The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  Her confusion is like a physical sensation. There’s a shift in the atmosphere, from puzzlement to understanding. “Oh. It’s not my voice that changes, dear,” she says. “It’s your perception. The same is true for many that you call the neighbors—we may exceed your limited comprehension, but you do your best to catch up. Sometimes, that means how you see us, or how you hear us, says more about you than it does about what we really are. When I hear myself speak, I sound only like myself. But you hear who you most long to hear.”

  “Most of the time,” Alex says.

  Her sigh moves the hair off my shoulders. “I told you, it’s not on purpose. It doesn’t sound like anything to me.”

  “What doesn’t?” I ask.

  I can feel her considering me. It raises the hair on my arms. “We’re not all the same, you know,” she says. “We don’t always speak the same language. That was my friend and me—your flood. Their words were not words. More like little wrinkles in the fabric of time. Our existences are long ones, theirs even longer than mine. I thought learning the language of my friend would be a fun way to pass the time.”

  “So your premium package,” I say, “is you speaking in the language of the Flood?”

  She laughs, a short, dismissive sound. “It’s a fascinating thing, human perception. When I speak in the language of my friend, I hear my own words. But it’s the language of memory, after all. And that’s what you hear: your own memories. And to each listener, even the words are different.”

  There’s a stirring at my shoulders, the pressure of someone drawing closer. The Flood, listening. I wonder if they recognize her.

  “I always thought they were very sweet,” she hummed. “I’m not a dreamer. But I like the way dreamers think.”

  “A dreamer,” I echo. “I wouldn’t have thought that.”

  “No.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Not for a long time now.”

  “Do you know what changed?” Cassie asks. She’s speaking to the Mockingbird, but her eyes are on me.

  She pauses. “If we are born from humanity’s actions,” she says slowly, “then we are tied to humanity forever. I was born when the first lie was told—and whether I’m feeding on your fear, or confusion, or rage, one way or another I seem to need you to survive. That wasn’t my friend. They were born of nature, of water and energy, creation and destruction. They shouldn’t have needed you. But they wanted to be with you nonetheless. They decided, when their life as the ocean ended, that they wanted to be something different. Something gentler. They saw you, this different kind of life than the water they once held, and they wanted to become something that could live alongside you. They wanted to fill their currents with your short, turbulent lives. Your pain and joy. Your stories.

  “But they never considered that all of you are as capable of destruction as they once were,” she says.

  “You think watching us changed them,” I say.

  “Why wouldn’t it? You do such terrible things.” Her voice shivers in my bones. “A hunter has to hunt. That’s its nature. But you don’t have to cause pain. You choose to. They wanted to become an ocean of memory. But what happens when those memories are as chaotic and ruinous as a storm? What does that ocean become?”

  I flinch. Her voice has gradually shifted from Mom’s. The last word is unmistakably Nick Lansbury’s voice.

  I wonder if you really hear what you want to hear, listening to her. I can’t think of any scenario where I’d want to hear Nick.

  “Prophet,” she says. “This end you’ve foretold—you’re certain it’s my friend?”

  At Cassie’s nod, she sighs. “They never intended to return here. They always believed that if they did, they’d become what they once were. If they’ve come back to Lotus Valley now knowing what could come to pass, then they truly have changed.”

  “They didn’t choose to come back,” I say. “They were drawn here—I was drawn here by the message you recorded. Someone made sure that this would happen. That’s why we have to find them.”

  “And I wish I could help,” the Mockingbird says. “But they were a drop-in. Stole someone else’s confirmation number. If you don’t respect the rules, you don’t respect me, that’s what I always say. But they were an excellent tipper, and so few spring for the premium package. No good deed, I suppose.”

  “What did this person look like?” Alex asks.

  “Don’t remember,” the Mockingbird singsongs.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Alex says.

  “I’m afraid you all look the same to me,” she says. “I prefer to know what’s in the soul before I look to silly things like appearance.”

  “Ah,” Felix says. “Yeah. We humans like to . . . take things slower.”

  “But,” the Mockingbird says, “they said there was a person they had to meet again, no matter what—that this recording of my voice would help. They thought we had that in common. We don’t, of course. Desperation doesn’t become anyone.”

  “You think they were desperate?” Alex asks.

  “To send that message out into the world?” the Mockingbird says. “Can you imagine how many times they would have had to listen to it? They planned to draw you in with the voice of your memory, clever one, but to them, it sounded like a memory of their own. I’ve been told that’s a rather . . . painful experience for you.”

  Her attention shifts to me again, like an icy breeze. “All that money, all that time, just to reach you. I wonder why that is.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” It’s sharper than I intend. Or maybe I do intend it.

  “I simply recorded a tape,” she says. “You should have seen to your own unpleasantness, if you didn’t want to be drawn in.”

  “Meaning what?” I say.

  “I can’t presume to know.” There’s a rhythmic tap, like a clicking tongue. “But I’ve always thought the memory you hear is one that haunts you. If you had nothing to regret, I’d have no power over you.”

  Now that sounds like Nick. Like harm just happens, and she’s got nothing to do with it. Maybe that’s why it slips out.

  “Must be nice,” I say, “to be totally blameless.”

  Something in the air turns, like that warm, heavy shift before a storm. “It’s hard to understand, I suppose,” she says. “Perhaps this will make it clear.”

  The next words that come out of her mouth aren’t Nick anymore.

  “Rose. Tell me what he did.”

  It’s not just Gaby’s voice. It’s Gaby. Sincere. Direct.

  It’s not like talking to the Flood. I don’t see Gaby. But I’m there all the same, back in that moment almost two years ago. I can hear how I responded.

  He didn’t do anything, I’d said, which wasn’t true. But it was a stupid, thoughtless thing. Nothing meant to hurt anyone. Nothing worth telling.

  (A lie isn’t a lie if the truth gets things needlessly complicated. Gaby knew that’s how my brain worked, and she fought it. She wanted to hear everything I thought, even if it was complicated, even if it was ugly.)

  I just don’t like him, I’d added. That was true. Except not liking him wasn’t the important part. Not liking him didn’t keep her out of his car.

  “You see now,” the Mockingbird croons. “That regret. That’s your poison.”

  There’s a click in my blood, valves of adrenaline shuttling open. Not now. I’ve had badly timed panic attacks before, but this’d take the fucking cake. I look down at my feet, to the dirt of the cavern floor—Ground yourself, remember where you are, you’re here, you’re not there, you’re here.

  And then my vision clears. And a laugh punches out of me.

  It’s pavement. It’s pavement. I’m standing on Sutton Avenue, the Flood’s version with its bare treeless grass and its starless sky.

  The landscape shifts, half present and half past. I can see Cassie, Alex, and
Felix, their faces white against the dark. But even here, in the present, that light, misting rain is falling. It floats through us, touching nothing.

  The color in the room drains, shifting the cavern’s lamps to pale shades of gray. The air whirls, spinning us right into another memory. But I don’t recognize this. I don’t recognize the living room, or the two adults on the couch.

  I recognize the girl opposite them, though. Younger than I know her now.

  It’s Cassie.

  You know we can’t, one of the adults—the woman—is saying. Her face is crumpling. You must have known when you—

  Why are you saying this? Cassie must be twelve, thirteen here. Behind her wide blue eyes, something splinters. It’s not like I wanted this to—

  But the scene changes again. A bedroom and a young boy, curled facedown into his pillow, his body shaking with quiet sobs. Around him, the outline of something massive, not quite visible. Something latched around his shoulders.

  I don’t see his face. But I hear Alex breathe, “That’s me.”

  It’s then that I look over at the three of them. And one look at their faces tells me they’re seeing this, too.

  The scene flips again. Felix crouched in a darkened room, on the floor behind an overturned table. His arm is wrapped around a crying girl—Natalie Meyer, from earlier. It’ll be okay, he’s whispering soothingly, but there’s terror in his eyes. It’s here for me.

  “My, my,” the Mockingbird says, her voice dancing with a dangerous lightness. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

  “What is this?” Felix says. The Flood flickers from one scene to the other, almost too fast to register: me, Cassie, Alex, Felix, me again, me again.

  But the Mockingbird’s attention is still on me. “Why don’t you tell us? My friend is following your lead.”

  “I . . .” The words hitch. My lungs are already squeezed tight. “I don’t—”

  “Take a breath and think, my dear,” she says. “Haven’t you noticed a pattern to what you’ve seen?”

  Somewhere in the midst of the panic, what she’s saying clicks. There is a pattern. I noticed it that first night, when I saw a neighborhood that looked like Marin’s on TV, and the Flood showed me her party. I thought the Flood was recognizing my triggers before I did. I assumed it was deliberate. But what if they are following my lead?

  “Do you understand now? What you see will always connect back, one way or the other, to what you’re feeling. And whatever you see, my friend is experiencing it with you,” the Mockingbird says. “There’s something each of us need to survive. But memories are more than sustenance for my friend: they’re comfort and sorrow, the truths they hold, the answers to their questions. You gave them an answer out there, whether you know it or not. Something about that answer changed things, for both of you. And you brought that answer here. Together.”

  My fingers lock against my upper arms, into the fabric of my sleeves. But the chill is somewhere deeper. Somewhere that can’t be reached or warmed.

  I thought we collided out there in the desert, two forces disconnected from gravity and spinning through empty space. I thought, I hoped, the Flood saw me in that car, saw someone who felt as alone as they did.

  But they saw me leave Flora’s the other night, didn’t they? Long before the desert, they saw me in that kitchen. What almost happened. What I almost couldn’t stop myself from doing.

  And if they feel what I feel now, did they feel what I felt in that moment, too?

  “You didn’t create this storm, my dear,” the Mockingbird says soothingly. “It’s been building long before they met you. You’re not the first my friend has followed, and you won’t be the last. But all those memories, all that pain—they can’t carry it anymore. And like recognized like, when they found you out there. You have quite the storm within you, too.”

  “Rose.” Alex doesn’t touch me, but I feel his hand hovering. “Rose, look at me.”

  Startled, I jerk toward him, and I look at his eyes, dark and wide in his pale face. I follow the path of his stare around me, over my shoulder . . .

  . . . and into the Summers’ kitchen. Not the one back in San Diego, the one that practically raised me on Flora’s brownies and Gaby’s sushi experiments. The kitchen of their new Vegas condo, long and narrow like a hallway. And I’m looking right down the barrel of Nick Lansbury’s lopsided grin.

  My thoughts are miles apart and hard to grasp, but there’s one clear realization I can cling to: this doesn’t stop until I calm down.

  It’s okay, I think wildly. I clutch at my hair until I remember to stop. Fingers uncurled. Arms by your sides, shoulders back. It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

  It’s not exactly the Maurice-approved method. But it’s enough that when I look back a few moments later, the kitchen is gone.

  When I can finally speak again, I ask her, “What was that?” My voice is wildly shaking. “It’s never been other people’s memories before.”

  “I don’t know, either,” the Mockingbird says softly. “I wonder if that’s how this starts.”

  “What do you mean?” Felix says.

  “Their focus shifted,” the Mockingbird says. “From the girl to all of us. Maybe that’s what it will look like when they arrive. This entire town’s history, bearing down upon us.”

  I keep breathing, careful not to think this through more than I have to. If I think about that kitchen—about what the Flood must have felt from me, maybe still feels now—I don’t know if I can keep us calm.

  At length, the Mockingbird sighs. “Listen. Rose, was it? To be perfectly frank, I hadn’t planned to do anything about this. If my friend wants to destroy this place, well, that’s their prerogative. But I confess, you’ve got me fascinated. I’d like to see what comes of this conversation of yours.”

  “There’s no conversation,” I say. “They won’t even tell me why this is happening.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that.” She chuckles. “Except, perhaps, suggest that you get going. You have, at my estimate, a little more than a day.”

  “You’re their friend.” I’m begging suddenly. “You can tell them to stop.”

  “I wish that I could. Truly.” And I think she actually does. “But there’s only one voice that can reach them now. And if you can’t speak the same language, you’ll need to find some other way to communicate.”

  Her gaze shifts back to Alex. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay, little one? I’ll keep you safe. However it goes.”

  His stare hardens for a moment. Then, grabbing Felix’s hand, he tugs them both toward the stairs. “Thank you for your time, Mockingbird,” he says.

  I nudge Cassie to go first, and I start to follow. But there’s a small shift behind me.

  “Do you know,” she says quietly, “what that boy hears when I speak?”

  I don’t quite look back, but I stop.

  “Me. Just me, speaking.” There’s a strange, sad sound. “Such a rare thing for my kind, to be known by one of you.”

  The sound of her voice fades, leaving only a swish and pull, like a moving current. And slowly, finally, my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of the cavern, enough that I can see all the way to the back. And there’s nothing there.

  I wait another moment, just in case. But she’s long gone.

  AUGUST 14, FOUR MONTHS AGO

  NOTE TO SELF: Flora collects tragedies. She doesn’t lead with hello anymore—she says, “Two kids died in an ATV crash in Sacramento,” or “A little boy drowned in La Jolla.” She dives into the tragedies of the day, sorts out the knives to the heart. And then she takes them straight to you.

  It’s a Saturday when she calls about this one. By now, this is normal. You don’t think anything of picking up.

  “Rose,” she says, breathless. “A man down the street was taken into p
sychiatric care this morning.”

  The last thing you want to add to your day is the sadness of someone you’ll never meet. But too tired to make an excuse, you nod through it. Mmhmm, Suzanne saw the whole thing. Mmhmm, Hector heard it on his police scanner. Yes, it was a volunteer firefighter—popular, well-liked, commendations from the city just last year—home with a wife and a newborn. Yes, the wife called the ambulance. Said she was scared he’d “do something.”

  Her voice drops on those last two words. And you, without meaning to, sit straighter.

  “Do something?” you echo.

  “To himself, Suzanne thinks. Said he wouldn’t hurt his family. Wouldn’t mean to, anyway.” She heaves a giant shuddering sigh. “Irresponsible, don’t you think? Bringing a baby into that situation. He had to have known he wasn’t well.”

  Wasn’t well.

  You will talk for fifteen more minutes. You will hang up. And you will think about this for months.

  “What’s an intrusive thought?” you’ll ask Maurice later that week.

  It’ll catch him off-guard. He’ll say, “Why do you ask?” instead of just answering you. He’s usually so careful about his questions, of coming too close without invitation.

  You will tell him it’s something you read. And that’s true. You read it at the three a.m. point of an all-night Google spiral. You’ll know what it is. You’ll know the definition in your sleep by then. You’ll want to hear it in his words.

  His definition won’t be different. Unwelcome, involuntary words and images, over and over to the point of obsession.

  (Like you can’t dig it out. Like every effort to untangle wraps it tighter and tighter.)

  But then he’ll look at you and smile. And he’ll say, “It happens to everyone.”

  “Everyone,” you’ll say, dubious.

  “If I told you right now not to think of a polar bear,” he’ll say, “what else would you think of but a polar bear?”

  “Well.” You smile past dry lips. “At any given time I’m thinking about polar bears.”