The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  I’ll describe this to Maurice, if I tell him any of this. I’ll bet he has a word for it.

  As I round the corner, I see Alex is at his desk, working hard on his thousand-yard stare. And standing opposite him, leaning against the wall, is Sheriff Christie Jones.

  She grins, though even that looks somber.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Welcome back.” To Alex, I smile and ask, “You okay?”

  He levels me with a long look. His face doesn’t have a whole lot more color in it than when we left the caverns. But he looks calmer.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.”

  I narrow my eyes. “How bad did you think it was going to be, exactly?”

  Christie Jones laughs. “Alex, would you mind bringing Cassie and Felix back here? I’ll get Rose caught up.”

  She watches Alex’s retreating back down the hallway, but she doesn’t say anything at first. She crosses the room and sinks into Alex’s chair, motioning for me to take Felix’s. I glance down at her feet. And I see the shadows there warping, stretching toward me.

  Rudy is struggling to get to the Flood.

  She sees me looking, and she grimaces. “I’ve got him. Just be careful. I don’t think he can control himself right now.”

  I nod slowly, and I let myself look away. It’s not his fault, really. Rudy’s trying to protect Christie, like he always has. And I’ve felt the Flood all around me since we left the Mockingbird’s. Right now we must be indistinguishable to Rudy.

  “What happened with the Mockingbird . . .” I say slowly. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Rose.” She twists a lock of hair around her finger. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you. I know grown-ass adults who would’ve buckled under the pressure we’ve put on you. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything.”

  The same thing Felix had said. It sounded so easy when you put it like that.

  I fiddle with a Post-it note on his desk. And eventually, I start talking.

  “I saw other memories besides mine,” I say. “Cassie’s, Alex’s, Felix’s. The Mockingbird says that’s what it’ll look like, when the Flood comes.”

  “I heard,” Christie says.

  I nod, eyes on my feet for a long moment. “She also told me that the Flood looked to me to answer a question,” I say. “That I gave it the wrong answer.”

  Christie nods. “I heard that, too.”

  My voice drops to a whisper. “I think that’s true.”

  There’s a long silence. But she doesn’t look surprised. “Just because it’s the answer that brought you both here,” she says, “doesn’t mean it’s the final one. Answers change.”

  I smile weakly. It’s not like Rudy’s with her for happy reasons. Maybe she’d get it.

  “I think I’m different than I used to be,” I say. “I don’t . . . think I know myself so well anymore.”

  She nods slowly, her jaw working. “Well,” she says softly, “I think that when we change, we carry our past selves with us, you know? For better and for worse.”

  My heartbeat stutters. The adrenaline is still primed from before, right at the surface. “Like I said, it . . . won’t happen again.”

  Christie’s smile eases into something rueful as she laughs. “God, you’re just like Cassie. Since when did I stop understanding girls your age? I didn’t think I was that old yet.”

  It’s half to herself, like an offhand stray thought she’d happily let go. But I raise two questioning eyebrows.

  “I love her like my own, you know?” she says. “My wife and I both. We’re not old enough to be parents. Not to a teenager. But we always . . .” However she wanted to end that thought, she shrugs it off. “But Cassie thinks of herself as a guest in our house. Her parents send money every month, a Christmas card every year. But she never sees them. They live on the edge of town, drive out to Dead Creek to do their shopping, do everything they can to avoid us. All I know is that she had a talk with them one day, when she was thirteen, and they decided it was best that they live apart. It was the most bloodless breakup of a family I’ve ever seen.”

  She tips Alex’s coffee mug in a slow circle. Round and round.

  “Cassie was right, wasn’t she?” I say. “Her parents didn’t commission the Mockingbird.”

  She lets out a humorless snort. “They lost a child before Cassie. I thought that was as good a reason as any to call the Flood here. But Cassie said the only reason I was going was because I wanted to know why they sent her away.” Christie grimaces. “Right as usual. The little shit.”

  “Do you think it was something to do with the Flood?” I say.

  “Even now, they won’t say. Said they promised her.” She taps rhythmically at the edge of the mug. “Nice of them to start caring how she feels now.”

  I hope this Post-it wasn’t anything important. It’s in shreds now.

  “You know what I think?” Christie says.

  Nothing good. But I ask anyway. “What?”

  “I think that if she tells me, she expects me to make her leave, too.” A short breath, almost a laugh, punches out of her. “And who can blame her for that.”

  I twist the ruined paper around and around my finger, already regretting what I’m about to say. But she looks so miserable that I say it anyway.

  “There’s something else it could be,” I say.

  I wait for her to ask. But she doesn’t rush me. She’s raised her eyes to me, narrowed her attention. And she lets me start when I’m ready to start.

  “When you tell someone something painful,” I say. “Someone who loves you. You think of the worst-case scenarios first. That they won’t believe you, they’ll think you’re overreacting, or that they’ll react worse than you did. But what’s the best case? That this person who cares about you so much, who wants so much for you to be okay, finds out how bad it’s been, and that you never told them. And that you have to see that look on their face when they . . .”

  I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, in my throat. But if Christie has any idea that I just danced much closer to the truth than I’ve gotten before, it doesn’t show on her face. She mostly looks thoughtful.

  “That’s not the best-case scenario,” she says.

  My mouth curls into a tight smile. “Then what is?”

  “That you tell them,” she says. “And they understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  When I turn, Felix’s rueful smile greets me. He slouches against the doorway like it’s holding him up. It may well be. Alex hovers behind him, and Cassie even farther. Like she doesn’t want to risk eye contact with Christie.

  “Sorry,” I say to Felix. “I’m in your chair.”

  “I think after the day you’ve had, you deserve the chair.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “And, uh. After how certain people here spoke to you.”

  “Certain people shouldn’t worry about it.” I smile slowly. “I can move.”

  “Take mine.” Christie stands, hewing to the lengthening shadows as she crosses the room. “Rudy’s getting restless.”

  I look down again. Sure enough, the shadows around her feet are still flickering. Unless it’s my imagination, Rudy’s stretching a little farther from her than he was before.

  Felix crosses the room, but rather than sitting down himself, he rolls out the chair with a flourish. Alex shoots him a long, dubious look, but Felix’s grin never wavers. To my surprise, Alex gives in, sinking into the seat.

  “Jay’s gone into full feeder mode,” Felix sighs. “He keeps trying to offer me my own leftover tahdig. It’s my tahdig.”

  “You know him,” Alex says. “He gets nervous.”

  “Yeah,” Felix says, “but doesn’t he seem more nervous to you lately?”

  “Let’s let Jay deal
with this his own way.” Christie’s tone has shifted, all business now. “I’ll ask you what I’ve asked the others, Rose. Talking to everyone today, did you notice anything? Anything at all.”

  I let out a slow breath. “Well. John Jonas might’ve had the most positive view of the Flood that I saw. And Theresa’s seen him at the pawn shop more than anyone else.”

  “Trust me, I’d love that,” Cassie drawls. “But I don’t think he’d do this.”

  “Let’s not rule anything out,” Christie says. Cassie determinedly doesn’t react to that.

  “Loreen Murphy’s a frequent customer, too,” I continue. “But . . . I don’t know.”

  “Kinda seems like they’re enjoying watching Maggie Williams squirm,” Felix says.

  “There must be easier ways to do that, though,” Alex says.

  “I don’t know,” Felix says. “Go big or go home.”

  “And . . .” I falter, not sure whether to say this out loud. “There’s the waitress from the Sweet as Pie.”

  “Adrienne?” Felix blinks. “We didn’t talk to her.”

  “I stopped there on my way back.” I look to the floor, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “Plenty of people here have been kind to me. I don’t want to suspect anyone just for that. But . . .”

  “But when you think about it,” Christie says, “she gives people back what they’ve lost every day. And she can’t give that to herself. That has to sting.”

  Cassie shakes her head tightly. “She’s not on the customer list.”

  “The list was just one lead,” Christie says. “Just because she wasn’t seen there—”

  “If we want to start suspecting people just for experiencing something tragic, we’re back to square one.” Cassie’s still just looking at me, not Christie. “People don’t come here for happy reasons. Why do you think it’s just us here in this room? No one here has experienced that kind of loss except for you, Rose. We’re not going to be tempted the way others might. We didn’t even tell Sandy.”

  Now Christie’s not looking at Cassie, either. “Sandy lost a twin sister, when she was young. She’d never do anything like this. But I didn’t want her to have to make that choice.”

  The tension between them is palpable. I’m in no position to lecture anyone on communication, but someone needs to lock them in a room together.

  “Well,” Christie finally says. “Go for the sympathy vote tonight. Appeal to the Flood’s right to be here. And keep an eye on those three, as well as anyone else who comes out strongly in our favor. Not to target our allies, but . . .”

  “What if we told everyone about the commission?” Alex asks.

  I nod. “The Mockingbird doesn’t keep records. The pawn shop doesn’t have cameras. But friends and neighbors are going to notice where you’re going or who you’ve lost.”

  “Yeah . . .” Felix says. “But do they have any reason to believe us at this point?”

  “More importantly,” Cassie says. Her voice is brittle. “Does it really matter if we find them or not?”

  Christie turns to her, and there’s an odd, frozen silence. I fight the urge to slip under Felix’s desk. “Something on your mind, Cassie?”

  Another beat. And then, with a defiant raise of her chin, Cassie finally looks at her.

  “What if the person who made that tape doesn’t know how to stop it?” Cassie says. “What if they’re just as lost as we are?”

  “They know something,” Christie says. “They have to.”

  “Why?” She laughs, high and humorless. “Because you say so?”

  “Because I’ve tried everything else!” Christie snaps back. It hits the room like a shockwave. “It’s this or give up, Cassie, and I’m going to keep trying, like you asked me to.”

  “Maybe you’re trying the wrong things.” Where Christie’s anger is explosive, Cassie’s is tight, restrained. But I can hear her voice shaking. “Maybe there’s not a person you can blame this time.”

  “And what does that mean?” Christie says.

  “It means that not everything works out like Rudy. Not everything can be talked out,” Cassie says. “And if for one second you stopped worrying about the neighbors, maybe you’d be a little more worried about—”

  What happens next is almost too quick to see. Christie barely, barely inches forward, just far enough out of the shadows. And Rudy rises up from the floor and lunges for me.

  Christie is just as quick—she grabs and pulls at him, wrestling him back toward the floor, but the massive, hungry shadow trying to fight his way toward me is actually not my first concern. Because there’s a fathomless chill spilling over my shoulders. Rearing up like a predator.

  The office around us fades into a pale, carpeted bedroom, and distantly, I see a young woman, her hair in braids, her face cautious, her hands raised. Christie, maybe six or seven years younger. Before her, much smaller than he is now, I see Rudy, defensiveness in every line of his form.

  Christie’s mouth moves, forming the same two words over and over. I can’t hear her. But I see what she’s saying, and I wonder.

  “It’s okay,” I breathe, timing the words with young Christie’s. “It’s okay, it’s okay, he won’t hurt you, it’s okay . . .”

  I come back to the present slowly. And when I do, I can faintly hear Christie, still telling Rudy the same thing.

  At length, she turns back to me. She looks stricken. “Rose, I’m—”

  I shake my head, try to smile, even as my stomach churns. Christie lets out a long, controlled breath. “Go ahead. I don’t think I should be near you right now.”

  Cassie’s out first, the click of her heels echoing ahead. The rest of us mumble our goodbyes and file out of the room. Alex sidles up next to me as we exit into the foyer.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  I nod. I don’t feel okay. Every nerve in my body is still trembling. But for the first time since I got to Lotus Valley, I’m hopeful.

  Because for a second back there, whether consciously or not, the Flood showed me how they felt: cornered, agitated, even scared. And when I comforted them, they listened.

  Twenty-Two

  THE DANGEROUS GIRL

  THERE’S ONLY ONE place in Lotus Valley big enough to hold the town hall. So within the hour, we’re on our way to Lotus Valley High School.

  Alex and I split off from the group and walk to the far classroom hall. They closed it earlier this year, he explains—ever since Cassie’s prophecy, there’s always a new wave of people leaving town during the summer break. They need fewer classrooms than they used to.

  All around us, among the darkened doorways and lockers, I see little glimpses of Cassie’s, Alex’s, and Felix’s lives. A cabinet of trophies: football, debate, Academic Decathlon. A small section of art projects. Class pictures from each year. The class sizes are dramatically smaller than my own back in San Diego. It doesn’t take me long to find the shot from the end of last year. Felix with his arm slung around a stiff, uncomfortable-looking Alex. Cassie, standing a little off to the side, leaving an awkward gap between her and the group. And among the group, a few familiar faces from earlier today.

  Next to me, Alex shifts his weight.

  “This must be eerie for you,” I say.

  “A little.” Alex attempts a smile. “But it’s quiet.”

  “Can you try first?” I ask. Alex has more practice than I do. I want to see if it’ll be any different.

  He nods. And though his expression doesn’t change, his face gets a little paler. “Is there anything you’d like to tell Rose?” he calls out quietly.

  A stack of papers slips from the top of one of the lockers, and they slap against the tile hard enough that I flinch. They fan out, gently fluttering in the air-conditioning. At length, they shiver themselves still.

  I think the living embodiment of human memory just
left us on read.

  “You should go to the gym,” I whisper. “Maybe it will help if I’m alone.”

  Alex has this look like he doubts that very much. But as usual, he’s too polite to say.

  He steps back slowly, as if to give me time to reconsider. I won’t, much as I want to. But I do finally get the courage to ask.

  “Alex . . .” I chew on my lower lip. “What you can do . . . Do you ever wish it would . . . stop?”

  The second the words are out, I wish I’d left it alone. But he doesn’t shrink back, or ask why, or do anything else I’d do. He’s quiet for a moment. Thoughtful.

  “It’s like part of my body now,” he says. “I’d always feel where it used to be. And I—I don’t just want it to go away. If I don’t make anything of it, it’s just something that happened to me.”

  I watch his face, shrouded in the dim light of the hall. I’m not sure what’s helpful to say. But he’s told me, more than once, what I need to hear. The least I can do is try.

  “You’re doing great, you know,” I say.

  His face, as always, stays closed, neutral. But something in it softens as he smiles.

  “I’m not always good at hearing that,” he says. “But . . . it does help.”

  I smile back. “Go on, I’ll meet you in there.”

  He starts to turn and then pauses. He’s silent for long enough, I think he might have reconsidered what he wants to say. But he gets there, eventually.

  “I know it’s a scary thing to think, Rose,” he says. “But there’s something that you and the Flood have in common. And if you find that . . . well. If nothing else, you can work from there.”

  He slips down the hall and out of sight. And I turn back to the hallway. Both feet planted frustratingly in the present.

  “Is he right, do you think?” I whisper. It carries much farther than I meant it to. But still, nothing stirs. “Is there something we have in common?”