The Joy We Shared

I was nine when the road disappeared beneath the water and a girl in a yellow raincoat stepped out of it. My mother slammed the brakes. Our old green wagon skidded sideways, tires hissing through a sheet of brown water. The girl stood in the headlights with both hands lifted, one sleeve dark with blood. "Stay in the car," Mom said. I was already reaching for the door. "Mara." The warning in her voice stopped me for half a second. Then the girl staggered, and I was out in the rain. The water came up to my shins. It smelled like mud and gasoline. I caught the girl by the elbows just before she went down. "I'm okay," she said, in the precise, furious voice of someone who had been told not to cry. "You're bleeding." "It's a scratch." "It's on your face." "That doesn't make it worse." Mom came around the wagon with a blanket and a flashlight. She checked the road behind the girl, then the dark line of trees where the floodwater was pushing branches across the pavement. "Where are your parents?" she asked. "My dad's coming." "From where?" The girl's mouth tightened. The rain ran over her cheeks, hiding whether she was crying. "The bridge." I looked back. We had crossed a bridge ten minutes earlier. It was already closed, its flashing barricades barely visible through the storm. Mom wrapped the blanket around her. "What's your name?" "Lila." "Lila what?" "Vale." My mother went still. I knew the name. Everyone in Bellwether Bay knew the Vales. Their family owned half the old harbor, two hotels, and a foundation that put its name on the library and the children's hospital. The Vale house sat on a bluff above the water, with a private road and iron gates. The girl in the road was wearing a yellow raincoat and one soaked sneaker. "Lila," Mom said gently, "we need to get you out of this water. Can you walk?" "I can walk." She took one step and gasped. Mom slid an arm around her waist. I took the other side. Between us, we got her to the wagon. The radio crackled with emergency warnings. The lower road was closed. The temporary shelter at the high school was full. A dispatcher's voice told drivers to head inland and stay off the bridges. "Where's your dad now?" Mom asked as she helped Lila onto the back seat. "He went back for Mr. Cole." "Who's Mr. Cole?" "Our driver. He got hurt when the car went into the ditch." Lila held the blanket closed beneath her chin. "Dad said to stay by the road. He said he'd come back." "How long ago?" "I don't know." The girl watched me with a directness that made me feel as if I'd been caught doing something. I sat beside her while Mom turned the wagon around toward the shelter. "You're Mara?" she asked. I looked at my mother. "I didn't tell you that." "Your mom did." "Then why ask?" Lila shrugged. She had a strip of skin missing above her eyebrow. Blood had dried along her temple. "I wanted to hear you say it." I didn't know what to do with that, so I stared out at the flooded fields. At the school, people filled the gym, the hallways, and the cafeteria. A volunteer wrapped Lila's forehead while Mom found a cot for her. I kept close. The gym smelled of wet clothes and floor wax. Every few minutes, someone asked whether the road to town had reopened. The lights flickered. A child cried somewhere near the stage. Lila sat on a folding chair with her legs swinging, her yellow raincoat draped over her lap. She watched me drink hot chocolate from a paper cup. "Do you have a dad?" she asked. "No." "Did he die?" "No. He left before I was born." Lila tipped her head as if that were a problem she could solve. "Would you like one?" I snorted. "You can't just give somebody a dad." "I can introduce you to mine." "That's not the same thing." "It could be." "Why would you do that?" She looked down at her shoes. "You came into the water after me." "That was Mom." "You came too." I took another sip. The chocolate was too sweet, and my hands were shaking from the cold. "Your dad might not want me." "He likes people who help." "How do you know?" "Because he likes me." It sounded so certain that I couldn't think of an answer. Mom returned with two bowls of soup and heard the last part. She set the bowls down between us. "Lila, your father will be the one to decide who he brings into his family. Mara isn't a stray kitten." "I know." Lila picked up her soup. "I'm asking if she wants to meet him." I watched the steam curl from my bowl. "Maybe." "Good." "That's not a promise." "I know." Mom gave me a look, but didn't tell me to stop talking to her. At midnight, a volunteer came through the gym calling Lila's name. A man followed him, soaked to the waist, his face pale beneath the grime. Lila jumped up so fast her chair fell over. "Dad!" He crossed the space between them in three strides and folded her into his arms. She pressed her face into his jacket. He held the back of her head and closed his eyes. "I'm here," he said. "I've got you." I stood beside the chair, suddenly certain that I shouldn't be watching. Then he looked up at me. "Your mother found her?" he asked. "We both did." He released Lila only enough to see her face. "I'm Graham Vale. Thank you." My mother stepped forward. "June Bell. We saw her in the road." "Did she hit her head?" "Just a cut. A nurse checked her." He nodded, then looked at me again. "And you're Mara." I wondered how he knew. "Lila told me," he said, as if he'd heard the question in my silence. "She said you came into the water." "It wasn't deep." "It was deep enough." Lila reached for his hand with one of hers and took mine with the other. She drew us together like we were parts of a puzzle. "This is my dad," she told me. Graham's mouth twitched. "I'm glad to meet you, Mara." I looked at the hand holding mine. It was small and cold. For the first time in my life, someone had made the offer without making it sound like charity. I didn't know yet whether I would accept.