I didn’t mention it to him. I thought I understood. I didn’t realize how wrong I was.
One day, I went to watch Justin practice golf. Justin isn’t a great golfer, but he wants to be one, so he joined the team. That first day, I looked around and around the field and my dad was nowhere to be seen. What about watching Justin golf is so safe? I thought. Or what about watching Justin swim is so dangerous? He thinks I’d be so enamored of Justin in a Speedo I’d jump him?
But suddenly it came to me. My dad wasn’t having trouble coping with me growing up. He didn’t have a problem with Justin at all. What he had a problem with was the thought of me drowning, like she did. Even the thought of a swimming pool. Suddenly it hit me, why I hadn’t been to the beach in ages, why there was no water anywhere near our house, why, when I was invited to pool parties, he always made sure we were busy. It was crazy, but it was true. He was that freaked out by my mom’s death that he couldn’t stand it. But me, on the other hand … I was fine with it. In fact, it didn’t bother me at all.
I decided to confront him. I knew exactly how. “Dad, I’m thinking of taking swimming classes,” I told him casually after our usual mac-and-cheese dinner.
His eyes filled with dread. For a moment he looked like he might choke on his mouthful, but he brought his napkin to his mouth, wiped his graying beard, and cleared his throat thoughtfully. “You’re not a strong swimmer, Ki.”
That was true. I hadn’t been swimming since before mom died. “Well, duh, that’s why I want to take classes,” I said. “Justin said he’d help me practice.”
“You have yearbook and band. Doesn’t it interfere—”
“Nope. It’s good. I checked already.”
He shook his head. “I think you need to keep up with your studies. It’s just too much.”
“Dad,” I said, the anger boiling in me. “It’s. A. Pool. It’s not some raging river. And what happened to her will never happen to me! Stop constantly trying to protect me from her!”
He’d stared at me for a while, silently, gripping his paper napkin until it ripped down the center. And then he got up from the table, from his half-eaten dinner, and walked into his bedroom without another word. We didn’t talk for days after that, and when we finally did, it was like the previous conversation had never happened. But I was still angry. Really, how could he be so ridiculous? To what lengths would he go? Maybe next he would forbid me from taking baths. Walking in rain showers. Getting Big Gulps at the 7-E.
But now I can’t help but wonder if there was something more to his concern. I’d never told him about the visions I’d had. It seems crazy to think that just because my mom drowned in a river, he’d want to keep me completely isolated from water. And yet he’s been almost fanatical about it. He’d yanked me away from the river back home so quickly, we didn’t even have time to pack. And now, why am I having visions, visions I haven’t had in ten years, now that I’m by the water again? Maybe there is something else he’s afraid of.
No. What else could there be? He was just being protective. I’m his little girl, after all.
I stand up and twist the handles on the faucet, hoping to splash some water on my face, but nothing happens. Then I remember that the water has been turned off. Perfect.
It’s just my overactive imagination, I tell myself. Those things I saw … they’re not real. They can’t hurt me.
Someone raps on the door. “Ki? You okay?” Justin.
“Fine,” I say, wiping my face with some wadded-up toilet paper, not that it’s doing much good. “I’m just—” I stop, wondering what I can lie about, considering there’s no water in here. “I’m good.”
I click open the door slowly and find his concerned eyes in the darkness. “You sure?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Have to be up early tomorrow. The sunrise from the top of Grey Mountain is amazing. Want to go for a hike when we wake up?”
Sure. Trekking through the predawn blackness in freezing temperatures. Sounds lovely. I don’t say anything, but my body stiffens.
“It’s okay. Maybe I’ll go myself, then,” he says, putting his arm around me. “Nice and warm in here. Why don’t you sleep in a bed tonight?”
“I told you, I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out more like a snarl. I’m going to be perfectly okay here, and nobody—not him, not my dad—is going to tell me any different. I muster a smile. “Lead the way. Out to the campsite. Bring it on.”
He must be fooled by my resolve, because he throws up his hands. “All right. Yes, sir!” he replies, saluting.
We go back to our sleeping bags. Hugo is already snoring, making this embarrassingly loud noise that will scare anything away, so we don’t need to worry about wild animals raiding our camp in the middle of the night. Not that I’m expecting to sleep much. Angela is sitting propped up on her elbows, looking at me across the fire. “You okay, Honey Bunches of Oats?” she asks me.
For as long as I can remember, Angela and I have been calling each other by the names of popular breakfast cereals. “Sure thing, Cocoa Puffs,” I answer, pulling back the cover of my bag and inspecting it for creepy-crawlies.
“I can get you a cold compress or something.” Her eyes are big and round again, worried. It’s amazing how like her mother she is. The minute I arrived in Maine, Aunt Missy was at my side, playing Florence Nightingale. She was the Cold Compress Queen, always bringing something to put on my forehead and massaging my temples until I’d relax.
“I’m good,” I say, smiling at her, though my head is throbbing and I’d love someone to massage my temples. It makes me think of my mother’s headaches.
No. I’m not like her.
When I slide into the bag, I still don’t feel warm. I move closer to Justin but I don’t think it will do any good, even when he drapes his big arm around me and pulls me to his chest. I close my eyes, concentrating on the crackle of the fire, and slip my clammy hand into Justin’s warm one. But the only thing I can hear now is the river. It whirrs along, until soon my hand in Justin’s doesn’t feel just clammy … it feels wet. My feet, too.
I move my legs, but it’s like wading against a tide. They ache. My feet are submerged in water—icy, numbing water. I can hear them sloshing through it as I move them in the bag.
What the—
I jump upright and kick off the sleeping bag. My wool socks are completely dry. Justin has his eyes closed and is lazily feeling around for me, to pull me back. “Um, I thought I felt a spider,” I whisper, but he doesn’t seem interested in the explanation, just mumbles a good night. I go back to the place Justin’s body has carved out for me, and hope hope hope that I’ll be able to get even an hour’s worth of sleep tonight.
Justin’s breathing becomes deep and soft, lulling me. His breath on my ear drowns out the whispers of the river. Sleep comes.
Chapter Five
I’m woken as a trickle of water slides down my cheek. Wet, again. I try to push the thought away. It’s just my imagination, my stupid imagination, I think, when another droplet lands on my forehead.
Water?
I turn onto my side, stretching, reaching for the clock at my bedside, but my fingers wrap around something wet, cold, and stringy. Weird. I roll back over, wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands, and try to open them. Instead of that helping me to see, my retinas start to burn. I keep blinking. Again and again, until I focus on my palms. They’re smeared with black mud, bits of gravel, and slivers of grass.
Springing upright, I remember. I’m outside, camping. I’m in another world, so different from my bedroom. There’s a thick mist hugging the trees, only a peek of their dark trunks exposed. A thin drizzle is falling. I blink, finally focusing on Hugo, who is yawning and stoking the dying fire. He looks haggard, every bit like he just spent the last six hours sleeping on the cold, hard ground.