Wildwood

3. The River-2

“Mom?” I bend down and touch the center of her back.

“Take me home,” she says, gasping, and staggers away from the edge of the water. I hurry to her side and wrap an arm around her waist. She covers her face with her hands, and leans into me. She’s head and shoulders taller than me, but the weight of her barely sways me, and I wonder if the emptiness I feel inside has hollowed her out, too.

Dana retrieves her shoes before starting the Gator, and we ride back to the barn without speaking. The dive team has assembled in the main corridor. Bile paints the back of my tongue, and my throat swells with dread. I hug my mom to my chest, stroking her hair, and exchange a glance with Dana over the top of her head. Dana nods, acknowledging the presence of the team, what they’re here to do, and the need to avoid it all. We drive around the far side of the barn, past the empty flat bed, and pull up at the passenger side door of her truck. I open the door and help Mom step up, and then climb into the back as Dana parks the Gator and returns to her truck.

The engine cranks to life, and we turn up the driveway. Once the barn and all traces of the team are behind us, I slump against my seat and close my eyes. Every inch of me aches. My mind is a storm of images from yesterday and today. I wonder what Teague looked like when they found him. The hope that he died quickly and painlessly whispers through me. I sit up right. We never saw Teague’s body.

I reach toward the console, where my mother’s elbow rests, when I catch sight of the reflection of her left eye in the rearview mirror. She stares ahead, pupils blown wide, and tears pour from the corner. I slowly ease back, unable to tear my gaze from the mirror. She would’ve asked about Teague when we first arrived if she’d really wanted to see him, wouldn’t she? But why did she ask about seeing him at all?

I look to Dana. The side of her face is tense. The underside of her visible eye is puffy from either crying or lack of sleep or both. Dana can understand a person needing to see a horse’s body for closure; but would she have been willing to drive us to the barn for the sole purpose of Mom seeing the river? From mom’s side of the conversation, it sounded like Dana wasn’t willing to have Mom come to the farm until she mentioned Teague. I recount my mother’s actions on the shore, how a part of the woods she’d seemed. What if she hadn’t wanted to see Teague at all? What if it’s not the sunrise she’s watching every morning? What if all this time, she’s been studying the clear?

I try to recall how she responded when I asked her about the radio show earlier, but all I can remember is the phone ringing, and the tornado of fear and hope that twisted inside at the sound of it.

At home, Dana walks in the middle of Mom and me, offering us both her support.

“What can I do?” Dana asks once we’re inside. Mom walks away as if she doesn’t hear her, and slips through the doorway to the kitchen.

I raise my chin, even though my head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and my heart is barely pumping in my chest. “When you call to tell us that the dive team found Dad’s body, ask for me. Don’t tell Mom first,” I say.

The corners of her mouth turn down, and she nods, drawing a hard breath through her nose.

“I’m going straight back to Wildwood now. I won’t leave again until the dive team is finished.”

“Good.” I open the door for her with a trembling hand.

“I’ll talk to you soon.” She steps out onto the front steps.

“Yes.”

She turns and heads for her truck without looking back. I pull the door shut behind me, and watch her car until it disappears up the road. Then I sink to the concrete landing, bury my face in my knees, and weep until I am empty.

The muted sound of the phone ringing reaches me through the door. I wipe my face on my sleeve and blink my eyes clear. I have to get inside and answer it before Mom does. Even if Dana asks for me, there’s a good chance Mom won’t acquiesce.

The phone is on the third ring when I step inside. Four. I hurry to the kitchen, expecting to see her staring out of her window. The kitchen is empty. Five. The answering machine triggers, and the line goes dead. I check the caller ID. The number is not one I recognize. To be sure, I pick up the phone and dial Dana’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I take the phone cord and pull the jack out of the wall so no more calls can come through, and walk down the narrow hall toward her room. The door is closed. I press my ear against the wood, listening for proof she’s inside, and hear her muffled cries, as if she has her face buried in a pillow.

“Mom?” I turn the handle, but it’s locked. I tap on the door. “Can I come in?”

“I… I just need a minute,” she says. “Unless… are you okay? Do you need me?”

Yes. I swallow down the truth. “No, I’m okay. I’m going to go upstairs.”

“I’ll come check on you in just a minute.”

“Okay.” I rest my forehead and palm against the door. How will I tell her Dad’s gone? How will I be the one to break her in two? Judging by her reaction on the river bank, she’s already come to that conclusion, but there’s a difference between feeling something and knowing something. No matter how prepared we are, no matter how many times I tell myself he’s gone, having proof will be a bomb inside. I will not be the same. Nothing will be the same.

I exhale, trying to release the pressure building under my ribs, and return to the kitchen. I retrieve the phone, and carry it to my room, for the first time thankful we only have one phone in the house. I plug it into the wall and stow it under my bed. I only have to keep it a secret long enough for Dana to call.

I curl up in my bed, draw my covers to my chin, and watch scattered clouds pass by. As the light passes through them, an iridescent sheen shimmers on their borders. I roll over and stare at my wall. My gaze drifts to my bedside table, where there’s a picture of Dad and me from Harbor’s first horse show. I touch his face with my finger. I’ve heard knowing is better. Closure can happen. Acceptance. The stages of grief. So why am I sure that knowing is going to be the worst thing on earth?

I reach under my bed and check the phone to make sure the line is working. A dial tone sounds in my ear. I replace the phone on the cradle and roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. I can’t just lie here. I sit up. But what if I am downstairs and the phone rings? What if I leave to go to Wildwood, and Mom needs me?

I can’t stop picturing what she must be doing in her bed, sobbing into a pillow or staring at their wedding pictures. She wore a gauzy, full length sun dress, and he wore jeans and a button down shirt, and they exchanged vows in a forest in Vermont. There’s a picture she hates, where a beam of sunlight seems to pass right through her, and casts a platinum glow all around her, but it’s Dad’s favorite, and he keeps it propped on his bed side table, no matter how often she protests.

That same glow happened on the river bank. I look at the evening light filtering in through my window. I slip from my bed and approach it, what I have seen with my own eyes a contrast to what Dad said on the ridge yesterday. Mom and I don’t share many physical traits. She’s tall and willowy, with ivory skin and straight, black hair. Her blue eyes are so pale most people call them gray. I’m compact and sturdy. My face and arms are tan from spending every day outside. My hair is thick, defiant, and brown, tamed only with a rubber band and a ball cap. And my eyes are my father’s eyes, wide set and hazel. Is there any chance sunlight affect me the same way it does her? I’ve been in the sun thousands upon thousands of times. How could I have never noticed?

I pass my hand through the rectangle of light. The air is warmer, and dust particles glitter as they wander aimlessly from ceiling to floor. Nothing happens to me, neither inside nor out, save being drawn closer to the window. I peer out to our front yard below. Mom had been right; there was no frost last night, and the few flowers Dad left in the garden are still alive and bright.

“What are you doing, Tanzy?” Mom’s voice spins me around. She stands in my doorway. Dark circles rim her eyes.

“You… you glow in the sun,” I stammer, unable to stop the truth from tumbling out. “I wanted to see if I do, too.”

“I don’t glow,” she says, stepping into the light. “The light glows, and I reflect it because I’m pale as a sheet.” She attempts a smile, takes me by the hand, and guides us to my bed. We sit side by side. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.” She squeezes her eyes shut and turns away briefly. “You’ve been asking some strange questions today. With everything that happened, I’m sure your mind is trying to process some parts and block others.”

“Mom, it’s more than that.”

“Maybe it is.” She touches my hair. “Or maybe you’re creating things that don’t make sense, because the truth, the real, concrete, awful truth is too much to bear.”

“No. I heard the radio show before the accident. I saw the rainbow before the accident. And then the shadow…”

“What did that woman say on the radio?” she interjects.

“She said there’s a world in the clear, like two plays on one stage, and that we have something the other world wants.” I squirm, hearing it as if for the first time. It sounds utterly ridiculous.

My mom frowns, and then covers her mouth with her hand. With a start, I realize she’s trying not to laugh.

“Dad said… Dad said not to tell you because you’d believe it for sure,” I say, somehow relieved and sad all at once.

“Oh Travis.” Mom’s eyes glisten again. “Always so protective.” She clears her throat. “I’m protective, too, Tanzy. This world has enough risks in it without inventing an entirely second world to fear. That’s why I need to ask… I need to ask you to consider not riding again for a while.”

“But I’m fine. Banged up, but I’ll be good as new in just a few days. Harbor isn’t as reactive as Teague.”

“It’s not about that. It could be you they’re looking for in the river. I could’ve lost you both. Horses… there are just too many ways you could be hurt. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I… I can think about it,” I say, bewildered. “What happened at the river, Mom? Maybe you didn’t glow, but something happened. I saw it.”

She visibly swallows, and then twists her wedding band. “When you love someone like I love your dad, sometimes, sometimes you can feel things. I thought if I went to the river, I’d know if he was still alive somehow, or maybe I would know where he is.”

“Did you feel anything?” I whisper.

“No.” Tears spill out of her eyes. “No, not a thing. I have no idea where he is, and it’s the worst pain I have ever felt.” She trembles, and presses her knuckles into her mouth. I pull her into my lap, and run my fingers through her hair the way she used to do to me whenever I was upset, and let her cry. How could I have pushed her so hard? How could I have let a woman on the radio have so much of my mind in a minute flat? Dad was right; people like her feed on the reaction of people like me, and what all has my reaction cost me and the people I love inside of a single day?