Forever Glimmer Creek

by Stacy Hackney

  “I don’t care why she’s awake. I only care about getting out of here,” Cam whispered.

  Deputy Cordell’s flashlight beam arced from one side of the graveyard to the other. She headed up along the left side.

  Rosie thought about the famous chase scene in The Fugitive where Harrison Ford has to jump into a dam. If he could jump fifty feet, they could run through a graveyard.

  “Follow my lead,” Rosie said, moving into a crouch.

  Cam moved her feet underneath her but remained low to the ground. Henry did the same. Rosie motioned for them to rise slowly.

  “On my cue, we run,” Rosie whispered.

  Rosie, Henry, and Cam locked eyes and nodded in unison.

  Rosie gulped in a breath, pointed with one finger, and took off down the right side of the graveyard. Cam and Henry sprinted behind her.

  Deputy Cordell immediately spotted them and was yelling in their direction as she wove through the headstones. Rosie’s shin banged into a statute and she slowed momentarily, but Henry grabbed her arm and pulled her along beside him.

  They bolted through the swinging graveyard gate, heading up Magnolia Street. Deputy Cordell was still shouting but falling farther behind. They darted to the back of Sook Diner and leaned against the wall beside the rusting green dumpster, all of them panting loudly.

  “We lost her,” Rosie said. Her arms and legs shook with adrenaline.

  “That was a close one,” Cam whispered.

  Cam and Rosie looked at each other and exploded with laughter. Rosie held her sides, her stomach cramping up. “I can’t believe we did that!”

  “I can’t believe Deputy Cordell can’t run faster!” Cam said between heaving laughs.

  “Maybe she’ll think we were ghosts,” Rosie said, cracking herself up.

  “I bet she doesn’t know what to think,” Cam said.

  Henry remained frozen, not laughing or talking.

  Rosie turned to him, and her laughter died in her throat. “Is everything okay?”

  “We didn’t find the treasure,” Henry said, his voice sounding thick and broken. The sockets around his eyes were dark and hollowed out. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, not just days.

  “It’s all right,” Rosie said, unable to come up with something better.

  “No, it’s not,” Henry said, his chin trembling. And then, all at once, there were tears trickling down his face. “It’s never going to be all right.”

  Cam stepped closer to Henry, and Rosie stepped closer to Cam. They knew what Henry meant. Nothing was all right when you had a sick mama at home. They waited with Henry until he stopped crying before walking him home to his too-quiet house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Later that week, Rosie rode to the end of Poplar Lane and left her bike propped up against a tree. She crunched through the branches strewn along the overgrown path in front of her. A thick tree line blocked her view to the right and left. She quickened her pace, ignoring the brambles that tore at her shins and the low-hanging branches that smacked her cheeks.

  The festival was only two days away. Rosie had skipped a few hours of school every day that week to work on the documentary, calling the school with different excuses every time. She’d managed to film the Rodgers brothers, who were speaking to each other again after Frank complimented Shane on his right hook. She’d convinced Mr. Willis to let her film artifacts in the museum, and the Blue brothers, Dr. Rhodes, and Mrs. Davis had all agreed to talk to her on film. She had arranged each interview herself and handled all the setup and lighting for the scenes. Now she was determined to get this last interview done. She’d told the entire town she was going to find out what caused the Miracles. They were all expecting it in her documentary. Rosie hoped today would give her some real answers.

  Up ahead, a small wooden cabin rose up from behind a cluster of trees. Overgrown holly bushes with pointed leaves crowded around the cabin, looking as if they were on the verge of breaking through the first-floor windows. The grass was knee-high and rustled in the breeze. There were no other houses for at least a mile. Rosie’s throat went bone-dry. The cabin looked like the abandoned shack in every horror movie where someone dies a horrible death.

  A white curtain at one window fluttered and pulled straight, as if someone were watching her. The hair rose on the back of Rosie’s neck. She had spent the entire bike ride trying not to think about the rumors that Hazel shot at people to get them off her property and owned a dog named Deadeyes, who was part wolf.

  Rosie took a deep breath. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. It wouldn’t hurt to knock on the door, right? No one was going to attack her for knocking on the door. Besides, hermits could be surprisingly helpful, like Obi-Wan Kenobi at the beginning of Star Wars. He was also living in the middle of nowhere, and he was secretly a Jedi.

  Rosie climbed the steps to the leaning porch, and the front door swung open. She backed up in surprise. Hazel Maywell stood in the doorway, a long gray braid over one shoulder. Her wizened figure held a cane, not a shotgun. She was missing a few teeth, but her milky blue eyes were sharp.

  “Just what exactly are you doing on my doggone porch?” Hazel snapped.

  Rosie’s hands shook, and she plunged them into her pockets. Hazel Maywell looked an awful lot like a typecast version of a witch. All that was missing was a pointed black hat.

  “Mrs. Maywell, I—I’ve come about an important matter,” Rosie stammered.

  “Name’s Hazel, and I don’t much like important matters,” Hazel said. “If you’re here trying to find that doggone treasure, I’ll tell you the same thing I told all the others. Get lost.”

  “I’m not here about the treasure. I promise.”

  Hazel frowned. “You best get lost anyways. Ain’t you heard the story about Will Burns and how I shot him?”

  “Yes,” Rosie said. “I mean, no. I don’t know about any shooting.”

  Hazel motioned to something behind her. “I’d hightail it out of here if I was you. I’m fixing to let out Deadeyes. Bet you heard about my dog, Deadeyes. He’s mean, feral, likely has rabies. He’ll bite anything, ’specially trespassers.”

  “I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” Rosie said, though every instinct in her body was screaming at her to run.

  “I’ve got a gun,” Hazel added.

  “Maybe,” Rosie said in a quavering voice. “But I happen to know Will Burns is a big fat liar. He once told everyone he broke his leg falling down the stairs and woke up to it miraculously healed. When he tried to charge people five dollars to touch his Miracle staircase, we all knew he’d made the whole thing up.”

  “You saying I don’t have a gun?” Hazel demanded, glaring down at Rosie.

  Rosie shrank back but didn’t budge. “I’m saying I’m willing to risk it.” She gave Hazel a tremulous smile. “And I did bring Mama’s chocolate chip cookies, so maybe you’d prefer to have one of those instead of shooting me?”

  Hazel eyed the small parcel under Rosie’s arm. “I do like chocolate.”

  “Most folks do,” Rosie replied.

  Hazel opened the door another sliver and considered Rosie before stepping aside. “You got five minutes, and you leave the cookies.”

  Rosie exhaled. “Deal.” She handed over the cookie parcel and followed Hazel inside, hoping a large half-wolf dog wasn’t snarling behind the door. Werewolf movies were her least favorite monster-movie genre.

  The interior of the cabin was one large room. A small kitchen filled one wall, and there was a large pot on the stove out of which steam rose in curling gray tendrils. The only animal was a white cat with brown and tan patches, who was sprawled across the sofa in front of the fireplace. Books were crammed into every available corner, along with stacks of yellowing newspapers, blankets, pots, and empty dirt-streaked jars. A rickety wooden table was plunked down in the middle of the room. Hazel motioned for her to sit.

  Hazel took a bite of cookie and closed her eyes. “Do these have bacon in
them?”

  “It’s Mama’s secret ingredient,” Rosie said.

  Hazel took two more bites, polishing off the cookie. “Never would have thought of bacon and chocolate together, but these taste pretty good. Caroline Flynn knows her way around a stove.”

  “You know Mama?” Rosie asked.

  “I know more than a few things,” Hazel said. “Don’t know what you’re doing here though.”

  “Right. I’m glad you asked. I’m here because I’m filming a documentary about the Miracles, and I want to interview you for the film.”

  Hazel burst into a cackle.

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” Rosie asked in a timid voice.

  “Lawd no, I won’t do it.”

  “Why not?” Rosie asked.

  “For one thing, I don’t like people.”

  “You wouldn’t have to see anyone but me and—”

  “For another thing, the Miracle was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

  “B-but it saved your life,” Rosie sputtered.

  “It ruined my life,” Hazel said, glaring back at her. “I was only three years old when I got myself lost in the woods around here trying to find my daddy, or so mama always told me. After two days gone, everyone figured I’d drowned or worse.”

  “And then you turned up safe and sound,” Rosie said, repeating the story Mama had told her many times. “Did you happen to have a lucky charm with you at the time you got lost? Or did you make a wish in the Fishing Well or go in the creek the day before, over by Mrs. Grant’s house or—”

  “How should I know? I don’t remember any of it.”

  “But you must remember something,” Rosie said desperately. “I need to find what causes the Miracles, so if you can think of any reason why you got one, it would really help.”

  Hazel shrugged. “I got no idea.”

  Rosie clenched her teeth. “But it was a Miracle, right? It wasn’t just good luck that you were found. Maybe if you think really hard, you’ll come up with a reason.”

  “There ain’t no reason ’cept bad luck. I spent the rest of my life with this curse of telling people how to find things that are lost.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a curse to me,” Rosie said.

  Hazel shook her head, a wry twist to her mouth. “Girl, you got a lot to learn. Nothing is as good as it looks from the outside.”

  “Well, what if you—you showed me? You could find something for me.” Rosie leaned forward in her seat in growing excitement. If Hazel found something she’d lost, it wouldn’t solve the mystery of the Miracles, but it might prove to everyone that they were real. It might prove to Rosie that they were real.

  “I don’t find things anymore. Not ever.”

  “It couldn’t hurt to find one small thing,” Rosie said in a pleading voice.

  “Yeah it could, and I won’t do it. Haven’t done it for forty-three years. Finding don’t make people happy,” Hazel said matter-of-factly. “And sometimes what’s hidden don’t want to be found.”

  Rosie sighed and shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh no? One time Mack Johnson lost his dog, Patsy. That dog was his best friend. For weeks he begged me to help, so I told him what I knew about finding the dog’s collar. He needed to go look under the largest tree in River Bend Park. When he got there, Patsy was underneath it. Dead.”

  Rosie shivered. “I can see how that would make you upset, but at least he found out what happened to her. Besides, you must have happier stories than that.”

  Hazel snorted.

  “There’s got to be at least one,” Rosie said.

  “Maybe,” Hazel replied grudgingly. “Ivy Wallace asked for help after she lost a locket belonging to her best friend, Tara May. I told her to find that locket, she needed to stop finding so many boyfriends. Next thing I know, she’d dumped that no-good Ty Pritchard, who’d stolen the locket right out of her room. Her and Tara May opened up a flower shop together in Savannah. Heard they live down the street from each other.” Hazel’s eyes were far away, wrapped in wisps of clouds. A small smile touched her lips.

  Rosie framed the shot in her mind. That. She needed that on camera. Maybe she couldn’t convince Hazel to find something or explain the Miracles, but Rosie had to convince her to do the documentary.

  “Hazel, if you’ll let me record that story, I’ll leave here and never bother you again,” Rosie said.

  “Already said no.” Hazel crossed her skinny arms over her chest.

  Hazel’s interview was crucial to the documentary. Her Miracle was one of the most sensational, even more so because she refused to see anyone in town. Everyone in Glimmer Creek was part scared, part fascinated by her. Hazel’s interview alone would make some people want to see the documentary. But if Hazel refused to do it …

  Rosie imagined a field of people staring up at the big screen, waiting for her documentary to start, thinking they were finally going to learn the secret of the Miracles. Instead, she pictured the documentary with a few measly interviews and no other scenes. Everyone would stare at her with pity. People would cluck their tongues in embarrassment. The kids at Stratford Middle School would laugh. Leila would ask Cam if she was really friends with such a loser. Mama would gather her up and rush them home. And her father—Rosie’s temple pounded—her father would probably get in his car and drive straight back to Richmond.

  Rosie’s hand shot out and clung to the frail skin on Hazel’s arm. “Please. You don’t understand how important this is. The entire town is coming to see this film. My father is coming to see this film. I have to get it right.”

  “Your father?” Hazel unthreaded her arm from Rosie’s hand. “Your father don’t live here.” She raised an eyebrow at Rosie’s startled expression. “Told you I know things.”

  “It’s the first time I’m going to meet him,” Rosie whispered, afraid if she said anything else she might burst into tears.

  The room fell silent. The deep wrinkles on Hazel’s forehead reminded Rosie of ripples on the water: long, deep, and wavy across a sunburned face. Dust motes floated up, caught on the air, and drifted back down.

  Finally, Hazel spoke. “My father left when I was a baby. Don’t remember him, though I do remember how my mama used to cry every night with missing him. I know what it’s like. It’s lonely not having a father.”

  A thin crack splintered down the center of Rosie’s heart. Her skin felt all wrong: too tight, too raw, too red. She knew how to react when people talked about Father’s Day, or if someone said their daddy never missed a dance recital or a school play. She’d turn her lips into a slight smile, relax her posture, and act interested but not too interested. Eventually, she’d change the subject and no one would know the truth. No one would know how she felt like the only person in the world without a father. No one would know about her hollowed-out stomach and the way her throat was coated in a thickness worse than the sludge below Miss Matilda’s dock. But Hazel knew, and it was as if she could see right through Rosie’s skin to the emptiness inside her.

  “I—I have a father,” Rosie said, not sounding convincing even to herself. She had tried to ignore the emptiness again and again. She never wanted to admit how much it hurt that her father didn’t come to see her, didn’t call her, didn’t show up ever, but she couldn’t deny it anymore. Not when Hazel was staring at her, and not when she was about to see him for the first time.

  Hazel looked at Rosie before nodding once. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll do what?” Rosie asked.

  “I’ll do your doggone movie, but I won’t find anything, and this best be short. I got to feed Deadeyes soon.” Hazel gestured to the sleepy cat behind her, who lifted her head, opened one eye, and promptly closed it again.

  “Thank you,” Rosie said quietly.

  Rosie got out her camera and searched for the best interview backdrop, but she didn’t feel the triumph she expected for landing Hazel’s interview. She realized now the documentary wasn’t
the end of her story with her father. It was only the beginning. And she couldn’t help asking herself if any good story could really begin twelve years too late.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The town library had a two-story atrium in the center with an entire wall of curved glass behind it, an endless ceiling, and a balcony on the second floor lined with books. Prisms of light flared out in all directions, highlighting the polished wood tables and gilded book spines. A few people ambled up and down the rows of books, stopping to peer at the shelves and speaking in hushed voices.

  Mrs. Arbuckle, the librarian, sat behind a desk helping Jim and Curtis Cope, who were wearing matching fedora hats, backpacks, and hiking boots. “We only have one town map from the 1800s. I’ve placed it on the table over there beneath the glass. Do not try to touch it. It’s quite delicate and I don’t want to call security like I did yesterday with the Rodgers boys.”

  Jim leaned forward. “Did you happen to notice an X on the map? You know, X marks the spot of a treasure.”

  “Did you check the back for any hidden messages?” Curtis asked. “Back in the olden days, people used lemon juice to write secret codes in invisible ink. I saw it in a movie.”

  Mrs. Arbuckle sniffed loudly. “Gentlemen, this is a town artifact, not a treasure map.”

  Rosie stifled a giggle. The train treasure hunters were everywhere.

  Lucy hurried up to her. “Well, what do you think of the light now?”

  Cam had a soccer game, and Henry couldn’t come until later, so Rosie had recruited Lucy to help her set up the final live-action sequence. Though Rosie was nervous to call a girl she barely knew, she was glad she’d done it. Lucy had taken one look at the filming area and run home to grab the tall tripod light her dad used to work on his car at night. She’d dragged it back through the library despite Mrs. Arbuckle’s grumbling, and set up the work light to illuminate a corner that didn’t get as much of the afternoon sun.

  Rosie bent down and looked through the camera lens. The extra light made a huge difference. She straightened and clasped Lucy by the arm.