by Alana Terry
Clearly.
Just listen to what he has to say, I tell myself. It’s an order. I shut my lips.
“Mia, I think you’re an amazing girl,” he begins, and that’s when I know. This is it. This is goodbye. This is the end.
I’m off the couch. “I need some fresh air,” I say. “Let’s go out.” I’m not thinking about Mom’s silly water safety rules, which made tons of sense when I was a preschooler but now are just fueled by paranoia. Dad checks the wood on the dock every single year, and besides, I’ve been swimming since I could walk.
My palms are sweaty when Chris and I reach the water’s edge. He doesn’t argue when I leave the cabin, just follows me out here. Well, at least if he’s going to dump me, it won’t be in front of twenty of our classmates. Got to give him props for that much at least.
I don’t want to do this. Don’t want to go through it. No sense of timing. None whatsoever.
I cross my arms and face him. The sun’s behind his shoulder, blinding me, but I don’t care. I squint, which probably makes me look more intimidating than scared. Good.
“So,” I say, jutting out my hip as defiantly as I can, “what is it you want to tell me?”
Chris is staring at his feet. This is one time when I wish he wasn’t so soft-spoken, wish he wasn’t so polite. After you’ve been with someone for three full years, after you’ve grown as close as we have, there’s no such thing as a gentle breakup. He needs to just say it and get this torturous silence over with.
Chris swallows so hard I can hear his throat working. For a minute, I suspect he’s waiting for me to be the next to talk, but he’s dead wrong if he thinks I’m about to make this easy on him.
I brace myself. Remind myself that uncertainty is always worse than the truth. Haven’t I been terrified for weeks that Chris and I would break up? At least now I’ll know where I stand.
I can handle this. I can be mature. I can be an adult.
I hold my breath.
Chis fidgets with his hands. “I had a dream last night,” he tells me. “A dream from God.”
I squint even harder. “What did you just say?”
“A dream from God. Look,” he rushes on, “I know it sounds kind of crazy, and I know sometimes dreams are just dreams, but this one was different. Just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay.”
He sits down on the dock, dangling his feet in the water. I feel silly standing here with my arms crossed, so I do the same.
“I think God wants me to become a pastor.”
It’s not what I was expecting to hear, but I try not to show my surprise. I can tell that Chris is in one of those pensive moods he gets, and I know from experience it’s best to let him talk it all out.
At least he’s not breaking up with me. Not yet.
“I can’t explain it,” he begins, and I can sense the confidence rising in his tone, “but in my dream, I was there in front of a church telling hundreds of people about Jesus. It was the most intense feeling I’ve ever experienced.”
I swallow down my jealousy. I thought his love for me would be the most intense feeling he’s experienced. I don’t tell him this. Instead I keep listening. His voice only grows in excitement.
“And I was just ... the Bible verses, they were just coming out of my mouth. You know I’ve never been all that good of a speaker, and I don’t even like to talk when the teacher calls on me in class. But I wasn’t scared or nervous or anything. I was just ... I was there in front of the church, and people were listening to me, and it was like ... It was like God was right there. Talking through me. I don’t even know what I was saying. My only thought was it must be God speaking through me because that was the only way to describe it. It was amazing.”
“Wow.” I literally don’t have anything else to say.
Fortunately, Chris is ready to keep on talking. “So I woke up, and it was the middle of the night, and I was praying and praying and praying, and I told God that if he was calling me to become a pastor, then yes I was going to become a pastor.”
He hesitates for a minute, and that’s when I realize what this discussion is all about. It’s not about me or our relationship at all. It’s about something that hits much closer to home for Chris.
Much closer.
“What about your dad?” I ask quietly.
“Well, that’s the thing,” he answers. “For the first time, I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel worried. In fact, I wrote him a letter last night and left it for him.”
“What’d you say?” I want to be excited for Chris. I really do. I want to be excited and supportive and encouraging and everything else a good girlfriend should be. But I know about Chris’s dad. I know better than just about anyone. And all I feel is dread.
“I told him that God gave me a sign that he wants me to become a pastor. And if that means my dad wants to disown me, I’m willing to take up my cross and bear that burden.”
“What about Gabriella?” This doesn’t make sense. Chris wouldn’t do anything to risk his sister’s safety.
“She’s with her grandma all week, so it’s perfect timing. I think that’s why God waited to give me that dream until last night. Because I can do something now. I can make a difference.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I whisper. I’m not scared about Chris breaking up with me anymore. I’m scared for an entirely different reason.
Chris shrugs. “That’s probably what I would have said a week ago, but if you would have just seen that dream. If you could have just ...” He’s leaning toward me. Looking right at me. Begging me to understand. “It was so real,” he tries again. “And if this is what God wants me to do, if this is what he’s calling me to ...”
I want to hold him. To hug him and protect him and show him that nothing in the world means more to me than his happiness. And I know God makes him happy. I really do. And I know that if he had the chance, Chris would make an amazing pastor. He’s so kind and encouraging, and he loves God with all his heart. But he’s not thinking things through right now. He’s on one of those spiritual highs, like when you go to a camp or retreat or something and get all fired up for Christ, but then you come home and that excitement dwindles down.
That’s what this is. A flash. A spark. This isn’t sustainable. Not for someone like Chris. Not with a dad like his.
I have to reason with him. Have to make him understand.
He grabs my hand, and there’s an intensity burning in his eyes I’ve never seen before. I want to believe this dream really was a message from God. I desperately want to believe it. But I know Mr. Gomez. And I know what he’ll do when he reads that letter.
The letter.
My stomach flops. “Where’s that note you wrote him?” I demand. “What’d you do with it?”
“I left it on the dashboard of his truck so he’ll see it when he leaves for work this morning.”
What time is it? I have to think. Chris’s dad starts work before lunch. That means ... Oh, no. He’s already seen it. He’s already read it.
Chris kisses the top of my head. “I want you to be happy for me,” he whispers.
“I’m happy for you,” I lie, while inwardly I’m trying to think of anybody I could call to run interference for us. Maybe his dad’s so hungover today he’ll be late for work. Maybe there’s someone I could ask to swing by Chris’s house ... His truck might be unlocked. If I can get a hold of my brother, I can ask him to do it. Pull up in Chris’s driveway, find a way to get into that truck, and grab the letter. Make sure his dad never sees it.
Ever.
“There’s something else,” Chris says.
My throat clenches because now I know what he’s going to do. And I know that neither of us is ready for this. Not really. As much as we love each other, as good a fit as we are together, this isn’t the right time.
Chris is on his knee. He’s holding out a jewelry box.
“I know it won’t be easy being married to a pastor,” he’s sayin
g, and I have to clench my jaw shut to keep my sob contained. “I can’t promise we’ll earn as much money as you’re used to, but there’s something else about the dream I haven’t told you yet. You were in it too. We had ...” His voice cracks with emotion. “We had a church of our own. A little country church. And you were there, and I was there, and you were sitting in the front row, and you were so proud of me, and ...” He sniffs. “Mia, will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”
I crumple to the ground beside him. We have to figure this out. We don’t have much time.
Chris wipes away my tear with his thumb, looks at me with a sheepish grin, and says, “Well?”
He probably thinks I’m crying because I’m so happy. Everything makes sense now. The conversation with Mom, Chris calling my dad at work ...
I support you a hundred percent. That’s what Mom said. Whatever decisions you make for your future, I support you a hundred percent.
I kiss Chris on the corner of his mouth. I want him to know how much I love him. How much I adore him. And that yes, one day I want to be his wife.
One day ...
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This whole weekend ...
“Say something,” Chris pleads.
I open my mouth and choke on a sob.
Chris slips the ring box back into his pocket. “Are you not ready? Should we wait?”
He’s worried that I’m upset about the proposal. He really has no idea, does he?
“Chris.” I can barely say his name without suffocating with emotion.
“I should have waited, shouldn’t I? We’re too young. Is that it? A promise ring. Would that have been better?”
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter what he chooses to call it. Engagement ring. Promise ring. Wedding ring.
Because there are two things I know in the bottom of my soul to be true.
That Chris and I are meant to be together.
And that his father will never let him become a pastor.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Chris says. “I want to know how you feel.”
“I’m scared,” I admit to his shoulder, clinging with all my might to the back of his shirt. The truth is I’ve never been this afraid in my life.
“Why are you scared?” he asks.
“Because when your dad gets that letter,” I answer, “he’s going to kill you.”
CHAPTER 23
“Mia?” the policewoman says. “Did you hear me? Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
I stare at the metal desk inside the police station, hardly able to focus on her words.
“What can you tell me about how your mother and boyfriend died?”
“They aren’t dead,” I tell her. Shouldn’t that be enough to clear up the mistake? “I want to talk to my mom.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change. I feel my throat closing. I can’t let panic take over. Not now. Not here. I have to sort this out.
“Text Chris,” I tell her. “He’ll explain everything. I can’t ... I don’t remember. Just call him. I want to talk to my mom.”
“Mia, do you know what day it is?” She keeps harping on the stupid date. It could be February 31 for all I care. That doesn’t explain why I’m in a police station with a woman who’s insisting the two people I love the most in the world have died.
“It’s Friday,” I tell her. It’s senior skip weekend. I’m supposed to be at the cabin. I feel like I’m going to throw up. When the police picked me up, I thought it must be about Dad. What else could it have been?
Remember what I’ve taught you. That’s what he told me before the police put me in their car. I thought the woman brought me here to ask about Dad’s work. Instead, she’s sitting here telling me that Mom and Chris are dead. It’s absurd. Doesn’t make any sense.
Dead. The word replays and replays in my head like a choppy gif. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
They can’t be dead. We still have to go to the cabin.
But I didn’t make it to the cabin. Instead I got sick ...
My brother was here. He was taking care of me. Or maybe that’s just what I was dreaming. How did I wake up in the middle of the afternoon unable to remember anything?
I was watching a movie. A movie with my brother. We were watching that one ... Dancing. It had dancing in it. No, that must have been part of the dream too.
This woman keeps asking me what day it is, but all I can hear is one taunting word.
Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She can’t really mean that. It’s a mistake. She thinks I’m someone else, except she’s calling me Mia.
What is going on?
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
It’s so ridiculous I’d be laughing my head off if I weren’t so scared. But these cops don’t joke. They don’t mess around. This isn’t some kind of juvenile senior-weekend prank.
Your mother and boyfriend are dead.
I try to wrap my mind around the concept, wondering curiously at how the words seem both so strange and yet somewhat familiar. Like I’ve had this exact same dream before, been in this exact same room, carried on this exact same conversation with this exact same officer. But I know I haven’t.
“Now listen, Mia.” The officer’s talking to me like I’m an infant. “I need you to fill this out and sign it. Then our detective will be in to speak with you shortly.”
I manage to keep myself as composed as can be expected. My hand shakes while I fill out her paperwork, a trembling that doesn’t subside even after she leaves me here in this room alone. Every time I hear footsteps in the hallway, I imagine it’s Mom come to rescue me and clear up this entire mistake.
But they’re telling me Mom’s dead. She can’t be, though. We had plans ...
And Chris ... We were going to go to the cabin. It was our class trip. I need to think straight. Need to remember ...
I don’t know how long they’ve kept me waiting here in this claustrophobic room. I’m afraid I’m going to suffocate when the door opens. In comes a tall man with a Styrofoam cup in his hand and a scowl etched onto his face. “You remember me?”
I shake my head. Am I supposed to know who he is?
He sets his cup on the table and sits down across from me. “Detective Drisklay. We’ve met before.”
I want to tell him that he’s mistaken, that I’ve never seen him in my life, but something stops me. Another flash of deja vu. Was this man in my dreams too?
“You sure you don’t know me?”
I stare again. The flash is gone. I shake my head.
He doesn’t seem surprised or disappointed at my admission. Instead, he pulls out an electronic device and tells me we’ll be recording.
“You understand your rights?” is one of the first questions he asks.
I nod. “I think so.”
“I need a yes or no answer, Miss Blanca,” he states dryly.
I swallow. “Yes.”
Drisklay leans forward. “What can you tell me about the events at your parents’ cabin the afternoon of May 24?”
I pause. “I haven’t been at the cabin. I was supposed to go, but ...”
He stares at me then lets out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Blanca, have you met with the mental health liaison yet?”
“The who?”
“Our mental health liaison. She was supposed to fill you in. Is it possible you met with her and have forgotten?”
I shake my head. “I’ve been here alone waiting this whole time,” I tell him.
“One minute.” Drisklay turns off the recorder then stands up, his chair making a terrible scraping sound against the concrete floor, and he leaves the room
I’m cold. I’m scared. I’m confused. And I need to talk to my mother.
Drisklay comes back in a moment later. Sits down. Turns his device back on. “Miss Blanca, unfortunately our liaison is unable to join us for the time being. The abbreviated version is you’ve
suffered a brain injury. Your short-term memory has been impaired, making it hard for you to create any new memories or remember events for the past three months.”
Three months? I can’t have heard him right.
He takes a sip of coffee and levels his eyes at me. “Do you understand?”
What am I supposed to say? Of course I don’t understand. “Not really,” I admit.
His annoyance is palpable when he lets out his breath. “Today is August 14. Three months ago, you were at the cabin with your mother and Christopher Gomez. You survived an assault. Your mother was killed. Initially, we believed Gomez to be the attacker.”
“He would never do that,” I interject.
Drisklay doesn’t appear to hear me, or if he does hear me, he doesn’t care. “Just this morning,” he goes on without pause, “we found Gomez’s body in the lake by your parents’ property. So now we have two murder victims, and we have you.”
“I don’t know anything.” The room spins, and I’m trying hard to keep myself from falling. I grab onto the sides of my chair until my forearms hurt from the strain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asks.
“I woke up from a nap. The police were in my room. My dad said they had questions for me.”
Drisklay keeps his voice steady and even. “Right now, I need you to focus on the facts of May 24.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know. I thought that was today. I honestly ...” I stop. Did he say it’s already August? “I don’t remember anything.” It’s become like my own personal slogan. My go-to response for everything.
“Then let’s talk about today,” Drisklay says. “Before you went to take your nap, what were you doing?”
That’s easy. I was ... I was ... I’m so frustrated I want to cry, but my need for answers takes precedence over my need for some kind of emotional release.
“Who was at home with you when you went to bed?” Drisklay asks.
“My mom and my ...” I stop. That can’t be right. The detective’s telling me my mom is dead, that she died three whole months ago. Do I believe him? It has to be some sort of mistake, doesn’t it?
He lets out his breath in a forced huff. “Miss Blanca, I’m sure that this is all something of a shock to you, but we have reason to believe that your mother and your boyfriend were both killed by the same perp, who also assaulted you and may have reason to cause you harm.”