Since We Last Spoke

by Brenda Rufener

  Shining my flashlight across the light blanket of snow in search of footprints, I shout Grace’s name again and march to the edge of the driveway. I hear barks, and when I turn, Max’s dad is lingering on his front steps as Pawtrick Swayze rushes toward me with his tail swinging and belly dragging the snow.

  At the back of the house, the dog catches me, and I pat his head before making a beeline to Grace’s window. Faint footprints circle in the snow before jetting out toward the field in front of our house. My stomach sinks. “She’s at the lake!” I shout. Oh, God. Grace is at the lake.

  I take off running, with Pawtrick Swayze on my heels. My family, Max’s parents, race toward me. We meet in the driveway and I shout again, “She’s at the lake!”

  Max’s dad asks, “What happened?”

  I answer: “Grace ran away. I think she’s at the lake.”

  My dad, the last to arrive in the driveway, snaps, “Where on the lake?”

  Max’s dad reaches down to snatch Pawtrick Swayze’s harness and scoop his barreled body into his arms. He whispers, “The blue dock, Aggi.” His words are rushed as he circles around me—distancing himself from my father—and as he passes by me, he says, “Max has seen Grace near the blue dock where the beavers used to nest. The one your dad used to take you to.” Mr. Granger speed-walks toward his front porch.

  We quit visiting the blue dock where the beavers lived. Dad was busy building a business with Max’s father, and I was busy wanting to be alone with Max. Kate and Cal were always practicing their music, and nobody had time to spend sitting and watching the beavers. But that didn’t stop Grace from begging. “When can we go back to the blue dock, Dad? I want to see the little people,” she’d plead. Dad’s grandfather used to call the beavers that roamed Plum Lake “the little people.” Back then the beavers outnumbered the families living around the lake. They made their homes permanent and lived generation after generation. They never moved away like people did, just built strong family structures and defended their territory.

  I should have known Grace would visit the beavers by herself. She knew the trail better than I did.

  Before the accident, the three of us—Kate, Grace, and I—sat on lawn chairs in the front yard feasting on s’mores while Dad hammered away on Sheetrock in the living room or upstairs. I can’t remember now which room Dad was working on at the time, but Grace started in about the beavers. How Daddy was just like the daddy beaver. Kate would humor Grace and probe while I’d suck the sticky marshmallow paste off my fingers. “Oh, yeah, Gracie. How’s that?” Grace would explain how the daddy beaver builds his house—sticks and mud—not going too deep with details, but to her it was a powerful structure. “He’ll spend all day, probably the nighttime, too, making it strong and perfect for his family.”

  Thinking about this now, how our home is literally crumbling from the inside out, walls with holes, floorboards that scream for nails, I wonder what went through Grace’s mind when Mom and Dad—though especially Dad—stopped working on the house. How that same box of nails sat in the hallway collecting powdery dust until tonight, when Mom kicked the hell out of it.

  Everything stopped when Kate died. As a family, we stopped, but Grace kept moving, shuffling back and forth between Dr. Nelson’s and a house that was falling apart.

  A few weeks ago, Grace came home for the night and I was sitting in the bathroom, reading, while she took a bath. She said, “Dad doesn’t remodel the house anymore, does he?”

  I shook my head and said, “He’s got a lot on his mind.”

  “More important things?” Grace asked knowingly.

  “Yeah. More important things.”

  Grace paused for a moment, considered my words, then slid beneath the water, bubbles popping above her face.

  Oh, Grace. Please hang on until we find you.

  45

  Aggi

  AT THE BLUE DOCK, THE water shines like obsidian rock under the moonlight. Chunks of ice float in the deeper pockets of the lake. The headlights on Dad’s truck reflect off the water and shine across the spotty snow-covered bank. “No footprints,” I say. “I don’t think she’s been here.”

  Dad scans the dock and his eyes land on the lake. I look at Mom, neither of us wanting to give place to the thoughts inside Dad’s head.

  But the way Grace looked at me tonight after we pulled her out of the lake makes me unsettled. Grace, floating in the cold water like a doll tossed into the lake by a child wanting to see how long it would take to sink. I shudder.

  “Dad. We need to check the dock at Connor’s.”

  The drive is agonizing. It’s only a few minutes away, but my mind drags me into the dark places where time stands still.

  Kate used to tease Grace about the color of snow. “What color are snowflakes, Grace?” Kate would ask. “What color is the snow?” Grace would scoop a ball into her hand and gaze at it like it was something magical.

  “White?” Grace knew the answer wasn’t so obvious, but in the daylight when all you see is a blanket of powder and the ball you’re holding looks as though it’s made of sugar, what else would a five-year-old say? “Yeah, white.”

  “Are you sure?” Kate would question in a funny, high-pitched voice that always made me giggle. “Final answer?” She’d ruffle Grace’s hair and wink in my direction. Kate had a way of bringing us together. Three sisters, years apart, yet closer than the water molecules that form an ice crystal.

  Grace squeezed a chunk of snow in her tight little fist, watched as the whiteness melted and turned to water. “No!” she’d protest. “Snow has no color. It’s clear!”

  Kate would tuck her hands under Grace’s armpits and lift her toward the sky. “You’re a genius, Gracie. Snow is transparent! And you’re the smartest five-year-old I know.”

  Grace is transparent.

  She’s never hidden what she felt. She’s a child. Afraid. Alone. Desperately searching for order in the chaos.

  When we reach the dock at Connor’s, it’s empty and there’s no sign of Grace.

  “This is where she fell?” Dad asks, and I ignore the worry in his voice.

  Max’s dad was sure Grace would be at the blue dock. Where the beavers used to nest. Where Dad used to take us. Maybe we didn’t look hard enouth.

  “We should go back,” I say. “I know where she is.”

  46

  Max

  I’M STILL SEARCHING THE BARN and the nearby field when I hear the engine of Mr. Frank’s truck rev. “Henry!” I shout. “Tell them to wait!”

  I need to go with Aggi. I need to help her find Grace.

  I race through the field as Henry rounds the corner of my house, shouting, “She’s at the lake!”

  “We need the boat,” I say, and spin around. I can’t think straight, but I don’t have time not to.

  My front door opens, and my mom storms down the steps in her boots and coat. She shouts at my father as she stomps into the driveway. “You’re just going to sit there? That’s not the man I married. That’s not the man I know.”

  As she passes Henry and me, my dog cuts in front of her, chasing Aggi’s cat. “Pawtrick!” I shout, and he stops, drops onto his haunches.

  “One of you help me get Cirrus into the house. I’ll be next door in case Grace returns,” Mom says. Henry waits for me to move, and I wait for him. Seeing my mom marching to Aggi’s like nothing ever happened, like there isn’t a tumultuous history that’s haunted us for a year, freezes me. “Well, don’t just stand there like your father!” she shouts. “Grab that cat, hitch up the boat, and move your asses!”

  Mom’s orders shoot us across the yard. Henry shouts at the twins and they come running. He scoops up Cirrus and hands the cat to one of his brothers, then orders him to take the animal to Aggi’s house. I back my Jeep up to the boat and trailer and jump out, ready to hitch.

  “Let me do that.” I turn as Dad zips his coat.

  47

  Max

  DAD HITCHES THE BOAT, AND I drive while Henry call
s Connor and Umé and demands the twins follow us to the dock. We need all the horsepower and search power we can get. I refuse to allow myself to stop and think about what could happen, only what I hope will. We will find Grace. She will be okay. Alternate endings are too much for any of us to bear.

  In minutes, we reach the lake. The blue dock is colorless until the headlights unveil a sleek shine. But nobody’s here. The only sound, the splashing water against the wood.

  “Where are they?” Henry asks. Windows down, we scan the darkness and the lake.

  “Connor’s dock,” I say, putting the Jeep into reverse and stepping on the gas.

  We back away from the dock as lights zip across the lake coming toward us.

  “Wait!” my dad shouts, and we jump from the Jeep.

  Connor and another guy tear in on Jet Skis, cutting their engines as they pull alongside the dock. Everyone shouts at once until I yell, “Shut up! We have to find Aggi!”

  Connor points and all heads turn.

  Aggi and her parents pull in and jump out of the truck. Aggi shouts, “Everyone in the boat! I know where she is!”

  All adults move into action, including our fathers. They don’t speak to each other, but they don’t fight, either.

  Aggi grabs the wet suits we’ve stored in the boat for years. She races toward the back of her dad’s truck, ripping her shirt off before reaching the cab. I look away but only to strip off my shirt and pants in the middle of the dock, then realize there’s no wet suit at my feet.

  Aggi stomps back toward the boat, her wet suit squeaking as she walks. She tosses her clothes into the boat and motions me over. “Come on!” Still in my underwear, I clutch my jewels and leap into the boat as Aggi throws the wet suit at my chest and we pull away from the dock.

  48

  Aggi

  MAX INSISTS GRACE IS NOT in the water. “I’ve seen her where the beavers used to nest,” he says. His words are unable to provide the comfort I need, though they confirm what his dad said. My mother’s face, my dad’s eyes—in the lights from the boat and moon—illuminate with worry.

  Max reaches for my hand as if he knows what I’m thinking. He has the same thoughts but speaks only positive words.

  When we reach the brushy lakeshore, Max and I are the first to jump into the water.

  Dad shines floodlights, Max’s father anchors the boat and grabs two flashlights, and my mother jumps in behind us. We scramble for the shore as Connor helps beam light from his Jet Ski.

  As we hike along a matted trail, spotty with snow, Max and I wind around the lakeshore, sidestepping up a slick slope. Henry slides, shouting, “Shit! My shoes won’t make it!”

  As we move in a line, me and Max in the lead—everyone shouting Grace’s name—the sticks and grass grow thicker.

  “Grace! It’s Aggi!”

  A rock spashes in the water.

  49

  Aggi

  WE HUDDLE BENEATH THE DAM. Quiet, still, as we shine a light on a mud-stained tennis shoe poking out just below the nesting chamber. Max whispers, “The first time I saw Grace out here, I thought she was one of the damn beavers. Then I saw her hair and the stick in her hand she used to prod at the bank. I shouted her name and she scrambled deeper into the sticks. I climbed up to the top to check on her and she told me she wanted to be left alone. I asked her what she was doing here all by herself, and she said, “‘Making sure my family has food.’”

  Max wades through the weeds and suddenly disappears beneath the water.

  “Max!”

  He springs up out of the lake, choking and reaching for a branch. “There’s a drop here. Comes up real fast. Be careful.”

  I dog-paddle toward Max, around a tree that’s uprooted, sprigs sticking out of the water. We break away from our parents, Henry, and the twins. Max shouts, “You guys crawl up the bank. It’s unsafe for you to be in the water without a wet suit.”

  “Grace!” I shout, and we hear a shuffle; then another rock splashes into the water.

  I shine the light up the bank and glimpse the rolled cuffs on the bottoms of Grace’s pants. Her feet moving upward, disappearing into the dam. “Up there,” I say, pointing up the slope.

  Max pushes farther away from the shore, floating backward and circling the dam. I steady my flashlight on the hill, making the spot visible as Max crawls on top of the mountain of sticks.

  “Leave me alone!” Grace shouts.

  “Gracie,” Max calls. “You can’t stay in a beaver den.”

  “This is my home! Go away!” Her feet scramble.

  I move from the bank and wade out toward the dam, sticks and debris sloshing as I climb to the spot where Max and Grace sit. Grace’s back smashes against the wall in the deepest part of the den—where beavers go to nest—and her heels dig into the dirt to hold her there. On my hands and knees, I ease beside Max, squatting above the waterline. His hands grapple for Grace’s feet as she slides forward, but she kicks at his fingers and shoves herself deeper into the den, away from Max and the light. The ground, packed with mud, is dry in spots, and in the corner of the den sit jars of peanut butter and marshmallow cream. Two large bags of yeast rolls wait to be spread. Grace’s den is neatly organized—like her bedroom—with all the ingredients needed to make fluffernutter sandwiches. Along one wall of the den sit two six-packs of bottled water and three rolls of toilet paper. Grace has made a home for herself. A place she plans to stay. She’s found a new, improved family. One that won’t fight in front of her or shove her away.

  “Wow, Grace.” I shine the light into the chamber. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever seen.”

  A grunt.

  “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Another grunt.

  “But it’s cold and you don’t have fur. You can’t live outside. This place belongs to the beavers.”

  “And I belong with them!” Grace shouts.

  Max inches closer. “But Grace.” His voice is tender and soft. The only tone he’s ever used when speaking to my little sister. “You know the beavers won’t come back to their den if you’re in here. They’ll move. Build another den somewhere else. Maybe on the other side of the lake.”

  Grace is silent.

  My shoes slip when I crawl toward her. “Don’t try it, Aggi,” Grace snaps. “You won’t fit.”

  I lean against the bank, my shoulder pressing into the packed mud and sticks. “Max and I don’t want to make you leave, Grace. Not if you don’t want to. You just come out when you’re ready.” Max tilts his head toward me, and I shrug. I don’t know how to convince Grace that she should leave. What is there to come back home to? Grace hasn’t had a home since Mom sent her to live with Dr. Nelson. She’s been betrayed by both her parents. After Dad accidentally shoved her, Grace might never want to leave this den. “Maybe we could have a fluffernutter sandwich before we go? Maybe I could make one for you like I used to?”

  Max squeezes my shoulder, and we wait for Grace’s next move.

  It’s only seconds before Grace emerges from the den, saying, “Well, I am starving.”

  We huddle at the opening of the beaver den, the three of us, with fingers covered in sticky marshmallow cream. The cold prevents the cream from spreading, so our sandwiches consist of one large ball of marshmallow goo plopped on top of the bread like a planet surrounded by a galaxy of peanut butter.

  “Too bad we can’t heat up these sandwiches,” Max says.

  Grace holds up a cream-smothered hand in Max’s face. “We can’t light a fire here,” she says in an accusatory voice. “This place would shoot up in flames!”

  Slowly Grace inches out of the nesting chamber, her teeth chattering as she scoots between us. Her upper lip is white from the cold marshmallow paste, and when she talks, tiny threads of cream stick between her lips. “These are delicious,” she says with a smack.

  “Not as delicious as the ones Kate made,” I say. “Remember those?”

  “Do I?” Grace’s voice pitches with excitement. “They wer
e at least an inch thick. All bubbly and warm.”

  “And the way she toasted them on the griddle. Oh my God, Max. Did you ever eat one of Kate’s grilled fluffernutters?”

  Max shakes his head, nose aimed at the ground as he wipes his eyes. “I remember Cal saying they were the best sandwiches he’d ever had.” Max runs his knuckle across his cheek. “And if they’re as good as these . . . ,” he says, holding the ball of bread and hard marshmallow into the air.

  Voices carry in the distance. Our parents, getting close.

  A Jet Ski engine whirrs, and Grace scrambles back to the top of the den. More voices as Max crawls down the bank, waving his arms and shouting, “We have her! She’s over here!”

  “I can’t go back, Aggi,” Grace cries. “Please don’t make me go.”

  I flip onto my stomach and slide into the narrow slice of the den. The fit is tight, and Grace is squished into the darkest corner. I reach for her ankles to hold myself in place, but Grace mistakes my grappling for a sneak attack.

  “Aggi, please!” she yells. “Don’t make me go with Dad! I’m scared of him!”

  Grace aged a decade this year, or so it seemed, but seeing her crouched in the den, knees tucked to her chest, trying to shrink so Dad won’t see her, I remember she’s my little sister and only ten. Dad scared us all after Kate died, but his evolution made the strongest impact on Grace. She watched as our house fell apart, Mom pushed her away, and Dad became a monster. If anyone deserves to be in this den alone, it is my father. He owes everyone an apology, but most of all Grace. I wonder if Dad’s capable of rebuilding the family he broke.

  “She’s up here!” I hear Max shout, followed by splashes. My dad is the first to reach the den, his voice hoarse from crying as he shouts my sister’s name. Max’s dad slides his arm around his son, and I watch as they hug and follow my father to the edge of the den.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I whisper to Grace. “I’ll make sure Dad never hurts any of us again.”