I sat cross-legged on your bed while the night drew down. God pushing me to do something. He needed me to tell you something, but I didn’t know what.
Then the melody tore in your hands again. You grabbed the guitar’s neck like you wanted to strangle it.
“Come on, Holly. You can do this.” Hollow words clanged like empty gas cans.
“No, I can’t.”
“Just relax, stop getting upset, and—”
“Jane, shut up, okay? This guitar’s messed up. The pick-ups aren’t right or something.”
“I don’t think it’s messed up. Let’s just take a break—”
“It’s messed up, okay? I can’t do this! I can’t!” You swung the guitar up, ready to smash it. I caught your wrists before I even realized I’d jumped off the bed.
“Stop! It’s not messed up. It’s new. It’s new, and … and you’re scared. You’re just scared of it.” It sounded like gibberish, even to me, but somehow I knew it was what I needed to say. “How are you going to stop being scared of it?”
“Jane—”
“How are you going to be fearless, Holly? Because you have to. You have to be.” God held both of us, Holly. I felt Him. The days of waiting, of standing by being useless, it was so I could be with you right then, telling you to be fearless.
We walked out to the garage in that cool red hour before nightfall, when fireflies flash and every tree, bird, and blade of grass seems enchanted, when you can’t help but see it all, really see it. Scrounging through the tools and boxes of scrap wood, we found stencils and spray paint. You glorified the guitar’s white base in sunrise crimson: FEAR NOT.
At the funeral, your lonely guitar sounded thin under the steepled roof, but the song never broke or stumbled. You were fearless, beautiful and fearless.
Then what? A week later? Gail Bailey invited you to join the praise band. Eleven with chewed fingernails, or fifteen and gorgeous, I watched you yank grown men to their feet with your music. You could make them sing and dance and cry.
God’s love used to surround us, Holly. When I prayed, I felt it fill my chest, swelling until it burst up in tea kettle shouts. And the more I shouted the more it swelled inside me. Holly, it was nearly too much to handle sometimes.
But then you died, and God ran away. He’s gone, and I don’t know why. I kneel and bow my head and say the words, but they can’t open my heart anymore. My heart is broken and useless like an old watch. It’s a lump of rusted-up metal in my chest. All I do is kneel here and talk to you.
You remember those evenings when we had the run of downtown, Holly? After youth group, walking over to Court Street to get coffee or whatever, but mostly just burning to rush around and be loud and be alive? Sometimes I’d glance up past the lampposts, and there was no sky. The moon was dark. City lights blotted out the stars. I’d look up into dead black forever.
That’s what it feels like since you disappeared. I shut my eyes and whisper praise. I grovel, I threaten, but none of it matters. God stole my best friend, then left me in the darkness. That’s what it feels like deep down in my belly. Deep, deep down where I’m afraid to look. O Lord, how long shall I cry, and thou will not hear? Even cry out unto thee of violence, and thou wilt not save!
But five barn swallows are sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten by God. How could I spend hours praying and not sense one glimmer of Him?
Last Tuesday, I decided it must be a test. God couldn’t really leave me; it was a test of faith. I knelt here for hours, Holly, not getting up for a sip of water, praying until my tongue got gummy and stuck to my teeth. Praying while the carpet chewed my knees raw, then offering the pain up as a sign of devotion. Tim was just worried about me, but when he wouldn’t leave me alone, I threatened to throw him down the stairs.
That’s when Dad called Dr. Haq, the psychiatrist. I told him I hadn’t been sleeping. I promised him and my parents I’d keep it together. But I couldn’t tell them I don’t feel God anymore, that whenever I close my eyes, it feels like I’m alone in ten billion miles of darkness. They would assure me that God will never give me more than I can handle. They’d make it seem like I’d given up on Him, not the other way around.
A knock on the door makes me jump. “Jane! Dinner.”
“I’m asleep. Go away.”
Tim leaves without another word. After a while, I hear Faye’s birdsong laugh from the kitchen. I’ve worn their patience down to a sullen nub. They cried at your funeral, and they were there for me afterward, but they’re exhausted now. They want everything to go back to normal. They want me to get back to normal and stop scaring them.
I try my best, Holly. Dr. Haq gave me a prescription for Tenex to help me sleep. I take my pill every night and show everybody a smiling face, just some days are harder than others. I miss you. Without you, I don’t have anybody to talk to about this stuff anymore.
Fear not, fear not, fear not. God commands His followers to “fear not” 365 times throughout the Old and New Testaments, once for every day of the year. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, I flip through my Bible. My fingers find those words, your creed, again and again.
Fear not, for I am with thee …
Say to them that are of a fearful heart, Be strong, fear not …
I whisper the verses, tasting the dry papery words on my tongue and lips. Please, let them change me, make me as faithful as you were. But they’re just words; they aren’t real anymore.
Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD thy God, He it is that doth go with thee; He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.
I throw the Bible. It hits the wall, falling splayed like a dead swallow. The violence feels good.
Then I feel guilty, then ashamed, then scared. I grab the Bible again, smoothing out the bent pages. Setting it on the bed, I fold to the floor, hiding my face in my hands. I want to cry, but I can’t anymore. I cried and cried for weeks, then my tears just ran out. I’m nothing but stomach acid and too-tight skin anymore.
Sadness swells in my chest but can’t escape. I try to force a sob, push it out, but it doesn’t work. I can’t cry, I can’t pray. I feel like a dead, dried-up fly on the windowsill.
Holly, how did you watch cancer eat your me-maw’s bones and still love God? How did you still feel His love for you? I’m an idiot, Holly, and I’m sorry. I really thought a few kind words and spray-painting your guitar were all you needed to cheer you up. I didn’t know anything could hurt this bad.
And your parents. Everybody says it’s a miracle you lived. They’d offer praise unto the Highest when they heard your story.
But sometimes you’d get sad for no reason. Those days, you’d try to tell me how it really felt, dangling in the flipped-over car with your parents’ torn bodies. You could only talk in a hoarse whisper that first day I met you because you’d lost your voice in that car. You screamed for your mom over and over, but she never answered.
I’m sorry, Holly. You would talk about the sticky blood and smashed glass and the smell of gasoline, and I’d try to change the subject. I’d yammer about clothes, bands, or boys, nothing that mattered, nothing that couldn’t be snatched away in an instant. I thought I was being a good friend, helping you take your mind off of it. I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry.
I should have washed your feet, Holly. I should have begged you to tell me how you could still be so beautiful, still bring so much beauty into the world. I had a million chances to ask, and I squandered every one.
I loved you, Holly, but I didn’t know how much I needed you. I know now. I’m ready to listen. Please, Holly, tell me how to open my heart again.
Five
The carpet is hot and scratchy like a rash. I rub my eyes open. Sweat slicks my face and makes my church dress cling to my thighs. I stare up at the bed as fragments of dream chase me into waking.
I dreamed I
was back in your house, but black lake- bottom mud had flooded it. The stuff sucked off one of my shoes. It caked my calves and hands and clumped in my hair. Holly, you were under there somewhere, coughed up from the drowned forest with the mud. Other bodies too, old tires, busted Mountain Dew bottles. And I knew—the certainty made me want to vomit—that no matter how carefully I walked, eventually I’d step on a cold hand or ankle.
I try to make myself cry again. I snuffle and sniff, but no tears come. The sadness never unwinds from the tight little knot in my breast.
It’s 11:51. I pull off my sweat-sticky dress and crawl into bed. My brain’s already woken up, though. Thoughts squawk and wheel around like barn swallows. I’ll lie here all night if I don’t take my medicine.
As I slip down to the kitchen, my feet probe for the stairs in the dark. This will always be strange to me, how quiet the house is at midnight, the daylight free-for-all fading to almost nothing. It gets so quiet I can hear the clunk of the air conditioner turning on. When we first moved into this house, the mechanical noises deep inside the walls scared me. Dad told me they were house elves. They watched over us at night, making sure we were always safe. I slept soundly curled up in the lie.
Blood drops have been wiped off the kitchen counter. The knife, already cleaned, sits in the dishwasher. I fill a glass with water and swallow two of the scab-pink Tenex. The stuff poisons time. It makes nights wither away. I won’t remember falling asleep or waking up. It’ll just suddenly be bright morning. I won’t have any dreams.
Mom left a cling-wrapped plate of spaghetti for me in the fridge. I eat a cold meatball with my fingers. I poke through the salad for tomato wedges and slices of cucumber. Your pa-paw, he’s moved close to the river, hasn’t he?
The thought lands as lightly as a bird on a twig. I freeze, afraid of startling it.
Your pa-paw couldn’t live in that house by himself—I was afraid to just visit, how could he live there by himself? But still, the river seeps into his thoughts just like it seeps into my dreams. Just like it seeped into Tyler’s mind when he wrote that lonely song. The drowned forest holds us all tight. If your pa-paw hasn’t run far away from it—and he hasn’t because we saw him at Rivercall—then he’s moved as close to the water as he can. As close as he can to you, Holly.
Yes, yes, yes! I flap my hands like Yuri.
It’s not much, but it’s a place to start looking. I’ll call Tyler first thing in the morning. We’re coming, Holly. We’re going to save you.
Six
The light stings.
Mom talks through the door.
It’s 10:19.
I need to call Tyler; we should already be gone.
“Jane!”
“Wha … ?” I shift, stare at the closed door. “What?”
“Bo Greene is here,” Mom repeats. “Get up, Jane. Come downstairs.”
Why is Bo here? Then my heart thumps hard. Oh no, no, Holly, no. Did Pastor Wesley send him?
I kick the covers off and get up. The dresser drawer slips its track when I yank it open, almost hitting my foot. I spit angry words and grab some jean shorts from the mess, leaving the rest on the floor.
Dang it, we should be looking for your pa-paw by now! I set my alarm, but I must have slept through it. It’s the Tenex, Holly. I sleepwalk. Dad swears I’ve had whole conversations with him I don’t remember.
In the bathroom, I brush my teeth while stepping into my Yellow Box sandals, then wrangle my hair into a ponytail. Maybe it’s not about your ring. Maybe Mom called Bo because of the fight I had with her last night.
I head downstairs. I have to tell them how sorry I am. And remember to smile. Just smile, sprinkle them with a little sugar, and don’t argue about anything. As long as they let me leave with Tyler today, that’s the only important thing.
On the living room floor, Yuri plays with his Legos, building them up into a tilting tower. Bo sits on the couch, and Mom talks to him softly. Dad hovers nearby. It confuses me why he’s not at work, but then I remember it’s Labor Day.
When they see me, Mom goes quiet. Bo stands up grinning. “Hey there, Jane. Sorry about waking you up for all this.”
“It’s okay.” What does he mean by “all this”?
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty good.”
Bo sits down at the end of the couch now, so I can sit between him and Mom. Close up, he smells like Hugo Boss mixed with dust and cut grass.
“So … what’s up?” I ask.
“Well, Pastor Wesley wanted me to stop by.”
“Oh.”
“You and Tyler talked to him yesterday. And you said some things that … worried him.”
“Oh.” My lips are suddenly dry, sticking to my gums.
Dad asks, “Honey, what’s this about a ring? About Holly’s ring?”
“Some—” I lick my lips. I have to make them hear the truth. Please Lord, let them hear the truth. “Something happened at Rivercall, with that catfish. It had Holly’s promise ring in its mouth. She wrote HELP across it. She’s trapped in the forest at the bottom of the lake and … listen! Please, we have to help Holly!”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Honey, no. Holly had an accident. She’s at peace now. She’s not—Yuri, not now. Let us talk.” Yuri wants to show her his Lego tower. She turns him away, turns back to me. “Holly’s in Heaven with her mom and dad. She’s not trapped—”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.” If I could show them the ring, maybe they’d believe me, but Tyler has it. Stupid, stupid—why didn’t I keep it? “The catfish … hold on.” I get up to get my Bible, but Mom grabs my arm.
“Jane, please.”
“Listen, listen. In Matthew 17, the apostles find a coin inside a fish’s mouth, just like we found Holly’s ring. See? And in that same chapter, Jesus tells them they—”
Crow’s feet crinkle around her eyes. I’m making her old.
“Jane, I’m going to call Dr. Haq,” Dad says. “We’re going to get you some help, okay?”
“No! Listen! I’m trying to explain to you, but you won’t listen. I can’t talk to Dr. Haq. I have stuff to do.”
“What stuff?”
I hesitate. “Just stuff, okay? I just have to go, okay?”
“Jane, no. You’re not going anywhere,” Mom says.
“Mom, please, I … I’m sorry about the fight, but I can’t talk to Dr. Haq right now. Please. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no … ” She pulls me close, holds me against her heartbeat like a baby. “This isn’t punishment. I’m not mad about the fight. Nobody’s mad, nobody’s mad.”
I’ve put her through so much. I start to sob. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was an accident. I’m sorry—”
“Just help you move on. Just so I get my angel back—”
“Sorry I got mad. I love you, okay? I love you.”
“We should pray. Let’s pray.” Bo gently pries my fingers from Mom’s arm. “Hey, Yuri? Yuri, can you come here?”
Yuri’s fingers lie in mine, soft and slightly damp. Mom still has one arm around me. Her other hand clutches Dad’s hand, which grasps Bo’s. I’m sniffling. So is Mom. We shut our eyes and bow our heads to the darkness.
Bo leads us. “Dear Lord, we ask you to watch over Jane. And watch over all of us, Lord. We place ourselves in your care. Lord, give us the wisdom and courage to do what’s right, even when it’s hard. Help us find the path, Lord. Your path.”
Why won’t God help me this one tiny bit? I put my family through so much—I’m a terrible kid—but I have to put them through some more.
While Bo asks His blessing, I open my eyes. Whipping my hand free, I twist Yuri’s ear. He jerks back, but I hold on, twisting harder. He bellows and takes a swing. I dodge. Bo catches a meaty smack in the mouth. “We pray—ow!”
Mom goes to calm Yuri
down. Wailing, cupping his hurt ear, Yuri punches her in the chest. Dad pulls Bo back, stumbling. Bo bit his tongue when Yuri hit him, and blood stains his teeth pink.
I take the stairs two at a time. Faye and Tim watch from the top.
“What happened?”
“Just stay here.”
My pulse beats against my temples so hard it hurts, but my thoughts run smooth. Ducking into my room, I grab my phone from the dresser. The twenty-dollar bill Mom gave me yesterday lies folded up underneath. I meant to give it back to her since Tyler and I never got any coffee. Grabbing it, I stuff it in my front pocket, just in case.
Back into the hall, back past Faye and Tim, back downstairs. Mom has the afghan around Yuri’s shoulders. He moans, rocking back and forth. Dad is apologizing to Bo, who’s holding a paper towel to his split lip. Nobody notices as I step out the kitchen door.
I cut through backyards and Mrs. Peterson’s flower garden. Colored-glass witch balls watch me pass. I shove, tug, and stomp through the windbreak of lilac and plum, then cut catty-corner across the cotton field on the other side. Each step breaks the dry crust of topsoil, my feet sinking into darker, moist earth. My calves brush through the rows of plants, making them whisper to one another as I pass.
Tyler answers his phone while eating something. “Hey, w’sup?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t—?”
“Bo hasn’t been by your house yet?”
“Nuh-uh.” He swallows. “What’s going on?”
“Bo came to my house. He told Mom about the ring, about everything.”
“Oh no.”
“But listen, I think I might know where Mr. Alton is. Sorta. But we have to go now. Come pick me up at the Texaco on Reservation Road.”
“Okay. I’m coming. I’m looking for my keys now.”
The Drowned Forest Page 4
