UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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THE ADULTS OF WATER STREET HAD ALREADY MADE THEIR PLANS BY THE time the forecast came. The weather that would arrive after they’d gone was sweeping the whole Midwest. All over the middle top of the country sleepy towns and cities were muffled under snow and temperatures that made their bones rattle. In Minnesota and North Dakota, animals froze in their pens.
“You’ll just have to come with us. I don’t want to leave you alone.” Mrs. Larsen stood at the foot of her bed, laying a pair of pumps into her suitcase. Maggie sat propped up against the headboard, watching.
“Mom, please. I’ll be fine. I have a ton of schoolwork right now. And Pauline’s mom will be here.” She remembered after she’d spoken that, actually, Pauline’s mom would be in Milwaukee. But by then her mom was looking halfway soothed.
“Mom, this is our house; we have to feel safe here. I’m not going to go anywhere. I’ll just stay in with the alarm on till you get back. I’ll keep the doors locked and everything. Really, it’s not a big deal. I’ll stay in.”
Her mom studied her. “Maybe you could have Pauline stay over.”
“Sure, I’ll ask her,” Maggie lied. She didn’t want to ask Pauline. But she knew her mom was being overly cautious.
Her parents packed the last of their things, and Maggie helped her mom lug her suitcase down the stairs. They ate a quick dinner together, and then Maggie got up and did the dishes while her mom gathered up her purse and coat. They bundled themselves up and surveyed the room, as if trying to think of anything they’d forgotten.
“Are you sure, honey?” her dad asked.
“Definitely,” Maggie said.
“Call me if you need anything,” her mom said.
Maggie nodded impatiently as she locked the door behind them.
She watched a couple of shows and then some cable news for a while. Everyone was talking about the approaching storm, and around ten her mom called to check on her and make her go over where the flashlights and the generator were. Pauline called around ten thirty and asked if she wanted to meet at the sauna tomorrow around five. Liam’s dad was going to be out late at a job, and Liam had a bunch of chores to do, so they could go naked and not worry about him happening by. Maggie agreed, although she didn’t really feel like seeing Pauline. She climbed the stairs and crawled in bed with a book.
The house should have felt big and warm around her with the weather picking up outside—she usually loved that feeling. But tonight, with her parents gone, her ears perked up at every little sound outside: the crunching of branches, the gusts rattling the old doors as they sent drafts through the house. The house itself creaked so much in the wind that it sounded like someone was walking along the floors. She drifted off to sleep while the wind blew the weather in—it buffeted the windows and made the covers feel cozier. It seemed, in her half-dream state, as if all of Water Street—all the world—was empty, white, silent, waiting.
By the next morning, the storm had taken down the phone lines three streets away. Maggie discovered there was no connection when she went to call Pauline and make up an excuse about not meeting her at the sauna. She looked out the window and considered walking over to tell her in person but decided against it. She’d figure it out when Maggie didn’t show. She knew her mom would be worried and thought maybe she should go wander around to try to find a signal to text her. But when she stepped out onto the deck, it was so frigid and windy that she ducked back inside to wait for everything to calm down.
The wind has died and left a waiting silence—the kind of quiet that promises the bigger storm to come. I float above the peninsula and wonder: How do you lose the thread of your own story, the one you are supposed to know by heart?
Because, looking down on the snow-tipped trees, I think I’ve seen this story before. It feels like it makes up the shape of my heart . . . or the ball of moths where my heart should be.
I watch Pauline waiting under a stand of pine trees at dusk, looking in the direction of Maggie’s house. She’s brought binoculars for bird-watching. Her breath rises in puffs, and she shivers in her thin, seventies-style plaid coat; she tugs tighter on her off-white, knit hat. Underdressed as usual, she hasn’t worn leggings or pants; her bare legs peek out from under her coat.
Not a soul has emerged from Maggie’s house, aside from me. But Pauline isn’t alone.
He’s standing at the edge of the woods. He must have hiked in from the snow-plowed main road, because the snow’s piled too high for cars here.
James Falk only watches Pauline quietly from the road for a moment, then turns back in the direction he’s come, as if sneaking away from her. Instead of following his tracks all the way back down Water Street, he turns in the direction of Liam Witte’s house, cutting across the field. I realize she’s not the one he’s come for, and I follow him.
Liam’s taken advantage of the lull in the weather to come outside and grab some dry wood from the shed, which is far across the field from his house. He’s just crossing the clearing back toward his house when he looks up to see the figure at the edge of the field. He stands and wipes his hands on his pants and starts walking toward him, recognizing him. There’s a moment when he still seems to think everything is okay. He only seems puzzled as James stands there without saying anything, looking at him like he might bolt. But it’s only a moment before he clearly feels the fear. He keeps his hands in his pockets and smiles at James. He lifts his left hand to wave.
James coils, and Liam pauses midstep. And then James is hurtling. Liam backs up, stumbling, and as he reaches him, holds his hands in front of his face reflexively. Still, he isn’t prepared for the fist as it rips across his nose.
He pivots and pulls away quickly, leaving a growing white swath of ground between them, blood flying off the side of his face. But he’s chosen the wrong direction, toward the fence that lines this part of Water Street.
He comes up hard against it, and James slams up behind him as he tries to climb. He’s halfway over before James pulls him down. Fists fly, but they only belong to James—Liam’s hands are only palms, trying to stop and deflect.
At some point the snow starts again, softly but persistently, falling into the tracks they’ve both left across the snow and onto James’s shoulders as he pounds and pounds. And then Liam’s head hits the fence with a shudder. Liam goes limp. James pulls back, scared now, because of the blood staining the snow beside Liam’s head.
He backs up, then turns and runs.
I want to help. I want to shine a giant spotlight on the boy lying in the snow and on the one running for his car.
But I’m only the ghost, a memory of a memory.
These moments are all in the past. What can anyone do about them now?