The words aren’t easy to get out. But if I don’t believe this will work, neither will the Flood. So I believe it down to my toes instead.
“This is not what you are anymore,” I whisper. “And I’m going to stay with you until this is over, because I know you’re not going to hurt me. You don’t have to keep holding this back. All that pain you’ve taken in, all these years—you can let it go.”
A fine tremble runs through the water, the last vestiges of the dam. There’s still some unconscious force drawing away, holding it back.
“Shhh,” I breathe. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
I hear the snap right before it happens, like the last fiber of a fraying rope. And then I’m surrounded by damp, cold air.
I don’t see anything this time—just darkness, just water.
But the water doesn’t touch me.
What I feel instead are decades of emotions: some recognizable, others abstract, not quite human. They rush past, too quickly to discern, not long enough to grasp. It’s like listening to a sad story. It’s like holding Flora Summer in my arms on her carpeted floor, feeling her tears on my shirt. It’s like all of that in seconds, or maybe longer.
And through it all, I think I see someone next to me. A short figure with black-dyed hair and a flowing, long-gone maxi dress, holding my hand.
The water passes. My right side clears, then my left, then the sky over my head. Dawn has started to creep into the spiderweb of clouds. And when I look behind me, all I see is the sweep of something passing through town like a gust of wind.
I take a long breath. It tastes like the first hint of a hot, hazy day.
The last fading tendrils of the Flood slip out of the clouds. They slip over the edge of the horizon, leaving only the empty, slightly disheveled stillness of Morningside Drive.
It’s not quite empty, though. Small and in the distance, nearly out of sight, I see someone stumble from the alcove of a building, her blonde curls rumpled, blinking at the sky. I see another, dwarfed by the swirling shadows around her. And when they see each other, they meet in the middle.
I’m too far away to hear them. I don’t need to. The way Christie grabs near-frantic at Cassie’s face, her hair, the way Cassie nods, her lips forming the same words over and over, the way they fall into the hug, inevitable as gravity—that’s everything I need to know.
It’s a while before they notice me.
I think I’m smiling as I wave them over. And even from a distance, I can see their mouths hanging open.
The sun is rising on another new year. One full year since I lost Gaby.
And somehow, here I am.
Thirty
THE RETURN
“IT’S NORMAL.”
For the first time since I’ve met him—but possibly not the last—I’d like to take Maurice by his thoughtful, empathetic shoulders and shake him, just a little. “Seriously,” I say.
“Seriously,” he says. “Completely normal.”
“I wanted—” I have just enough sense left that I remember where I am, turn my head a little away from the street where the crowds have started to mill back into Lotus Valley. “I wanted to kill him.”
“Of course you did,” he says. “From what you’ve told me, I’d be surprised if you didn’t want to kill him just a little.”
“Maurice,” I say, plaintive.
His laughter echoes through the phone speaker. It’s making my head spin, just a little. But also, I think I really worried him. So I can deal with him laughing at me a little. “I don’t mean to tease you. But, Rose—having the thought doesn’t make it more likely to happen.”
I let out a long, slow breath. It’s what I know now—intellectually, at least—to be true. Hearing him say it knocks something out of me.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I say, softer.
“Imagining hurting someone—that’s not the same thing as wanting to,” he says gently. “Intrusive thoughts feed off each other, especially when they’re distressing. Remember what I said before? If you told yourself not to think about polar bears, the first thing you’d do is think about a polar bear.”
“Yeah, you said that,” I shoot back. “And yet I’m still thinking about gutting Nick Lansbury in Flora Summer’s kitchen. Where’s this polar bear I was promised?”
I think better of that about two seconds later. “Um,” I say. “That was—”
“Joking about it is good, Rose,” he says. And I hear the smile there. “You can’t control your own thoughts. But you can find ways to neutralize them, or turn them on their head. That’s something we can work on together.”
“Oh,” I say. It sounds—not simple, exactly. But more straightforward than I imagined. “That would be nice.”
“And . . .” He hesitates. “It sounds like you’ve been worrying quite a lot about how you might have changed, this past year.”
There’s a silence. I don’t realize he’s waiting for me to speak until he says my name again.
“Yeah,” I say faintly. I was distracted for a moment. Because in the little alcove between the two shops across the street, the scenery has slowly but surely begun to change.
“I can see you sooner than Thursday, if you like,” he says. “When will you be home?”
In the alcove, shimmering like the surface of water, is a glimpse into a bedroom. Mine. I’m sitting on my bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, my shoulders shivering. And across from me, concern and love and a hint of Biblical anger written into her face, is Gaby.
Not anger at me, of course. Anger at whoever it was who made me cry. I can’t tell, looking at it, who that might’ve been, when this might’ve been. All I can look at is her face.
“No, it’s—Thursday’s good,” I say, in a voice outside of myself. “I’m going to have a lot to say, so. I need to think of the best way to say it.”
“You are heading home, though,” he says. His tone suggested I better be heading home.
I laugh again, around that concave feeling in my gut. In the alcove, Gaby scoots closer to me, takes my face in both her hands.
Oh, Rosie, I hear her whisper. She presses a kiss to my hair. Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s okay.
“In a couple of hours,” I say faintly.
“Drive safely,” he says. And then, after a pause: “Thank you for telling me, Rose.”
I blink. And my bedroom, and me, and Gaby—we’re all gone.
I wrap my free arm around the curve of my waist. There’s something inside of my throat, something jagged and stuck that hurts worse than I could have imagined. But I can still feel her hands on my arms, my cheeks, my forehead. And they’re warm.
“Thank you for listening, Maurice,” I say. And I hang up.
I cross the street, maneuvering around the steady stream of people making their way back into town. The first few don’t notice me. I wonder if to most of them, I’ll be this distant, cryptic thing, the strange girl who brought upheaval and a brush with disaster to their sleepy town. But then fingers brush my arm.
“I saw her,” someone whispers. “Thank you.”
I turn. And Adrienne, her eyes wet and smiling, winks at me.
“Your next coffee’s on me,” she says. And then she keeps walking.
A few more call to me as they walk past. “Be well, kid,” says Ace Martin. “Thanks, or whatever,” says Loreen. “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,” whisper the creatures from the theater as they sail overhead, drifting back home.
And looking around, in the maze of confused and weary faces, I see the awe and gratitude and overwhelming pain. All across Lotus Valley, even up to the high ground of the hills, the past became the present for one night. And for them, it was gone.
I step out of the way and leave the street clear for everyone to pass, to carry everything they’ve seen over the past several hours back to t
heir homes. I move, instead, into the alcove, where Gaby and I were sitting just a second ago.
This is a hole I’ll never fill. But I don’t want to. I want to preserve this spot where she stood until time and erosion wear it away.
“Thank you,” I say as I feel the Flood’s chill around my shoulders. Because we finally, finally understand each other.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that. Eventually, I feel a hand against my arm, and when I turn, Cassie’s there. Her face looks puffy and red, and her eyes are still brimming.
And yet when she hugs me, she cradles the back of my head, runs her hand through my hair, like I’m the one being comforted.
I understand that better when I go to speak and I can’t get the words out.
I don’t cry, though. Not yet. Crying, I think, is going to take time, unwrapping those layers of performances and straight faces. But I was the one who wrapped them. So I think I must know where the knots are tied.
“So,” I whisper. “I don’t think you have a shot at second-most accurate now.”
She pulls back, her mouth a perfect O. “Wow.”
I let out a choked laugh. “What do you think changed?”
“Well. I’m guessing.” Her shoulders twitch, like she’s too tired to shrug properly. “But I think they were just so convinced they were going to hurt us, that that’s what I saw. I’ve never seen a vision of anyone’s fears before. But I’ll think long and hard about what that means once I’ve slept for eight years.”
“Might boost your status in the prophet world,” I say.
“I mean. It might.” Cassie’s still scowling. But she looks thoughtful, too. “But I think we can all agree that I still get to be mad as hell, right?”
“Oh God, yeah,” I say, so quickly that she snorts. “You lost family. Years of your life.”
“It’s a lot to think about,” she says softly. “But. Well. I suddenly have a lot of time I wasn’t planning on.”
She’s smiling. I don’t understand why until I see Christie Jones making her way through the crowd, Maggie Williams trailing behind her. Her parasol is by her side, and Rudy’s tendrils spread from her feet, whipping all around her.
“And,” Cassie says, “I didn’t lose everything.”
Over my shoulder, I smile back at her, even as I stand a little straighter at Christie’s approach. There’s something rigid in the way she’s walking. It occurs to me too late that she’s still holding Rudy back.
“I spoke to Theresa,” she says, by way of greeting. “And your car is ready whenever you are. She fixed it within a day, apparently. But, well. Didn’t tell you, for obvious reasons.” Her gaze darts over my shoulder and then softens—I think maybe Cassie just shot her a look. “I don’t want to rush you,” she says. “You’re welcome here as long as you like, though I’m sure you want to be back with your family.”
“And . . . ?” I say, mildly. Because she’s still looking over my shoulder, but not at Cassie.
Finally, she looks at me properly. Rudy’s many arms stretch, just a little, toward me. “And,” she says, resigned, “the Flood is following you again, aren’t they?”
Next to me, Cassie doesn’t flinch. If I wasn’t watching Rudy’s slow approach across the pavement, I would have been touched that she’s still holding my hand.
“Please don’t hurt them,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m talking to Christie or the shadow at her feet.
“Rose, look at me.” Christie’s dark brown eyes hold mine for a long beat. “We don’t want to hurt them.”
Maggie, who’d been letting her take the lead, blinks. “We don’t?”
“This was a misunderstanding,” Christie says. “We know that. But you need to be at home, where you can heal. And you don’t have to bring them back with you. We can figure something out.”
I hold her stare. She looks so concerned. For the first time all week, she doesn’t have to be.
“I don’t think,” I say slowly, “that they’ll be with me forever. That’s not what either of us wants. But if they’re around a little while longer—we’re okay with that. If that makes sense.”
“Still.” Christie’s lips are pursed, tight. “This is living memory itself. Their concept of ‘a little while’ might be very different than yours.”
There’s a light stir of air at my back. I reach up to touch my shoulder, as if they have a hand to hold. Just hours ago, the worst thing you could have said to me was that I would never be able to shake the Flood. And now, with them standing as close to me as it’s possible to get, I know that I won’t. We’ll drift gradually, maybe, like plates beneath the earth: shift by minuscule shift. I don’t know how long it’s going to take. And that doesn’t scare me.
“They’re safe with me,” I say. “And I’m safe with them.”
The crease on Christie’s brow melts away. And gently, Rudy’s limbs loosen and recede. One slides into my palm and, laughing, I scratch it until I hear a low purr.
“Well,” she says, a little rueful. “That sound good to you, Maggie? I think she knows better than we do.”
Maggie’s lips thin, and for a moment, it looks like she’s going to object. “It’s all the same to me, Christie.” She sighs. “That’s not what I came here for, anyway.”
“You didn’t?” Christie says. But Maggie’s attention is now, fully, on me.
“Rose,” she says. “You’re going to be all right. I wanted you to know.”
I meet her solemn, steady gaze. I’ve heard a lot of grand pronouncements from Maggie Williams these past few days. But Cassie was right. It sounds different when you’re sure.
And I’m grateful. It’s nice to be reminded. But I mean it when I tell her, “I know.”
* * *
—
CASSIE, FELIX, AND Alex walk me to Theresa’s garage. Or rather, Cassie walks me to the garage, and Felix and Alex gaze into the other’s eyes.
“You guys are gonna crash into a pole,” I say, with all the love in my heart.
Alex pulls Felix into another short but emphatic kiss, and Felix reels back, grinning. “Gonna be worth it,” he says dreamily.
“I’ve been waiting on this for the better part of a year,” Alex says. “So I’m collecting. With interest.”
“You’ve been—a year?” Felix says. “So you didn’t realize—”
“Oh, no,” Alex says, “I knew you were interested, too.”
“And you didn’t ever say anything?” Felix says.
“Felix,” Alex says, with a slow, fond smile. “I really, really like you. But if you didn’t stop treating me like fine china, I would have had to kill you.”
Felix frowns. Then nods. He’s still got the look of a guy who thinks he’s dreaming and isn’t going to question it. “That’s fair.”
Satisfied, Alex settles back into the arm Felix wraps around his shoulders. Theresa’s garage slowly settles into view ahead, shimmering in the desert afternoon.
“You’re not headed out right away, right?” Felix calls up to me.
I shake my head. Freshly fixed or not, my car isn’t going to do well in the heat of the day. “Tonight, when the sun goes down. I was actually hoping that once we pick up the car, you’d all let me get you a slice of pie? It’s the least I can do to make up for all this.”
“You don’t have to make up for anything,” Felix says, to which Alex nods fervently. “I’ll buy my own slice.”
“I’m in more of a strawberry milk shake mood?” Cassie doesn’t have to look back at Felix and Alex to add, after a beat, “Which I will of course pay for myself.”
I do my best to look preoccupied with straightening the sign on Theresa’s door. It gives me a couple of seconds to swallow the lump in my throat. “Wait out here?” I ask. “I’ll be right back.”
No one fights me on that. They are, at least, willing to leave
this last little bit of awkwardness to me.
I open the door to find Theresa Gibson pressing the hood of my car back into place.
She doesn’t turn to look, and I think, for a second, she didn’t hear me come in. But a beat later she calls, “There you are. I’ve been waiting all morning.”
There’s no trace of that usual ease in her tone, but somehow I smile at her anyway. “Kind of a mixed message,” I say. “You wanted me here and now you want me gone?”
“Not exactly fair, maybe,” she grunts. “But I’d just as soon—”
She cuts herself off. Her gaze has shifted to the desk. The wall’s blocking where she’s looking. But that picture must still be there.
“You didn’t see your father?” I ask quietly.
“Oh, I saw him. Something that looked like him, anyway.” The brisk clip of her tone fades into something bitter. “But that wasn’t him, was it? It was an echo, just like you said.”
Slowly, I take a step closer. “You’ve been researching the Flood for months,” I say. “You had to know already that they weren’t going to bring back the dead.”
“That’s not what I was—” I can see her teeth press down against her bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. She squeezes her eyes shut. Then she lets the breath she’s holding go. “I knew it wasn’t going to bring him back. But I thought it would—I don’t know. Stay, until I stopped caring about the difference. All those months of my life. I thought he would at least see me.”
I’m as close to her as I’m willing to get. And I feel—not forgiveness, exactly. But something close to understanding.
“There’s a bright side, at least,” I say. “If you’re willing to hear it.”
Her gaze sharpens enough that I’m sure the answer is going to be no. But she inclines her head into a nod.
“It’s that the Flood doesn’t show you anything that you don’t already have,” I say. “For better or worse, your past is a living thing. And if you take pieces of the people you lost, make them your own—nothing ever really ends. Not completely.”
The Valley and the Flood Page 29