The Drowned Forest Read online

  Mom let me wear my new ladybug dress; I was so excited about that. She waited until we were in the car before telling me your parents had passed away. You lived with your grandparents now, Mr. and Mrs. Alton from church.

  “How’d they die?”

  Mom shook her head. “It’s not important. Listen. She might be sad and not feel like playing. She might even start crying. But you have to be nice no matter what. Can you do that? You need to be like the Good Samaritan.”

  “But were they sick?”

  “I told you it doesn’t matter. Don’t ask. Don’t even mention it to her.”

  So I didn’t know about the car wreck yet, the shriek of metal and glass that killed two grown-ups and left a seven-year-old without a scratch. I didn’t know you were a miracle in the flesh. All I knew was my stomach suddenly hurt and I wanted to go home.

  We pulled up to that prim brick house skirted with impatiens. Your me-maw came out to the porch as we walked up. “Oh, look at all the ladybugs! So summery!”

  I tried to stick close to Mom, but she nudged me out into the backyard. And there you were—crouching under the hydrangeas, mostly knees and elbows and bits of leaf stuck in your hair.

  You would always be mostly knees and elbows, Holly.

  When I walked over, you turned away. Picking cream-colored blossoms off the bushes, you pretended not to notice me. “Hi. I’m Jane.” I held my scrubbed pink hand out for your grubby one. You wouldn’t look up.

  “Want to have a wedding? You can be the bride if you want.”

  You shook your head. Busy, busy, busy, sorting the flower petals into piles.

  I walked back to the sliding glass door. Mom and your me-maw chatted in the kitchen. Looking over your me-maw’s shoulder, Mom hit me with a hard glare. I knew better than to try going back inside.

  Instead, I sat on the concrete steps, tearing blades of grass to bits. I kept having to move away from the bees murmuring through the clover. I was getting hot and mad, and this place was boring, and I couldn’t be like the Good Samaritan because you wouldn’t even talk to me.

  You pulled off one of the hydrangea’s powder-puff flower clusters, studying it carefully. Squinting against the sun, you studied me. Finally you walked over, holding the cluster in your hand. You spoke in a hoarse whisper. “This can be my bouquet.”

  “Okay. But you have to throw it and let me catch it.”

  “Okay. Then you can get married.”

  We played wedding all morning. I didn’t ask about your parents, and you didn’t mention them. I wasn’t afraid anymore, though.

  Days, months, and years flow together after that. Growing up, we lived like swallows of the air who neither sow nor reap. We roamed a backyard full of castles and zoos, then helped your pa-paw dig up the hydrangeas to make space for the sunporch. That old dry-erase board became our classroom, and you always got to be the teacher because you went to real school. No matter how much it pleased God to see me home-schooled, I wanted to eat in a cafeteria so bad.

  And have a food fight. Just one good food fight, and my life would be complete.

  Dad took us out in the boat and taught us to water-ski on Wilson Lake. We caught fish and cleaned them ourselves. Sometimes summer storms caught us out on the water. Saw-toothed waves the color of iron gnashed at the boat. The wind howled. But we tipped our faces to the stinging rain and howled right back, thrilled by all of lashing creation.

  We heard stories about the giant catfish living in the deep black water at the lake bottom, squeezed down between the roots of submerged trees and under the foundations of flooded sharecropper cabins. Ancient scavenger-demons full of bile and spines, they were half-mythical beasts. But every once in a while, a fisherman wrestled one of the massive channel cats up into the sunlight. It would get in the newspaper then, with photos for everybody to gape at.

  We dove off Swallow’s Nest Bluff a thousand times.

  The bluff is one of those secret children’s places. Grown-ups can’t find it. The first time anyone goes, they need a cousin or older neighborhood kid to lead them past the No Trespassing signs and down into the wild land the city owns but has forgotten about. The path is just a line of dirt stomped out between blackberry bushes. Near the bluff, the thorny vines curl into circles and weave themselves together to mimic Jesus’s crown. Berries dangle from the crowns, as dark and glossy as blood drops. They’re the most delicious fruit I’ve ever tasted. I’ve eaten them until juice stained my chin and ran down my arms, and I still wanted more.

  Push past the bushes, and there’s Swallow’s Nest Bluff, a wedge of red limestone shoving out into Wilson Lake like the prow of a ship. And there’s the squat pine tree sending wrist-thick roots over the edge of the bluff. And there’s the tire swing, its rubber cracked from the sun.

  When we were little, it took all our courage just to swing out over the lake, watching the land drop away, watching the swallows that built their nests on the bluff’s tilting face dart and wheel below us. But soon enough, we trusted ourselves enough to jump. We waited until the tire reached the vertex of its arc over the water, then kicked away, tumbling, flipping, jackknifing, cannonballing, and swan-diving into the water again and again.

  When I told my cousin I’d finally jumped off Swallow’s Nest Bluff, I was swelling with pride. But she didn’t know what I was talking about. She’d already grown up too much and couldn’t remember the bluff. It became our place then, Holly. It became our wilderness to scurry through—to test ourselves against—dirty, wet, and laughing our heads off. I remember the sunlight filtering through the pines, touching the fine hair on your arms, legs, and the back of your neck. The light made them burn like filaments.

  We had bad times. We had arguments and weeks when we were too busy for each other. And your raw-nerve days, scratching lyrics into the dry skin of your arm with a pen cap or whatever. But when I try to think about them, all I can remember is you doing a hair-whipping backflip into the water, a miracle in the flesh.

  We dove off the bluff a thousand times and never got hurt. Nobody dies the thousand-and-first time they do something. It’s stupid, Holly. It’s not fair.

  It’s just not fair.

  Three

  Dad drives through downtown and swings into the church parking lot, jostling me out of happier days and back into this one. There’s a mountain of stuff to unload. A steady trickle of people carry coolers, steam trays, buckets, and bins back to the cinder-block storage shed. Everything is stenciled with Magnolia Street Baptist Church—Florence, Alabama.

  Tyler’s truck, dusty and rumbling, swings into the space beside me. Stepping out, he whispers, “So what now?”

  “Just help unload everything, then we can find Pastor Wesley.”

  We tried getting Pastor Wesley alone at the park, but couldn’t. And I’m sorry, Holly, but I can’t start talking about fish delivering rings and messages from the dead in the middle of Rivercall. Most people would think I’m crazy. The ones who believe me would freak out. Heck, it’s freaking me out.

  But Pastor Wesley is a man of God. He’s smart, calm, and he knows how to read the signs and exhortations of the Lord. He’ll know what’s happening.

  Dad calls out, “Come on, guys. Let’s get this done. Tyler, help us old men out.” Dad has two stainless steel urns in the back of the van. He tips one out, and Tyler hurries to catch it. Mr. Olsen grabs the other one. I take the Rubbermaid bin full of tablecloths. Dad tries to give Yuri the few that fell out, but Yuri won’t take them.

  “That’s okay, pal. Go with Jane.”

  We carry the stuff to the community hall storeroom, then head outside again. Everyone’s full of chicken and starting to droop, so nobody’s going to work too hard except the kids playing tag. People lounge around, visiting. Boys tease girls.

  Tyler says, “I don’t see Pastor Wesley.”

  “Probably in his office. Come on.” But th
en manic Hannah Marie rushes up, squeezing Tyler around the middle. “Hey! You played so great today!”

  Ashley, Jonathan, and Brooke come up behind her. “You’re getting sunburned,” Ashley tells me.

  “Yeah.” I touch the stinging skin around my eyes. I don’t care about this, I don’t care, don’t care. But I have to smile and make-believe everything’s okay. “You are too, a little.”

  “Am I?” Ashley looks up, trying to see her own forehead. That makes Jonathan laugh, and Ashley smacks him.

  “So how have you been?” Jonathan asks.

  “Good.” I nod. “Pretty good.”

  “Good, good. That’s real good.” He nods back. “But listen, uh, we were wondering about the winter mission trip. Weren’t you sort of in charge of that before … you know.”

  “Yeah. I still am.” Go! Please, God, just make them go! “It’s the first weekend in December. I haven’t sent out an email, but I will.”

  “Cool. Are we building another house?”

  “We’re going to try for two this time.”

  “Two? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, but we’re going to get some help from another youth group down from … Ardmore, I think. I’ll have more details when I send the email. I’ll get to it soon, promise.” I force a smile, looking for a chance to edge away. But now Hannah Marie is boxing with Tyler, throwing punches into his open palms and trying to get him to say he’ll go on the trip with us.

  “Remember we put on that skit last year and you were the CSI guy? That was so much fun!”

  “Yeah, I … I just … I don’t know.”

  “Tyler, please come.” Hannah Marie stops boxing, weaves her skinny fingers into his thick ones. “I know, with Holly and all, you feel like you’re alone right now.”

  “That’s not—” He tries to pull his hands free, but she clings to him.

  “You have to stop running from God and let Him catch up, you know?”

  “Let go!” Tyler jerks free. Hannah Marie opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. A loud crash makes everybody jump.

  Yuri has knocked over one of the terra-cotta planters. He studies the smashed pieces spilling dirt and hibiscus leaves across the walk.

  “Yuri! That wasn’t—”

  Yuri walks away, flapping one hand and raising a shrill whine. I catch his wrist. The whine goes higher, and he tries prying my fingers loose. He’s got a stomachache or he’s tired or maybe Tyler’s shout upset him, and he doesn’t want to be touched now.

  “That wasn’t nice, Yuri.” I hold him as loosely as I can. “Did you eat too much?”

  He quiets himself, still plucking at my fingers. “Leggo.”

  Behind us, our friends have moved in. Tyler and Jonathan gather up the pottery shards. Brooke shoos a couple little kids back, but Yuri’s whine has brought Dad and some other grown-ups trotting around the corner.

  “Oh no. Guys, I’m sorry. It didn’t hit anybody, did it? Tyler, let me do that.” Dad starts into the usual apologies, worn thin from daily use.

  But we’re at church, so what’s to apologize for? These people have loved Yuri since our parents brought him home from Russia. He’s their brother in Christ, just like he’s mine by adoption.

  I take Yuri to the steps to sit down, and he lets me hold his hand. I squeeze it, and he squeezes mine back. I squeeze his twice, and he squeezes mine twice. I squeeze his three times, and he squeezes mine three times. We play our favorite game, all the way up to eight squeezes, then Yuri loses count. I laugh. “Ha! I win, buddy!”

  Yuri gives one of his bright toddler-laughs, eyes clamped shut with pleasure. He grows quiet again, and I lean close to smooth down his hair. I whisper, “Something’s happening. Something with Holly. And I don’t know what it is, and I’m scared.”

  Yuri turns, and we watch the others clean up the dirt and broken planter. We’re at church. Church is not a doctrine; it’s not a pretty building. Church is anywhere a nineteen-year-old who can’t tie his shoes brings out the best in people.

  We’re at church, and I shouldn’t feel as lonely as I do. I shouldn’t be lost inside my own head all the time talking to you. I need to let these people help me, Holly. Pastor Wesley is a Godly man. He’ll see the truth in this. He’ll see the signs and know what to do.

  Maybe God is trying to show me that, acting through the one sinless soul here.

  I stand up to kiss Yuri’s temple, telling him, “I love you.” His serene expression doesn’t change. He studies me with those sweet brown eyes, irises so dark they blend with the pupil. He has the prettiest lashes I’ve ever seen on a boy.

  As soon as Dad gets the dirt swept off the walk, I walk up to him, leading Yuri. “He’s probably just tired. If you want to take him home, I can finish helping out here, and Tyler’ll give me a ride home later. I bet Faye’s worn out too.”

  “Well … ” Dad looks at Yuri, then Tyler. “You don’t mind?”

  “Huh? No. No, be happy to,” Tyler stammers, caught off-guard by my surprise move.

  “Well … yeah. Probably for the best.”

  We round up Tim and Faye. Lifting Faye into her car seat, Mom slips me a crisp twenty. “Why don’t you and Tyler get some coffee or something afterward?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” They’re glad I’m catching up with Tyler, glad I’m doing anything besides sleeping all day and eating dinner in my room. I keep my happy face on and wave goodbye as Dad pulls out of the parking lot.

  Once they’re gone, we head back to the community hall, this time heading straight upstairs, passing empty offices and the Sunday school classroom. The puppet theater is still in the corner. Remember putting on goofy shows for just each other? I bet it’s the same puppets piled behind there: Mother Goose, one little pig, and the threadbare wolf.

  Pastor Wesley’s door is open, but he’s on the phone. He smiles when he sees us, waves us in, then turns back to his conversation. “Absolutely, but our secretary can give you a better answer on that … uh-huh … uh-huh … ”

  I flex my fingers, twist my feet into the lush blue carpet, getting anxious.

  Hanging up, Pastor Wesley scribbles a note on his desk calendar. “Tyler, you were incredible today,” he says without looking up.

  “Thanks … thank you, sir.”

  “I meant to tell you at the park, but I got tied up. But really, you amazed me.”

  I don’t know anybody besides Pastor Wesley who pronounces the period at the end of each sentence. At least I hear it in my head, like the bang of a gavel, opinion becoming fact and the end of all argument.

  “Sit, guys, sit. Jane, how are you?”

  “Good. Um, we actually need to talk to you about Rivercall. About that catfish.”

  He lets out a two-tone whistle. “What do you think it was? Ninety pounds? A hundred?”

  “Well, it was pretty big. Plus, also, it had Holly’s ring in its mouth.”

  Pastor Wesley stares at us. “Holly … Alton?”

  I nod. “It dropped it onto the rocks. Like it was delivering it. And it … ”

  Tyler is rubbing his thumb across the ring. I nudge him, and he sets it on Pastor Wesley’s desk. “It says HELP,” Tyler finishes for me. “See?”

  Pastor Wesley picks up the ring, sets it down again. His eyes are blank; his mouth is a straight, thin line. He asks me, “You were good friends with Holly, weren’t you?”

  “Uh … yes, sir. She was my best friend.”

  “I know you’ve had some trouble since she passed, making sense of the tragedy.”

  “Yes, but … right now, I’m worried about Holly. She’s trying to tell us something, but we don’t know what this ring means.”

  Pastor Wesley continues on his own train of thought. “Your parents actually came to see me last week. They’ve been worried about you, Jane. I’ve meant to schedule some time with you and your family. But wi
th Rivercall and everything … ” He waves a hand over his desk calendar.

  No, no, no, Pastor Wesley has to see the signs. My fingers strangle one another in my lap. “I’m not crazy, sir. Holly needs help, but we don’t know what to do. We don’t know … please, you have to help.”

  “Jane, I want to help you. But I don’t believe this is a message from Holly’s ghost.”

  “Who else would it be from? This is Holly’s ring!”

  “I don’t know. But sometimes, in times of grief especially, people see what they want to see the most. It’s called magical thinking.”

  “I’m not making this up!” My face starts to burn with embarrassment. “Tyler saw the catfish drop it too.” I look to Tyler for support.

  He nods slightly. “I did. Really.”

  “Jane, nobody’s accusing anybody of anything. But there—”

  “Pastor Wesley, please, please, we have to help Holly.”

  “But there could be lots of explanations for this ring. I don’t want you getting worked up over nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing! Holly needs help! I know! I can feel it!”

  “Jane, calm down. You need to listen to me right now.”

  His voice is placid, so gentle it infuriates me. Jumping up, I turn and walk out.

  “Jane, please,” Pastor Wesley calls at my back. “Tyler! Please come back.”

  I take the stairs two at a time. Tyler keeps close at me heels. “Where are you going?” he hisses. “You’re the one who wanted to talk to—”

  At the foot of the staircase, Brooke looks up. “Um … is Pastor Wesley calling—”

  “Okay, see you later.” I wave at her but never slow down. Shoving the door open, I stomp out into the parking lot.

  “Jane, you’re the one who wanted to talk to Wesley,” Tyler says. “Now what? Now what do we do?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re not going to do nothing.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know!”