“Mom. Mom.” I put my hands on her damp cheeks, trying to force the knowledge through on contact. “Listen to me. Seriously. The knives. That wasn’t you, okay? You didn’t throw the knives.”
“You don’t understand,” she moans, pulling away. “You can’t just ignore this, Marianne, you can’t just pretend this away!”
“I’m not pretending. I was there, remember? I saw what happened. It wasn’t you.”
“It must have been me,” she says doggedly. “They said so. The police. The doctors. There were knives all over the kitchen, there was one stuck right through the cupboard!”
“You couldn’t throw a knife that hard, Mom. I told you what it was, remember?”
“But it can’t have happened the way I remember, Marianne. I was hallucinating. I was seeing these impossible things.”
“You saw the knives all hanging in the air,” I interrupt, and she goes rigid, statue-still, staring at me. “Like they were hanging from invisible threads. Right? And then they fell. All at the same time, so fast you could hardly see them.”
She just looks at me, open-mouthed, her eyes darting back and forth, searching my face.
“You really saw that?” she whispers.
“I saw it too, Mom. It was real. I should have stayed with you. I was just so scared.” My voice breaks. “I was afraid it would hurt you, and it would be my fault.”
“But that can’t have been real!” she cries. “How is that even possible?”
“There’s been…something…kind of weird going on with me lately,” I say. “I tried to tell you. There was this…kind of a ghost. Something like a ghost. It’s hard to explain. But it’s gone now, Mom. For good. I took care of it.”
“I don’t understand. There’s no such thing as… What do you mean, a ghost? A ghost of who?”
I close my eyes. The answer is still there, waiting: one syllable. The simplest truth.
“Me.”
“What?” Mom says blankly, but as I fumble for some way to elaborate she turns away from me, buries her face in her hands. “No. I can’t trust this. I can’t tell, Marianne, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. What if you’re not even really here?”
“I’m here.” I reach out to take her hand. She swallows hard. She doesn’t look at me, but her grip is so tight it trembles. “I promise I’m really here. It’s true. If you’re seeing things, I must be too. Ask me again next time I see you. Or ask my girlfriend. She’ll tell you.” My fingers steal to my pocket. “I think she’s my girlfriend now. Her name’s Rhiannon.”
There’s a long pause. Mom frowns. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. Turns fractionally toward me.
“Wait.” The words are slow, careful. “Hold on. You mean…girlfriend girlfriend?”
Maybe I should be worried. Afraid of how she’ll react. But instead I feel a smile bubbling across my lips, impossible to suppress. She looks so shocked, and it’s so weird and awkward. So normal.
“Back up,” she says, her voice a little stronger. “I’m obviously missing something here.”
“There’s this girl,” I say. “She…really went to hell and back for me, the last few days. I kissed her earlier. I’m supposed to call her.” The smile wells up. “She’s amazing, Mom. You’ll like her.”
“Oh.” She leans back against the pillow, blinking. “Wow.” A beat. “So…does that make you…a lesbian, then? Or, um, bisexual?”
She says the words cautiously, like she’s not sure how to pronounce them. Totally weird and awkward. Peak awkward. And I start to laugh. It escapes me in giggles and muffled snorts that just make me laugh harder.
“Oh my God, Mom.”
A smile, trembly and hesitant, dawns on Mom’s face. “Sorry. Maybe I’m not using the right words.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I don’t really know what to call this yet. I just want—”
Hesitations clamor for my attention. I’m oversharing. This is going to sound starry-eyed. Stupid. Sappy.
Who cares.
“I just want her,” I finish. “I just want to be with her.”
“Well. That’s fine.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s wonderful, sweetie. I can’t wait to meet her.”
I drink it in: the sun pouring over us, Mom’s hand in mine. The lightness filling me like a balloon. I could do anything.
“Is this something I should have figured out before?” Mom says.
“I don’t think so. I didn’t.”
She watches me, her smile fading. Her jaw tightens.
“Did you already tell your dad?”
“Mom.”
“I’m just asking,” she protests. “I just need to know. How much he gets to have while I’m stuck in here. I hate that he gets to hear these things before me, I hate that—”
“Mom.”
She falls silent, looking at me. It’s anger, I realize, that just washed over me. Not fear. But it’s sinking away, leaving me standing in some cold, rocky place. Breathing clear air.
“Mom, you can’t do that anymore. I can’t listen to it.”
She shrinks back against her pillow.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” The tears spill over again. “I’m just so afraid. I’m afraid you’ll choose him.”
“I’m not choosing. You can’t ask me to do that. Neither of you gets to ask me to do that.”
She puts a hand to her mouth to smother a sob, turns away from me.
“I just don’t want to lose my family,” she cries. And I pull her close, put my arms around her. Hold her tight. I have to swallow before the words can get through.
“We’re still a family, Mom,” I whisper.
• • •
“Do you think you could call your dad?” Aunt Jen asks timidly as she closes the patio door behind us. “If you don’t, I’m going to have to.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. There’s no escaping it. “Just a sec.”
I pull the medicine bottles from my backpack, tip them into my hand: one, two, white and yellow. I stand hesitating over the pills. If this is over, really over, do I need them? Can I leave them behind, walk away from them? I’m walking away from the water, aren’t I?
But it was fear, that moth wing panic, that brought me there. That’s what I was trying to escape.
I’m not getting back on the hamster wheel of anxiety.
In the end I head to the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and toss back the pills. How am I going to tell Dr. Fortin about everything that’s happened? Maybe if I call it a dream?
I’ll figure it out.
My phone is still at the bottom of my backpack. It powers up without complaint, of course. Outside, I push through the gate in the hedge to scuff slowly down to the end of the street, looking over the seawall. The sun shines gray-gold through the crests of the waves slapping at the concrete, leaving a wide, sparkling trail across the bay.
I can’t tell Dad about any of this. There’s no way he would understand; he’d just think I was losing it. Or even worse, blame Mom. Somehow I have to convince him the knives lodged in the floor were a misunderstanding. Nothing serious. Not worth fighting over.
I told Ron about the ghost. I told Mom. This is going to be way harder.
I guess I’m going to have to stay with him at least part of the time, after all this. I clutch the phone, fighting a wash of dread. Life after divorce. Mom’s not done ranting, and Dad will be watching my every move. It almost feels like they’re the ones who’ve been possessed, replaced with raving aliens I don’t recognize. But maybe now there’s someplace I can stand, between the two of them. A place of my own.
The phone buzzes in my hand.
Hope you’re ok. Call me when you get a min, Ron writes. And then, a moment later: Miss you. Is that weird?
I’m grinning. Like an idiot. I can’t help it. I read it over and over, tes
ting the idea, not quite daring to believe it, torn between euphoria and terror. Oh God, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to screw this up, I know it. And even if I don’t there will be a storm of a different kind to brace myself against; something tells me I won’t be invisible anymore next year.
But from somewhere else, from some quiet depth, a part of me says coldly, Well, bring it on. I stepped out into the icy lake; I made it back. None of them can touch me.
I climb up on the seawall and squint into the golden light, let the wind whip my hair away from my face as I type out Dad’s number. I stand there waiting as it rings. The water is beautiful, spread out before me, its surface a million shifting points of light.
Acknowledgments
It’s not every day you get to put a check mark next to a dream you hatched when you were five years old.
Chief among those I have to thank for this privilege are Annie Berger, Sarah Kasman, Cassie Gutman, and the whole team at Sourcebooks Fire. The book you’re holding is a testament to their editorial insight, enthusiasm, and TLC. Mesdames, you have made every step of this process a delight.
Before she found this wonderful home for my little ghost story, Lana Popović, agent extraordinaire, saw straight to the heart of the book it could be and challenged me to dive for it. I stand in awe of her wizardry.
This project would have foundered utterly if it weren’t for the literary midwifery of Allison Armstrong and Zélie Bérubé, both of whom have been cheering for it since it was naught but an evil twinkle in my eye. Their belief in me, their encouragement, and their detailed critique of many drafts got me through highs, lows, and a few freak-outs. Wendy McKee has also been an amazing cheerleader through the editing process, volunteering to read the manuscript closely again and again—whole or in pieces—when even I was sick of it. Everyone should be so lucky in their writing buddies.
Nova Ren Suma and the writers at her 2016 Djerassi YA Novel Workshop—Bree Barton, Aimee Phan, Catey Miller, Melissa Mazzone, TJ Ohler, Jacqueline Lipton, Wendy McKee, Shellie Faught, and Rachel Sarah—cracked the literary world wide open for me and provided the most inspiring and nurturing setting possible for rewriting. I am so glad to know you all.
Many wise and generous people read this story at various stages and offered their insights to help me take it to the next level: Ilana Masad, Nina Fortmeyer, Liana Bérubé, Karen McManus, Linsey Miller, Jacqueline Lipton, Chang Hong, Sarah Sambles, and Madeleine McLaughlin all planted seeds that bloomed into a better book.
I’m deeply grateful to Angéla Hacquard, Jessica Bayliss, and Natasha Razi, who each gave thoughtful feedback on critical aspects of this story. I’m also indebted to Eric Workman, Lisa Barleben, and Darlene Bamford for applying their professional expertise to my weird questions. Any errors remaining are my own.
I maintain that YA Book Twitter is the best Twitter: for making me think, for offering wonderful feedback opportunities, and for all the online friends and editors who gave me tips and helped me hone my pitching chops. You’re too many to name here, but this book wouldn’t exist without you.
The knowledge and experience of my fellow Electric 18s has been endlessly helpful and reassuring—I’m thrilled I got to share this journey with you. Cheers as well to Averill Frankes and Sanna Guérin, my indomitable Wednesday night Ravenpuff support group. You give me courage.
Hugs and kudos to Heather Bostelaar, who kept the home fires from burning the house down while I chased the rainbow. My beautiful, bookish daughters, Rose Bérubé and Deji Yanofsky, continue to warm my heart with their pride and excitement. Corey Yanofsky—who read everything first, took the household reins, and calmly, repeatedly reminded me that all of this has happened before and all of this will happen again—remains my rock.
And finally, all my love and thanks to my parents, Louis Bérubé and Marilyn Weixl, for their unflagging support, understanding, and love.
About the Author
Amelinda Bérubé is a writer and editor with a small department in the Canadian public service. She holds a bachelor of humanities from Carleton University and a master of arts from McGill. The Dark Beneath the Ice is her debut novel. Visit her online at metuiteme.com.
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