collected on the side of the creek where Mickie waited, hands on hips, her back to us. We tumbled the packs off our shoulders.
“The water’s so loud,” I said. “I can’t believe they call this a creek.”
“Loud but peaceful,” Will said.
Mickie turned to us, smiling. The spot she’d picked had a great view up the creek, where the water coursed white and foaming through boulders. The view downstream was blocked by a “snag,” the term Mickie used to describe the fallen tree trunks piled atop one another along the creek. The snag backed the water up, creating a pool maybe six feet deep.
The creek–bottom was filled with varying sizes of rounded granite river–rock, uniformly speckled with black. Instead of ordinary whitish granite, I could make out a dozen different shades: ivory, gold, pinky–yellows, pale oranges, tans. The multi–colored rock tinged the water so that it appeared rosy–golden as it rushed downstream.
Mom would have known how to paint those colors.
Mickie had been quietly emptying her pack and now passed a sandwich to me. From my pack, I grabbed potato chips and drinks to share.
Half an hour later, sated and tired, the three of us collapsed: me onto gravel, Mickie against a boulder, and Will against a fallen trunk. I lay on my belly, warm and drowsy from food and the rushing noise of the creek.
After a few minutes sitting in silence, Mickie stood. “I need to take care of something ‘one–hundred yards or more away from a fresh–water source.’”
I guffawed. Mick had a way with words. The day was turning out better than I’d expected. I felt so relaxed I didn’t even jump into twenty–question–mode once she was out of earshot.
Beside me, Will searched through a group of smaller rocks and pebbles. “Sorry about the change in plans,” he said.
“It’s okay. I’m having a great day. I like your sister’s sense of humor.”
“Sense of humor? She doesn’t have one. But she’s plenty funny.”
I laughed at his assessment. “What are you looking for?”
“Skipping stones,” he replied. He continued moving the rocks back and forth, removing one every so often and setting it aside in a growing pile.
“Look at this,” he said, passing me a spherical piece of granite the size of a ping–pong ball.
“It’s perfect,” I said. The black speckles caught the sunlight and glistened as I turned it over.
>
“Keep it,” said Will.
“You want to think twice giving a girl a big sparkly rock.”
Will grunted, a small laugh.
I leaned out towards the creek and dipped the tiny globe to see what it would look like. Wet, the black spots leapt out in sharp contrast to the creamy background. I turned it to reveal splotches of pale gold. I set it in front of me in the pea–gravel to dry and gazed contentedly at the colorful rocks beneath the slick–smooth surface of the water. Sunlight splattered through tree limbs high overhead, dotting the creek with bright splotches as it flowed inexorably to the falls. I’d never seen anything so lovely, so hypnotic.
Will set another round rock beside my first one. I smiled, but didn’t reach out for it. I speculated idly what it would look like in the water, but really, I was too comfortable to bother checking.
Mickie returned and said, in an upward inflection, “Sam’s turn?”
My turn for what? I wondered.
“She better have a good sense of direction,” Mickie muttered.
It should’ve annoyed me that she spoke about me like I wasn’t there, but I felt so perfectly content that I just ignored her. Will frowned my direction, his index finger gliding to his lips as if to confirm I should disregard his sister. Fine by me, I thought.
“Sam’s good,” Will said. He set another rock by my first two.
I smiled at him and then turned my gaze to the new stone. It was pinker than the others. It would look beautiful if it got wet. I reached for the stone. My hand didn’t seem to follow my volition, though. Odd, I thought, bending my gaze towards my arm.
Then several things happened at almost the same moment. I realized I couldn’t see my arm. Will reached out as if to touch me and out of nowhere, like someone started a movie in my head, I saw a crisp image—a dark–featured girl with her hands on her hips. She looked thirteen or fourteen, and she sure seemed angry. She pointed, shouting, towards a receding ambulance. I couldn’t hear what she said.
The image faded, I solidified, and Mickie shrieked.
Chapter Five
INSUBSTANTIAL
For a moment we sat without words as Mickie processed what her eyes had just registered.
“Impossible,” she whispered. Then, her voice low and icy, she asked, “What have you done, Will?”
“Nothing.”
“She can ripple Will.” Her tone was venomous.
“Yeah, no kidding?” He continued sorting rocks.
Angry fire danced in her eyes and I was grateful it was directed at her brother. “You swore, Will. You swore an oath on our mother’s grave.”
I didn’t know people still did that.
“You’re making an assumption without checking your facts,” Will said.
“The hell I am! I just saw her ripple, and you don’t so much as blink an eye? I think I have all the evidence I need to understand what’s going on here.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“Oh, she just figured out you have Rippler’s Syndrome all by herself?” Mickie asked. “Oh, I get it. You didn’t tell her. You showed her. That’s still breaking your promise. God, Will, what were you thinking?”
I stared from Will to Mick and back again. Will had Rippler’s Syndrome? And he hadn’t let on?
Furious, I shouted, “Why didn’t you tell me?” and Will, at almost the same time, shouted at his sister, “I said I didn’t tell her and I meant it. But you just took care of that, didn’t you?”
“What?” Mickie and I asked the question together.
Both siblings ignored me.
Will’s dark gaze matched his sister’s. “You heard me the first time.”
Shock registered on Mickie’s face. It looked like Will was the only person not getting a major reveal today, because if I understood right, Will had the same condition I did, only he’d kept it a secret from me because of an oath his sister had forced him to swear on their dead mom’s grave. Except now, she’d blown it.
Will spoke. “This has nothing to do with you, Mickie.”
“Nothing to do with me? This has everything to do with me. You’re my responsibility!”
“I don’t need you to take care of me, Mick. I’m not a child anymore.”
“When are you going to grow up, Will?”
They were both silent. I spoke quietly, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I made a promise,” he said.
Mickie continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “I made a promise, Will: I told Mom I’d watch out for you!” Her voice was tight and pinched, but she refused to give in to tears. “How am I supposed to take care of you if you can’t even keep this a secret?”
“I’m not the one who let the cat out of the bag, Mick. And believe me, Sam’s perfectly aware of what could happen if someone finds out.”
“You’ve told her what could happen? Oh, that’s just great.” She threw her hands up. “Great. You never think through the consequences of your actions, do you?”
“I trust her,” Will said, his voice quiet and tense.
“Well, that’s a damn good thing, isn’t it? Seeing as how she’s holding our lives in her hands at this moment.” Mickie struggled to maintain her composure, face pale with anger.
Will’s gaze was cold and hard, unfathomable.
Then Mickie spoke softly. “You need to recognize there are consequences for every action you take, Will.”
“Maybe I’m sick and tired of us not taking action,” Will said.
“Do you want people to find you? Who should we tell first? Do you want the experimental physicists to know? The CIA? How about the mystery assassins who took out Pfeffer? Our dad maybe? There’s an idea—Dad could just sell you to the highest bidder.”
Will exploded. “Give it a friggin’ rest, Mick!”
Mickie sat frozen, gazing unseeing across the creek. “I need some time. Meet me at the car in an hour.”
She stood up and marched off leaving me alone with Will, not even collecting her pack, but I wasn’t about to call after her.
Will and I sat without speaking: Will staring at the creek, me staring at Will. He picked up and skipped a rock. It glanced elegantly across the glassy surface, curving off to the right and clattering onto the rocky shore opposite.
“I didn’t mean for you to hear it like this,” he said gruffly. He chose another flat stone, aimed it across the smooth, wet plane. “I wanted to tell you all along.”
I felt a lot of ways right now, but “hurt” topped the list. “I can’t believe you never said anything to me.”
Will continued skipping rocks until he exhausted his supply. He looked around half–heartedly for more, then gave that up as well and lay back with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. About not telling you. Really, really sorry. But it’s like you heard. Mick made me swear on my mom’s grave that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
I kicked my heel against the loose granite–gravel, then nodded. “I get that.”
He sat up again, elbows on knees, palms grinding into his forehead. “You must be wishing you’d stayed in Las Abs.”
“No,” I said. “It’s beautiful here. I’m glad I came.”
He lowered his palms from his head. His eyes, hidden under the fringe of lashes, slowly rose until he met my gaze. He smiled a sad, half–smile. “Well, that’s one good thing out of this whole mess.”
“And I’m glad I know. About you,” I said, still holding his eyes with mine.
“Yeah.” He sighed and his shoulders relaxed several inches. “It’ll be a lot easier to teach you how to control what you’re doing now I don’t have to keep my knowledge a secret.”
“That’ll be great.”
“That leaves us with one important question,” he said, eyes sober and fixed on mine.
I straightened up, ready for anything.
“Your step–mom,” he said. “How’s her cheesecake?”
I laughed. “It’s the best.” I reached in my pack and cut him a slice.
“Looks great. Forks?”
I rummaged through my pack for a minute before remembering I’d left the forks on the counter at home. “Oops.”
Will shrugged, picked up the whole piece, and stuffed half of it in his mouth. His eyes widened. “It’th delithouth!”
I laughed. “I’ll tell her you said so. Exactly like that.”
Will finished chewing and swallowed before adding, “Nice of Mick to take off. More for us.” He held out a hand for seconds.
I frowned. It was my fault Mickie had taken off.
“Don’t even think about feeling bad. Mick’s like a volcano. She’s not happy unless she lets off steam every couple days.” Will shook his head. “Seriously, it’s her problem, not yours. It’s not like you did it on purpose.” He looked inquisitively at me. “Did you disappear on purpose?”
I shook my head no. “I only noticed when I went to grab this rock and I couldn’t see my arm.” I held up the pinkish rock. “So, does stuff disappear if you pick it up when you’re invisible, or does it just sort of hover out in the air?”
“Neither.”
“Either you can see it or you can’t.”
“No, it’s not like that—you can’t pick things up once you ripple.”
“Huh?” I stared at him, feeling confused. “Why not?”
“Wow, Sam, it’s weird you haven’t noticed this—no offense—it’s just that there isn’t any ‘you’ to pick something up with, you know?” He paused. “I mean, I guess it isn’t that weird, you not noticing. You haven’t rippled much.”
“Are you saying I don’t have any … substance? When I ripple I’m not just invisible, I’m …” I broke off, not able to figure out what the opposite of having substance would be.
“Mickie used to get so mad at me for rippling when we were little. She’d have us playing tea party or Barbies or something and I’d get bored. If I would try to run away, she would catch me. But if I rippled, she couldn’t grab me or figure out where I was. She tried a lot before she figured out it didn’t work. She said that the air got really cold where I rippled, though, so sometimes she could tell I was still in the room, and she’d bribe me to come back and play.”
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