I smile, thinking I have the best boyfriend in the world, then lean over to pick up my socks. I’m just stretching them out on the rug to let them dry when I realize something. I was wearing two pairs of heavy wool socks earlier. Now there is only one.
The other pair, I gave to that boy on the river. The boy who warned me to go away. The one I’d just convinced myself didn’t exist.
Chapter Nine
Now I’m at the edge of the river, watching the waves with the girl in the white dress. She’s crying. “Hi, Lannie,” I say.
She smiles and wipes at her tears. “Tootsie. You came back. I can’t believe you came back. And you remember me.”
“Of course I do.” I try to see where I am, but the sun is bouncing off the ripples in the water, drenching everything around me in white. “Where am I, though?”
She doesn’t answer. Suddenly it’s like I’m in a white room with no windows or doors. Just me, alone. But the name Jack rings in my ears. I’ve never known anyone with that name, at least not until … No, it’s familiar. I did hear it, once before, quite recently. Jack McCabe.
Sleesh … sleesh … sleesh.
Only a second later the story comes to me. I see the girl, dressed all in white, strolling into the woods. Lannie. And he’s watching, close behind, his eyes dark and intense.
The man from across the river. Jack. Jack McCabe.
I did everything you asked of me.
Somehow, it’s dark now. He follows Lannie, deeper into the forest, toward the river, toward her. I follow, too, stumbling over the brambles and uneven ground. Lannie stops by the river, standing still at the very edge. I watch as Jack approaches, expecting him to call out to her, to reach for her. Instead, at the moment he’s supposed to do that, he turns. Lannie turns. They’re both looking at me.
Blood is trickling over Jack’s forehead, making an upside-down Y over the sides of his nose. Lannie has the ax. It’s covered in blood. “Everything’s wrong,” she seethes. “Because of you.”
At first I don’t know who she’s speaking to, but her eyes are on me. “Wait—” I say.
But she is storming toward me, ax raised over her head. Hatred disfigures her pretty face. Hatred for me?
Jack doesn’t move. “I did everything you asked of me,” he whispers, a tinge of sadness in his voice, but by then she is upon me.
I wake with a start, expecting to hear the blade whistle down on me. Instead, the fire crackles. Far away, people are laughing. It’s warm, and the orange light of the fire is homey and inviting. A cuckoo clock cuckoos. I look down. My second bagel, slathered in cream cheese, is sitting on the coffee table. Justin is leaning forward, staring at me. “Nice nap?” he asks.
Yeah. Real nice.
I wipe my eyes and reach for my mug of coffee. It’s cold and bitter but I sip it anyway.
“The paramedics are here,” he says.
I sit up and two men poke me, take my vitals, and, as I expected, tell me I’m perfectly healthy. I wonder if that’s what they’d see if there was a test they could do on my mind. Because the dreams, the dreams I used to have when I was a kid, when I lived by the water … I might be completely wrong, but that felt a lot like one of them. One of the bad ones.
“You okay?” Justin asks after we pack up our stuff and start walking back toward Angela’s place. By then, the sun must have come out, because it’s sinking beyond the tall pines on the other side of the river, painting the whole sky the color of flames.
I nod. “I just want to get back to the cabin. Take a hot shower.”
He winces. “Ooh, sorry. You know Angela’s place doesn’t have running water.”
“Oh.” I want a shower so bad, I can almost taste the hot steam, feel it curling around my body as the water rinses the grimy river away. My skin is gritty, dirty. I take my hair out of the ponytail holder and try to comb it back with my fingers, but they stick in the mess of knots and dirt and who-knows-what in there. I might have a colony of something living in my hair follicles. I hang my shoulders and a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
“You can take a shower back at the Outfitters,” he says brightly. “Hey, how about this. I’ll go get your bag, and you go back there and tell Spiffy. He’ll set you up.” He winks. “It’ll be the—”
I glare at him. “Highlight of his young life, I know. Shut up.”
“I’m just kidding. But seriously. I’ll walk you over. They have nice showers there. And Spiffy won’t peek.” He smiles. “That much.”
I punch him, but I go along with it anyway. “I can make it myself. You go on,” I say, giving him a kiss. His hand lingers on mine for a while before he lets it go, and after taking only one step toward the cabin, he turns right back, just to make sure I really am okay. He exhales slowly, and I know he’s thinking he almost lost me.
When I leave him, I can’t help picking up the pace. Showers! A chance to brush my teeth! To look and feel normal again! Just the thought of it sends me skipping back along the path.
I find myself slowing, even before my mind catches up with what is happening. I look up and across the river. Among the trees, their new leaves whipping in the wind, I see him.
The man across the river. Jack. He’s standing still, as in my dream.
Watching me.
No, I think, my body turning to ice. It’s him. He’s real.
I turn down the path, wishing Justin, or anyone, were nearby and could see him, too. But once again I am alone. I start to walk again, knees weak this time, when out of nowhere a hand falls on my shoulder.
I gasp as a nearby voice says, “You should leave. I told you to, kid.”
The boy I’d spoken to on the island. He’s bleeding from that wound I thought I’d wrapped. It’s not wrapped now. The blood is dripping on his bare foot.
“I’m not going anywhere. You are not real,” I whisper.
But he’s so close. So, so close. He leans in, even nearer. If he’s not real, why do I feel his breath on my cheek?
He extends a long finger, pointing directly to where Jack is standing. “He’s got his hooks in you already? Geesh. I thought you were stronger than that, kid. You are. You just don’t get it. Suppose I’m gonna have to learn you what’s what. Never thought I’d have to learn a Levesque girl.”
I stare at his oozing wound. A wound he barely seems to notice. “You’re … still bleeding.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you listening to anything I say?”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Now’s not the time for proper introductions.”
“You know my name, somehow. I want to know yours,” I say bitterly.
“It’s Trey,” he says quickly, but somehow I already knew that. Trey. The boy from the story. These people are all from the stories I heard over the campfire last night. Ghost stories. Ever since I heard them, I’ve been hallucinating. But why? Before I can ask another question, he speaks. “You love your boyfriend?” he asks.