Nineteen

Your neighbors call their kids in from playing. TVs flicker blue inside living rooms for a while, then windows go dark one by one. The Bradford pear tree in your backyard blooms pale white in the moonlight. Can’t you remember building bed-sheet tents against the tree’s trunk, Holly? Pressed together in the tight secret space, we told stories and imagined what we would do when we grew up. The shadows below the branches were jeweled with sunlight.

I turn away and watch the street. Stratofortress watches too, LeighAnn blowing whorls of cigarette smoke against the grimy rear window of the van. Every noise makes them whip around, but nobody’s said a word in an hour.

After a while, the silence seems to press down on us. Tyler clear his throat and mumbles, “Hey, guys? I just … you know … sorry. About the other night.”

Max nods. “It’s okay. I mean, we know you have a lot to worry about right now. It’s just that the UNA students, they’re our main audience right now. Those guys who saw the show are going to talk, and, well, you kind of screwed us.”

Tyler tugs at his hair. “Yeah. I get that. I’m sorry.”

I glance at Ultimate—Tyler’s biggest supporter in the band—hoping he’ll say something. Instead, he just claps Tyler on the back.

“So, have you thought about a permanent replacement?” Tyler asks, trying to put on a brave face.

“Uh, let’s not worry about that right now.” Max shakes his head. “I mean—”

“Guys, quiet,” LeighAnn hisses. “Listen to the birds.”

The swallows have started crying in the dark, all at once. While the crescendo rises, Max asks, “What? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. Quiet. Just keep—”

Only a silhouette, pushing through the bushes, but I recognize the way you walk and your slender, winter-tree shape. You’re a beanpole, Holly. You take after your pa-paw. Somehow, when you were alive, I never noticed how delicate you were. When you disappear into the house, I slip out of the van. There’s a horrible feeling in my stomach, like my intestines are being teased out through my belly button. This will kill you all over again. I’ll have to watch all over again. But I keep creeping forward.

Behind me, Stratofortress squawks worse than the swallows, but this is just you and me, wrapped inside the night as warm as those years-ago bed-sheet tents. Can’t you remember musty sleeping bags and flashlight beams playing against the fabric walls? Remember talking, talking, talking for hours until we fell asleep—your hand in mine? Didn’t you know then that I’d never, ever abandon you?

In the living room, curtained windows leave blades of pale light on the carpet. From the kitchen archway, I see spiky growths sprouting along your spine like potato eyes. I’m glad it’s so dark in here.

“Pa-paw? Pa-paw, where are you?” You notice one of the husks on the floor—one of your old selves. Standing motionless and staring, arms dangling at your sides, you try to understand. My urge is to reach out and comfort you. Luckily, Tyler takes my elbow and silently pulls me away from the archway. He punctures the bag of chalk and lime with his thumb, drawing a circle around us in ghost-white powder. I watch, trying not to hear you whimpering as you see the other bodies, too.

A swallow lands on the windowsill. Another drops, chittering, into my hair. I wave it away, then from the kitchen I hear, “Jane? Jane, is that you?”

The bird flutters around me, then joins its friend on the sill. They talk in their excited language. They’re telling you I’m here.

You come around the corner, voice oozing. “Pa-paw’s gone, Jane. I think something bad has happened.”

“Get back! Don’t!” I yell.

But the magic circle works. Your whine sharpens to an iron-nail shriek when you try to cross.

“Wha … ? Jane! Tyler?”

“It’s going to be okay, Holly. We’re going—no, don’t come—”

Your scream pierces my chest. When you drop to hands and knees, my arms ache to reach out. Auntie Peake’s magic hurts me as much as it does you.

“It’s okay, Holly. We’re going to help, okay? But we have to pray. Lord, guide this troubled soul—Holly, pray with me—soul to rest. Carry her from darkness—”

“Jane, I need help.”

“—from darkness and cold evermore, for those washed clean in Your—”

“Jane!” Wildflowers boil up from the carpet around your knees. They curve around the circle but can’t enter.

“—washed clean in Your blood shall fear not. Amen.”

“Everybody’s gone. Help me find Pa-paw, okay? Please?”

Why won’t you die? Please, just die.

I clasp my hands so tightly they shake. “Lord, guide this troubled soul to rest. Carry her from darkness and cold evermore, for those washed clean in Your blood shall fear not. Amen.” But the prayer is worthless babble. Our Lord has cast us out and shown us His back. I don’t know why. I’m so sorry, Holly.

“Holly, stop!”

You stretch your arm out toward me, then yank it back, screaming. You can’t reach past the circle. The chalk and lime burns you somehow. Still, you reach for me again. The circle holds. Your mouth widens in a miserable howl, widens so much your cheek splits open. The beetles wiggling out look like fat black teardrops.

“It’s okay, Holly. I’m here. I—” I reach past the line of chalk and lime. Somewhere beyond you and me, Tyler shouts, but I can’t stop myself.

Joining with mine, your fingers are slick but strong. Tissues of clay and dead weeds tighten, drawing the heat from my skin.

“I’d never leave you, Holly. You know.”

“Help … help, please.”

I want to tell you I will, but the words catch in my throat as the coldness of the river seeps up my arm. Fingers dig into my wrist. Roots sprout from my palm, tangling my flesh to yours.

I can feel the river’s mojo, Holly. I can feel its deep, cool anger. You drowned but refused to die. You wouldn’t let the river break you down into raw life-stuff. So it breaks down whatever you touch—the tighter you hold on, the faster it slips away. The river keeps the living world always just out of your reach.

I don’t want to die, Holly. Gasp, pull, kick; the tendrils creep toward my heart.

“No, Jane! Jane, we have to find Pa—”

Thuck! The blur of motion twists your head around. Max brings the wrench down again. Thuck!

Tyler pulls me back. Pain burns sparkler-hot down my arm and hand and fingers—the roots ripping free. He drags me toward the door. I try to get free, but he won’t let me go. Craning my head around, I see Max grab you, shove you into the magic circle.

“Jane … ” You crawl forward, then cringe back from the line of chalk and lime, now trapped inside the circle. “Jane?” Max’s work boot stomps a deep hole in your side.

I look away. I’m sorry, Holly. Tyler rushes me back out under the starless sky.

In the van, the city lights sweep through the windows and across LeighAnn’s expression. My rotting shirt tears like paper in her hands as she checks me all over. The tendrils and roots disgust her. While plucking them from my skin, her face turns as pale as the moon. “Why didn’t you stay in the circle?” she asks, almost pleading. “You were—”

“LeighAnn? Lee-Lee?” Max sits among loose tools and spools of wire. He pants hard, trying to keep panic down. White blisters on the palms of his hands burst open with bloody dandelion heads.

She scrambles to him. He grits he teeth when she pulls one out, and I remember him grabbing you, Holly, pushing you away from me.

“Why did you reach out of the circle?” LeighAnn shrieks at me. “You were safe. We were all—how was that too damn hard for you?” Steam spent, she turns, cradles Max’s head, and teases the flowers out as quickly as she can with trembling fingers.

I tear plants from my skin, accepting the pain that makes my hands shake, letting the blood drip off my elbows. Bile splashes the back of my throat, but I refuse to make a sound.