Of course that’s okay. That was the plan, wasn’t it?
Maybe she won’t realize anything’s wrong. Until I have to tell her about the repair shop charge that’s about to hit my never-used, for-emergencies-only credit card.
I start typing a response—except my phone vibrates again. New message from: Flora Summer. Shit.
Call me?
Dammit, Flora. This is why Gaby muted you on Twitter.
at movie, can’t talk right now, I type. email you later?
And then, to Mom: oh yeah, just wanted to make sure you knew!
I start to slide my phone back into my pocket, but it buzzes twice in quick succession. If not for Theresa sitting next to me, I might scream.
“You’re pretty popular,” Theresa says.
“Something like that,” I mutter as I look back at the phone.
How are Flora and Jon doing?
And right below that, from Flora: I hope we can talk about this. You’re very important to me. You and Nick both.
Biting the inside of my lip, I type back, hard enough that I hope I’ll punch through the cracked screen: I know. and I’ll be back in Vegas soon, so I’ll see you then.
I hit send. And then I take a closer look at the screen. Shit. I sent that to my mother instead of Flora. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
hahaha sorry!! I type, the autocorrect covering for my shaking fingers. wrong person! was supposed to meet a friend, turns out they’re out of town. and Flora and Jon are doing okay.
I hold my breath. Mom is typing, the phone tells me. “Mom is typing” for about a minute longer than I can stand. Then, finally:
You’re so in demand. Give everyone my love.
I exhale, and I send Flora’s message to the correct person. This time, there’s no quick reply. And I start to slide the phone back in my pocket.
Except it buzzes, one last time.
New message from: Nick L.
hey, colter. can we talk?
Vaguely, I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. I delete the message. But before I put away my phone, I flip through my contacts and delete his entry, too. I didn’t know I still had him in there. Almost a year, and there are still pieces of him I haven’t tucked away. Like broken glass waiting on a bare foot.
I watch the road after all.
* * *
—
I DON’T GET my first clear look at the town of Lotus Valley until we head back, my car shuddering and bouncing on the tow hook. There’s a steep incline just west of the Lethe Ridge housing development, plateauing into a high overlook, but otherwise, the land is flat as far as I can see. Under the afternoon sun, the broadcast tower looks quiet and unlit.
I shift in my seat and make a point to uncurl my fists. Theresa’s been unusually quiet since we picked up the car. That was more than fine with me for the first few miles, but it’s starting to make me more nervous.
“So is the valley nearby?” I ask.
“Huh?” She doesn’t look at me. “Ah. No. There’s no valley.”
“Oh. Okay.” I pause. “Lotuses, then?”
“Nope,” she says.
“Makes sense,” I say as sincerely as I know how.
We make another turn, and the tower passes back into my field of vision. I swallow. I’ve got my car now. Which means the detour is over.
“Could we turn on the radio?” I say. “I—I like the music. When I drive.”
Convincing. A flawless normal human impression. But I’m not sure the question warrants the stare I get in return.
I decide to keep my mouth shut until we get back to the garage.
Theresa swings her long legs out of the truck and strides to the back to unhook Stanley. I follow with a lot more scrambling. “Um,” I say. “About the payment—”
“Pay me when I’m done. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.” She snorts. “Might take a couple of days, though. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
On one hand, there won’t be a credit card charge from the middle of nowhere, dated when I was supposed to be with Flora. But there’s a shift in the air, a pressure that I know doesn’t exist outside my head. For a little while, at least, I’m trapped.
“I guess not,” I mumble.
Theresa doesn’t say anything at first, and for a minute, I think we’re done. But as I start to turn away, she says, “You asked about the radio.”
Something in her tone stops me short. It’s kind of like how that blonde girl sounded, right after I handed her the water. That same sudden interest.
“Y-yeah,” I say.
“Well,” she says. “Sorry to disappoint. But we don’t get any signals here.”
I heard what she said. But I must have misunderstood.
“Nothing?” My voice sounds admirably steady. “I found your local station, though—while I was out on the highway?”
“Our local station,” Theresa repeats. I nod. And she smirks. “Then you must have been having a pretty good dream, Ms. Nobody. We haven’t had a local station since 1973.”
I say something back to her. At least, I hear myself do it—a thank-you, or an apology, or both at the same time. And when I turn back to Morningside Drive, I try to walk like running hasn’t crossed my mind.
I haven’t slept a full night since I got to Flora’s. I didn’t leave Vegas in the clearest state of mind. And most importantly, the only existing recording of that voicemail is on my phone.
And yet I know what I heard. I’m sure. And lately it takes a lot for me to be sure.
“Need a ride?” someone calls from over my shoulder.
It doesn’t sound like Theresa, but it must have been—it came from the garage. “What?” I say as I turn back.
Theresa’s not there. Neither is the garage.
I inhale sharply. The sound echoes down the pavement. Morningside Drive is gone. Lotus Valley is gone. I’m standing in the middle of an empty stretch of road, in the kind of dark stillness you only find in the earliest hours of morning. I’m surrounded by flat, burnt-yellow grass. And the only light to be found is the line of streetlights, few and far between.
“Theresa?” I try, pointlessly. But the only response I get is a low rumble, far in the distance.
I take a few uneasy steps, conscious of any movement behind me. And at the end of my sightline, something starts to take shape. Something tall and gnarled, climbing straight out of the middle of the road. An ancient oak tree.
This isn’t Morningside Drive in Lotus Valley. This is miles away, just outside San Diego, at the corner of Sutton Avenue and Chamblys Road.
I take another step. The branches of the tree become sharper, more defined. The rumble is louder now, lower. So low that my skin ripples into goose bumps just listening.
Another sound breaks through—louder, higher, closer. Then a light, faint at first but growing steadily brighter.
And inches from my toes, the screech of brakes.
My back foot turns wrong as I try to run, and I hit the pavement backward, palms first. The streetlights around me burst open. And when I blink, it’s midafternoon, and I’m sprawled in the middle of the street, nose-to-nose with the grille of a car. The driver leaps out, and the first thing I see is the insignia on his shirt: lotus valley sheriff’s department.
I twist around, and Morningside Drive whirls overhead. I blink hard. And it stays right where it is.
Four
THE APPOINTMENT
THERE ARE BITS of pavement stuck to my skin, dug into little divots. I run my palm under the water until the skin isn’t flecked with black anymore, and then I peel back my sleeve where my forearm hit the street. The fabric isn’t torn, but underneath my arm is scraped up to the elbow. Nice to know this fifteen-dollar shirt is more resilient than I am.
I glance back up at the mirror, at my dark, ringed eyes and the dirt str
eaked across my clothes. But my reflection isn’t looking back out at me. She’s looking down at her scraped, angry-red palms.
And she’s wearing different clothes.
I jerk back from the mirror. But so does my reflection this time. She blinks back at me, startled, wearing my clothes again. I lift my hand—clean and unscratched—to wave. And she doesn’t miss a beat.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. The full name doesn’t sound that bad. Reasonable, even. The kind of thing that can be fixed with yoga, or a massage, or some good, solid Me Time.
It’s when you boil it down to its acronym that things get tricky. Four little letters and subtext for miles.
I don’t use those four letters. What happened, happened to Gaby. Just because she’s not around to feel the fallout doesn’t mean I have any right to it.
But I do know what’s happening to me.
In the most basic and recognizable ways it is cold, hard physiology. A body hardwired to sense danger in a quick movement, or in someone standing too close, or in a series of obstacles between you and the way out. But there’s specificity to each sensation. The hot cement in your chest, the wild and reeling beats of your heart, the dizzy spin of the world. You never have to reach far to remember the worst moment of your life. Your body remembers for you. It remembers with every cell.
But my body can remember all it wants. My brain isn’t going back there with it. For everything I’ve felt over the past year, I’ve never felt anything I would describe as a flashback. This thing that’s happening to me, it hasn’t been controllable, not yet. But by now it should be predictable.
Then again. When I shut my eyes, I still see last night, in the Summers’ narrow kitchen. I still see Nick, standing in the center of my vision, smiling that smile. After what happened—after what almost happened—maybe I can’t expect predictable anymore.
He’s certainly on your mind, isn’t he? That was what that girl had said.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my nails once, light but insistent, into my palms. Not what I need to be thinking about. Not now, not ever.
Easing my phone out of my pocket, I pull up my text messages and flip back to when my therapist texted me his number and charitably pretended he hadn’t already given it to me five times. In case anything comes up, it says. Every one of those five times I nodded, smiled, and silently resolved that if anything came up, I’d handle it myself.
I shove my phone back into my jeans. I’ve read all about flashbacks, what they’re like. Disjointed, impressionistic, almost physical. They’re not literal time travel. Not like that road. Not like the mirror, just now.
I know my diagnosis. I’m not sure this is part of it.
There’s another knock on the door. “Miss?
“Yes!” I say, stepping back from the sink. “Just a second!”
I turn to grab a paper towel. And I pause. Opposite me, blemishing the wall of the perfectly clean, perfectly orderly bathroom, there’s a boarded window.
You will find a window that is not a window. The girl had said that, too.
I open the door and step back out into the lobby. And I have about two seconds to get my bearings before the deputy sheriff’s wide, concerned eyes are inches from mine.
“You’re sure you’re all right, miss?” he says. I don’t think he’s moved since I went into the bathroom. Guess it’s a slow day on the Lotus Valley, Nevada, crime beat.
“Very sure,” I say. “I really appreciate you letting me clean up here, but I should be heading out now, so—”
“And I’ll get you on your way as soon as possible!” he says. “If you could just step into my office over there, we can get started on your statement—”
“Am—” I blink. “Am I in trouble?”
“Oh! No! Of course not!” he says quickly. “I’m citing myself.”
“For what?” I say.
“Reckless driving, of course,” he says.
I blink. “You’re serious.”
“I injured a pedestrian,” he says with a firm nod.
I go for a straight face. It’s hard to tell how successful I am. If Gaby were here, we’d be leaving this station with money for new clothes, fresh coffee, and emotional distress. For a second, I’m tempted.
“Listen, Deputy—” It comes out sharper than I intend. The deputy, whether he meant to or not, is firmly situated between me and the front door.
“Oh, please,” he says, oblivious. “Call me Jay!”
“Deputy Jay,” I continue, raising my voice a little. Someone in the foyer keeps ringing the front desk bell. “I wasn’t paying attention, and I wandered into the road. I don’t think this is really—”
“And it may well be unnecessary, miss,” he says earnestly, seemingly unbothered by the now-constant ringing over his shoulder. “But with the sheriff out of town, I have to make sure all of this is aboveboard. Does that make sense?”
I gesture to the front desk and ask, “Shouldn’t somebody—”
“Think of it this way,” he says, as if he didn’t hear me. “Say your parents are on vacation, and you break your mother’s vase—”
“Jay,” someone calls from the foyer.
He finally turns away from me. The relief is short-lived. Standing on the other side of the front desk is a blonde girl in a polka-dot dress, finishing off the last swig of my water bottle.
The girl from the Lethe Ridge housing development smiles at the deputy. “Why don’t you let me get our guest settled?”
“Cassie?” he says, blinking. “What are you—”
Then he turns back to me, slowly. His smile fades as his eyes lock with mine. And the blood drains from his face.
He’s looking at me with understanding. Which is funny, because I couldn’t be more lost.
“Well.” He clears his throat as he backs away, never taking his eyes off me. “If that’s the case, I’ve got quite the stack of paperwork to finish, so you’ll let me know if you need anything, Cassie?”
“Don’t I always.” She wiggles her fingers in a wave. “Bye, Jay.”
And he bolts. I hear a door slam shut down the hall. Which leaves me and the girl.
I know I’m staring. I don’t think she cares. She looks down at her watch with a light frown. “Hmm. A few minutes behind schedule. But all things considered, not bad.”
Despite my best efforts, I keep staring. I was holding out hope that she was another one of those mirages this town seemed to have in spades. But she looks pretty solid to me.
Finally, I do the one thing I can think of. I grab my backpack from where I left it on the floor, I swing it onto my shoulder, and I start toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Cassie says.
“He said I was done here,” I toss over my shoulder.
“Not right now you’re not,” she says. “That’s not the proper order, first of all.”
It’s just weird enough to stop me. “For what?”
“Any of it,” she says, maddeningly patient. “Like I was saying, we’re more or less on schedule. Let’s not lose our heads.”
“What do you want?” I snap, whirling to face her.
She looks mildly confused. “Right at this moment? A strawberry milk shake.”
“Why are you following me?” I say.
“Strictly speaking, I’ve only just started following you,” Cassie says. As I take another step toward the door, she adds, “But, for one, you’re not going to make it far in this town on your own. And, more immediately, you’re about to waste your time. You can’t get in that way. It’s locked.”
“What is?” I say.
She tosses my empty water bottle into the recycling bin. “You know what. The old broadcast studio.”
Now she’s got my attention. I freeze. “How did you—”
“You’re going to need permis
sion. And the keys. Both of which you’d get from the sheriff,” Cassie says. “So why don’t you slow down and come with me? The studio isn’t going anywhere. And without your car, neither are you.”
I can feel the door behind me. But she’s right. I’m not going to get far on my own. And maybe the wrong direction is better than none.
“Okay,” I say.
“There now,” she says with a smile, like she wants to make sure I already regret this. “Right this way, then. You’ll like the interns. They’re not originally from here, either.”
“Does that mean they make sense?” I say flatly.
Cassie tilts her head, as if considering it. “They certainly like to tell me so.”
I follow her deeper into the building. As the hallway narrows, it also opens up: floor-length windows overlook two courtyards, studded with cacti and ferns. The walls are covered with pictures of ceremonies and events and fairs. The building has a lot in common with Deputy Jay: so bright and friendly it doesn’t look real.
Before long, I can hear someone’s voice around the corner. They’re speaking Spanish. Very bad Spanish.
“Okay,” says a different voice in English. “That means ‘Your monkey is on the table.’”
“Oh,” says the first voice, also in English now. “And if I used usted, what would it mean?”
“‘Your monkey is on the table,’” says the second voice. “Respectfully.”
The two boys behind the desk are my age, maybe younger. The boy on the right is quarterback-handsome, with broad shoulders, olive skin, and expressive brown eyes peeking out from his shaggy black hair. The boy on the left is his physical opposite: small and thin and boy band–cute, with neat chestnut hair and bright blue eyes lined with dark shadows. He’s pale enough that he might disappear into the white-blue wallpaper in the right lighting. When he reaches over to adjust something across the desk, I can see the outline of his wrist bones.
Without missing a beat, Tall, Dark, and Handsome turns to us. “I want to state for the record that I know three languages.”
“You know two,” says the other.
“I know English, Farsi, and Klingon,” says the first boy.
The Valley and the Flood Page 3