The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  And Gaby, muffled, biting into a chunk of mango: I’m a rebel, Mom.

  In my daze, I remember what she asked before. “My best friend, um—she took a class, with her stepfather,” I say quietly. “How to make sushi. And since then she was a monster. She wanted to roll everything ever made in sushi rice. She was going to open a fusion restaurant with maki made from dishes from around the world. This was her favorite, though. She called it the avomango. She would have lived off of these, if her parents would have l—”

  Abruptly, I realize I’m rambling. Adrienne is still looking at me with that soft smile.

  “I should let you try it,” she says. “But if it’s not right, let me know, okay? Anything I’ve made once, I can make again.”

  She sweeps back toward the kitchen, and I raise one of the rolls halfway to my mouth. Gaby would kill me for not using chopsticks. But Gaby’s not exactly here to complain.

  My eyes close as the flavor melts across my tongue. She’s right. The rice isn’t perfect. It doesn’t matter. It tastes like long nights in Jon and Flora’s basement, watching bad movies and sneaking drinks from the lower cabinet.

  It tastes like home. Or at least how home used to taste.

  DECEMBER 27, THREE NIGHTS AGO

  NOTE TO SELF: Maurice can be wrong.

  Well, no. That’s not fair. His exact words were If you could tell one person in your life what’s been happening, who would you tell? He never said, Tell Flora.

  And you should have known better. The second it’s out of your mouth, you know it was a mistake.

  “What?” she says.

  This past year, you’ve learned the twitches and creases of Flora’s face to the minute. Even after she moved, even over the phone, you know her. You see her straighten. You see her blink. You see her knuckles whiten.

  “It sounds more dramatic than it actually is,” you say quickly. It didn’t sound that dramatic. You were so sure of that. You used that full name, clinical and straightforward. No four letters. But she heard them anyway. Loud and clear.

  For a moment, you think her face is about to crumple. Then the set of her mouth thins into placid confusion.

  “That doesn’t sound right, Rosie,” she says.

  There’s a weightless feeling in your stomach. Like you missed a stair, and you’re falling.

  “No, I’m . . .” You swallow. “Like I said, my therapist—”

  “Have you told him everything?” She sounds delicate. She never sounds delicate. “I mean, you’ve always been so sensitive. That doesn’t mean you’re . . .”

  It’s a different story than she told every time you were allowed to do something that Gaby couldn’t. If you were allowed to watch scary movies, or walk to the store by yourself, or stay at home alone, it was only because you could take care of yourself. Rose can take care of herself. Rose can take care of herself.

  This isn’t how you practiced it. If she cried, if she panicked, if by some miracle she understood, then you’d know what to say.

  “I really think it’s different,” you say. You try for conviction. It doesn’t stick.

  “Have you thought about trying someone else?” she says. “Like a second opinion. You’re grieving, sweetheart. Of course you should talk to someone. But what you’re talking about—that’s a serious condition. That’s . . .”

  Dangerous. She’s not going to say it. But you’re going to hear it nonetheless. And there’s a long moment of hot white noise after.

  It’s weird to wish that your therapist was here. But right now he’d give you that side-eye, this incredible look of pure salt you never used to think he had in him. That look he gives Flora—well, the idea of Flora—more often than anyone. She’s having a hard time, you always say. So are you, he always replies

  If Maurice was here, you might take that unsaid word for what it is. An intrusive thought. More to do with her than with you. But here’s the thing. Maurice isn’t here.

  “Yeah” is what you say. What you hear yourself say, without much conscious choice on your part. “Maybe.”

  Flora’s face tightens. “Please don’t be upset, Rosie.”

  “I’m not,” you say quickly, because comforting Flora is solid ground. This, at least, you know. “I promise. I’m just . . . gonna get us more tea.”

  Her mouth is still slanted, unsure. You hug her on your way out the door. What else would you do?

  You wait until you’re in the stairwell to breathe.

  Believe it or not, there are times when even your head can shut up. Doesn’t mean it’s quiet, though. There’s electricity in your veins, a buzzing in the absence of words.

  Dangerous.

  It’s been half a year now since you realized, standing in the hallway of your apartment, what’s happening to you. It’s felt like so many things these past few months. But not since that moment has it felt like a sickness again. Not until now.

  You turn the corner. And there’s someone else there.

  It’s not Jon. The figure at the end of that narrow hallway of a kitchen is taller than Gaby’s stepfather, leaner. He’s carrying a duffel bag, his posture as lopsided as his grin. And for the first time since the funeral, you are face-to-face with Nick Lansbury.

  He keeps smiling. Because unlike you, he was expecting this.

  “Hey, Colter.”

  Twenty

  THE MISSED CONNECTIONS

  THE SUN KEEPS shining, relentless, but the heat doesn’t quite reach me. I lock my arms around my little takeout container of avomango rolls as I walk down Morningside Drive, but I can still feel the chill under my skin.

  Cassie asked me, when I first came to Lotus Valley, if there were ever times when I couldn’t get warm. Apparently there are.

  She’s expecting me by now. I think so, anyway. It’s 3:58, which tells me nothing. If my watch could tell me when Cassie left exactly, that would be much more helpful.

  But before I go to the station, there’s one more thing I need to do. And I feel just steady enough to try.

  “Are you there?” I say quietly.

  I know they are. Sutton Avenue is swimming into shape in front of me. It shimmers, shifting when I turn my head. From one angle, it’s the street that lives in my mind, flat and bare and starless. From another, it’s—I haven’t seen it for almost two years, but this is how it must look in reality. Buzzing with fireflies and crickets. Shrouded in trees.

  Something cold brushes my ankle, and I gasp and jerk back. There’s water trickling down the road, branching into little rivers across the pavement.

  I turn toward the low, ever-present roar. Because I know what it is now. It’s the beginning. It’s the full force of an ocean, bearing down on us.

  “I didn’t meant to upset you,” I whisper. “I did upset you, right?”

  There’s a hum that sounds like assent. Or it could be a distant car engine, here in the memory. But I’ll take it as a yes.

  “Was the Mockingbird right before?” I say. “Were you feeling what I felt?”

  This time, I hear it in the air, down to the tone and texture. Mmmhmm. It rushes down my back like a shiver.

  “I’m fine now,” I say. “So you don’t have to be upset.”

  There’s a rustle in the branches that sounds distinctly like laughter. Which, frankly, is kind of uncalled for.

  “Okay, okay, sure,” I say. “A little less than fine.”

  Sutton Avenue flickers again. The air crackles with distant potential energy.

  “Your friend—the Mockingbird—she told me what happened,” I say. “You just wanted to watch us, right? And now here you are. What a species we must be to do this to you.”

  Silence this time. I venture on. “But it was me who did this to you.”

  This time I feel it, as clearly as words: a deepening of the chill around me. A yes, I think.

  There�
�s someone walking down the road to me. Indistinct enough, at first, that I start to get hopeful. But they’re tall, skinny. Not short with dyed black hair and a fluttering, long-gone maxi dress. And the image of Nick Lansbury settles, straight-backed and blank-faced, in the middle of Sutton Avenue.

  “You saw me back in that kitchen. Right?” I breathe. This time, the Flood definitively nods. “So what exactly did we feel back then?”

  He stands there, smack in the middle of my vision. The fulcrum of the memory. And undoubtedly, the answer to my question.

  Unlike the Flood, I have the language to describe that moment, how it felt. But I can’t do it any more than they can. The only thing that’s held me together these past couple of days is that I’ve shoved every second of it to the back of my mind.

  But they’re watching. Quiet, unblinking. So maybe they need me to say it.

  “Was I really going to—”

  My phone buzzes, and the present snaps back into place.

  I scramble for my phone, heart hammering. I really wish I could bring myself to turn it off already. Especially when I swipe up to find Flora Summer’s name.

  It figures. Gaby used to say her mom was like Beetlejuice. Say her name three times and she’ll appear, asking how many carbs you’ve consumed today.

  Can we please talk? the text says.

  Maybe I should answer honestly. What’s the point of a nervous breakdown if you’re going to keep it to yourself?

  hey! babysitting Sammy right now, I blatantly lie. what’s up?

  There’s a long beat. Then she’s typing.

  You’re not being fair, Rosie.

  My chest feels tight. Hot. It’s hard to believe I was shivering a second ago. I don’t understand, I type.

  Another pause. It took time for me to forgive Nick, too. But it wasn’t his fault. He still has nightmares.

  It’s not the kind of thing I should laugh at. It’s not, but—holy shit. According to Flora-logic, Nick fucking Lansbury gets to have trauma and I don’t.

  I’m trying is all I write. It’s all I can get down. Even once I control my laughter, my entire body is still vibrating,

  Please give him a chance, she writes back. We could call you now.

  I know that if I did, she’d back off. If I white-knuckled it through a fifteen-minute call, it’d be over, done, back to normal. But I’ve done so many things I didn’t want to since all of this started. Calling Nick is not going to be one of them.

  not right now, I type. I’m really sorry.

  A pause. This is important. I thought you’d understand that.

  I shouldn’t respond to that. I shouldn’t be responding to anything when I’m seeing this much red. My fingers are typing before my brain can think to stop them.

  if that’s what you thought, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited him?

  There’s an interminable beat, filled only by the sound of the sun sizzling on the sand. The next response comes not long after she starts typing.

  I’m not having this conversation by text, Rose. Call or don’t call. It’s entirely up to you.

  I almost fling my phone as far as it will go. The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that I’d just have to go find it again.

  My breath is coming in shuddering gasps, though my eyes are stubbornly dry. I think it’d probably feel better if I cried, like finally throwing up after hours of nausea. I used to be a crier. I cried at sad movies, and bad days at school, and the day at Astronomy Club when we brought the Thorn Brook Elementary kids to look in a telescope for the first time. But I bit it back that morning of the funeral, the morning I heard Flora’s sobs and shoved my own away, and they stayed like that. I’ve tried going through the physical motions of crying, like it would jog my memory. But it feels clumsy and unfamiliar. Something’s missing. Something’s stuck.

  It might be the eeriest part of this. It has some stiff competition. But nothing makes you feel sick inside like forgetting what you never had to learn.

  Just down the road, I catch sight of Theresa’s garage, and numbly, I walk toward it. I’ll go to the station right after. But first I want to check on my car.

  I pass a line of metered parking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the keys dangling in the ignition of a sleek red sedan. Miles away, out in the desert, I see another car turn onto the access road and toward the highway. And the urge to slide into this car, to floor it until I catch up—it’s unbearable.

  But I’m surrounded by people who want to run as badly as I do. I can go home. They are home. And every one of us is in this mess because of me.

  Even the Flood.

  I pull my hand back. And the wide open desert closes in around me.

  I jog the rest of the way to the garage.

  “Theresa?” I ring the bell once, twice, and it echoes back to me.

  Stanley the Sedan looks better at least. His car-guts are spilling out a little, but honestly, it’s a relatable look. With everything wide open like this, maybe she won’t be gone for long. It won’t hurt if I kill a little time here.

  Theresa’s garage, upon closer inspection, is surprisingly normal. Her desk looks like anyone else’s might. She has knickknacks. She has a to-do list, half crossed out. She has pictures.

  I reach for one of the frames, even knowing I should leave them be. Most of them are of the same two people: a preteen girl and a middle-aged man with a potbelly and a warm smile. The girl has a gap-toothed grin and a sky-blue eye-patch over her right eye. Without that eye-patch, I may not have recognized the younger Theresa. It’s not like I could say for sure, but I can’t see her smiling like that, ever.

  “What are you doing?”

  I almost drop the picture frame. “I-I’m sorry,” I say, gingerly placing it back among the others. “I . . .”

  The words stick in my throat as I look up. She sounded angry, just now. But her face is blank.

  I swallow. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

  Without looking away from me, she pops the earbuds out of her ears. “Didn’t hear you,” she says.

  “I was coming to check on the car,” I manage.

  “I told you,” she says. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”

  There’s heat unfurling in my chest, like I’m having another panic attack. Fight or flight, my brain supplies numbly. Or freeze.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” I mumble as I move toward the door.

  She slides into my path.

  “You know, Ms. Nobody,” she says. “You may have been invited in, but take care that you don’t make yourself too much at home here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my throat tight. “I don’t—”

  “Let me be clearer, then,” she says. “Not everything in this town is about you.”

  Move, I remind myself. It doesn’t work.

  “If this is about your desk,” I say slowly, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t—It was wrong of me. I won’t do it again.”

  She watches me for a long moment, with that hard, unblinking eye. And then smoothly, without a sound, she leans in close.

  “Just messing with you,” she says, her lips twitching.

  Queasily, I smile back. But her grin doesn’t seem to reach her eye.

  “Your baby’s coming along nicely,” she says. “Should be ready in a day or two. Can’t promise that it’ll be done by showtime, but don’t worry. If we have to evacuate, I’ll give you a tow.”

  “That’s kind of you,” I say carefully.

  “All part of the Gibson Repairs guarantee.” Her gaze travels to the takeout container in my hands. “Didn’t know the Sweet as Pie was selling sushi now.”

  My grip on the container tightens. “It’s the Home Away from Home.”

  “Ah, Adrienne. Hell of a cook,” Theresa says. “It’s a shame, though.”

  It’s odd enou
gh that for a moment, I forget my unease. “What is?”

  “The Home Away from Home,” Theresa says. “She couldn’t always make it, you know. Not until the day she lost her mom. Went to work from the hospital hoping she could get her mind off things, and it just”—she snaps her fingers—“happened. But no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t seem to make one for herself. Says it doesn’t taste the same. Can you imagine how that’d feel? To give everyone that taste of home except yourself.”

  My panic is draining away. But something else fills my chest in its place.

  She was so nice to me. So nice. But that means something different here in Lotus Valley.

  “What do you think she would give?” I say. “To be able to make it.”

  I realize just how odd the question sounds when it’s out of my mouth. But if Theresa’s taken aback, it doesn’t show. She blinks once, thoughtfully.

  “If it were me,” she says, “I imagine I’d kill for it.”

  Twenty-One

  THE FOREGONE CONCLUSION

  THE FIRST THING I see in the lobby of the station is Deputy Jay, pacing by the front desk. His hands keep clenching and unclenching, and there’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Either our impending doom at the hands of Lotus Valley’s civic spirit is starting to get to him, or that’s just his normal resting face.

  “Oh!” He sits up so sharply, I think I hear his back crack. “Ma’am. I’ll let Cassie know you’re here.”

  Ma’am. I was miss to him before—when I wasn’t a harbinger of destruction, I guess.

  “I’ll let her know myself,” I say with a wobbly smile.

  “Can I get you anything?” His hands are under the desk, but I can see the muscles in his arms working as he wrings them. “Water? Seltzer? I think maybe we’ve got some soda?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. As impossible as it seems, I think he’s more anxious than I am. “Thank you.”

  He says something in response that I don’t quite hear, and then I’m moving deeper into the building, down where the hallway opens. My heart is just starting to slow from my sprint across Lotus Valley, but now I’m dazed. Floating. Like on the off chance that this hallway and this building are real, I’ve been cut and pasted in.