The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  Somehow, this thing is following my triggers better than I am.

  When I get my bearings, I see that Cassie’s moved away from the outside wall of the store. She’s standing at the other end of the parking lot now, a hand cupped over her mouth as she mutters into the phone.

  “You’re not liste—” She pauses. I hear her take a breath. “Yes, I know. But that’s not what’s—Yes. Okay. Whatever you want.”

  She hangs up and turns to us in one fluid motion.

  “Is everything okay?” Alex asks.

  “Felix,” she says, her eyes not quite focused on any of us. “Could you give Rose a ride back to Lethe Ridge?”

  “I could use the walk actually,” I say, slow but automatic. It’s only five. We should be using every second we have. “Cassie, I don’t think—”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Felix says. “Rose should be with us, right?”

  “Ms. Jones says the most helpful place for her to be is at that house.” If it’s possible to shrug aggressively, that’s what Cassie does. “And she’s got a decision to make, besides.”

  I blink. Right. That’s what I agreed to—that by the end of the day, I decide what I want to do.

  The others are looking at me. And I hope my answer isn’t written on my face: that for all I’ve seen today, I haven’t found a single scrap of evidence that this thing following me can be reasoned with. Or that I could do something that Rudy can’t.

  For the first time since I’ve met him, Felix’s easy, sunny smile darkens. “Then let’s get going,” he says. “Alex?”

  Alex, on the other hand, hovers. “Do you need a ride, Cassie?” he asks, partially to his feet.

  “You know what?” The soft, round lines of her face are uncharacteristically rigid. “I could use the walk, too.”

  Felix crosses the parking lot to the car in long strides, but Alex hesitates before following. “Whatever you decide . . . it’s up to you,” Alex says slowly. It takes me a second to recognize that he’s talking to me. “I know you must want it gone. But you have time, Rose. It’s a terrifying thing to think, but this flood followed you for a reason. If you don’t try to understand why, that stays with you. Trust me.”

  I rub at my pocket as he disappears into the car. And the business cards of Maggie Williams and Christie Jones crinkle together.

  “He doesn’t like me that much,” Cassie says with a tight laugh as they drive out of the lot. “Felix, that is. He doesn’t think I’m telling him everything.”

  I tread lightly. I’m pretty good at reading people, I think. But right now, I’m at a loss. “I’m sure he’s just stressed,” I say.

  “Oh, I don’t blame him,” Cassie says. “He’s right.”

  I hold very still and leave a wide open space for her to elaborate. At length, she finally makes eye contact with me.

  “I know what you’ve been seeing, Rose,” she says.

  My foot, of its own accord, slides back. I don’t know if she notices this, but she laughs. “Not specifically,” she says. “I trade in the future. I always thought that’s why I never see the flood completely, in all those visions. A creature that pulls past into present—makes sense that we’d be like oil and water, right?”

  Cassie rubs at her arms. “There are things we’ve hidden from this town. We never told them it would be New Year’s Day. We took town records, all the encounters with this thing, all the things people see, and locked them in Ms. Jones’s office. She’s always been adamant that they can’t know what to expect. That the temptation would be too great.”

  “Temptation?” I say.

  Her smile twitches into a thin line. “Not everyone considers the past an enemy, Rose.”

  My brain feels sluggish after so many nights of short, fragmented sleep. But it doesn’t take me long to wrap my head around what she’s getting at. That tape, that cassette player didn’t get to the basement on its own. Somebody paid the Mockingbird to say those words. Recorded it. Hooked it up in that basement. Set it to broadcast.

  “Think about it,” Cassie says. “Why are you here, Rose? Would you have led the flood here no matter what? You didn’t feel the pull of Lotus Valley until you heard that broadcast, did you?”

  “So you’re saying,” I say faintly, “that whoever made that tape was trying to make sure the prophecy would happen.”

  “I’m saying they were instrumental in making it happen. And in all my visions, I never saw that,” Cassie says. “If I missed something that important, there might be even more we don’t know. If whoever made that tape has information we don’t? We need to find them, fast.”

  “If only a few people know what this thing can do,” I say, “you must have some idea who’d want to—”

  “There’s no way they would have done this,” Cassie says shortly. “I already told you—”

  There’s a long, tense beat. She tilts her head into the low afternoon sun and sighs. “Oh,” she says quietly. “Sorry. We didn’t have that conversation yet, did we?”

  She’s already backing away. Despite the heat, her jacket is buttoned shut. “Like you said,” she calls, “the list of people who know what’s coming is a small one. And Ms. Jones thinks she knows exactly where to start—with the only two people I told before I told her. My parents.”

  I don’t see her expression before she looks away, but I think she’s smiling. “Big decision tonight, Rose. I’d tell you what you’ll do. But where’s the fun in that?”

  Eleven

  THE LANGUAGE OF MEMORY

  MY BROTHER, SAMMY, is his mother’s son. In case I didn’t know that before—and I kind of guessed—people make sure to tell us at least once a week. He’s got the little nose, the round face, the way she squints when she doesn’t buy a word you’re saying.

  But when Sammy and my stepfather open their mouths at the same time, you get exactly where Dan’s genes went.

  “Hold on, hold on.” I laugh, readjusting the phone. “One at a time.”

  The volume of Sammy’s voice goes from seven to eleven, like he’s grabbed the phone. “Are you going to make us millionaires in Las Vegas, Rosie?”

  “Did Dad tell you that?” I ask.

  There’s a rustle—Dan taking the phone back, I think. “I would never.” He pauses. “But he’s got this wacky idea that once you hit the jackpot, you’re going to buy him an Xbox.”

  “Xbox!” Sammy echoes, his voice already distant, like he’s started sprinting laps around the couch again. People always ask, coming over for the first time, why we’ve got little crop circles burned into the carpet.

  My mother shifts closer to the phone with a sigh. “Rosie,” she says, “you left me outnumbered.”

  Over the phone, I hear the telltale sound of a little foot catching on the edge of the carpet, and the thud of someone falling face-first. There’s a brief silence. Then a slowly building wail.

  “Well,” says Dan, over the sound of my brother’s screams, “that was bound to happen sometime.”

  “It’s almost like it was inevitable from the second you said Xbox,” Mom says, her grin audible.

  “And that’s my cue to exit.” He grunts, like he’s scooped Sammy up from the floor. “Come on, Road Runner. Bed.”

  “No!” Sammy wails.

  “A compelling argument,” Dan says solemnly. Into the phone, he says, “Rosie, give Flora and Jon a hug for me. And call anytime. We miss you.”

  Something in my chest curls, and I fidget. “Miss you, too,” I say.

  “Love you, Freckles,” he says, with a smooching sound so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Sleep well.”

  My smile spreads despite itself. Dan has always called me Freckles. My father’s family has always called me Beanstalk. I like Dan’s better.

  The sound quality sharpens as Mom takes me off speakerphone. She lets out an exaggerated sigh, and I
laugh. And then, for a second, we’re quiet.

  My hand’s still quivering. It has been since the long, hot walk back to Lethe Ridge. Toward the end of Morningside Drive, someone had leaned out of his car. What gives you the right? he’d yelled at me.

  It’s a fair question.

  I should make some excuse to hang up. If it gets much later, I might not get Mayor Williams on the phone.

  But then Mom asks, “How’s Flora?”

  Flora. As if my nerves needed more adrenaline to process. “She went to bed early,” I say quickly. The question wasn’t Can I talk to Flora? but it would have been.

  “Mm.” A pause. “And how are you?”

  I glance around at the sharp angles and long shadows of the model house. “Fine.”

  “Rosie.” Even from the other end of the phone, I know her mouth is sort of twisted off to the side. “I know you want to be there for the Summers. And I’m so proud of you that you made this trip. But this is going to be hard for you. Anniversaries always are.”

  “I don’t need Flora to comfort me, Mom,” I say, through the sudden tightness in my throat.

  “You might need someone to,” she says. “And Flora loves you very much, but I don’t think she can right now.”

  I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t give me away. This balancing act is hard enough already: before I called the house, I spent about ten minutes reassuring Flora via text that I’m fine, I’m not mad, I just can’t call right now. I’m sorry, Gaby. I was always a little horrified at how easily you could lie to your mother.

  “Did you tell Sammy I won’t be there on Thursday?” I ask.

  “He already knows,” she says.

  “He’s been talking about counting down with me, to the new year.” I twist the hem of my shirt around my fingers. If all goes well, I’ll be out of Lotus Valley tomorrow. But as for where I go after that . . . “I just thought—”

  “He’s seven years old! He’ll be in bed by nine thirty.” She’s laughing, but the unease still comes through. “What’s this about?”

  “Nothing.” Obviously not nothing. I take a breath. “This is hard for you, too, Mom.”

  “What is?”

  Me. But I’m not going to go there. “This trip. I know you weren’t sure about it.”

  She sighs. “Rosie, this has to be about what’s going to help you. And if this trip is what helps, I promise I won’t worry.”

  For a second, even with all this distance between us, she feels so close it’s excruciating. I could tell her right now why I left, what happened in that kitchen. She could tell me that it was okay, that it wasn’t as bad as it felt in that moment. She would tell me that even if she didn’t mean it.

  My phone has been a necessary evil this past year. But at least I don’t have to look her in the eye right now. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s helping.”

  “Okay.” Her smile is audible. “Then consider me not worried.”

  I smile back. The muscles in my jaw feel tight, and the stiffness bleeds down to my shoulders. I stretch my head to the side. “I’ll be home in a few days, and we can—”

  It’s only then, tilting my head to the side, that I see her there. Just a few feet away, in the mouth of the darkened kitchen. Gaby.

  We lock eyes. At least I think we do, at first. But she’s looking past me, at something that doesn’t exist in this time. She curls in on herself, cupping a hand over her mouth, and whispers into her cell phone. Her favorite maxi dress flutters in a breeze I don’t feel.

  That day before the funeral, I tore Gaby’s closet apart looking for that dress. It was her favorite, I said. She called it her mystical beach goddess dress, I said. I said all this in front of Flora as we looked for a dress to bury her in. But it wasn’t in her closet anymore. She was wearing it that night. She was wearing it.

  Rose? Are you there?

  Behind her, there’s a voice, low and indistinct. She glances over her shoulder. And then she’s gone.

  “I’m actually gonna go,” I say. “I’m a little tired.”

  “It’s only eight.” I can hear her chewing on her lip. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine.” My fingers feel numb around the phone. Even my toes are tingling. “Long day. Can I text you tomorrow?”

  “Of course you can. Just . . .” She falters. “You can leave anytime you want. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I echo. The words sound far away from me. “Good night, Mom.”

  My hand drops away from my ear before she finishes saying it back. And I end the call.

  Silence falls like a slab of concrete.

  Gently, I lower my dangling foot to the carpet, pushing myself off the couch without looking away from the spot where the living room meets the kitchen. The light ends at the point where the ceiling slopes. I can’t see anything past it.

  “Gaby.” I swallow, wetting my throat. “Gaby?”

  Somewhere in the darkened kitchen, someone beats a rhythm. Tap, tap, tap.

  The living room crumbles at the edges. The kitchen tugs like some gravitational anomaly, pulling me into its center. My toes curl into the carpet just shy of the entryway.

  I slide my hand around the corner and hit the lights.

  The knob of the kitchen sink has been nudged a little to the left, just enough to let the droplets find a rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  My exhale comes out as a laugh as I step into the kitchen. “If you have to result to half-assed haunted house tricks, I think you might be running out of—”

  But then I cross the entryway and get an unobstructed view of the room. Sitting by the sink, just barely balanced on the countertop, is a small paring knife.

  The handle wobbles a little, as if someone only just let it go, but it doesn’t fall. Its movements even out, its blurred lines sharpen. It goes still. It plays dead.

  “So . . . what,” I say “You want to go there, too?”

  They don’t respond. But if they have ears, they’re going to listen.

  “You know, the sheriff thinks you can’t hate a shark for being a shark,” I say. “She thinks this is just your nature. Is it? Or are you having fun?”

  The lights flicker twice, three times. But I’m shouting over my own fear now. If something’s happening, that’s good. It means they can hear me.

  “You understand me, then.” My voice keeps rising. “So how about you use your words, because I’m not impressed with the smoke and mirrors show anymore. Tell me why you followed me here. Tell me what you want. Talk to me.”

  Then a quiet, familiar voice to my left says, “Okay.”

  And there she is. Leaning against the doorframe, watching me steadily, unblinking. That mystical beach goddess maxi dress whipping in a breeze from another time. Nearly every inch of her is Gaby. But when I meet her eyes, I know better.

  “You’re not Gaby,” I say.

  She shakes her head gently.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath. The room feels cool and damp and vast, like the air at the edge of the ocean. “Then I’d rather you pick another face, if that’s all right with you,” I say. “Not hers.”

  Her head tilts a little to the side. Her face remains Gaby.

  “Okay,” I say. “So what do I call you, then? Because Rudy’s already taken. Got a nickname, maybe? What do the other ancient, unknowable somethings call you?”

  Her head slowly rights itself, her eyes unblinking.

  “Okay,” I say quietly. “The Flood it is. Closest word in our vocabulary, I hear.”

  Her eyes don’t leave mine. She looks whole. Three dimensional. But the longer I look at her, the more I see a paper doll. A flat, inanimate face at the edge of a closed curtain. And somewhere in that moment, I remember to be scared.

  “Do you understand me?” I cringe. I sound so small.

 
She nods.

  I swallow. “Then answer the question. Why are you doing this?”

  She inclines her head at something past me. I look where she’s looking, at the now-still paring knife behind me.

  “And your point is what?” I say. “That you know everything? Then you know nothing happened. That I left before anything could happen.”

  It’s then that her expression changes. She narrows her eyes. “No.”

  “It’s true,” I say, with more force.

  “No,” she says, her own voice rising, and with a sound remarkably like annoyance, she points at the back of the kitchen.

  I look behind me. Over my shoulder is the dusty, empty classroom of Lotus Valley Elementary School, and in the center is Christie Jones, smiling affectionately at the massive shadow spreading from her feet.

  “But he’s never had the words to tell me his name,” she says.

  There’s another flicker of the lights, and the scene collapses on itself, leaving only the kitchen.

  I turn back to Gaby—to the Flood. Her face has turned to stone.

  “I don’t understand,” I say slowly. “Is this . . . how you talk? Through images?”

  “Memory,” she says softly. Gaby’s voice handles the word gently, reverently. But that softness is gone with a flicker of her gaze.

  “Memories, then,” I say. “My memories?”

  She nods.

  I let out a sigh of a laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but . . . post-traumatic stress disorder. Memory is my problem. I mean, of course you’ve heard. You know everything.”

  I don’t think she understands what I’m saying. She’s looking at me, but her stare is focused somewhere far away. In the distance, I hear that sound again. That low, shivery roar.

  “What’s that noise?” I say. “I keep hearing it.”

  In the harsh light of the kitchen, Gaby’s eyes look black and endless. “The beginning,” she says.

  I don’t ask. I don’t want to know.

  “Okay. Christie Jones says you came to me because there’s something you need from me.” I cross my arms tight across my chest. “But I don’t know what you’re trying to say, unless you’d like to drive home that life’s sucked for the past year.”