The Valley and the Flood

by Rebecca Mahoney

  If that sinks in, it’s hard to tell. Her face seems to shroud, close in. She pops the earbuds out of her ears, sets them on the edge of her workbench, and gestures vaguely to a switch on the wall.

  “To open the garage,” she says. “When you’re ready to go.”

  “I haven’t paid you,” I say.

  “I’ve done enough. I’m not taking your money. Don’t worry about closing up behind you. I’ll be in the back.” She turns away, as if to leave, but then she hesitates. “Thanks. For saying all that.”

  And she vanishes behind the back curtain.

  It’s quiet long enough that I know I’m alone now. The garage windows are too tall for me to see out, but Cassie and the others must still be out there, wondering.

  I’ll make this call quick.

  Slowly, I slide my phone out of my pocket. My fingers are shaking too hard to dial, so I hold down the button instead. “Call Mom,” I say.

  She picks up quickly.

  “Rosie!” Her voice is heavy and sleep-rough, like I caught her in the middle of her post-holiday afternoon nap. “Happy New Year! I thought you were going to call last night?”

  I tuck the phone under my hair, cradling it to my ear. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “No, no, don’t worry,” she says. “We missed you, that’s all! Dan and your brother are out back—should I bring the phone to them?”

  “No, that’s okay, I-I’m actually packing up here,” I say. “I’m heading home tonight. So I’m going to see you all soon.”

  I thought I said it normally. But she pauses. “Rosie,” she says. “Did something happen?”

  “When I get back,” I say slowly to make sure I’m heard, “can we talk? I—I mean, it can be tomorrow. I’m not leaving until tonight. It’s going to be late.”

  I hear a shuddering breath over the line. But when she speaks next, her smile is audible. “I’ll wait up for you, baby. As long as it takes. Just come home.”

  It takes effort to loosen my grip on the phone. If I hold it any tighter, I’m going to finally break it.

  “I love you,” I say, in a rush of breath. “I’ll be home soon.”

  “I love you so much, Rosie,” she whispers. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

  I wonder if she hears it, before she hangs up, when I press the phone to my chest and hold it there—the rustle of fabric, the sound of those choked almost-sobs. I see the seconds keep ticking on my phone for a full beat before the call ends, so I think she heard it. I’m okay with that.

  I keep holding it there. I take a breath. And I let it go.

  JANUARY 1, NOW

  LISTEN: IT HAS been two hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-eight seconds since you said your goodbyes and left Lotus Valley behind you.

  You are long past the California border, and in the distance, you see city lights. This is where you will pull onto the shoulder and switch on your hazards. This is where you will climb out of the car and wander a little down the road, far enough that those city lights disappear into the edge of your periphery. Just far enough that you move past the path of your headlights and into black, reaching distance.

  Even here, outside your car, outside the cities, with only the stars for light, you should be able to make out glimpses of the desert through the dark. But what you are looking at is not desert.

  It looks infinite from here, this ocean of recorded time.

  “Not much farther now,” you whisper. It’s anyone’s guess whether this wine-dark sea can hear you. But you don’t go through what the two of you did without sharing a language. You both know that, if nothing else.

  It’s so quiet now. You have to hold very, very still, and breathe very, very gently to hear that little cry from the churning water. Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there? That same sentence: looping, calling, unanswered forever.

  But listen: Today it is as far away as it has ever been. It is an echo, a receding footstep, the last syllable of a dying sound. It is an alarm defending a still and empty house, long after the intruder has gone.

  Keep listening. It gets quieter and quieter every day.

  Resources

  Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, affects about eight million people in the United States alone.

  In the media and pop culture, PTSD is most commonly connected to first responders and military veterans. But PTSD can affect anyone after any kind of traumatic event. If you relate to any of Rose’s symptoms, or if you are otherwise struggling in the wake of a traumatic experience, you don’t have to struggle alone.

  The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) has a comprehensive overview of PTSD symptoms and treatments, which you can access here: nami.org/About-Mental-Illness/Mental-Health-Conditions/Posttraumatic-Stress-Disorder/Overview. For information, referrals, and support, you can call 800-950-NAMI, or for crisis counseling, you can text HOME to 741741 if you are in the US or Canada. Text options for the UK and Ireland may be found at crisistextline.org.

  If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please consider reaching out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255, or accessing their live chat at suicidepreventionlifeline.org. You can also find a directory of international suicide prevention hotlines here: suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html.

  Sharing your experiences with PTSD can be intimidating. You may worry that your trauma is “not bad enough” to justify your struggles. Please don’t forget: Your pain is real. You deserve support. And you deserve to be heard.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, first and foremost, to my incomparable agent, Hannah Fergesen, without whom this book would not exist in its current form. I am grateful every day for your humor, patience, honesty, and editorial brilliance. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner and I’m so lucky to know you.

  I am equally lucky to know Alex Sanchez, editor extraordinaire, who has been a champion for this book beyond anything I could have imagined. Thank you for your insight, your creativity, your trust, and your always impeccable style—it is such a joy to work with you and this story is so much richer for it. Thank you as well to the wonderful Razorbill team, including publisher Casey McIntyre, copyeditors Marinda Valenti and Jody Corbett, proofreaders Krista Ahlberg and Maddy Newquist, cover artist Matt Saunders, cover designer Maggie Edkins, and everyone who put their time, energy, and enthusiasm into making this book so beautiful. Thank you as well to Dr. Jennifer L. Hartstein for her careful read-through and advice.

  Thank you to the Writers Room of Boston, where I wrote and revised the majority of this book, and to Debka, Alexander, and the fantastic community there. Thank you as well to the crew at Futurescapes for your invaluable feedback on the first chapter, for showing me the desert sky, and for all of your I-15 fact-checking.

  The Valley and the Flood could not have been written without the brilliant, hilarious, boundlessly talented communities surrounding me. There are so many people who have given me advice, support, and hope over the years, and it would be impossible to name them all, but I’m going to try anyway. Thank you to the writers of the Mr. Crepe group (with thanks to Rachel for bringing us together), the Kidlit Alliance, and the Roaring Twenties, and thank you to my friends of the 198 (with special thanks to Kendra for being my first ARC reader), the Bridge Podcast crew, and the Forest of Mutual Pining. Thank you especially to my fellow KT Literary clients, especially my fellow Hannah clients. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  I especially want to thank: Susan and Kate, two of the kindest and most generous people on this planet and the best writing crew I could ask for; Christine, my fabulous Salt Friend, whose words and excellent company sustain me in equal measure; Shannon, the funniest person I know and the best dinner companion I could ask for; the e l e g a n t Alex, the best podcast partner in crime I could ask for; my roommates Lynne and Erin, for their enthusiasm and their boundless patience with my mid-drafti
ng memory lapses; and Miranda and Sarah, my sisters in every way that matters, for being there from the very beginning.

  Thank you to Rob, who honestly deserves a cowriting credit at this point, but would definitely never accept it. I’ve tried so many times to tell you how much you’ve helped me, but words never seem to cover it. Thank you for everything.

  Thank you to my incredible extended family, who would fill an entire new book if I tried to name them in their entirety, but who have offered their love, excitement, and expertise at every turn. Having your support has kept me afloat this past decade. Thank you in particular to my godmother, Katie, who always let me check my email when she took me out to dinner.

  And finally, to my family, who never seemed to doubt that I would find my way here: Dad, Keenan, Sara, and especially Mom, my first editor. I love you all so much.

  About the Author

  Rebecca Mahoney is a young adult and middle grade writer, and the co-creator of audio drama serial The Bridge Podcast. She's a strong believer in the cathartic power of all things fantastical and creepy in children's literature--and she knows firsthand that ghosts, monsters, and the unknown can give you the language you need to understand yourself. She was raised in Windham, New Hampshire, currently resides in Somerville, Massachusetts, and spends her spare time watching horror movies, collecting cloche hats, and cursing sailors at sea. She can be found on Twitter @cafecliche.

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