The Vanishing Season
Page 18
He tows me into the middle of the spring, and we can see the trout swimming underneath us, circling flecks of silver. Liam laughs, and it echoes around the spring, but no one is there to hear but me—the ghost me and the living me.
Beneath us the water dances, and the sand far, far below bubbles like clouds. We’re like two angels floating over heaven. It’s our perfect moment, and it never disappears. Even now I can see us, even long after the moment is gone. Love can’t be taken back once it’s given.
Liam says, “I’ve got you.” And moves me from his back, holding one hand against my stomach. I know what he wants.
I stretch out my arms, like I’ve seen other people do, and I push my legs behind me, and—with his hand there to catch me—I swim.
This is what I think the world is showing me. We are souls at a common cause. We are only here to love. That was my great story all along. We are here to take chances, and fail, and keep trying.
I’m back in the cellar on Water Street, alone, and the hole is big enough for me. I can’t seem to stop moving toward the brightness. The curiosity is overwhelming me now.
If only I could take even one thing with me. Just a bracelet or a slip of paper or even the memory of a duckling or even a sound or a line from a song. Just one memory to remind me of who I am would make all the difference.
I want to have a last look at something real. I catch glimpses of other times and other moments, but they go quickly. A woman stands in the empty field above, before the house is built. The field is buzzing with grasshoppers, and as the woman walks, butterflies and moths spring out of the tall grass around her feet. The view, the clean breeze, it seems like a place where only happy things could ever happen. “We’ll build it right here,” she says to the man walking behind her. As if she can picture the house exactly as it should be—a wide front porch, where she can sit and catch the lake breezes, a sweeping yard, dormers for the upstairs windows; the perfect place to begin a life. She spins the cherry bracelet on her wrist. She touches her stomach, where life is growing. The future is everything to her.
And then I’m past it.
Suddenly I fear what’s coming next. I try to remember all my favorite songs. I run through as many as I can.
I step inside the bright hole, of my own free will, and here I see the last thing I was expecting to find. It’s my grave. There’s my headstone, and underneath the dirt I see my bones.
But I’m not in them. I have nothing to do with my bones at all. I’m something else. I realize that I’m bigger than my bones and bigger than my cellar and bigger than Door County. I’m part of something that’s made entirely of me, and yet of which I’m only a speck, a small piece. It turns out I’m not alone.
Suddenly I’m smiling. I feel as big and wide as the earth or the universe or even bigger, like I will disappear, but I will never really disappear. It turns out death is something of a joke. It’s indescribably funny. And I laugh. The world seems to open up—crack open—sing.
There’s a feeling of lightness in the air. And this is when the moths disperse. They fly apart, a flurry of night colors: dusk green and twilight blue and luminous white. They circle out; they’re like the eye of a hurricane, and they’re rising. Their beauty makes me want to cry, but then I realize it’s my beauty, I’m them and they’re me, and I’m flying apart too, going in a thousand different directions, each of which will end only God knows where. We, the moths and me, are like tiny angels ourselves. We circle toward a million moons, a million points of lights. And then, as if my life were a tiny pinprick of light in a long, beautiful, mysterious night, I go. I am gone.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU TO SARAH LANDIS FOR HER KEEN INSIGHTS AND EFFORTS, Rosemary Stimola for always giving me such a firm foundation and sounding board, and Melinda Weigel for her work behind the scenes. Thanks to Tasha Diakides for the early brainstorming sessions and Crunchie bars, Katie Pavia for introducing me to the Neko Case song “Margaret vs. Pauline,” and Carrie Chimenti and the Wigleys for enticing me to Door County. Thanks always to Mark, my most beloved and handsome critique partner, and to my family.
I’ve taken many liberties with Door County, a beautiful place that to my knowledge contains no killers. The Door County I’ve written about is partly imaginary—I’ve created towns, schools, people, churches, and a villain that doesn’t exist. But I do want to point out that the real Door County is pretty wonderful.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JODI LYNN ANDERSON is the New York Times bestselling author of Peaches, The Secrets of Peaches, Love and Peaches, Tiger Lily, and the popular May Bird trilogy. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and an endless parade of stray pets.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE VANISHING SEASON. Copyright © 2014 by Jodi Lynn Anderson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
[tk]
Library of Congress catalog card number:
ISBN 978-0-06-200327-0 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition October 2013 ISBN 9780062003270
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