Crooked River: A Novel (29 page)

“No.” Travis closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened them again and rose to his feet. “No. We’ll just have to cancel the show. Postpone it. We’ll just have to think of something else. I won’t let her be remembered this way. I won’t . . .” He started to pat the wooden part of the sculpture, like he was trying to find a latch to pull or a button to push, something that would make it disappear.

I tried creeping sideways toward the window.

Mrs. Roth saw me from the corner of her eye and whipped her head around. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I stopped shuffling and spread my arms open. “Nowhere. I’m just—”

Silently and with such speed I didn’t even have time to scream, Billy Roth rushed Travis. He’d grabbed the butcher knife from the corner of his workbench, raised it now above his head and brought it down, fast and hard, plunging it into the soft slope of Travis’s neck right above his collarbone. Travis gasped and stumbled backward.

The scream rising in my throat got stuck and came out instead a strangled sputtering.

Mrs. Roth turned. “Billy?”

Travis pressed his hand to where the knife had gone in and come out again. Blood everywhere. So much blood. Squirting through his fingers. Dripping down his arm, spreading a crimson stain on his white T-shirt.

“Billy?” Mrs. Roth said again and took a staggering step toward Travis. “What did you do?”

Billy laid the knife on the workbench and calmly wiped his hands on a rag like nothing had happened, not a single damn thing. He returned to the sculpture with a clean rag and tin of beeswax and started buffing the places Travis had touched. He hummed a little as he worked.

Travis leaned back against the workbench. His mouth opened and closed around silent words. He looked at me, then at Mrs. Roth who was reaching out her arms, grabbing him, embracing him. He shook his head and his knees bent underneath him, but Mrs. Roth wasn’t strong enough to hold him up. They collapsed together on the floor.

Mrs. Roth pulled Travis into her arms and rocked him and rocked him and pressed her hand to the gaping wound and brushed bloody fingers over his pale cheeks and whispered words I couldn’t hear but hoped were filled with love.

I backed slowly toward the door, feeling the way with my hands because even though I tried, even though I told myself—
Go! Run!
—I couldn’t. My heart wasn’t working right. It was pounding too hard, sending out too much blood—so much blood—and all my limbs felt heavy, every joint swollen and stiff. And I couldn’t get my legs to go. I couldn’t make myself turn and run and leave him here.

I bumped into something solid, a shelf or a table, maybe, and knocked a jar of bolts on the floor. They crashed and spilled across the concrete, echoing crassly in the quiet room.

Mrs. Roth lifted her head, turned, and stared at me.

I was at the door, my hands groping empty air.

Mrs. Roth whispered something in Travis’s ear, then laid him carefully on the floor, grabbed a rag from the workbench, and covered his wound, made him hold it there with his pale, trembling hand. She kissed his cheek and said, “I’ll be right back. Hang on for me, okay? Hang on.”

She stood and came toward me.

The gun looked so much smaller from this angle, a glinting sliver and nothing to be afraid of at all. I walked backward. Mrs. Roth matched me step for step. My shoes scuffed gravel.

I was outside. She, in the doorway, a looming silhouette.

The night hummed. I took another step back.

“I wish you had left all of this alone.” She brushed her face against her sleeve. Her hands were shaking. “You should have just stayed out of it.”

I wanted to turn and run, put all this behind me, but her finger was on the trigger and I didn’t stand a chance. I kept thinking,
Someone will come for me. Someone will come.

No one was coming.

“You understand why I have to do this, don’t you? I can’t have you . . . I can’t.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, gathering herself, steadying her hold.

The gun pitched down. It was only a few seconds, but it was enough time for me to scoop up a handful of rocks, some small, some bigger, the size of golf balls. When she opened her eyes again and readjusted her grip on the pistol, I was standing with my arms at my side, standing like I hadn’t moved at all.

She said, “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so, so sorry.”

I drew back my arm and hurled one of the bigger rocks at the woodpile. The trick is to aim a little higher than your target. The stone hit the hollow log with a decisive thump.

Mrs. Roth flinched, but the pistol stayed fixed on my chest.

The second rock hit the exact same spot on the exact same hollow log. The log teetered from the impact, then fell off the pallet and onto its side in the dirt. There was a moment where neither of us moved or spoke, where time slowed to a near stop. Then the log exploded. Bees poured into the night, swelling into a blacker-than-black cloud and vibrating the air with angry wings.

“What—” And that was all she had time to say.

She took a step back and waved her hand in front of her face. She yipped and slapped and then started to thrash.

I turned and ran. Hard, fast, shoes pounding, knees shuddering, arms pumping, faster, faster. Her screams grew louder and more frantic, turning into something wild. I didn’t look back.

I was halfway down the path, almost to the house when a single shot ricocheted through the trees. Something with sharp teeth and a poison dart tongue dug into my calf. I stumbled and cried out and pitched forward, skidding my hands and knees across the bark mulch. I lay there a moment, my cheek against the hard ground, my throat swelling, my eyes filling with tears.

This is it,
I thought.
Only a matter of time before I’m dead, good-bye, Bear, good-bye, Ollie, give Zeb and Franny and Grandma and Grandpa my love
. . . and then my hands were underneath me, pushing up and I was struggling to my feet, struggling to stand. I swayed on my good leg, biting back a scream, and tried to put weight on the other one, the one that was burning and throbbing like a thousand stinging bees wreaking havoc under my skin. My stomach heaved into my throat. I swallowed and blinked away bloodred sparks. I took a trembling step forward because I couldn’t stay here. Pain rammed deeper, digging straight through me, clawing its way to my very center. I took another step because Bear was innocent and someone had to tell them. I took another step and another, grinding my teeth and telling myself the bullet hadn’t gone in, hoping, praying this was true, that she’d missed and it was only a nick, needing maybe a few stitches, that was all, nothing permanent. I took step after step, even though it hurt like hell, because Ollie was out there, somewhere, alive.

Somewhere between the backyard and the front driveway, I managed to find a rhythm, a half jog, half drag, and the farther and faster I went, the less my leg hurt. My body seemed to take over for me, moving without my permission, pushing on because that was the only thing it knew how to do. I could see my bike now, where I’d left it, leaning up against a tree. A few more steps and I was there.

I grabbed the handlebars and swung my good leg over the seat. The stretching motion was worse than running, and I cried out and slumped down over the handlebars. I took long, deep breaths. The hard part was over. Pedaling was easy. Just get to the road. Get to the road. I lifted my head, put my feet down on the pedals, and pushed off slowly. Every time I thought the pain was getting to be too much, every time I wanted to quit, I thought of Ollie and kept going. The trees swayed their overhanging branches and whispered her name, urging me on, faster and faster.

This driveway was so long . . . I’d forgotten how long . . .

A car engine revved in the darkness behind me, coming closer, tires sliding in gravel. I glanced over my shoulder. Headlights swept around a bend and for a second I was blind. There was only a brilliant, crushing stream growing brighter. I squinted and blinked and faced forward again, leaned my head down and pedaled hard.

The headlights illuminated the edges of the road, dancing and darting between the trees, making it seem like the forest was running alongside me. I took another quick glance back. The boxy grille of a Jeep bore down. A hundred yards away, then ninety, eighty . . . the engine sounds thrummed in my chest, diesel burned my throat, the driver, a shadow monster hunched over the wheel, blasted the horn . . . seventy, sixty, fifty yards now. Only seconds to decide.

I jerked the bike hard to the right and steered it off the driveway and into the trees. I thought it would be narrow enough, I didn’t think she would try it, but if she did, she wouldn’t get very far. Tires and brakes squealed. I looked over my shoulder. The Jeep swerved left, right, left again.

I should have been watching where I was going. I should have never looked back.

My front tire crashed into a rock sticking up from the dirt just as the Jeep skidded too far to one side and started to tip. I flew over the handlebars and slammed, shoulder-first, into a tree. My head hit second, but just as hard. I slumped to the ground beside my smashed-up bike. Stars poked holes in the dark canopy above me. I couldn’t move. I tried, I did, I tried so hard, but my body refused to cooperate.

There was a loud crash somewhere to my right, near the road. Crumpling metal and splintering wood. Then a hissing sound, like steam escaping, and a click-click-shudder of a dying engine. The Jeep’s headlights were flickering. Dark, light. Dark, light.

Dark.

Before the night pulled black around me, this is what I saw: white smoke, curling through the branches, and a woman with hazel eyes and dark hair crouching over me, whispering, “Thank you.”

36
ollie

W
e stay close to the river, following its curves. Mom walks in the shallows. I walk on the shore. I reach for her hand and it’s like holding steam. I want to go slow and look for animals in the stars. I want just a little more time.

To say all the things I need to say, all the things she already knows.

She urges me to go faster.
Your sister needs you right now
.

Funny, I always thought I was the one who needed her.

I guess it comes down to this: Sam and me, we need each other.

I start to jog. I don’t know exactly where I am, but I know this is Crooked River and I know I’m a little north of Terrebonne because Mrs. Roth turned right, not left when she drove us out of town earlier today, and I haven’t passed Smith Rock yet. If I keep going, I’ll run into town eventually. I just hope when I get there, I’m not too late.

After I run through tall grass and tangled weeds for a few minutes, the shoreline widens and flattens. Up ahead I see streetlights.

Almost there.

Mom streaks like a firecracker to the first building we’ve seen since we left Billy Roth’s shed. It’s the hardware store and across the street is a pay phone. My legs burst forward with sudden energy. I am flying. My braids snap in the wind behind me. I pump my arms. I’ve never moved so fast in my entire life. And when I reach her, she softens her edges and smiles. I stare a little too long, trying to memorize the shape of it so when she’s gone I won’t ever forget.

Hurry,
she says.

I pick up the phone and dial zero and a recording says, “Please deposit twenty-five cents or press 1 to call collect.”

I press 1.

“Say your name after the tone.”

There is a long beep and then silence.

I say nothing.

A click and then, “Please dial the number you wish to call.”

I punch in the numbers my sister made me memorize on the drive up here, just in case.

Only a few seconds go by before I hear Nana Fran’s voice on the other end, wide awake and shouting, even though I’m certain it’s well past her bedtime.

“Hello? Hello? Who’s there? Who is this? We must have a bad connection.”

Mom is standing right beside me, right up close, waiting, flickering slowly pink to purple to green to yellow.

“Speak up, please. My hearing’s not what it used to be. Speak up.”

I open my mouth, close it again. I am still afraid the words won’t come out right. I’m afraid they won’t be my own.

Mom is a tornado of gold and silver, red, white, and blue.

“Hello? I can hear you breathing.”

And I have to try. For Sam. For Bear. For me.

For all of us.

I open my mouth and say, “Nana Fran?”

“Olivia? Is that you?”

“Yes,” like a croaking frog.

“Child! Where are you?”

I say, “She’s going to kill Sam.”

“Who is? What are you talking about? Where are you?” And then, “Zeb! Get in here!”

I say, “You have to get Deputy Santos.”

I say, “You have to tell her to go to Mrs. Roth’s house.”

I say, “Tell her it’s an emergency.”

I say and say and say.

I say everything.

37
sam

I
s this what dead feels like? An in-between place of dreaming and waking where you keep thinking,
Wake up, wake up, open your eyes,
but you don’t. You can’t. So you lie motionless, your mind and body apart, and you wonder if anything you’re seeing, hearing, feeling is real. I thought dying would feel more like soaring. No, that’s not true. I thought I would feel nothing. Because when you’re dead, you’re dead and that’s it. That’s all there is.

I am dead.

Say it again. I am dead.

Say it again, until you believe it. I am dead and dead and dead. But then why can I still hear myself think? Why can I feel my rushing blood slow, my fevered skin grow cold? Why can I see the trees swaying above me, dancing for no one?

Ollie would say it’s my soul, my ghost, my Shimmering, trying to separate from the part of me that is bound by rules like gravity and aging. I strain against my bones, begging to be set free, at the same time begging to stay.

My mother is here with me. Here. Where am I? Nowhere. Everywhere. Here and dead. A dim light flickers white, red, white. A baby cries. Or is that me? It can’t be me. I am dead. I am silent. Someone—not me—cries. And my mother is here.

The edges of her are jagged and spinning rainbows, like a pinwheel. But her face is clear and her smile warm, and I am calm.

Mom.

Nasty little bump you got there.

She reaches over and brushes light and heat across my forehead. A flash of remembering all the things I’d rather forget.

Ollie?

She’s here.

And now I hear her. She’s the one crying. She’s saying my name. She’s saying, “Sam, look at me. Sammy. You have to hold on.”

And I want to laugh because there are ghosts around. Mom is one and I am one, and Ollie is still talking. “I know you can hear me. Please. Try. Don’t give up. Not yet.”

My sister, talking, and her voice tells the most beautiful story.

I can’t see her.

She’s still here.

I want to see her.

Open your eyes.

I try. I can’t.

“I’m here, Sam,” she says. “I’m right here.”

There are other voices floating around me, too, words like buzzing bees, and I do not know to whom they belong. Ollie’s is the only clear voice. Her words, the only ones that matter.

“I need you to stay.”

The stars are so much brighter when you’re dead. The dark, so much darker. The trees are whispering, but I do not feel any wind. I want to feel the wind.

There is pressure against my chest and it hurts. Oh God. It hurts. Mom starts to fade. She is a faraway lighthouse beam sweeping the night. I imagine myself shattering this body, these bones. I imagine streaking after her, and then the pain goes and Mom is bright again, blinding and up close.

I want to stay here with you.

If that’s really what you want, just think of the place you love best, the place where you feel most safe. Imagine yourself there and then let go.

I’m in the meadow. And Bear is somewhere close by and Ollie is right beside me, and I’m telling her about the bees. See that? How she’s slowly fanning her wings? She’s sending out a special scent, calling the lost ones home.

From a far-off place, I hear Ollie saying my name over and over, telling me to stay. I hear my sister, and I come back to myself. I come back.

I’m not ready.

You have to decide soon.

But what if I can’t?

You can.

I want to go with you. And I want to stay. I want you and her and him and us all together again.

That’s not possible.

It’s not fair.

No, it never is.

Did you know? About the house he was going to build?

It was my idea.

It was?

He couldn’t come home to us, so I decided to bring us home to him.

I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish . . . I wish. I wish so badly I could go back and change everything.

None of us can.

I start to think about the meadow again.

“Sammy,” my sister says. “Sam! Please! I’ll talk to you, I promise! I’ll say anything you want. I’ll . . .” She’s still talking, even though it’s hard for me to hear her now. She’s talking and talking. So many things left to say.

I’m being pushed down, squeezed back into my bones. This time, I don’t fight it. The pain doesn’t come all at once. It starts as a memory, a low tide lapping at my bare feet. Mom flickers. Her sky blues turn gray, her cherry reds dim beige.

Is it lonely?

Never.

Do you miss us?

Always.

I feel pine needles now, under my hands, poking the skin at the back of my arm, and there’s something jamming into my side, the hard root of a tree. I smell burning oil and forest rot. The wind tugs my hair. Gray shapes move around me, whispering and brushing against me. My mother spins between the stars.

Forgive your father.

I already have.

Tell your sister I love her.

She knows.

Tell her anyway.

I don’t think I can do this.

You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Sam. Braver, too.

She sings me a familiar lullaby, though I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.

There is a moment of bright pain and fireworks exploding, and I see the past and present and future ripping apart and then collapsing together again. There is a moment where I am nowhere and everywhere, nothing and everything. I am crushed and torn in half. I am pummeled by stones and lashed with barbed wire. It hurts, all of it; God, it hurts so much I want to die. And then someone squeezes my hand.

Her fingers are smaller than mine, but they are strong and warm and insistent. I squeeze back so she knows I am still here. I try to speak, but the words come out in a groan.

“We’ve got her!” a woman says, and there is a rush of movement and noise.

Faces I don’t recognize bend over me, tugging and pulling, sticking needles into my arm, strapping a mask over my face, pumping me with air, making it impossible to talk. My eyes dart, panicked, and then I see her, close to my left shoulder.

Her cheeks are red, her eyes puffy behind her purple glasses. One hand wipes snot from her nose, the other refuses to let go. The paramedics keep trying to push her away from me, but she won’t budge. They work around her, rolling me onto a backboard and lifting me off the ground onto a gurney. Ollie stays close, keeping her hand in mine.

“Did you see how beautiful Mom was? How happy?” She looks off into the trees and then back down at me, her eyes a little sadder than before but still smiling. My sister is smiling.

“She’s gone now,” Ollie says to me.

But I’m here. We’re here.

“She told me to tell you she loves you,” Ollie says. “For always.”

I know.

She leans in closer, whispers, “Thank you for saving me.”

If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh. I didn’t save her, she saved me.

We move out of the trees toward the road where an ambulance waits with red and white lights flashing. The gurney wheel bumps against something, jostling me, screaming pain through my bones. Every single fragile one. I close my eyes. Just for a second.

“Sam? Sam!” Ollie shakes my arm.

For all her courage, there is still fear.

I open my eyes, stare into hers. I want to tell her it’s okay to be scared, that I’m scared too. I’m scared of so many things. I want to tell her we can be scared together. Let someone else be brave today. I squeeze her hand as tight as I can.

She squeezes back and says, “Does it hurt bad?”

I nod. I think I nod.

She says, “Remember when you were eleven and you were doing circles on your bike and you fell and broke your arm? Does it hurt bad like that?”

I haven’t thought about that day in a long time. How the circles got tighter and tighter, faster and faster, and the world became a blur of color and light and wind and for a second it felt like flying, and then the bike slipped out from under me and I was falling, falling. I remember hearing my bones crack before feeling any pain, remember staring at a strange lump forming, watching it turn red and purple, watching it swell, then become searing hot and all-consuming. I remember screaming and screaming and screaming and Mom and Ollie running out, helping me to my feet, taking me to the hospital. My cast was blue. Ollie was the only person to sign it. After six weeks the cast came off. My arm was fine. The bones healed exactly the way they were supposed to, and the pain that had once been so sharp and terrible faded into memory.

The pain I’m feeling now will fade, too. One day and soon. It has to. For us to keep on living, loving, being who we are, we have to forget how badly the worst parts hurt us. We have to heal.

We reach the ambulance. A paramedic says, “You need to step back now. You need to give us room.”

Ollie says, “I want to go with her.”

From somewhere close by, I hear Deputy Santos telling Ollie it’ll be all right, the paramedics will take good care of me. She says, “You can ride with me. I promise we’ll stay right behind them until we get to the hospital. Lights and sirens, the whole way.”

I hear Zeb now, too, asking the paramedics if I’m conscious, if I’m awake, if I’m going to live. And I think . . . I think I hear Franny off to one side praying. But I can’t see them, and I can’t see Deputy Santos either. My head is strapped down, my neck in a brace. Ollie’s face is the only familiar one leaning over me.

“They won’t let me go with you,” she says. “But you’ll be okay?”

I squeeze her hand twice.

She bends to give me a hug and then steps away from the gurney. The paramedics lift me into the back of the ambulance, buckle me in, and shut the doors. I close my eyes when the sirens start and think about my mother, wonder why I never noticed it before. Her smile. Ollie’s is exactly the same.

B
ear says that in September the light in the meadow softens and the air turns crisp and tart. The days get shorter. The flowers die. Life is loss and nothing lasts. The leaves change green to red to yellow and dance off the trees like tiny ballerinas, and sometimes you wake to silver frost on the ground and your breath forming white clouds. “It’s a different kind of beautiful,” he tells us. “You’ll see.” But summer isn’t over. Not yet. There’s plenty of time left for us to walk barefoot in the grass, splash in the river, and talk to the bees, to fall asleep counting stars.