Dead River (5 page)

“He can’t go fishing!” I shout, finally getting the air into my lungs. I gasp, again and again and again.

Justin turns to me, his eyes orange with firelight. “You’ve heard this one before?”

I can’t stop shaking. “Please, Justin. Can we just go to bed? I’m tired.
Please
.”

He studies me. “All right. It’s late anyway. We have to get up early.”

It’s only then I realize Angela and Hugo are both staring at me. Ange says, “You look tired, Ki.” But I know from her expression she means I look a lot worse than tired. I hug myself tight, creeping closer to the fire, but even that doesn’t stop the shivers. Ange whispers to Justin, “You’ll have to tell me the rest later.”

But I know the rest. Somehow, I was there. I saw it all.

And I saw him die.

Chapter Four

I
curl up on the shag throw rug in the dark bathroom, which is lit only by moonlight streaming through the window. I press my fists to my eyes until I see fireworks. Down here, I don’t hear the rush of the water. Down here, I almost feel safe.

My dad is a teacher at my high school. He teaches my European History class and about fifteen extracurricular activities, from Driver’s Ed to Debate Club. The parents of freshmen learning how to drive don’t have to worry about a thing, really; besides Justin, my dad is probably the safest person in the state of Maine. I mean, I had to beg and plead with him, nonstop, for three months, just to get him to agree to a weekend camping trip two hours from home. And when he finally agreed, he handed me a copy of
Camping for Dummies
and quizzed me on each chapter, every Saturday. In fact, should we run out of the twelve days’ worth of food he packed for me before I left, I know how to set a pencil snare so I can catch a rabbit.

Justin is on the swim team at school. When my dad noticed that we were hanging out a lot more in the hallways, he got that worried look in his eye, but he never said anything. And one day I went to Justin’s swim practice to cheer him on from the bleachers, and Justin came up to me between laps to say hi. He was usually very suave, because this was the beginning of our relationship and he was trying to present that really good side of himself that everyone puts forward when relationships are new. But right then, he was nervous. “How are you?” he asked, fidgeting.

“Fine. Are you worried about the meet coming up?” I asked him.

He shook his head, water spraying on my lap.

“Nervous about … um, me being here?” I ventured. Maybe my presence intimidated him and would affect his performance.

“No, that’s not it. I’m fine,” he said. I could tell he was distracted. He kept looking past me, toward the back of the bleachers.

So I stayed for a little while longer, wondering if he was just not interested anymore. Which made my stomach drop, because for weeks I’d thought about him more than I breathed. Then, as he hurried back to the pool, I got up and started to leave. And who did I see at the top of the bleachers, his nose buried in
The Establishment of European Hegemony 1415–1715?

“Dad,” I said to him later, “I’m fifteen. I don’t need you following me everywhere I go. And Justin is a good guy.”

He’d had a strange, sad smile on his face. “I know, I know,” he said.

My stomach did cartwheels. Nobody could doubt that Justin was the most upstanding of guys. Good grades, always deflected trouble, made friends easily with everyone. If my dad had a problem with him, then I was positive there was
nobody
in school he’d approve of. Maybe nobody in the
world
. “Well, what don’t you like about him?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, and I was glad, because I thought I knew. It was such an embarrassing thing, I really didn’t want to hear him say it. He couldn’t cope with me growing up, I was his little girl, his everything, and no guy would ever be good enough for his “everything.” I guess I couldn’t blame him, but at the same time I imagined myself sitting home, alone, at the age of sixty-two, still not allowed to date.

From then on, I’d often catch him in the hallways outside the pool when I went to watch Justin at swim practice. I’d just see a shadow, a hint of his army-green herringbone blazer, a flash of his scruffy beard in the doorway. It was almost as if I’d drawn a line in the doorway and he’d made the decision not to pass it. But he couldn’t stop himself from checking up on me from afar.

I didn’t mention it to him. I thought I understood. I didn’t realize how wrong I was.

One day, I went to watch Justin practice golf. Justin isn’t a great golfer, but he wants to be one, so he joined the team. That first day, I looked around and around the field and my dad was nowhere to be seen.
What about watching Justin golf is so safe?
I thought.
Or what about watching Justin swim is so dangerous? He thinks I’d be so enamored of Justin in a Speedo I’d jump him?

But suddenly it came to me. My dad wasn’t having trouble coping with me growing up. He didn’t have a problem with Justin at all. What he had a problem with was
the thought of me drowning, like she did
. Even the thought of a swimming pool. Suddenly it hit me, why I hadn’t been to the beach in ages, why there was no water anywhere near our house, why, when I was invited to pool parties, he always made sure we were busy. It was crazy, but it was true. He was that freaked out by my mom’s death that he couldn’t stand it. But me, on the other hand … I was fine with it. In fact, it didn’t bother me at all.

I decided to confront him. I knew exactly how. “Dad, I’m thinking of taking swimming classes,” I told him casually after our usual mac-and-cheese dinner.

His eyes filled with dread. For a moment he looked like he might choke on his mouthful, but he brought his napkin to his mouth, wiped his graying beard, and cleared his throat thoughtfully. “You’re not a strong swimmer, Ki.”

That was true. I hadn’t been swimming since before mom died. “Well, duh, that’s why I want to take classes,” I said. “Justin said he’d help me practice.”

“You have yearbook and band. Doesn’t it interfere—”

“Nope. It’s good. I checked already.”

He shook his head. “I think you need to keep up with your studies. It’s just too much.”

“Dad,” I said, the anger boiling in me. “It’s. A. Pool. It’s not some raging river. And what happened to her will never happen to me! Stop constantly trying to protect me from her!”

He’d stared at me for a while, silently, gripping his paper napkin until it ripped down the center. And then he got up from the table, from his half-eaten dinner, and walked into his bedroom without another word. We didn’t talk for days after that, and when we finally did, it was like the previous conversation had never happened. But I was still angry. Really, how could he be so ridiculous? To what lengths would he go? Maybe next he would forbid me from taking baths. Walking in rain showers. Getting Big Gulps at the 7-E.

But now I can’t help but wonder if there was something more to his concern. I’d never told him about the visions I’d had. It seems crazy to think that just because my mom drowned in a river, he’d want to keep me completely isolated from water. And yet he’s been almost fanatical about it. He’d yanked me away from the river back home so quickly, we didn’t even have time to pack. And now, why am I having visions, visions I haven’t had in ten years, now that I’m by the water again?
Maybe there is something else he’s afraid of
.

No. What else could there be? He was just being protective. I’m his little girl, after all.

I stand up and twist the handles on the faucet, hoping to splash some water on my face, but nothing happens. Then I remember that the water has been turned off. Perfect.

It’s just my overactive imagination
, I tell myself.
Those things I saw … they’re not real. They can’t hurt me
.

Someone raps on the door. “Ki? You okay?” Justin.

“Fine,” I say, wiping my face with some wadded-up toilet paper, not that it’s doing much good. “I’m just—” I stop, wondering what I can lie about, considering there’s no water in here. “I’m good.”

I click open the door slowly and find his concerned eyes in the darkness. “You sure?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Have to be up early tomorrow. The sunrise from the top of Grey Mountain is amazing. Want to go for a hike when we wake up?”

Sure. Trekking through the predawn blackness in freezing temperatures. Sounds lovely. I don’t say anything, but my body stiffens.

“It’s okay. Maybe I’ll go myself, then,” he says, putting his arm around me. “Nice and warm in here. Why don’t you sleep in a bed tonight?”

“I told you, I’m
fine
,” I say, but it comes out more like a snarl. I’m going to be perfectly okay here, and nobody—not him, not my dad—is going to tell me any different. I muster a smile. “Lead the way. Out to the campsite. Bring it on.”

He must be fooled by my resolve, because he throws up his hands. “All right. Yes, sir!” he replies, saluting.

We go back to our sleeping bags. Hugo is already snoring, making this embarrassingly loud noise that will scare anything away, so we don’t need to worry about wild animals raiding our camp in the middle of the night. Not that I’m expecting to sleep much. Angela is sitting propped up on
her elbows, looking at me across the fire. “You okay, Honey Bunches of Oats?” she asks me.

For as long as I can remember, Angela and I have been calling each other by the names of popular breakfast cereals. “Sure thing, Cocoa Puffs,” I answer, pulling back the cover of my bag and inspecting it for creepy-crawlies.

“I can get you a cold compress or something.” Her eyes are big and round again, worried. It’s amazing how like her mother she is. The minute I arrived in Maine, Aunt Missy was at my side, playing Florence Nightingale. She was the Cold Compress Queen, always bringing something to put on my forehead and massaging my temples until I’d relax.

“I’m good,” I say, smiling at her, though my head is throbbing and I’d love someone to massage my temples. It makes me think of my mother’s headaches.

No. I’m not like her
.

When I slide into the bag, I still don’t feel warm. I move closer to Justin but I don’t think it will do any good, even when he drapes his big arm around me and pulls me to his chest. I close my eyes, concentrating on the crackle of the fire, and slip my clammy hand into Justin’s warm one. But the only thing I can hear now is the river. It whirrs along, until soon my hand in Justin’s doesn’t feel just clammy … it feels wet. My feet, too.

I move my legs, but it’s like wading against a tide. They ache. My feet are submerged in water—icy, numbing water. I can hear them sloshing through it as I move them in the bag.

What the—

I jump upright and kick off the sleeping bag. My wool socks are completely dry. Justin has his eyes closed and is lazily feeling around for me, to pull me back. “Um, I thought I felt a spider,” I whisper, but he doesn’t seem interested in the explanation, just mumbles a good night. I go back to the place Justin’s body has carved out for me, and hope hope hope that I’ll be able to get even an hour’s worth of sleep tonight.

Justin’s breathing becomes deep and soft, lulling me. His breath on my ear drowns out the whispers of the river. Sleep comes.

Chapter Five

I
’m woken as a trickle of water slides down my cheek. Wet, again. I try to push the thought away.
It’s just my imagination, my stupid imagination
, I think, when another droplet lands on my forehead.

Water?

I turn onto my side, stretching, reaching for the clock at my bedside, but my fingers wrap around something wet, cold, and stringy. Weird. I roll back over, wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands, and try to open them. Instead of that helping me to see, my retinas start to burn. I keep blinking. Again and again, until I focus on my palms. They’re smeared with black mud, bits of gravel, and slivers of grass.

Springing upright, I remember. I’m outside, camping. I’m in another world, so different from my bedroom. There’s a thick mist hugging the trees, only a peek of their dark trunks exposed. A thin drizzle is falling. I blink, finally focusing on Hugo, who is yawning and stoking the dying fire. He looks
haggard, every bit like he just spent the last six hours sleeping on the cold, hard ground.

Then I remember the night before. The storytelling around the fire. And I realize something.

I slept. I slept well, in fact. Really well. So well that I forgot where I was. Considering all the weird things that happened yesterday, and what lies ahead, that’s nothing short of amazing.

I look around for Justin, but it’s just Hugo and me. No Angela, either. The wind has picked up; it’s whistling through the trees, carrying the sound of the rushing river. “Where is everyone?”

“Went for a morning hike. To see the sunrise. Or something twisted like that.” He clears his throat. “I need coffee. You want?”

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Why didn’t you go?”

He fixes the pot over the fire and leans back. “Saving my energy for the river. Besides, I didn’t want you to wake up to a bear crapping on your head.”

I can’t believe I missed all the commotion of them getting up and leaving. I was sleeping
that
soundly. What a difference a good night’s sleep can make. Rafting doesn’t seem quite so scary now. But hiking up a mountain at the crack of dawn to see the sun? Crazy. I guess Angela and Justin are two peas in a pod that way. A feeling of dread passes over me as I realize something. They went to see the
sunrise
. “But it’s raining.”

“Just started. It was dark an hour ago,” he answers. “When they left. To see the sun come up, it helps to leave before it actually
comes up
.”

What a snot. I guess there are some things a good night’s sleep will never remedy.

“But …” I stand there, trying to think of something to say about the two of them running off together on a rainy day to see the sunrise that won’t make me look like a jealous girlfriend, but everything seems wrong. Really, I’m not worried. It isn’t possible for him to do anything underhanded. Even thinking about it would give him hives. And Angela—not only is she my cousin, she’s like Mother Teresa. They’re so … alike.