The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  She shakes her head.

  “No?” I say.

  “No,” she echoes. And for a second, she does look like Gaby—like that look Gaby used to get when I picked at plot holes in her favorite movies. “Listen,” she says. “Remember. Understand.”

  “Listen . . . to what you’re showing me?” I ask. She nods. “Sure, but I can’t stop remembering it, that’s my entire . . .” I get the Gaby look again, and I stop. “Okay. Understand. So . . . I look at what you’re showing me. I remember it. And then I understand . . .”

  There’s a surge of air from behind her shoulders, like an exhale. I remember, a little late, that this is not a person. This is a lure at the end of a hook.

  Just like the voice on that cassette. Broadcasting into the desert. Knowing I would come.

  I’ve started shivering. I hear it in my voice before I think to look at my fingers. “I listen,” I say slowly. “I remember. And then I understand what I’ve brought to this town.”

  She nods. No emotion. Like I asked if she wants cream in her coffee.

  “This is your home. The place you were born,” I say. “You’re really going to destroy it?”

  Another cool nod.

  I look at her empty face. I don’t see anything familiar. I don’t see anything human. I don’t see my best friend, even in this thing that’s wearing her likeness.

  But I do see something alive. Something that chose me, even if I can’t understand why. Christie and Alex said the Flood is following me for a reason. That I would regret not learning what it was.

  I don’t think I want to know the reason.

  But I don’t think I want Rudy to kill the Flood, either.

  “Can you tell me why?” I say softly.

  There’s a creak at the far end of the bedroom wing. And then, almost inaudibly, soft, desperate sobs. The same I heard just hours ago at Lotus Valley Elementary School.

  I jerk back instinctually. And that’s when I realize that my bare feet are no longer touching tile. I look down, then up again. And my world tilts sharply. Straight into the upstairs wing of the Summers’ old house.

  “That’s not an answer.” I say But the Flood is already gone.

  Central air drifts across my shoulders and fills the hall with a sputtering artificial chill. My jeans feel cool against my legs as I take a step. In the back of my mind, I can almost feel the nice black skirt I was wearing that day, brushing my ankles. That skirt was so soft. I wish I’d worn something I hated that day. At least then I wouldn’t mind never wearing it again.

  Gaby always liked me in black. She liked that it made my red hair look redder. But I don’t think that was how she meant for me to wear it.

  “It’s already happened,” I whisper. This day is over, done, already survived. Keep going. Keep breathing.

  I move toward the sobs, remembering how my cheap heels wobbled in the carpet. I leave the hall lamp off, as I did then. There’s light coming through the door up ahead.

  I raise my hand to knock. I’m not sure if the hesitation that follows is mine now, or mine then.

  But eventually, I do knock. I do call out to her.

  “Flora?”

  JANUARY 5, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

  NOTE TO SELF: There are days you never leave. Days of new rules you never meant to carry forward. But they stick, don’t they? They stick to the bottoms of your feet and the curves of your shadow.

  Maybe it would have happened one way or the other, you and Flora. Knowing you and knowing her, it probably would have. But in reality, it happened like this, with you standing in the Summers’ hallway. You weren’t trying to be helpful. You weren’t trying to be there for anyone. You were just trying to find a second alone.

  Gaby’s house is bigger in her absence. Longer. Stretched taut and quiet. And you were all running late, which she would have loved. You can almost hear it. My one and only funeral, and none of you assholes can tie a tie?

  So with your mother and Dan fussing at Jon’s collar and Sammy fiddling with the edges of the carpet, you duck upstairs. You hadn’t noticed Flora wasn’t with the rest of them.

  You don’t think to wonder where she is until you see the lights on in the master bedroom. Then you hear the crying.

  The air shifts upward and the lights flicker as the AC kicks on. You could go back downstairs. She hasn’t heard you. She’d never know you were there.

  She’s on her knees by the foot of the bed, a piece of paper curled into her fist. Her hands rest by her sides; she doesn’t bury her face in them like you do. She doesn’t swallow her gasps, like Mom did in the years after your father died. Her mouth is wide open. She doesn’t care who knows.

  Flora’s always been like that. When she’s upset, Gaby knew it, you knew it, the cashier at Trader Joe’s knew it. You can’t help but wonder if that’s why she reacts so big: because she wants people to know. Maurice will tell you later that that’s not a bad thing, wanting people to know. You’re not a better person for suffering alone. No one’s going to give you a prize for the best poker face. If they did, you’d have won a long time ago.

  Later, you’re going to be ashamed of how long it takes you to say something. But eventually, you do.

  “Flora?”

  She jerks the crumpled paper closer to her chest as she turns. Her breath hitches. Her lip keeps trembling.

  “I can’t do it,” she whispers.

  Carefully, you lower yourself to your knees in front of her, and you take the crumpled piece of paper as it’s offered. You smooth it out against the soft black skirt you’ll never wear again. And you catch the first few lines of a reading from the book of Ecclesiastes.

  “I c-can’t get up there.” Her teeth are chattering.

  “You don’t have to read it.” Your voice is low. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “But it’s already planned,” she says, more firmly now. “And we’re already late, and I just don’t have time to call Judy—”

  “Judy?” you ask.

  Flora’s breath shudders as she speaks. “The venue coordinator.”

  You laugh. God. There are venue coordinators for funerals.

  Flora knows what you mean, though. Her lips even twitch. “There are so many steps, Rose. You have to wait for the congregation to sit, you have to finish the reading, you have to sit at the back of the altar until the cantor tells you to go—”

  “Or what?” You can’t even sound angry. Just puzzled that Judy’s been given the slightest say. “She’s your daughter.”

  Her face crumples again. “Please, Rose. I can’t. I can’t, please . . .”

  The piece of paper trembles as your legs do, and you take in the words, line by line.

  There are days you never leave. Days that change the makeup of the ground. And while you are looking at that paper, she will look at you, for the first time, like someone different. Not her daughter’s friend. Not a child. But someone strong enough to get through this. Strong enough to carry her with you. She will never stop looking at you like that.

  And maybe that’s not true. Maybe you don’t want to get through today. Maybe you’ve never wanted anything less.

  You’ll do it anyway.

  Under the full force of that stare, it’s not hard to tuck your own grief away. To put it somewhere safe. To tie it tight like a boat on a dock.

  But there’s something you don’t know yet about pain: it flourishes with or without you. You push it back, and nothing changes. All you’ve done is make it harder to reach.

  “It’s fine,” you say. And it even sounds fine. “Okay, Flora, it’s fine. I’ll do it.”

  She pitches forward against your chest with a muffled wail. And you rest your hands, gently, against her back.

  “Shhh,” you say, more breath than word. “It’s okay. Shhh.”

  Almost since you were old enough to lis
ten, people have spilled the contents of their hearts into your arms. Mom says it’s your eyes—big, brown, understanding. Your father’s. But listening was one thing. You always hoped you sounded like someone who knew what to say.

  But you understand now. Knowing what to say is easy. Think of what you want to hear most in this world—what you would never let yourself ask for—and tell them.

  And then later, when you’re alone, say it to yourself.

  Twelve

  THE SECOND DAY

  I DON’T SLEEP much that night.

  I try, for a while. But after a few hours I move to the living room couch. I can’t relax unless I can see both doors. Throughout the night, I keep looking at them. The front door made of heavy wood. The back door of sliding glass over my shoulder, within tantalizing reach.

  Around three a.m., I finally call Sheriff Jones. She answers so quickly the phone must have been in her hand.

  It’s a short, delirious conversation: she tells me that I’m making the right choice, that she’ll ensure I don’t regret it, that she’ll help as best she can, and that I should rest until the morning. I ask if I should call Maggie Williams. She tells me she’ll figure it out soon enough.

  I fall into an uneasy doze by the window, snapping awake at every little sound.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting Mayor Williams to do, exactly. I don’t know what she can do. And if she can still see the future, maybe she already saw what I was going to choose. All I know is that for the past few hours, I’ve heard the voice of that man, yelling from his car.

  What gives you the right?

  I don’t know what gives me the right, exactly. But this isn’t some nameless something anymore. Whatever they want, they’re trying to tell me. And maybe it’s Alex’s words still ringing in my ear. But I think I should try to listen.

  And since our conversation, that stirring over my shoulder—the feeling I’ve come to recognize as the Flood—feels a little closer. I wonder if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

  As the light spreads across the pavement, my phone buzzes with a text. I pick it up, heart hammering. But it’s not Mom, or Flora.

  Rose, it’s Christie Jones. I’m heading out for an interview, should be back by late afternoon. Felix is picking you up.

  I start to respond but pause when I see she’s typing something else. Eventually, my phone buzzes.

  Can you check on Cassie when you get to the station?

  I laugh softly. Sounds like that conversation didn’t go well. Sure, but I’ve only known her a day?

  She likes you, Christie types back.

  She seems really sure her parents didn’t do this, I type.

  The response comes a few minutes later. See, this is why she likes you.

  I toss the phone to the couch cushions and try to close my eyes a little longer. I don’t sleep very deeply. But when I open the door to wait outside, there’s a note, in a flowy feminine hand, sitting on the doormat:

  Have it your way.

  I spend the rest of my wait on the front steps, watching the road.

  Felix pulls up eventually, looking as tired as I feel. So at least we’re in the same place emotionally.

  His stare sharpens a little when I get closer, though, and I can feel him watching me as I offload my bag into the back seat. I manage a weary smile as I wave.

  He takes a breath, and I tense. But he doesn’t ask why I’m giving the Flood a chance, or if I considered the mayor’s offer, or any of what I’m expecting to hear.

  “Are you okay?”

  For a long, blank second, all I can do is stare. It’s been a while since anyone asked me that.

  “What?” I say.

  “Sorry.” His eyes get wider. “You’ve got kind of a . . .” He indicates his face with a circular gesture, which is both impossibly vague and immediately understandable.

  “It’s fine,” I say quickly.

  “I mean, if you say so,” he says. “But if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  I give him a look across the hood of the car. And then I swallow. “Can I drive?”

  He blinks. But he doesn’t ask. He tosses me the keys, and he starts to walk around to the passenger’s side.

  I take a second to adjust the seat, the mirrors, I slide the keys into the ignition. And it unties a knot I’d forgotten was there.

  Felix, buckling his seat belt, smiles at me. “What’d you do about the mayor?”

  I smile queasily back. “Blew her off.”

  He nods, long and serious. “Power move.”

  I snort. “And you guys? What’d you find?”

  “In terms of actual information?” Felix says. He doesn’t elaborate, but his grimace says it all. “Not to worry, though. Allie has a Plan.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Good. What?”

  “Well, first of all, we’re detouring a little,” he says. “Head to Gibson Repairs, and we’ll go to the station from there.”

  Reflexively, I glance at the dashboard panel, and he quickly adds, “Not for me, don’t worry. You’ll see when we get there.”

  And as we pull up next to the garage, I still don’t get it. It’s not until I get a closer look at the strip mall across the street that I realize where we are: sitting exactly opposite Paul’s Pawn and Loan.

  Theresa herself is leaning against the garage when we pull up, and as Felix rolls his window down, she unceremoniously thrusts a piece of paper into his hand. “It’s not a complete list or anything,” she says. “I do work from time to time, you know.”

  Felix unfolds the paper, and I catch a lengthy list of names. “No, this is perfect,” he says. “And the people you’ve seen more than once are at the top?”

  “I can follow simple directions, Felix,” she drawls. “You gonna tell me what this is about, or do I have to get it outta Christie at the next bowling night?”

  Felix squints. “You do bowling nights?”

  “Mind your business.” Theresa glances over him to me, and smirks. “Watch out for that one. She’s already driven one car into the ground this week.”

  “Bye, Ms. Gibson,” Felix singsongs, rolling up the window.

  I wave as we pull away, already distracted by the list in Felix’s hand. “What is that?”

  “Pawn shop customers. Anyone she’s seen coming and going,” Felix says, sliding the list into his jacket pocket. “Theresa’s good friends with the boss. We knew she wouldn’t ask many questions.”

  It gets quiet after that, aside from Felix telling me when and where to turn. We don’t say much as I park the car in front of the sheriff’s department, and the only sounds as we walk across the threshold are the swish of the door and my own mumbled “thank you” as Felix holds it for me. But headed down the hall to Felix’s and Alex’s cubicles, it’s not long before I hear shuffling paper and the click of a keyboard.

  As we round the corner, I catch sight of the source—the blur of Alex Harper, making a beeline from the computer to the printer. The lines of his body language say “chipper.” The deep purple smudges under his eyes say “sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated.” But when he sees me, he smiles.

  “You changed your mind,” he says.

  I laugh nervously. “You don’t know that. Maybe I always planned to stay.” Judging by the look that passes between the two of them, they doubt that.

  I think it’s the first time in months, aside from Maurice, I’ve been seen through. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about that.

  “You owe me lunch,” Alex says, shuffling his printouts.

  “Wh—” Felix chokes a little. “You were serious?”

  “Felix,” I say with a slow smile. I shouldn’t find this funny. But it’s not like he was wrong. “You bet against me?”

  “I thought we were—” Felix looks back and forth between us. “I didn’t mean—”


  Alex throws his head back and laughs—the first I’ve heard from him so far. It’s a bright, rolling sound that lights him from the inside out. Felix ducks his head. And right before he does, I see him flush red.

  Oh, I think. So that’s how it is.

  Felix clears his throat, still a little pink. “Are you done?” At Alex’s arched eyebrow, he adds, “With the receipts.”

  “Almost,” Alex says. “Give me the list from Theresa.”

  “Maybe if you asked nicely—” Felix starts, even as Alex leans forward and plucks the list from his hand.

  I move closer. The receipts from last night are on Alex’s desk, divided into neat piles. “These are from the pawn shop?”

  “From the last three months,” Alex says. “Deputy Jay took the other half. We obviously can’t find who stole the tape deck, but between the receipts and the names from Theresa, we can get a good idea of who the regulars are and try to get a sense of where they stand on—you, I guess. And with any luck, we’ll figure out who made that tape. And hope that they know more about this flood than we do.”

  “I don’t get it.” Felix shakes his head. “Who says you get to choose what part of the past comes knocking? Imagine reliving middle school for the rest of your life. What the fuck.”

  “Don’t have to tell me,” I mumble in agreement.

  Sighing, Felix reaches for one of Alex’s receipt piles. Alex slaps his hand away.

  “Ow!” Felix says.

  “I have a system,” Alex mumbles.

  I eye them, dubious. “You really think they shopped there before?”

  “Must have. Paul may move at the speed of a shambling corpse, but you still can’t spend too much time fumbling around,” Felix says. “If you’re going to steal something, you need to know where it is before you walk in.”

  “Speaking of which,” I say. “Do you have any coffee here, or . . .”

  Alex grins. “Kitchen’s back down the hall and to the right.”

  I push back the chair. “Be right back.”