By Way of Accident

by Laura Miller

  I watch her now as she drives the worm onto the hook without so much as a flinch. I cringe a little inwardly because it took me damn near eight years to do that same thing without makin’ a face. She does it like it’s tyin’ a shoe or somethin’. But then she stops.

  “What’s that?” She tilts her head to the side, like she’s listenin’.

  I freeze and try to hear what she’s hearin’.

  “That!” she says again.

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s a whip-poor-will.”

  She laughs. “A whipper what?”

  “Whip-poor-will.” I sing with the bird. “Grandpa says they’re forgetful birds. That’s why they sing their own names over and over again.”

  She smiles and listens for its call again. When it comes, she sings its name right along with it. “Whip-poor-will.”

  And I know it’s just a name to a damn bird, but her voice makes it sound like a song. And I’m also pretty damn certain that from here on out when I hear a whip-poor-will, I won’t hear the bird’s song anymore; I’ll hear hers.

  “Brooke, I wanna take you somewhere.”

  She casts out her line. “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  She sets her eyes on me for a second and then smiles. “When?”

  “Now,” I say.

  I watch her search for her red and white bobber out on the water, find it and then settle her gaze back on me. “Okay.” She nods and then reels her line right back in. Then she props the fishin’ pole up against a tree stump and goes to dustin’ her hands off on her little jean shorts. As she does this, I reach for my cap and refit it over my head. I’m nervous. I want her to like where I’m takin’ her.

  “We have to take the four-wheeler,” I say.

  “Okay.” She makes her way over to it. And I just watch her walk away. Comin’ or goin’, it doesn’t matter with this girl; I’m happy watchin’ either.

  The four-wheeler is my grandpa’s. My dad got it for him when it was gettin’ harder for him to get around. But I use it a lot because Grandpa is stubborn, and he still walks everywhere. He throws the keys at me most days and rattles off somethin’ about someone gettin’ some use out of it. It doesn’t bother me none. I gladly take the keys.

  Brooke hops onto the back of the seat and smiles at me. I can’t get to her fast enough. Three hurried steps, and I’m kissin’ her soft, strawberry-flavored lips and hoppin’ onto the seat in front of her. Then I turn the key and start her up. And together we fly down the sandy dirt road, kickin’ up a dust trail behind us.

  We ride for a couple miles before we get to a little worn-in path that juts back into my grandpa’s farm, and we take that. I notice Grandpa workin’ on some old tractor. He looks up, and I wave. Then he nods, and I keep on goin’. We ride for a little while longer until I cut off the path and into the tall grass, and then we start headin’ uphill. We go up for so long it feels as though we should be able to touch the clouds. Then eventually, the grass levels off, and I stop the four-wheeler and jump off. She doesn’t ask for my help gettin’ off because she doesn’t need it, but is it funny that I like that she takes my hand anyway?

  The sun is just startin’ to head back into the earth. The sky is full of fire and soft, as Grandpa would say, even though most people would just call it red and pink.

  I take Brooke’s hand and walk her to the edge of the bluff. The thing about livin’ out here is that you never have to go too far to reach the sky. The creek bottoms are low. The bluffs are high. And from here, it’s as if you can see the whole world.

  “River!” Brooke exclaims, lookin’ out over the bottoms—full of growin’ fields and trees and some cows here and there—and up at the sky meltin’ into all of it. “It’s so pretty.”

  Her smile is wide, and her smoky eyes haven’t stopped searchin’, making their way over every piece of life far below us. My heart damn near dances, and my chest puffs up a little. I’m happy that she likes it.

  “We got here just in time,” I say. “It won’t last long.”

  She keeps her eyes on the horizon out in front of us. “That’s what makes it pretty,” she says. “It’s pretty because it doesn’t last forever.”

  She pauses, and I feel that confused look fightin’ its way to my face. This girl is all sorts of different in the way she thinks, but I’m beginnin’ to think it’s her different that I crave.

  “If you give people a chance to look at pretty too long,” she goes on, “eventually they’ll forget it’s pretty.”

  I look at her. “Where’d you hear that from?” I swear I could stare at Brooke for a lifetime, and at the end of it, I’d still call her pretty.

  “My mom,” she says, still not takin’ her eyes off that settin’ sun. “She says we get used to pretty, that eventually, we get used to sunsets and falling stars and things that sparkle.”

  She bites her bottom lip gently with her teeth, but not like me—not like she’s nervous, but more like she’s thinkin’ about somethin’. Then she sits down and brings her knees to her chest. And I sit down next to her.

  “River.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think that’s true? Do you think we get used to things, and then we don’t like them anymore?” She looks kind of sad all of a sudden.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes slowly wonder back to mine.

  “Maybe when you’re grown up, that’s just how it works,” I offer. I finish, and she nods, still thinkin’, I think.

  “River.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I don’t ever want to get used to pretty,” she says.

  I laugh to myself. “Then, we won’t. We won’t grow up—not like most people do anyway. And we won’t get used to pretty.”

  She points out onto the fading sun. “Even if we see this a million more times...”

  “We’ll never get used to it,” I assure her. “We’ll still look at it as if we’re lookin’ at it for the very first time.” I smile and put my arm around her, and her head falls gently against my chest.

  “Promise, River?”

  I nod. “I promise. I promise you, Brooke, that this sunset will always be pretty...that falling stars will always be pretty, that things that sparkle will always be pretty. And most of all, I promise that you, Brooke Sommerfield, will always be pretty.”

  She snuggles closer to me, and I hold her until the earth swallows up the sun and then some. I hold her until the air is black around us and those pretty stars start poppin’ out of the sky. And I hold her. I hold her like we’re always meant to be this way. After all, she’s not gone yet. Of course, that’s still to come.

  Chapter Seven

  Then¸ We’ll Write

  I hear her comin’ down the dirt path, so I stand up and meet her halfway. She gives me a sad look. I wrap my arms around her and plant a kiss on her lips. If she’s gonna leave me tomorrow, I’m gonna get all my kisses in today.

  “Don’t be sad,” I say, pullin’ her in close. I promised myself I’d be brave for her even though I feel like kickin’ and screamin’ and beggin’ her not to go. “I brought you somethin’.”

  She pulls away, and I watch her lips start to twitch up.

  “Hold on,” I say, leaving her side.

  I run over to the shade where he’s been sleepin’ all mornin’, and I scoop the little furball up and walk him back to her.

  “River!” Her eyes widen and so does her smile. “What?”

  “It’s a dog. Well, it’s a puppy. You said you didn’t have one.”

  “Oh my gosh!” She takes the black and brown ball from my arms and squeezes it to her chest. “I love him. I love him. I love him,” she sings. But then she stops suddenly and looks up at me. “Is it a him?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  She closes her eyes and buries her face into the puppy’s face. I think she likes him.

  “You think your parents will let you keep him? My mom says we can keep him if you...”


  “No,” she says, stopping me. “I love him.” She presses her lips to the puppy’s head.

  “Good.” I breathe out a smile. I guess that means she’s keepin’ him no matter what.

  “He’s got big ears.” She giggles, picks up one of his ears and holds it straight out. “What kind is he?”

  “A coonhound,” I say. “They’re the best kind.”

  She smiles wide and goes to pettin’ its head.

  “I thought it could be your Missouri thing,” I say.

  She stops pettin’ and slowly looks up at me through those long eyelashes of hers. “Thank you, River.”

  “Aw, it’s nothin’.” I kick a rock around the dirt with my foot. “Do you know where you’re goin’ yet?” I ask.

  I notice her chest rise. “Illinois,” she breathes out.

  It’s quiet for a second, except for a few random squeaks from the puppy. “Well, that’s not that far,” I lie. Illinois might as well be China.

  She looks up at me and then casts her eyes down to the grass and the dirt. “I’ll lose you,” she whispers.

  “What?” I ask. I walk closer to her and gently lift her chin so that I can see her pretty eyes.

  “I’ll move, and I’ll never see you again,” she says, before I can say anything else.

  “No,” I say.

  She nods. “You’ll disappear eventually. Everything and everyone always does.” I watch her squeeze the puppy tighter against her body. He squirms a little and then licks her neck.

  “No, Brooke. I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’ll come see you.”

  She looks up at me—really looks into my eyes this time—and I can tell she wants to smile but just can’t find the heart maybe.

  “But you can’t drive.”

  “Well, not yet,” I admit.

  Her eyes turn down, and I take her hand and lead her to the bank. Then I pull her down to the ground with me. The puppy struggles and eventually finds his way out of Brooke’s arms. He quickly takes a liking to a little stick, plops down and starts chewin’ on it.

  “I’ll find a way,” I say, regaining her attention. “And I can call you.”

  “But it’ll be long distance. My parents will never let us talk on the phone every day. I’m already bringing a puppy home.” Her gaze travels to the puppy again.

  I sit there and think about it for a while, until something comes to me. “Then, we’ll write.”

  “Letters?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We’ll write letters—like they did in the olden days.”

  She lowers her head and laughs to herself. It sounds so good to hear her laugh. And it hits me hard that I won’t be able to hear her laughter soon. “I’ll write to you, Brooke.”

  Her eyes return to mine, and she’s got a big smile on her face. And with that, she leans into me and interlocks her fingers in mine. I feel my heart start poundin’ when she plants a kiss on my cheek. “Okay,” she says.

  The puppy growls a little puppy growl, and our attentions go to him. He’s fightin’ with the stick now—pawin’ at it and bitin’ it.

  “I’m gonna call him Winnie-the-Pooh,” she says.

  I watch her as she watches the puppy.

  “Is that weird?” she asks, her stare grazin’ mine.

  I shake my head. “Naw.” And I try to hold back a smile.

  “Good,” she says, before she stands, dusts off her backside, pauses and then takes a runnin’ leap into the creek. And a splash later, she’s soaked—clothes and all—from head to toe.

  “And we’ll write,” she yells back up at me from the water. She has a big smile on her face. “Me and Winnie-the-Pooh, we’ll write to you.”

  Her hair is wet and darkened, and she’s squinting her eyes to squeeze out the water. I just drink her in, until I can’t take not being next to her anymore. Then I take off toward the water myself. Another big splash, and I’m scoopin’ her up into my arms. She giggles and lets me hold her little wet body against mine. And soon her laughter fades, and our eyes lock. I lean into her and go to kiss her when all of a sudden, there’s a loud honking above our heads, and we both look up. A flock of Canada geese have their wings spread out wide, and they’re diving right at us. I force my eyes shut, turn my face down and squeeze Brooke closer to my body to try to shield her. The last thing I want is a damn bird landin’ on us.

  “River, look!”

  I slowly lift my head and open my eyes to Brooke stretching her hands to the sky. She’s laughin’ again as the breeze made by the geese drifts over us. And within seconds, the birds drop their webbed feet and skid across the water a couple feet before they land. About twenty of them land all around us and then keep on swimmin’ down the creek. They don’t even seem to be fazed at all by our presence. I guess they’ve just gotten so used to us bein’ here.

  “Life passes you by when your eyes are closed,” she sings.

  I look at her. She’s just got the widest, most beautiful smile on her face. I don’t think she realizes she has showed me more life than I’ve ever known. It makes me want to kiss her. So, I lean in, and I kiss her.

  There’s a slight pause when our kiss breaks before her lips part. “What was that for?”

  “Because,” I say. “Because you’re not afraid of anything, because you’re pretty, because I love you.”

  Her lips find their way back together, and I can’t tell if she wants to frown or smile—if she’s sad or happy. But then she leans in, hovers over my mouth for a few breaths and then presses her lips to mine again.

  I’m grinning by the time she pulls away, but I can’t help but ask: “What was that for?”

  She lifts her shoulders and then lets them fall. “Because it’s Saturday.”

  My eyes are stuck in hers. I don’t want her to leave. “I already miss you,” I say, and I let my forehead fall onto hers. I ain’t never been this comfortable with anyone before.

  “But I’m still here,” she whispers. “And a part of me will always be here.”

  I meet her stare. And she must see the question in my eyes because she turns her face to the sky. “I’ll be in the wind.” Then she levels her eyes on mine. “I’ll always be here.”

  I’d rather her be here like she is now, but there’s somethin’ in her words that makes me feel better. I know tomorrow I’ll wake up and all I’ll have is her quartz heart and my invisible memories to hold onto. So for now, I hold onto her. I pull her close, and I hold her tight. And for the first time, I think I grasp the concept of havin’ your whole life ahead of you—simply because for the first time, I want to plan one with someone. But with that, for the first time, I’m also wonderin’ what that life entails and if that life includes Brooke Sommerfield. Yet all the while, the only thing I really care about is makin’ sure it does.

  Chapter Eight

  Aquarius

  Dear Brooke,

  I miss you like crazy. I hope you’re liking your new home. Eighth grade is pretty cool. The teachers are cool. I want to see you. I saw a train the other day, and it got me thinking. I could use a train to get to you. I’m sure there are trains there in Illinois. You asked me one time what my happy was. I never answered you. My happy is you. Write soon. I love you, Brooke.

  Love,

  River

  P.S. How is Winnie-the-Pooh? Oh, and the real Winnie-the-Pooh is named after a boy’s stuffed bear. The boy named it Winnie after a bear at a zoo and Pooh after a swan. Winnie-the-Pooh.

  “River.”

  I quickly stuff the letter into my jeans pocket, slide the pen behind my ear and scramble to my feet.

  “You writin’ somethin’ again?” Grandpa asks, starin’ at me from above his thick glasses.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t want to tell him I’m writin’ a letter to a girl—even if she’s not just any girl. So instead, I just push some hay around with my boot and keep my mouth shut.

  I can tell he watches me probably until he just can’t take the silence anymore. “That’s not enough light for ya
, son.” He gestures up toward the little light bulb above our heads. “You’ll lose your eyesight fast that way. Trust me.”

  I nod.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get back up to the house.”

  I follow Grandpa out of the barn, and together, we make our way up the graveled path to the little farm house at the top of the hill.

  “Son, you’re always writin’.”

  I take a second, then look over at him. I’m not sure if what he said was a question, and I really wouldn’t know how to answer him if it were anyway, so I just stay quiet.

  “You know,” he goes on. “I have a good feelin’ the Maker’s cutter didn’t have a farm boy in mind when he made you.”

  My eyes eventually fall from his wrinkled face and settle on the graveled path in front of us. We only have the moonlight to guide our way, but it’s more than enough. I take a thoughtful breath. I’m not sure what he means, and I really don’t know how to feel about it either. Grandpa has been a farmer all his life. My dad, on the other hand, was until he wasn’t. When he was eighteen, Dad went off to college and got a degree in accounting. Now, he does the books for some of the small businesses here in town and does all right. But Grandpa is a lot like most of the people around here—dirt rich and dollar poor. If he sold it all, I’d bet he’d have more money than he knew what to do with, but I’m more than certain Grandpa’s never thought about that. He gets by just fine—just like everyone else—and he seems at peace with it. I guess when you don’t long for much, you don’t need much. I think my dad longed for more, though. I think he needed more than dirt runnin’ through his fingers. He needed to feel the wheel of a decent car and the fabric of a nice suit and the peace of mind that comes with benefits and all that crap, I guess.

  I wonder if Grandpa thinks I’m more like my dad than I am like him. But he knows I hate dressin’ up and that I hate pretty much every subject except maybe English—and that’s only because it comes somewhat easy. My mom was a homemaker most of my life. It wasn’t until Rea started school that she took on some side editing jobs. Now, every business in town wants her to edit their ads and flyers and things like that. But before me, she used to write. She wrote for the local paper. I found her clippings once in a box in the basement. There were articles about the city council and the school board and the high school basketball teams. Her byline is her maiden name. It’s kind of weird when you think about it—think about how your mom wasn’t always a mom. Anyway, if we’re splittin’ hairs, I’d probably have to say I’m more like her than I am like my dad. And I might not always like it, but I’m pretty good at farmin’. I want to remind Grandpa of that. I want to tell him that I’m more like him than I am like my parents. It’s nothin’ against my dad or my mom; it’s just a fact of life. And I want to tell him that he’s wrong—that I am cut out for farmin’.