You hold yourself out of his reach. Your spine is so straight it hurts.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he says, and whether he notices it or not, he’s shifted his stance, his angle. In front of you, there’s Nick. Behind you, the passenger’s door. You’re out of the car, but you’re still trapped. “Rose, please—I just got my license.”
“I told you to slow down,” you say. Your voice gets softer the closer he gets.
“Rose.” He all but falls to your feet. You shrink until your back brushes the car. “I was an idiot, okay? But it’s not going to happen again. You’re not hurt that bad, right?”
Your wrist throbs under the pressure of your grip. You can wiggle your fingers. It’s probably not that bad. It’s probably not that bad, but.
“Your car,” you say. Even in the dark, you can see the state of the front bumper.
“I’ll say I hit a deer.” He shrugs. There’s a sort of nonchalance to the gesture. A chill jerks through you. “My parents can pay. But you get it, right? If I tell them what happened, they will take my car.”
There’s something in the way he says it. And enough of your rational thought has come back to you that you can wrap your head around where you are: in the middle of nowhere, here with Nick Lansbury and his busted car and his huge pleading eyes, and no way ahead but through him. You wonder how he’ll look at you if you say what you’d like to say right now.
“Fine,” you say, with no sense of what you’ve just set into motion.
His arms twitch, as if he wants to hug you but thinks better of it. “And your wrist?”
“I can say I fell,” you say.
“Good,” he says. And he’s smiling as finally, finally, he takes a step back, lets the damp night air hit you like a wave. “Good, that’s perfect.”
He gives you fifty dollars for a cab, and another fifty dollars for urgent care. He tells you to go up the road to call the taxi service so no one sees you together, to text him once you get home. You feel his eyes on your back as you walk.
Like I said before. He’s not a bad person.
(He’s not a good one, either.)
Note to self: Everyone will believe you when you tell them you tripped. There’s rarely any reason not to believe you, at least right now. But in two weeks, Gaby will say Nick Lansbury’s name, and she will notice the way your back snaps straight. She will always notice those things about you.
“Rose,” she’ll say. “Tell me what he did.”
Note to self: I know you can’t read this. I know you can’t know these things now when you need them. I know you will look at this chance to tell her, and you won’t take it. I know you think he’ll make your life hell if you do.
But I’m going to ask you anyway: Let him make your life hell. Be grateful for every second of it. There’s a worse kind of hell waiting for you.
But you can’t read this, and you can’t know this. So you tell her he didn’t do anything. That you just don’t like him.
And that will be the end of it.
Twenty-Four
THE OBJECTS IN MOTION
MY SILHOUETTE IS still visible in the distance. Still slowly making her way to the old oak tree. Still holding her wrist to her chest. The road fades away before she—before I do.
The sounds of Sutton Avenue go quiet, leaving only my own ragged breathing. When I turn, the scene has changed again.
The walls and floor are as black as empty space. It’s just me, a Rose from over a year later, curled into our living room couch. Though the TV isn’t visible in this snapshot of memory, I see its reflection in the light on my face.
No. This one isn’t me—when I look at her, I see it in the way she looks back.
“Why did you show me that?” I choke out.
The Flood gazes dispassionately from the couch. The angles of their face shift in the changing light of the TV, but the light never reaches the deep black pools of their eyes.
“It’s not why I’m like this,” I say. “I was fine. I don’t have the right.”
The Flood opens my mouth, and the voice of a news anchor comes out.
Another deadly accident at Sutton Avenue and Chamblys Road last night, she says. Seventeen-year-old Nicholas Lansbury was forced into Chamblys Pond when an oncoming driver swerved to avoid Sutton’s notoriously treacherous oak tree. We are sad to report that his passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summer—
“I know.” My hands clutch at my hair. “I know, I know. Do you think I don’t know? ‘His passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summer, was killed on impact. Mr. Lansbury is expected to recover from his injuries, and the unnamed driver of the second car is scheduled to be arraigned next week. Reports—’” My voice breaks. “‘Reports allege that the driver was intoxicated.’”
The Flood is still watching me. But the light of the TV has disappeared, casting their face in shadow.
“Do you know,” I finally say, “how many times I was told that he did the best he could? That it isn’t his fault he survived and she didn’t?
“And you know what? I’m aware,” I spit out. “I know it was an accident. I’m not an idiot. But they don’t know everything. You do.”
I grab for another breath. It slips through my fingers. “Gaby had every opportunity to stay out of that car. Everyone—everyone—knew Nick was a disaster behind the wheel. They didn’t need me to tell them. But you can’t tell me that Gaby wouldn’t have taken it more seriously coming from me.”
The Flood is still. Completely still. And the longer they’re silent, the louder I hear myself get.
“To call me like that, when it would be over an hour before I could come get her—she could have stayed with Ariella if she didn’t want to go with him!” I say. “You can see exactly how many times I’ve thought that, right? How sick is that, expecting that of her when I did the same goddamn thing? Will you please just say something?”
I’m gasping by the time it’s all out but still not crying—not even now. It’s too dark to see the Flood’s face. But I know they haven’t looked away.
Their mouth moves again. Gaby’s voice this time.
“Rose. Tell me what he did.”
“Stop that,” I gasp.
And again. Christie’s voice. “Did he hurt you?”
“Stop!” My legs tremble with the word. “Please! You saw what happened in that kitchen. Do you know what Christie and Cassie would say if they knew? How they would look at me?”
“Listen,” she says. “Remember. Understand.”
“Understand what?” My voice cracks, hard. “You’re showing me shit that I already know!”
A percussive blast of sound rattles me from the ground up, and I whirl around so fast I’m dizzy. The dark edges of my living room burst into light and color and stretch into the distance, until a suburban street snaps into place. By the end of the street, on the left, there’s a house, brightly lit, shaking under the force of the music inside. Marin Levinson’s house. Marin Levinson’s party.
I don’t need to remember how it felt, for the bass beat to hijack the rhythm of my heart. I’m feeling it now.
I stumble as I turn, and the present twists back into focus, the lights of the model home spinning. The image is still blurred as I claw my way to the door, the knob liquid and unsteady in my hands. I grasp for something I can lock. The house shivers under the force of the music, and with every pound the walls creep tighter, closer. It’s at my heels as I sprint to the bedroom farthest from the sound, it’s in my ribs when I clamp a pillow over my ears. My grip is so tight, my knuckles hurt. I really don’t care.
It’s hard to say what ends first—the attack, or the music. Sleep comes slow, then suddenly. But the dread sinks in all the way to my dreams.
* * *
—
THE MORNING AFTER a bad panic attack must be what a hangover feels like. My skin feel
s too tight for my body. My brain feels too big.
There’s a small, detached part of me that’s equal parts embarrassed and impressed. I’ve never melted down like that before—not out loud. Always too many people around to see it. For once in my life, there’s no one.
Here’s what Maurice would tell me, if he knew everything I knew. What happened to Gaby was an accident. What Nick asked of me wasn’t right. And if every one of us had done everything right, it might have happened anyway.
That night in his car when we hydroplaned into a ditch was over two years ago. He was young and stupid and scared. His terrible driving became an open secret at school, without my help. And he owned it. He was voted Most Likely to Total His Car by the senior class, and he accepted it, laughing. Like it was a cute fucking character quirk.
And then there was Gaby, who knew that as well as anyone. Who got in his car anyway. And here’s where Maurice would remind me that Nick’s driving was irrelevant. There’s one person to blame, and that’s the drunk asshole who killed her.
Strange that he’s the one I stopped thinking about a long time ago. The one variable I could never have changed. Maybe he keeps someone else up at night, somewhere, but he would have been there no matter what I did.
Maurice could tell me all of this. But I’ve been telling myself those same things for the past year, and I’ve yet to believe a single word.
My phone buzzes, and Cassie’s name pops up, fragmented by the screen. I accept the call and tuck it against my ear.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Good morning to you, too.” She falters. “You sound awful.”
A laugh punches out of me. I almost deny it. The relief when I realize I don’t have to makes my knees a little weak. “Then we match.”
She clears her throat pointedly, but she still sounds a little rough when she speaks again. “We have officially run out of civic spirit.”
“That bad?” I say.
“Ms. Jones got through . . . maybe half?” she says. “And sent a big group home based on the security footage. So the people left are getting . . . antsy.”
“And Adrienne?” I ask.
“Was on the tape,” Cassie confirms. “Jay’s with her now.”
I shrug a flannel shirt over my shoulders and comb my fingers through my hair a few times. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I know.” A beat. “But I wanted to warn you first.”
There’s a twist low in my gut.
“Look out the window,” Cassie says, even and slow. “Don’t panic. But look.”
I make a low sound of agreement in the back of my throat. But my hands still shake when I pull the blinds.
The sky is a dark, cloudy green. The kind you see in the moments before a tornado.
I ease open the window and stick one hand out. The air feels cool and choppy, the edge of a changing front.
“I checked the weather,” Cassie says. “Eighty-five and sunny. It still says that.”
I pull my arm back slowly, as if from a wild animal. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I pause. And then, stupidly, I add, “Don’t worry.”
At least, it jolts her into a firm, haughty tone—something much closer to herself. “I never worry.”
“You sure?” I say. “If I saw the future, I think worry would be my entire life.”
“Worry is for when you think you know,” she says.
I pinch the window latch between two fingers, testing its strength. As if that’ll help. “What do you call it when you know you know?”
She’s quiet long enough that I think she hung up. “Dread,” she says. There’s another long beat. “Be careful on your way here.”
White noise fills the line as she disconnects.
I toss the phone on top of the duvet, laughing softly as I wander into the master bathroom. “Good talk.”
I wonder what it is I feel. Worry, or dread. At least for a second, all I feel is the splash and sting of cold water on my face.
I straighten up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And I freeze.
My reflection looks back at me, gray-faced, her palms riddled with scrapes. Breathless, cold water still dripping down my neck, I look down at my hands. Clean, bloodless. And when I face front, the only person waiting in the mirror is me.
“I thought I told you to stop,” I gasp. But before it’s fully out of my mouth, I know that’s not right. I don’t feel that cool mustiness is the air. The Flood isn’t here.
With a shaking hand, I grip the cuff of my flannel shirt. My muscle memory does the work for me. I left this in my car before Marin Levinson’s party. I slid it on while I was sitting there after, waiting to warm up. Slid it over my wrists so I could grip the wheel through my sleeves, blot the blood on my palms.
The Flood showed me this moment, too, in the police station bathroom on my first day in Lotus Valley. But this feels different. This feels physical. Like I was standing in just the right place to see something hidden. Not just watching Past Rose but standing in the same space in time, close enough to forget we aren’t the same person.
I didn’t see the scrapes on her palms, did I? I felt them on my own.
Almost like—
I’m dialing Maurice’s number before I can think better of it.
It rings long enough for me to think close to clearly again. It’s still morning. He has appointments in the morning. It’s New Year’s Eve, but that probably means he’s busier. He always says holidays will do that.
Hello, his voicemail greeting chirps. You have reached the confidential mailbox of Maurice Martin.
“Calm down,” I whisper. I have somewhere to be. And besides, what am I going to tell him? That I think I finally had a real flashback?
He’d take me seriously. He always takes it seriously. For one traitorous second, I think about how nice that’d be: to be told how strong I’ve been. That I can stop. That I can go home.
It’s a second too long. The voicemail beeps. The story hovers, heavy, on my tongue.
If anything, he hears the gasp when I realize it’s recording. And then I hang up.
SEPTEMBER 17, THREE MONTHS AGO
NOTE TO SELF: Maurice knows everything. This is not always a compliment.
Nine times out of ten, it is. But it can, on occasion, get irritating when he knows what’s in your head before you do.
“And he was just like—” You affect a high, nasally voice. “I understand your frustration, but I can’t let you take your car unless I’m going to let everyone.”
Maurice laughs. “Do me a favor. Try saying that one more time without the voice.”
Against your will, you laugh, too. “Okay, yeah. He probably didn’t think like that in his head.”
“Tone is hard to gauge over email,” Maurice says gently. “This might be the kind of thing better suited to a phone call.”
“Maurice.” You grin. “Only monsters use the phone.”
You found Maurice Martin, LICSW, on the internet. He had a nice bio, he was close to your apartment, his listing offered an email as well as a phone number. And when you looked at his specialties, Grief counseling is there, right next to Trauma. It’s what you could point to, when Mom asked.
You told her about the appointment. It’s her insurance; you couldn’t not. She was so relieved it was hard to look at her.
You told Maurice Martin about Gaby first, and you expected stony, clinical acceptance. You watched it wash over his face instead. God, he said, I’m so sorry.
It’s weird to see that empathy, that understanding on the face of someone you don’t know. He still looks at you like that sometimes.
You’re not sure how you feel about how nice it is.
“Maybe I just won’t go,” you say.
“You were excited for this, weren’t you?” he says.
“I mean, yeah. I kind of fell out of Astronomy Club—after,” you say. “But I’m not taking a bus out to the desert.”
You made a choice, before that first appointment, not to use those four letters. To catalogue your basket of symptoms like you had no clue. You told yourself it was so you wouldn’t bias him. But he didn’t need your guesses. Looking back, he diagnosed you in ten minutes.
It’s not like I was in the accident was your token protest. Though even then, you wondered.
He didn’t—doesn’t—know that part of it. But he still smiled sadly and said, That doesn’t matter.
You made another appointment with him. You looked up whatever information you could with your halfhearted search terms. Less-terrible PTSD. A casual users’ guide to PTSD. PTSD for Dummies.
And the summer went on. The worst of it isn’t sudden, exactly, because it was already there. You just noticed it, that’s all.
“I have to ask, Rose.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Did you tell him why you wanted to drive? Or just that you wanted to?”
You don’t need to answer. Your tight smile tells him everything he needs to know.
“It sounds ridiculous,” you say with a laugh. “Doesn’t it?”
And it is ridiculous. It’s totally fucking absurd. Nobody puts trigger warnings on passenger’s seats and screeching tires and ringing phones. But he’s Maurice. So he says, “Of course it doesn’t.”
“I guess I’m kind of like . . .” You chew on the words a long time. He waits you out. He always does. “Can’t people just . . . guess?”
“That’d be easier, yes.” He laughs. “But people have short memories, Rose. They’re not going to know unless you tell them.”
You won’t go stargazing in the desert with the Astronomy Club. But you’ll do your homework. You’ll map the patterns of your adrenaline, you’ll chart the highs and lows of your pulse, and you’ll talk to yourself. You’ll talk to yourself in the mirror, you’ll talk to yourself in writing. You’ll stop telling yourself to shut up and start telling yourself that you’ll be okay.
The Valley and the Flood Page 24