The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  “I have to go,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  “Rose, wait—”

  I hang up before he can finish. It’s not long before my phone buzzes again—Maurice, calling me back. I finally do what I should have done from the start: I throw it as hard as I can, like an insect, like a poisonous snake. I can hear it on the other side of the living room, still vibrating. I didn’t break it. Even with all my strength I didn’t break it.

  Behind me, there’s a clatter. I don’t want to turn. I don’t want to see what it is. But my body twists on its own.

  The blues and grays, the armchairs, the Past Me and Past Maurice are all gone. The living room is the way it should be. But beyond it, in the kitchen, I see something on the empty countertop. Shivering, like someone just put it down. A paring knife, just barely balanced on the edge of the tile.

  “The Mockingbird said,” I say quietly. I can still hear my phone, buzzing behind me. “That you came to me looking for an answer. Is this the answer I gave you?”

  My only response is the knife, still shivering.

  I cross the living room and gingerly move across the kitchen floor. Nothing changes. This is the model house kitchen, not the Summers’. I don’t see myself, the Rose from four nights ago. And I don’t see him.

  But the knife keeps wobbling, balancing. And I think I know what I’m meant to try.

  I walk past the knife a little ways and to the other end of the kitchen. There’s no way to be exact, but I think this is just about the distance I would have been standing. And I swear, when I hit the right spot, I feel a shiver. Like I’m walking over my own grave.

  And when I turn, there I am, standing in the Summers’ kitchen. Straight down the barrel of Nick Lansbury’s stare.

  He grins. Close-lipped, crooked. “Hey, Colter.”

  And I’m afraid. More than I’ve ever been.

  But he’s not the one I’m afraid of anymore.

  Not for a while now.

  DECEMBER 27, FOUR NIGHTS AGO

  NOTE TO SELF: They were right when they said he looks different. Not that you doubted it. It’s just not something you liked to think about. Nick Lansbury is the reason you’re here. You don’t want him to have the decency to look ashamed about it. Less complicated if he doesn’t.

  But one thing hasn’t changed. There he is again, just like that night. Standing squarely in front of your exit.

  He stares at you. You stare back. The dark circles under his eyes make him look older. He looks every bit the haunted soul people think he is now. It doesn’t make you feel better. It makes something in your throat burn.

  “What are you doing here?” you manage to say.

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “I was invited,” he says. And suddenly you’re very sure that he hasn’t changed that much after all.

  You must look—you’re not sure how you look, but something must be clear to him, because he adds, “Flora asked me here. For the anniversary. For Gaby.”

  The heat inside you pools into your chest and pumps out into your blood, out to your limbs and your fingers and your toes. It’s not like you haven’t seen him since the funeral. He’s in your grade now, repeating his senior year. But in the back of your mind you’re always aware of his movements, his schedule, the halls that will take you past him without ever locking eyes, and when you have to see him, you have time to brace for it.

  This is how it feels when you don’t brace for it. This is, you think, how you’ve always felt. What you have been able to swallow.

  It wasn’t his fault, you think, a last-ditch urge to stop feeling whatever you’re feeling. It was an accident. It wasn’t his fault.

  A delicate wobble in the corner of your eye catches your attention. There’s a paring knife to your right, just barely balanced on the edge of the counter, as if set down in the middle of a task.

  He’s smiling at you now. He should stop.

  “Colter,” he says. “What happened with us—obviously I shouldn’t have done that. But you know that Gaby—that was different, okay? It’s been nice talking to Flora. It’s been really, really nice. So if you could just—not say anything.”

  You are miles away from home in the Summers’ kitchen, cool tile under your feet, a simmering, humid night beyond the windows. But right now, in this moment, you might as well be back in that night. On the road, in the dark, breathing airbag powder and misty air.

  You can’t tell anyone, please.

  You go silent. It can’t have lasted all that long in reality, but in the moment, it is an infinite stretch of time. The acid in your chest burns. The knife on the counter bobbles. Your next thought comes so fully formed, it’s like a voice in your ear.

  This is what it feels like to want to hurt someone.

  The handle of the knife shivers to a halt. And you—I—imagine sliding it into my hand. Using it. I imagine it so vividly that it feels inevitable.

  “Oh!”

  Flora’s come up behind me. She slides past my shoulder, pushing the knife safely onto the counter as she gathers Nick into her arms. “I thought you couldn’t make it until Monday!”

  “Got off work early,” he’s saying, somewhere far away.

  They’re both looking at me now. They’re looking and they’re not looking. They’re looking at the me who would be here normally: silently asking me to be okay with this, even in their absolute confidence that I will be. They don’t see me as I am now, with pins and needles from head to toe like all the skin is trying to crawl off my body.

  What was that just now? is all I can think. What was that?

  “Rose?” Flora says slowly. Please don’t say anything, her smile begs. Please just be okay with this.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to. I smile, and I leave the room.

  And I pack my bag.

  * * *

  —

  THE LOCAL TIME is 11:46 p.m., and there are three hundred and thirty-two miles between Las Vegas, Nevada, and San Diego, California.

  The GPS sits on the hood, a bright pop against the night.

  It calculates four hours and thirty-one minutes for the drive home.

  I want this to be over. I want this to be over. I want this to be over. Please just let this be over.

  Twenty-Eight

  THE ANSWER

  WE RETURN TO the present in bursts:

  The reds and oranges of the model house kitchen.

  The paring knife, still balanced on the counter next to my hand.

  The Flood, opposite me, wearing my face, my clothes from that night. The handle of Flora Summer’s paring knife rests in her upturned palm.

  “Listen,” the Flood says. “Remember. Understand.”

  “I am. I do.” I cross my arms, like it’ll stop something. Like it’ll hold this all in. “You saw that happen, didn’t you? Was this where you found me?”

  The Flood nods once. Their face, my face, is a careful blank.

  “And did you know what I was thinking,” I say, “standing in that kitchen?”

  I could swear, for a second, that a shadow crosses the whites of their eyes. But they nod again, impassive as ever.

  A little, painful sound escapes my throat and clapping my hands over my mouth doesn’t smother it. “Earlier that night,” I whisper, through my fingers, “I told Flora what was—what’s going on with me. She said that it was—She didn’t finish, but—she was going to say ‘dangerous.’ Wasn’t she?”

  Their face does darken this time.

  “And is that what you think?” I say. “That I’m dangerous?”

  Their gaze shifts to the knife, still balanced delicately on their palm. Their head inclines, just slightly, almost like a bird’s.

  “Please”—the words come out in a rush, a torrent—“please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “Understand,” the
Flood says softly.

  “I don’t,” I say. “I didn’t—I’ve been trying not to think about it. I haven’t tried to understand it. Please, this doesn’t have to be the answer—”

  They open their mouth again. But not for words this time. A torrent of water spills out, more than any human could ever contain, splashing onto the floors, against the walls. Their edges blur, like a dam opening, until they no longer look like me. They are dark, churning liquid, rushing toward me.

  The foundations of the house tremble. The windows rattle. Slowly at first, then steadily, water begins to pour down through the roof, through the cracks in the windowsills. The wallpaper starts to lift from the walls, like the house is tearing itself to pieces strip by strip.

  And the distant roar of that ancient ocean—it builds like a train, bearing down on me.

  I was supposed to get my things. Right now, I couldn’t remember where they were if someone held a gun to my head. Nothing I own is as important as running, and running now.

  The blast of sound as I hit the front steps rattles like a physical blow. My vision tunnels, I barely recognize Marin Levinson’s front porch under my feet. I need to focus, I need to focus, but my blood is clawing at my skin and my lungs are inching up my throat and I know I’m not dying but right now that’s impossible to remember. I get down the stairs and to the cul-de-sac, and I stay on my feet, but—

  The world flips on its axis as I turn the corner. I’m not headed away from the Levinson house anymore, I’m headed back toward it. The houses and streetlights, barely more than sketches against the vibrant center of my memory, shivering with every bass beat.

  I scramble into a turn and sprint for the cul-de-sac. This time, I dart down a different street, but again, the world flips, again it sets me on a track for that bright shivering house. It happens again, and again, and even at the farthest I can get, the volume never fades.

  There are other flashes, too. Felix’s family, loading up the car. Alex’s father, sweeping a table of meds into a backpack. Cassie, moving silently across a lawn under that eerie green sky. Mom, sitting by the window in our apartment, just watching.

  My foot catches on an edge in the sidewalk, throwing me on hands and knees to the pavement, and I let out a sound I didn’t realize could come from my mouth. I don’t feel the pain as I push myself up. There’s no space in my body for it.

  I double back to the house, I climb the steps, and I pound on the door.

  “Shut up!” I start in with one fist, then two, then with every bit of my weight. The wood bows inward with the force of me. I throw myself against it. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

  It doesn’t shut up, it doesn’t stop, even when my words become howls, and I sink to the side of the house and clamp my hands over my ears. My fingernails dig into my scalp. The house pounds against my back.

  I drag air in through my nose and out through my mouth, rapidly at first, and then timed in the way I’ve been taught, in for seven, hold for two, out for eleven. In—you’re okay. Hold—you’re okay. Out—you’re okay.

  After a while, I can whisper to myself on the exhales. “Shh. You’re okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

  I’m gradually aware that the shuddering of the house has slowed. The music has stopped. The only beats against my back are my own heart. I don’t recognize the front door I’m leaning against, but I know I’m back in Lethe Ridge.

  Dazed, I take stock. There are beads of blood against my jeans from where I tripped, bits of pavement in my palms. My throat feels ripped and raw. I can’t help but feel a distant sense of wonder at how thoroughly I just lost my shit.

  I’m not sure what me “letting it out” looks like, I confessed to Maurice once.

  Like that, apparently.

  The air stings my skin as the sweat starts to cool, and little by little, my breathing evens out. Lethe Ridge shivers, as if bracing for the impact we can both feel coming. And that presence all around me, that overwhelming feeling I’ve come to recognize as the Flood—it doesn’t leave me altogether, but it diffuses, as if spreading to every corner of town. And that tornado-dark sky saps the last of the color out of Lotus Valley.

  I feel for sure now that the Flood’s attention isn’t on me anymore. That they’ve set their sights, permanently, on the town ahead.

  But I don’t think they’ve crossed the borders yet. Lethe Ridge, and everything beyond it, lies undisturbed for now. I’d felt the world crumbling at the edges during the attack. But here it still is.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and run my still-shaking hand through my hair. Nothing’s harder than trying to think post-panic, with my thoughts blasted apart and scattered. I raise myself onto unsteady legs and turn to the distant sound of cars. If I can’t think, then I’m going to follow the one concrete plan I had: find the exit.

  It takes time. Every house looks the same as the others. But I’ve got the distant sounds of the evacuation to guide me and a clumsy-but-sure urge to run. Higher brain functions can follow. I’m shivering still. I miss my sweatshirt. It’s probably still behind the couch at Flora’s.

  Don’t get lost in your head. The thought is automatic. That’s why we’re all here right now, isn’t it? Because I couldn’t follow my own rule?

  But there’s a second thought, a little stronger than the first. All I’ve done since I got to Lotus Valley was keep myself from thinking about Flora’s. And I think that made it worse. I haven’t tried to understand what I felt, looking at Nick. I haven’t tried to figure out what answer I gave myself, let alone the conclusion that the Flood came to.

  It hits me with enough force for a moment that my footsteps slow. And again, I take stock of what the Flood has shown me so far. Sutton Avenue, Flora’s kitchen, the thrift shop, Maurice’s office, Marin’s party, the morning of Gaby’s funeral. All connected to something I felt in that present moment, as concrete as the cul-de-sac on the TV or as vague as a shirt, a window, a similar emotion. But all connected to how I feel about my diagnosis, too.

  Except for the morning of Gaby’s funeral. That was months before my diagnosis.

  Unless that one was meant to be about Flora and me.

  Think, I tell myself. The Flood showed me that after our first real conversation. What were we talking about?

  This is your home. You’re really going to destroy it?

  Can you tell me why?

  That was their answer. Flora and me, on that floor, on that morning. Why was that their answer?

  The faraway rumble of voices grows stronger, distracting me for a moment, and when I cut through the next backyard, I find the fence I scaled that first morning. As I hoist myself over, the crowd briefly swings into view, clustered on a high hill half a mile out. My legs quiver a little harder just looking at the climb. But I’ve barely taken a step when a car pulls up next to me.

  A back door swings open. And John Jonas flashes that implacable smile. “I foresaw that you needed a ride.”

  With a shaky laugh, I get in.

  We park near a cluster of cars on the far side of the hill, and I mumble a thank-you as I let myself out. I don’t think he hears me. He, like the gathered crowd up ahead, only has eyes for the town below.

  There are two people watching for me, though: Felix and Alex, standing a little apart from the crowd. And when they catch me coming, they break into a run.

  “Rose,” Alex gasps out. His face is bloodless. “She’s not with you?”

  Just over their shoulders, I can see Sandy, her hands twisted, her eyes red. There’s a rush through my ears. I hardly hear my answer over it. “No one’s with me,” I say. “What happened?”

  “Cassie’s—Cassie’s gone,” Felix says. “You were taking so long, we thought maybe she’d gone to get you, but—she never met up with Sandy at all. She’s not here.”

  I turn back to the faint outline of Lethe Ridge. Maybe I missed her, back t
here in that labyrinth of houses, but—

  It’s fine, Rose, Cassie said, before. Actually, I’m tired of waiting. And I think of that glimpse of her in the Flood. Walking alone.

  “She never left town,” I say.

  “Why the hell would she—”

  The rush of blood to my ears drowns out the rest of the sentence. I have to go back. I have to get her. But I can feel it—the full force of the Flood, almost here. There’s not going to be enough time. Not if I can’t convince them to stop this.

  I screw my eyes shut. Think, Rose. Try one more time.

  And this once, I let myself think about the morning of Gaby’s funeral. Fully think about it. And I remember exactly what went through my mind, standing in that doorway. When she asked me to take that reading. When I took on her grief, and then I never put it down.

  “I don’t want to,” I gasp, “but I have to.”

  “What?” Alex says.

  “That first night I spoke to the Flood,” I say. “I asked them why they were doing this. That’s what they were trying to tell me. I don’t want to, but I have to.” I take a steadying breath. “I have to go back.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Alex says.

  “Allie—” Felix starts. He gets just that far when Alex rounds on him.

  “I’m going,” Alex grits out, “to town. And if you think you’re going to talk me out of it—”

  “Alex.” Felix squeezes a sigh through his teeth. “I know.”

  Alex, who’s halfway through a retort, all but freezes on the spot. “You do?”

  “Wait here,” Felix says. As he turns and sprints to the blur of a police car, Alex watches him go, still tensed for the argument that didn’t come. I think he’s forgotten that I’m here.

  Felix comes back with three long cylinders tucked under his arm. “Signal flares. We split up, cover more ground. Whoever finds Cassie fires one of these, and then we all get out.”

  Something not quite readable passes across Alex’s face, but in the course of a moment, it hardens into resolve. He steps forward, raises himself onto his toes, and reaches out—past the flares and up to Felix’s collar, which he grabs and pulls. And then he kisses him.