Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) (7 page)

The ride home takes longer than it should. I don’t know where I am but refuse to double back and pass John’s house again. I eventually find my way but it takes almost an hour. My mom is still working busily in the trailer. If she notices how long I’ve been gone she doesn’t mention it. I’m glad I don’t have to explain where I’ve been.

“Why don’t you go on home and relax?” Mom suggests. “Cassie hasn’t been back since you left so I don’t need protection from her.”

I nod. There’s still plenty of sunlight left to practice shooting but my mind is too preoccupied to enjoy the new bow. Instead I go inside and unsuccessfully try to start my homework. Concentrating is impossible. When I manage not to think about my embarrassing stalker escapade, my mind wanders back to that shed…

“I need to stay busy,” I say aloud. I need to hear a voice to feel sane but doesn’t talking to myself make me crazier?

I walk around my small house like a caged animal. Clutter is everywhere but it doesn’t bother me or my parents—we don’t spend much time in here anyway. My father’s tiny office is especially messy since he hasn’t unpacked any of the boxes since we moved here. Since he’s currently my favorite person in the world for the awesome birthday gift, I decide to start fixing up his office. I need
anything
to keep my mind distracted.

I rip open boxes and arrange his few mementos on his desk, mostly pictures of me and my mom. I haven’t seen many of these in a long time, photos of Mom holding me when I was around a year old. She was as pretty then as she is today but looks even more nervous than she normally does now. Mom might not be as muscular or fit as Celeste but she still looked very thin in the picture—apparently dropping the pregnancy weight had not been a problem.

I move on to a heavy box filled with stacks of paper. I have no idea what they are—no idea how to best sort them—so I start putting them in an empty desk drawer. I’m nearly finished when I drop a stack and papers scatter across the floor. My sigh sounds more like a growl. Can this day get any worse?

I wish I didn’t jinx myself. As I gather the papers, I come across my parents’ marriage certificate. I barely pay attention to it until my eye is drawn to the date. I stack more papers atop it when my brain suddenly registers a problem. I flip back through until I find the certificate again—I
wasn’t
seeing things, the year
is
wrong. It’s listed as two years
after
I was born even though my parents told me they were married the year
before
I was born. Maybe it’s just a typo or maybe my mother never wanted me to find out she got knocked up before she was married. I don’t want to embarrass her or my dad so I sneak it back into the stack.

I’m even more shocked when I come across a set of forms with the phrases ‘Correctional Facility’ and ‘Release Statement.’ My father obviously wants these kept private but I can’t possibly put them away without reading more. My stomach sinks when I read that Dad served two years in prison for trespassing and assaulting a police officer. He’s such a kind man that I can’t imagine him ever getting into a fight, let alone one violent enough to land him in –
My brain screeches to a halt when I see the years of his incarceration. The paper falls from my hand but I don’t care. I’m stunned and forget to breathe for the second time today. According to the papers, my father was in jail for the year before and after my birth.

My father…

I scoop the papers back together and throw them back in the box. I feel like a criminal hurrying to cover her tracks. I consider putting
everything
back in the boxes, pretending I was never in here, never saw any of this. But some books can’t be closed once opened.
Why
did I have to open this book? I rush out of his office, unable to stand the thought of being near those papers one moment longer. I pass several family photos, photos of my dad with his arm around me, his
daughter
. A burning sensation spreads through my sinuses and tears begin to well in my eyes. It’s the first time I ever remember crying. I run toward my room when a small picture on the coffee table makes me stop. The tears forming in my eyes suddenly clear.

I’ve probably looked at this picture hundreds of times without ever truly
seeing
it the way I do now. My life has been turned upside-down but the sight of this photo brings a moment of unexpected clarity. In it, I’m probably about five years old and my family stands near the edge of the Grand Canyon. My father smiles as usual, my mom frowns in concern as usual, and my head is turned, more interested in looking at the canyon than posing for the picture. But we’re not alone in the picture.

Celeste and Cassie are also in the picture, Cassie with her mouth wide open, screaming about something. The young version of Celeste in the picture can’t be more than a handful of years older than I am now. It’s amazing how I look much more like her than my mother at that time. Our resemblance always seemed coincidental but now I’m not so sure.

And why do I feel such a dichotomy of emotions toward Cassie? She constantly annoys and angers me yet I’ve always felt such a strong desire to protect her. I assume this is how a lot of girls feel about their younger sisters…

So many different thoughts run through my mind that it’s impossible to concentrate on just one. Despite how much I’m afraid of what the truth might be, I
need
to know. But my parents have lied to me for so long that I doubt they’ll give me answers. Good or bad, this is something I have to discover on my own.

I walk into the kitchen, get an empty pitcher and a bunch of lemons. I squeeze the first lemon so hard that it explodes in my hand, shooting its acidic juices everywhere…

- - - - - - - - - - - -

“Thirsty?” I ask my mother. She jumps as I walk into the trailer. Celeste isn’t the only one who moves quietly.

The cheery tone in my voice is fake, maybe
too
fake. It’s rare I have to hide my anger toward someone I talk to. This must be how Cassie feels most of the time.

“You startled me,” Mom says.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I lie.

“That’s okay, I’m just glad it wasn’t Cassie,” Mom says. “I
am
thirsty. What have you got?”

“Lemonade,” I answer. “Just squeezed it myself. I know it can get warm in here.”

I hand her the small paper cup and she thanks me. A part of me feels guilty for lying but that’s apparently not a trait I got from her – if I’ve gotten
anything
from her. She takes a sip and her lips pucker. Oops, did I forget to add the sugar?

“It’s strong,” my mother says.

“How did you meet Celeste?” I blurt out. So much for being subtle in finding answers.

My mother turns back to her work but can’t hide the fact that she’s nervous. She’s so bad at hiding her emotions that I’m disappointed with myself for not figuring out the truth sooner.

“On a trip,” she says simply.

I give her a moment to elaborate—to give
any
details—but she doesn’t. I can tell she feels uncomfortable and doesn’t want to talk. This is how she acts on the rare occasion that Cassie says anything to her.

“And Daddy was there with you?”

“What’s with the questions?” she asks. She shuffles some of the papers but her hands visibly shake.

“Just wondering,” I say. “I was thinking how strange it is that Celeste and Cassie always come with us whenever we move.” Mom doesn’t respond after a few seconds so I continue. “It’s just that Cassie is so miserable here.”

“That girl is miserable
anywhere,
she
always
has been.”

“But not so much the last time in Colorado. She had a lot of friends at our last school,” I say. “Seems weird that Celeste would take her away from that.”

“You know the business wouldn’t survive without her expertise,” Mom says. “And when your father was younger and the business was just starting, he used to push some of our tourists too hard during the hikes and rafting trips. He didn’t understand how people weren’t as used to the elements as him—strange since he’s married to me. Besides, Celeste is like a part of the family now.”

“And Cassie? She’s a part of our family, too?”

Mom frowns as she nods. She somehow forces down the rest of the lemonade before crushing the paper cup and tossing it toward the tiny trash can. It’s only a few feet away but she’s not even close to getting it in. To make matters worse, she nearly trips while picking it up and throwing it away. Mom has had enough working for the day and we head out of the trailer together. I walk halfway to our cabin with her before stopping.

“I think I’m going to take a ride to The Outdoor Super-Store and see what kind of special shooting arrows they have. Do you want to come with me?” I ask.

I can’t stop myself from inviting her, from bluffing when I know I shouldn’t. The last thing I want is for her to come along; that would ruin my well-laid plans. But this gamble is as close to a guarantee as possible. The Outdoor Super-Store is my father’s favorite store in the world and he and I spend hours there just looking around. But Mom has never once come with us.

“You go have a good time. I have some things to do around the house,” she says.

I make a show of patting my pockets. “Must’ve left the Jeep keys in the trailer. I will see you later.”

I rush into the trailer even though the keys are in my back pocket, along with an empty plastic sandwich bag. I reach into the trash and take out the paper cup, securing it in the bag. I don’t watch much TV but I feel like one of those crime scene people collecting evidence.

I drive almost half an hour to the big shopping center where The Outdoor Super-Store is located. But I have no desire to browse the newest tents and oars and camp stoves. Instead I walk into the pharmacy next door. Several girls my age giggle as they look in the makeup aisle; I search for something far more serious. It takes me a while to find what I’m looking for but I finally locate it and fork over fifty bucks to the cashier, who looks at me strangely as I pay.

“You know there’s an additional one-hundred dollar fee you have to send to the lab,” the elderly woman behind the counter says.

I nod and rush out the store without waiting for my change. Once inside my Jeep, I rip open the box for the DNA test and follow the directions, using one swab inside my mouth and the other swab on the paper cup my mother drank from. I’m careful to swab a spot where no lemonade touched—I hope this works. The instructions say to include a check for lab fees but I only have cash and hope that’ll do. I don’t make much money teaching my shooting classes so it’s a good thing I haven’t spent a dime in months. I pack everything together and walk to the nearby mailbox. I stand in front of the mailbox for several minutes, pondering whether to send it off and possibly destroy everything I’ve ever known.

I sigh deeply and drop it in.

I sprint through weeds as tall as me, no hesitation in any movement I make. I’m inside my own body—seeing what I see, experiencing what I experience—but there’s a disconnect between mind and body. I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing but I don’t give that a second thought. I simply accept that I’m going along for whatever ride my body takes me on.

A bow is in my hand but it’s not my new one or any other I’ve ever used. In fact, it looks far more primitive than the ones I teach classes with. It’s made totally of wood but it’s not as smooth—I can tell it’s homemade without the use of tools. I don’t know what material the bowstring is made of but I see it’s not strung as tightly as I’m used to. All of these factors combined should make me nervous to use the bow but that’s not the case. I don’t ever remember feeling as confident as I do right now.

My mind doesn’t know where I’m going but my feet do. Running is all that’s important to me. I don’t have another care in the world—no thoughts of my father in prison or the identity of my real mother or of John or Cassie or school… I only think of the hunt.

I make no noise as I move, my feet barely touching the ground, my body causing no more change to the tall grass and brush than a slight breeze would. My eyes stay aimed down the entire time, following the tracks in the dirt. I seem to know exactly where they’re headed, can imagine what the huge beast looked like when he lumbered around this area just minutes earlier. This
has
to be a dream but it feels so real, like I’m reliving a memory long-forgotten instead of imagining something while asleep…

I stop suddenly and take only a few small steps at a time, noticing that the tracks in the ground are deeper, more pronounced, fresher. I duck down and inch ahead before stopping to push aside some tall weeds. I’m dangerously close to a massive beast, a buffalo that easily weighs a ton. From this close, I can see its muscular body, not to mention its two-foot horns partially hidden within thick wooly hair. It grazes alone in the plentiful grasslands but a sudden breeze causes it to stop eating, lift its head, look around. Buffaloes aren’t as dumb or slow as they look but have poor eyesight, which suits me. I’m well-hidden in the tall weeds but have the feeling it senses me nearby. At this distance, I could not outrun the beast, whose horns could easily slash through me.

I am cautious but not nervous. I can tell this is not the first time I’ve been so close to a dangerous situation. But the buffalo lowers its head and begins to munch on the abundance of grass yet again. I watch the beautiful beast for several minutes, appreciating its monstrous majesty, its place in nature. My thoughts almost remind me of poetry, not usually a favorite subject of mine. I feel like a totally different person…

Until I raise my bow. I feel bad for what I’m about to do but that does not stop me. I take aim at the giant beast and fire a single arrow into its heart. It lets out a booming moan that echoes across the grasslands and stumbles a few paces in my direction. I ready another arrow but the buffalo finally collapses—the ground shaking beneath my feet—and breathes its last breath.

I am sad for the animal but do not feel bad. This is the way it must be and I silently thank the buffalo for the good it will do. I approach the animal and stand over it when I hear the distant sound of a motorcycle again. I look around in confusion but there are no roads; this is not a time or a place for motorized vehicles. My vision of the beautiful plains begins to fade just as I hear a rustling coming from the tall weeds. Two people emerge but they’re not dressed the way I am, they’re not from the same lands as I am. I see that they are women and I’m shocked to see them out here not accompanied by men. I can tell they are dangerous like me but I am not afraid of their presence. I try to look at their faces but can’t seem to focus on them as…

My eyes snap open. I’m in my bedroom; it’s the middle of the night. I can still feel the light breeze of the grasslands but realize it comes through my open window. In the distance, the sound of a motorcycle fades away as quickly as the details of my dream. It felt so
real
that it upsets me when I can no longer remember exactly what happened…

It’s just after midnight and my body is exhausted from the busy day before. But sleep is impossible. Each time the slightest breeze flows into the window, my mind tries to remember what I just saw in the dream… if it
was
a dream. Like I don’t have enough going on in my life to worry about! I climb out of bed and cross my room, closing the window even though the cool night air feels refreshing in my stuffy room. No breeze, no thinking about the dream, or at least that’s what I hope.

I stop in front of the window and look outside. The night is dark—there are no streetlights for miles and the surrounding trees block out most of the moonlight. I can’t see anyone out there but feel ice water creeping down my spine: I have the strange feeling of being watched. The thought of two women walking through high grass comes to mind but it’s a thought I can’t quite grasp onto. I hope the presence I sense outside is just another deer coming back from the river. Either way, I wish I had my bow with me.

I head downstairs for a glass of water and hear
rustling
from somewhere in the house. I should run the other way but that’s not in my nature. Adrenaline courses through my body and I think of Cassie, feel the urge to sneak over to her house and make sure there’s no intruder trying to get her. But then I hear whistling, the same old tune my father whistles all the time. I find him straightening his office, rifling through the same papers I stumbled upon earlier. When he glances up and sees me standing in the doorway, he resembles a deer frozen in headlights.

“Oh,” he says. “Nia, I didn’t hear you come down.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I had the strangest, most realistic dream and now I can’t stop thinking long enough to fall back asleep,” I say.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks with the utmost sincerity. “Unless it was about a guy in which case I don’t want to know.”

I can’t help but smile even though I’m furious with him. I’ve always been able to talk to him about anything so it’s hard for me to bite my tongue now.

“That’s okay, I don’t remember exactly what happened anyway. Trying to remember is like walking through a fog: something is kind of there but I can’t tell what,” I say. “What are
you
doing still up?”

“I saw that you started unpacking for me finally. Thought it was about time I got some of this junk put away,” he says.

We both know the next part he’s thinking but doesn’t say:
so I don’t stumble upon something I shouldn’t and discover the truth
. I can’t stand here and listen to this B.S. any longer. I’m worried I might start crying—God is this girly emotion stuff annoying!—so I turn around and walk away.

“Is everything okay?” he asks following me out of the room.

I leave most of the lights off so he can’t see the disappointment I’m sure is etched across my face.

“Uh huh,” I answer, not saying too much to avoid my voice from cracking. I chug the glass of water and head back toward my room.

“Nia?” he asks.

I stop and take a deep breath before turning to face him. I know
he
knows there’s something wrong with me and I’m afraid he’ll figure out what it is, that he’ll make me face the truth tonight.

“Yeah?”

Dad glances down at his watch. “It’s after midnight. Happy eighteenth birthday, sweetheart.”