She had never had this sensation in her dreams.
The wind whispered in her ear: This is not a dream.
She touched the wet fabric of her nightgown, the rainwater on her face, and felt the wind against her body. The sensations were real. This was not a dream. She was fully present in the moment. She knew both things—that it was happening and that it was impossible. This is impossible, she said to herself. But there it was, the ocean surging toward her. She wished the baby could see what she was seeing. To witness.
Within minutes, waves were lapping against the rock underneath her feet, the way they only did at high tide.
As she slipped into the ocean, the water again felt like a new skin. A new skin that fit so perfectly it was both covering her and inside of her—no separation between them. She couldn’t see her body in the dark, couldn’t tell where she ended and the water began, as if she wasn’t made of flesh anymore, as if she’d become part of the ocean like the raindrops around her were. All she was was only emotion, thought . . . Quinn.
And then she remembered. It all came back, as if the ocean was telling her the story. That night last May . . . she had been swimming. She had felt that same call down to the beach, and when she had appeared, the ocean had surged up to meet her, just like tonight. She had slipped into the liquid night and there had been stars swimming all around her. Glowing like lanternfish. Welcoming her back. Welcoming her home. She remembered swimming among them, feeling both more like herself, more purely Quinn than she ever had, but also recognizing that she was a part of something larger, part of this mysterious world, a world that needed her. She had swum underwater, and those glowing lights had been dancing and streaking in the dark, no pattern to their movements, like sparklers being waved and swirled by kids through the night air. More and more of the lights gathered, building and building in intensity, until it wasn’t like looking at stars from a distance but was like being right there in the middle of the Milky Way itself. Quinn had felt like she was glowing, too, from all of the reflected light. And then it was as if all those stars converged at once around her, and with a flash the whole sea lit up in one bright, blinding moment.
As she floated here now, remembering, she became aware of her body again and felt gentle, playful touches nudging her this way and that. Familiar touches. She was known in this place. She was safe. Tired, she let herself be rocked, wishing she could sleep. Until, suddenly, a pressure from inside her gut pulled her out of the moment. And then, through her legs, a brief flash of silvery light. She reached forward blindly in the water, felt something slippery between her fingers, pulled it out and saw that it was kelp. She dove under, eyes open . . . and there they were. All around her. The black water a universe of stars tracing glowing paths, weaving and swirling and looping. She held her breath for as long as she could, mesmerized. And when she knew she needed air, she felt a comforting touch nudging her toward the rock. She lifted her head out of the water, gulping at the rainy night, and let the waves gently push her toward land.
SAMUEL FERRIS
“Look!” Samuel shouted. His flashlight beam rested on a sign: CUTLER/WELLS.
“Praise God!” a woman called out.
Maybe now they’ll shut up, Samuel thought. They were all wet, cold, and had blisters. All of them, including him, so they needed to just shut up about it already. Some of the crankier ones even moaned about wishing they’d gone with that Nicole woman, who’d been scared she was getting sick (boohoo!) and had gotten a ride back to town. Why walk a few hours just to give up? Samuel had never liked her, anyway.
Well, one less person meant more time with the Virgin for him. And according to the map, there was one last road—a mile long, at most—and then they’d reach the house. They’d reach the house, and he’d get everything he deserved.
QUINN
Quinn hauled herself on top of her rock and stood in the wind and rain—shaky, overwhelmed, and exhausted. She placed both hands against her belly, relieved to sense movement from within. She should have been cold. Beyond cold. She shouldn’t have even been able to stay in the water for more than the briefest second. Somehow, though, she was only vaguely aware of a chill, just like last May. She took a deep breath, worried she might pass out. She needed to rest, to lie down. Like she had that night, she remembered now. She had rested on the rock, needing a moment to return to land life. But looking down now, she realized waves were skimming the top of Swimming Rock in a way they never did. Water lapped over her feet. The ocean had surged past the point of the high-tide mark. There was now a stretch of water between Swimming Rock and the forested land in a way she had never seen before. Quinn jumped back in and let the water sweep her up to the edge of the beach, then pulled herself out near the trees and watched as it kept going, making steady progress up, up, up toward the forest. Not with enormous waves, like during a hurricane. Just regular storm–size ones that kept pushing the edge up farther and farther.
Dread squeezed Quinn’s chest. And she didn’t understand. What was it doing? Where was it going?
You have to go back, she said silently, starting to panic now. No one could see this. No one could know. Please, she said. Please, go back.
She caught herself thinking this and was suddenly confused. What was going on in her mind? This had to be from the storm. Had to be a storm surge. What was she doing, talking to the ocean? The water kept coming, egged on by the wind and the rain, surging up over the lip of where it went from beach rocks to forest floor.
Soon the water was washing over her feet, where she stood by the edge of the trees. No, this wasn’t a storm surge. Couldn’t be. The ocean poured into the forest.
Please, she begged. Please, no one can see you. They’ll know. They’ll know something’s wrong. This was a secret. It had to stay a secret. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she knew that no one else should see it.
Again, she had the same thought she’d had when she woke: Something was very wrong. Something bad was happening.
Quinn’s feet skidded on wet grass as she made her way along the edge of the trees. She hadn’t been able to follow the ocean through the forest itself—she had watched as it surged from the shore through trees in a direction that would eventually lead to the road, but no path went that way. So she’d run back down the usual path and was now making her way in the cleared area around the cottage, moving the same direction the water was, hoping to head it off at some point, praying that it wouldn’t come up this way toward the house. The entire time she was calling out to it silently, still begging it to stop, to return to where it belonged. She could hear it, though, moving forward, deep in the trees.
Forest and ocean weren’t supposed to merge.
All of a sudden she lost her footing, caught herself on her hands, one landing on the flashlight it held, twisting her wrist. She stumbled back up and kept moving forward, ignoring the pain. Her flashlight beam illuminated the rain-thrashed tree boughs when she aimed it at the woods. She couldn’t see the ocean, could only hear it.
She kept going until she reached the driveway, paused a moment to picture the trajectory of where the water would end up if it didn’t stop. She ran along the gravel and then took a right when she reached the dirt road they shared with the Cavanaughs’ house. She couldn’t hear the ocean in the trees anymore, could only hear the howling wind and the rain hammering leaves, and prayed that meant it had stopped forward momentum. But she kept running down the road, to make sure, to see for herself that her secret wasn’t spilling out of the forest.
SAMUEL FERRIS
The road in front of Samuel was flooded. A puddle, choppy like the ocean. Maybe twenty feet across. He couldn’t tell how deep it was. As he got closer, it seemed to surge forward, toward him. Like a guard dog. It splashed over his shoes. Cold bit his ankles. He waded in. Even in such a shallow area, he could feel a pull like a current or tide. The wind howled. He backed up.
“What should we do?” a woman asked.
“What is it?” another said
. “This doesn’t make sense, water flowing from in the trees.”
“It’s a final test,” Samuel said, realizing. He stripped off his trash bag poncho, which was catching the wind like a sail. “God’s final test. Seeing if we’re worthy. She’s right there. Just gotta make it across.”
He took off his shoes and rolled up his pants.
“Hey,” he said. “Someone get a video of this.”
QUINN
Running as fast as she could, Quinn reached the turn that was at the top of the hill where the road then dipped down to its lowest point. She rounded the corner and heard the rush of water, trained her flashlight beam down the hill and lost her breath. The flood stretched across the road, emerging from the ocean side of the forest and disappearing into the trees on the other side. From where she stood, Quinn had no idea how deep it was, but she could see the pattern of small waves rising and falling on the surface.
And . . . wait. There were lights on the other side of the water—beams darting in the erratic motion of people holding flashlights. The motion reminded her of those underwater shooting stars.
Quinn pressed a hand against her chest, which was rising and falling too quickly. She tried desperately to keep herself from going back to those crazy thoughts, those crazy thoughts about underwater stars and impossible floods. It’s a storm surge. A massive storm surge, she told herself. But still . . . she couldn’t stop herself from worrying that those people down there on the road, whoever they were, were seeing her secret.
Suddenly, her flashlight beam landed on a person in the group standing ahead of the rest, someone trying to move through the water. And then one of the group’s beams landed on him, too. And held on him. And even from this distance, Quinn recognized something about the slump of his shoulders—and the shape and pattern of that big plaid coat.
SAMUEL FERRIS
“I saw something,” a woman cried. “At the top of the hill!”
“A light!”
“I don’t see a light.”
“It went off. It was there. I’m positive!”
Samuel squinted up the hill, the water pushing and pulling against his legs. He couldn’t see anything. If there was a light, it could have been anyone. But he knew—it was the Virgin. Maybe she’d do something to help, seeing their devotion. Knowing she was right there, on the other side, made him even hungrier to get through this mess of water. He hadn’t gotten to touch her, the other day, like some people had. Tonight, she’d let him.
He took another step forward.
QUINN
Quinn ran back in the pitch dark, letting herself give in to not knowing what was underfoot and trusting the land would let her get there as fast as possible, trusting no large rocks or roots would trip her up, splashing through puddles, which made her think of that man’s legs in the puddle of ocean at the bottom of the road, pushing through, coming for her. They want you.
She reached the house and didn’t try to be quiet as she opened the door and ran, dripping wet, across the creaky wood floor and into her mother’s room. “You have to get up,” she said, her breath ragged. She rested her hands on her belly, letting the baby know everything was going to be okay.
Her mother sat straight up, as if she had already been awake.
“What’s wrong? What . . . why are you so wet?”
“It’s raining,” Quinn said. “But that’s not it. The . . . the people, they’re here.”
“What?”
“The people. From in front of the house. In Brooklyn.”
Her mother’s jaw dropped. “Here?”
“They’re . . . they’re on the road. Not at the Cavanaughs’ yet. But soon. Once they’re through the water.”
“What? What water? Are you sure? How do you know?” As Katherine said these things, she was already up and throwing on warm clothes. She handed Quinn a towel that was draped over a chair. “Take off that wet nightgown.”
Quinn did, while saying, “I just . . . I was looking at the storm and I had a feeling . . . it’s hard to explain. But I took a walk, and I saw them.”
“Put these on,” Katherine said, tossing Quinn a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “What would they be doing walking at night in a storm like this? How would they even be here? Are you sure, Quinn?”
“I couldn’t see them well, but yes, I’m sure. And . . . there’s kind of a flood.”
“What?”
“I can’t explain right now.” Her mother would see the flood, she would know that something wrong . . . something impossible was happening. But Quinn’s thoughts about it were too fresh, too jumbled to try to talk now. The right words didn’t even exist.
“Quinn.” Her mother stared into her eyes. “Are you . . . all right?”
Had she lost her mind? That’s what her mother wanted to know. And Quinn wasn’t sure. “I’m okay enough to tell you that those people are really, honest to god here.”
Katherine hesitated one more minute before saying, “Okay.”
She moved with long, quick strides into the main living area and to the coat closet, getting out her yellow, fisherman-style raincoat. She picked up the phone. “Dead, of course,” she said. Their phone service always went out in bad weather. This was like a horror movie. “You stay here, in the upstairs loft, okay? Keep the doors locked and all the lights off.” After saying it, Katherine shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t want to be separated. Come with me. They won’t be able to see us if we’re on the side of the road without a light. Right? If we don’t get too close? I just want to see what we’re dealing with.”
“I don’t think they’ll see us,” Quinn said, knowing she’d be scared to death waiting alone in the house, not knowing what was happening. She kept remembering being trapped on the stoop, with all of those people grabbing at her, wanting her . . .
Quinn put on boots and a sturdy, ankle-length raincoat that had been stored in the closet. Her mother pushed open the door, and they stepped out onto the deck that was still being battered by drops as big as bullets. Katherine held the flashlight in one hand and Quinn’s hand in her other. They hurried across the deck and onto the driveway, the light bouncing in front of them. The wind was fierce, but it helped them on their way instead of fighting them.
When they had passed the turn off to the Cavanaugh’s, Katherine switched off the flashlight, leaving them in rainy blackness. It was a noisy night, with the rain on the leaves and the wind and the sound of the ocean. They moved over to the edge of the road, still holding hands, and began feeling their way ahead. Eventually, their eyes adjusted a bit and they moved more quickly, finally reaching the turn and then the top of the hill. A couple of flashlight beams down below illuminated the expanse of water, that lone man still trying to cross it.
“Holy shit,” her mother whispered.
They stood quiet for a moment. “What should we do?” Quinn said, the baby stirring inside her again.
“What can we do?” Katherine said. “No one has moved into the Cavanaughs’. We don’t have phone service. We’re not going to go down there and confront them. I think the only thing we can do is wait.”
SAMUEL FERRIS
It wasn’t that deep—just to his lower calves. But he still had only gone a couple feet in this whole long time he’d been trying to cross. The water wrapped around his legs, pulling him in more than one direction at once.
He wiped the rain from his face and tried again. The minute he lifted a foot to step, he was pushed off balance and stumbled backward. Okay, he thought, the harder the test, the greater the reward. That made sense. But the more he tried, the more exhausted he became. His legs were heavy as anchors. With some attempts, the only progress he made was in a backward direction.
Finally, somehow, he made it halfway across. A surge of energy spurred him. “Almost there!” he whooped, craning his neck to look at the others.
A strong force whipped through the water. A sharp crack sounded. Pain exploded in his shin. He crumpled, landing in the frigid water. “I need help!
” he called. The water shoved him, tumbled him back to the edge, like wind blowing litter down the street.
People grabbed him and pulled him out. “Be careful! My leg! My fucking leg!”
Without looking, he could tell his left shinbone had snapped. “Need an ambulance,” he said, panting.
“No reception here,” someone said.
“Figure it out!” Samuel barked. Then, in the midst of pain worse than he’d ever felt, he imagined the story. The story they’d tell about the man with the broken leg who pressed on, who didn’t let trials stop him.
“Wait,” he said. “Forget calling. Someone . . . just wrap my leg. You’ll carry me across.”
As he said it, he realized it might not be the smartest plan. He wasn’t sure he could keep from passing out.
At that moment, headlights appeared from behind them, from the main road, getting closer and closer, lighting up the flood. Look at that! God had sent someone to drive them across and up to the house! The vehicle stopped; someone got out and approached them. Backlit by the headlights, whoever it was looked like an angel.
QUINN
“Who is it?” Quinn asked her mother. She could only tell that the man in the plaid coat had fallen, and the person in the vehicle had gotten out and approached the group. The light made it impossible to see much else.
“I don’t know,” her mother said.
“Do you think that it’s one of them? That they got a car and are going to drive across? Could they drive across?”
“I don’t know.”
If the people got in that car and drove up to the house, if they went inside and waited there, Quinn and her mother would have to hide outside until her father arrived tomorrow morning, wouldn’t they? Would they freeze to death in the wet and cold? Would she lose the baby? (No, she wouldn’t even let herself think about that. She couldn’t lose the baby.)
The Inconceivable Life of Quinn Page 29
