by Tina Sears
Praise for The River’s Edge . . .
“Such a fresh voice . . . a lovely, painful, powerful coming of age story. Truly chilling and captivating.” — Diane Les Becquets, best-selling author of Breaking Wild
“In a voice reminiscent of Scout in To Kill A Mockingbird, Tina Sears evokes striking physical and emotional landscapes that are rife with danger and secrets. It’s a marvel to witness her characters navigate this world that Sears has created for them.” — Wiley Cash, New York Times bestselling author of A Land More Kind Than Home and This Dark Road to Mercy, William Morrow/HarperCollinsPublishers
“Sears has written a hard-hitting coming of age novel that pulls the curtain off of family secrets and shame. She lovingly captures the innocence of the time, and then swiftly and honestly shows the darker side of it.” — Jo Knowles, author of Read Between the Lines
“Tina Sears is a brave and compassionate writer with a vital story to tell. I believe this will be a book with the power to heal.” — Mitch Wieland, author of God’s Dogs
“Tina Sears tackles a tough subject, having written about the thievery of innocence. If there was ever any doubt about the need to tell about such a crime, it is dispelled in this lovely coming of age story set in the 1970s.” — Laurie Salzler, author of After a Time
The River’s Edge
Tina Sears
© 2016 Tina Sears
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-943837-40-3 paperback
ISBN 978-1-943837-41-0 epub
ISBN 978-1-943837-17-5 mobi
Cover Design
by
Bink Books YA
a division of
Bedazzled Ink Publishing, LLC
Fairfield, California
http://www.bedazzledink.com
Forced to spend the summer of 1976 with relatives, Chris Morgan faces many challenges. Her mom and dad are splitting up and she hates being away from them. Now she has to make some tough choices about what she knows is right or giving in to the expectations of her new friends. Surrounded by the danger of the river and the shadows of her family’s past, Chris realizes her carefree childhood is ending.
Dedicated to Katie Gnadt, who kept my head above water until I could swim again.
She makes everything possible.
Acknowledgments
Behind every novel is an author—the one who writes the words, but there are many behind the scene in guiding a story. Thanks to Sharon Killian, therapist extraordinaire, who set my truth on fire and chased the monsters away. I would also like to thank Jo Knowles, who helped me find my emotional truth, Wiley Cash, who helped me find my voice, and to Mitch Wieland, who set me in the right direction. Also thanks to Diane Les Becquets for encouraging me to be brave and the rest of the MFA writing community of Southern New Hampshire University. Special thanks to C.A. Casey and Claudia Wilde for their dedication to literary fiction that celebrate the unique and under-represented voices of women. Thank you to my first readers, Jackee Alston and Rebekah Aidukaitis, and to my sisters Lepha Sears and Becki Carlysle for shared stories.
Chapter One
Baptism
WHEN MY DAD left, Mom said he would come back to us, but I said I would believe it when I saw the whites of his eyes. I knew my dad was as reliable as a fart in a windstorm. He was a good dad when he was around, but he travelled a lot for his job. He would always bring me some sort of special gift when he returned. Something good, too. Not like some old crappy prize you get in a Cracker Jack box. One time he gave me a pen that had four different color inks. It had black, red, blue, and purple. Purple! My favorite color. It wasn’t a girlie pink or a boyish blue, it was a color that rebelled.
I immediately grabbed my diary so I could write my life down in purple ink. Somehow it seemed that purple would make what I wrote down more exciting, like I was writing a Broadway musical.
But I guess he took one trip too many because he never showed up after the last one. That was nine months ago. After that, it seemed like a sadness fell over my mother that she never could shake. I was different. He disappeared right out of my life like a cruel magic trick and I didn’t know how to bring him back, so I learned how to live without him, how to block my heart.
After he left it didn’t seem appropriate to write in purple ink anymore, so I just wrote in black and blue because that’s how I felt inside, all bruised up. When I really wanted to spill my guts, I wrote in red. So when Mom told me that I had to spend the summer with my relatives in Ohio, my diary looked more like a bloody crime scene than a field of lavender.
The first month after my dad left, Mom would jump when the telephone rang and answer it on the first ring, hoping it was him. But it never was. As time passed, she gave up answering the phone altogether because no one ever called except bill collectors. Lately when she smiled, she had a stare that looked far beyond me. The darkness that sometimes strangled her for days at a time had taken a stronger hold of her, and now she was sending me away for the summer because of it. Of course she didn’t say it was because of that, but I knew. I knew deep down in my heart and I was afraid for her. I was afraid for myself.
One of my earliest memories of my parents together was at our house. We were in the front yard sitting on a blanket, having a picnic. My mom sang to me while she brushed my hair, and I blew dandelion puffs at my dad. But that was a long time ago, and I knew he was gone for good.
Now, as Mom backed out of the driveway, I took one last look at our house. It was no longer a home, but an empty, sad place.
“I don’t understand why I have to spend the whole summer away,” I said to Mom as we hit the road. “I won’t get to hang out with my friends.” I said friends but Lisa was my only friend. We were The Loners and didn’t fit in with the cool people.
“Plus, I won’t be able to swim on the team.”
“They have a pool. Besides, this is a good year for you to visit your cousins. On the Fourth of July, there will be an extra special celebration because of the bicentennial.”
“They have fireworks here, too, Mom.” I was having what my mom called an “attitude problem.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen with your Dad being gone. I have to figure some things out.” She paused. She rarely spoke about him to me anymore. “Besides, your aunt and uncle agreed to take care of you and that’s final.”
I sat in the passenger seat with my arms folded across my chest. The morning sun fought to find us through the tall trees as Mom navigated through the country. Shady areas were interrupted by splashes of sunlight, moving too quickly for my eyes to adjust. I closed them, but the sun was so bright, I could still see the strobe light affect through my eyelids.
I gave her The Silent Treatment. I had never been away from my mom and I wasn’t looking forward to it now. But I also knew she was in a tight spot since Dad left, and that I should give her a break. I was what you call “conflicted” about the whole thing.
After an hour’s drive, I saw a sign pass by quickly. “You are now leaving Virginia.”
Virginia. Where I grew up and my family broke apart.
My mom saw the sign too and she reached over and touched my knee. “Come on, you can’t be mad at me the whole trip. We still have a long way to go.” She turned up the radio and started singing.
The memory of my
mother singing to me as a child washed over me and loosened me up a bit. I loved her voice. I loved her. I could never stay mad at my mom for very long. I chimed in and after a chorus or two, we were like two kittens rolling in the grass again. When the Bee Gees came on the radio, we started to sing about mending our own broken hearts. Each sharp note cutting through me as I sang the words, asked the question, “Why does the sun keep on shining?”
The music filled up all the empty space between us. It felt good to sing out loud, my voice pushing up from my lungs. It was everything that I couldn’t say and everything I wanted to say at the same time.
We sang and sang, and pretty soon, I wasn’t just singing any more, I was yelling too, because I wanted to get rid of the bruises inside. And Mom started to sing-yell with me. We were singing like two crazy people. I think it helped her release some of the hurt she was feeling inside. I never felt closer to her.
After singing my guts out, I felt exhausted, so I laid my head against the warm window and fell asleep.
When I woke up, it felt like we had been in the car forever. We finally reached Cincinnati a few hours later and pulled off the interstate.
The two-way street started getting narrow as we headed into the country, and by the time we took a sharp right, the corn fields were closing in on us from both sides. The ears of corn bent their heads toward us as we passed by, bowing. There was barely enough room for one car, and if we encountered any oncoming traffic, we surely would be hugging the edge of the road to let them pass.
The sign that governed the entrance to the camp greeted us. It read, “Shady Grove” in big, hand-painted letters, and in smaller letters beneath it, “Private.” We followed the one way dirt road with cottages on either side of us. Most had screened-in porches with cheerful outdoor lights strung along the top of them.
Two blocks later we reached Uncle Butch’s cottage. It was wooden like the rest of them, and the white paint was chipping. It looked like all the other cottages in the place. They were small, one story cottages, each on a square of land with dirt roads cutting them into little fudge squares. The yard was only big enough for an old oak tree and a picnic table.
The cottage was my grandmother’s, and both my mom and uncle inherited it when she passed on. They had grown up here during the summers in this place with few modern amenities. It had a washing machine but not a dryer, and you had to hang the wet clothes on a clothesline in the yard. When Uncle Butch married, he bought a house in Mount Adams, a subdivision just fifteen minutes away. Nevertheless, he never abandoned the childhood home he shared with my mother. His family moved into the cottage at the beginning of each summer and stayed until school started again in the fall.
There wasn’t a driveway at Uncle Butch’s cottage, so Mom pulled up in front of the screened-in porch as close as she could. When I opened my door it bumped up against the cottage and I had a hard time getting out of the car.
“They’re here!” Aunt Lori’s voice sang out.
My cousin Wendy greeted me with a big smile. “Hey, Chris.”
“Hey,” I said, a little nervous.
Although my cousin and I had written letters to each other, this was the first time I’d seen her since we moved to Virginia four years ago. I examined her for signs of maturity in her deep-dimpled cheeks and root-beer-colored eyes.
My aunt hugged my mother. “You made it! It’s so good to see you again.”
I reached in the trunk for my suitcase. I tried to hold my hand steady, forcing a smile.
My aunt walked up to me and hugged me tight, surprising me a little. Then she uncurled my knuckles from the handle of my suitcase. “Wendy, take this into the bedroom for Chris, would you, honey?”
Wendy took the suitcase and disappeared inside the cottage.
My aunt put her arm around my shoulders and scooped me up to her. My face was smashed up against her breast. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. How are you doing?” She certainly was very enthusiastic.
She let me go so I could answer. “I’m doing okay.”
“Just okay?” She hugged me tight again. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”
After she released me from her bear hug, she touched my mom’s shoulder. “How are you feeling these days?”
“Oh,” my mom sighed heavily, “I have good days and bad.” Lately it seemed like all her days were bad, but I didn’t say anything.
Wendy returned and leaned into me. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
“Don’t go near the river girls,” my aunt called out to us as we left.
Wendy and I followed a dirt road that was muddy and full of pot holes. Then we crossed a grassy field until we reached a row of trees. We slipped between an opening of an overgrown path, barely visible from the cottage.
The underbrush bared its thorns as we ducked under them at the beginning of the path. We made our way downhill through scrub, across twisted roots, and into a section of pine trees. The pine scent was like perfume and the sprawling limbs spread over the top of us like a canopy.
The afternoon was alive with the smell of the Ohio River, of mud and honeysuckle so sweet I could taste it in my mouth. It reminded me of home, of how my mom taught me to pinch the flower and lick the nectar from the bulb. The sun-drenched river glowed like fire, and the expanse of water between us and the other side seemed like an eternity.
I stood beside Wendy on the edge of the river. “God! I can see forever,” I panted, half winded from the walk, half breath-taken by the view. I saw something jutting out from the middle of the water.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Slippery Rock,” my cousin whispered, as if uttering the name alone would cause something dreadful to happen.
“Does anyone ever swim out to it?” I asked.
“Too dangerous. Last time someone tried, the only thing that was found of her was that shoe,” Wendy said, pointing to a tree right on the edge of the water. A muddy red tennis shoe was nailed to its enormous trunk, a reminder of the river’s strength.
“No way. You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t even know how to swim.”
“Maybe I can teach you how this summer,” I said in a feeble attempt to connect with her.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She shrugged.
My cousin and I were like two people standing on opposite sides of the river, recklessly leaning forward to speak to each other. The great distance between us made me homesick, and the summer was just beginning.
“Is this the river we’re not supposed to be near?” I asked.
“Yeah, this is it.”
“Then why are we here? You must love danger.”
“Not really. This is where Julie and the gang hang out. They’re the only ones because they’re the popular kids and have claimed this spot as their own. Everyone else is afraid of them. But not me. I used to hang out with them.”
“Used too? What happened?”
“Last year, the boys really started liking Julie, and she didn’t want me around anymore. But I want back in to the group and this is my chance.”
I followed Wendy over to a log and sat down next to her. We both had on tank tops, but mine was green to match my eyes.
“I like your hair like that,” I said. “It’s grown since the last time I saw you.” We both had long blond hair but mine was pulled back in a ponytail and hers was hanging over her shoulder like angel hair pasta.
“Thanks. My mom said I could grow it out on account of my ears.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, my left ear is growing faster than my right and I’m lopsided. So I’m growing my hair longer to cover it up.” Wendy stood up and pulled back her hair. “See?”
“You’re not lopsided.”
“I think I might have a brain tumor.”
“What? That’s crazy.”
“My mom’s si
ster died from a brain tumor and I have the same blood as her. It’s possible.”
“Sorry,” I said, glad I wasn’t related to her aunt.
I heard a girl’s voice from the path. “Because I said so.”
Wendy tapped my arm excitedly. “Julie’s coming.”
A few seconds later Julie appeared. Four boys stood behind her like loyal subjects.
She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Her fine blond-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but the wisps at her hairline escaped, curling across the sides of her face. Her hair looked like the color of coffee with too much cream. Her eyebrows were two curves, like a child’s drawing of a seagull in flight, and her lips seemed so full I thought it might take some effort to keep them closed. When she ran her tongue over them, the sun sparkled on the moisture.
She was everything I wanted to be and nothing that I was.
I took note of the boys behind her. One was skinny with freckles and a crewcut. The second was blond with piercing blue eyes. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a dirty white T-shirt. The third one wore a Reds baseball cap, and the forth had a wild cowlick that emphasized his round eyes.
“Get lost, punks. This is our territory,” Julie said.
“We’re allowed to be here,” Wendy said. “It’s a free country.”
I wanted to tell that girl to shut up, but I swallowed my words and turned away, too shy to speak.
Nobody knew what to do next, but it felt like something big was about to happen. I could almost hear a drum roll.
Then the boy with the Reds baseball cap spoke. “Let them stay. There’s no harm in it. Besides, you used to hang out with Wendy.” Long dark hair spilled out recklessly under his cap. I liked him already.
“Dave? What’s gotten into you?” Julie looked at him bug-eyed, mouth open, with her arms folded across her chest.
“Nothing. I just think there’s no harm in it, that’s all.” His complexion was clear, especially compared to Freckles.
