I push away from my dad, cross to the stove in two strides, and grab the knife by the handle. Storming to the dishwasher, I shove the knife into the utensil rack, then slam the door shut.
We don’t speak. Dad motions for me to sit down, but I don’t because I’m way too freaked out. His face looks horrified. “Aimee!”
For a second I can’t breathe. I’m too shocked. “What?”
“How did you do that?”
“You think I made the knife twirl?” The dishwasher stays shut. I check; even in my anger, I check.
His face blanks out. “That’s the only logical explanation.”
“Dad!” Every inch of my skin hardens up with hurt. He thinks I did that? He thinks I’m so crazy, such a liar, that I’d make a knife spin? I somehow manage not to swear at him, not to give him the finger, and instead stomp upstairs to my room.
“Honey, I’m sorry, but if it wasn’t you—it—it—I can’t—” He’s calling after me, but I don’t go back. I can only be the peacemaker so much, you know?
Later, I get a text on my phone. It’s from Blake: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE DON’T THROW US AWAY.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I spend most of the night painting. I know this isn’t normal. Paint thinner wafts through the entire house with its clean, sharp smell, but nobody wakes up. Nobody comes to my room to see if I’m okay. I would like to pretend this doesn’t bother me, but it does. I would look out the window at the river, but I’m afraid of what I might see. That’s why I don’t sleep. I’m afraid of what I’ll dream. But at 3:10, I give in. I close my eyes and lean back against my bed, sitting up, like that will keep the dreams away.
It doesn’t.
I am below water. There’s a canoe on the surface, and someone swimming. The water freezes against my skin. A seal floats by, sad eyes warning me, as I try to break toward the surface, and then … hands clutch my legs, pulling me down, down. My lungs are about to burst. My limbs are slow moving, stretching, twisting. Then I see who it is holding me: a man with eyes of water and a mouth that smiles, smiles, smiles …
You are mine …
I must be so wiped out from the nightmare that I actually sleep like I’m dead the rest of the night. No dreams. No fears. In the morning I go down to breakfast. I do not go kayaking. I can’t trust the river, not today.
We all sit at the table, all four of us. If we put a dress on Gramps we’d almost look like a perfect family. We’ve all got cereal and orange juice. It’s strange.
“Dad doesn’t think the house is haunted,” Benji announces.
We all look at him. We all look at Gramps, whose spoon dangles from his fingers. “Your father doesn’t believe in ghosts.” He ducks the spoon into the milk.
Benji leans up in his seat, arching forward, eyebrows down and ready for a fight. “How can he not believe it? There were footsteps upstairs and nobody was there!”
“I didn’t witness it,” Dad says with his mouth full. He never talks with his mouth full.
Nobody says anything. Last night he said he can’t believe in these things. I think it would hurt him too much, make him feel like he couldn’t protect us like he couldn’t protect Mom, and that makes me hurt for him so I try to break the silence. “Well, how’s the Cheeto auction going?”
“We’re at $850,” Gramps announces. His eyes are proud. Benji whoops and Dad chokes on his orange juice.
“You’re kidding,” I say. “$850?”
Gramps raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“When were you going to tell me?” Benji demands. He pours extra sugar on his cereal. Dad reaches out and takes the sugar away.
“When you stopped being so cranky,” Gramps says. He slurps more cereal, his eyes twinkling. He loves the running I’m-cranky-no-you’re-cranky joke he and Benji have going.
Benji’s mouth drops open and he points at his chest. “Me? I’m not the cranky one!”
“You two and your crankies,” Dad says, and somehow the way he says it makes the conversation stop.
I try to think of something to say. I can’t. I glance at my dad and wonder if he’s thinking about the spinning knife, too.
“No river today, Aimee?” Gramps asks. “Kayaking’s good for you. Good exercise, calms the mind.”
“Nah.” I shudder. “Not today.”
“You need to sleep better. You’re going to wear yourself out,” he announces. “I found her wandering around last night. Had to tuck her into bed.”
Dad’s hand leaves his juice glass and clutches his coffee mug instead. “Really?”
My head feels like it’s twisting around. “I don’t remember that.”
“Of course you don’t,” Gramps says into the awkwardness. “You were asleep.”
Great. More ammunition for my father’s “Aimee is crazy” theory. Dad changes the topic again. “The ER has been incredibly busy lately. The number of assaults is way up …”
I stop paying attention when he starts talking about the capital campaign for a new emergency room. Benji mouths, “Blah, blah, blah …,” which makes me giggle.
Dad’s still there when Alan’s truck pulls in.
“That him? Courtney’s cousin?” he asks, shrugging on his suit coat and staring out the window.
“Yeah.” I tug at his elbow. “Come away from the window, Dad.”
“That’s not much of a truck,” he complains.
“It’s fine.”
“He’s getting out. Blake never gets out.”
“He’s getting out?” I run to the window and look. He is. He’s actually getting out of the truck and striding toward the door. Oh, wow—he’s so tall and he’s almost smiling. My heart does some weird fluttery thing but I do not become completely ridiculous and put my hand over it or anything. “Guys don’t get out of the car when they pick you up for school.”
“They do if they want to get all kissy-faced,” Benji pipes up. He’s peeking out the window, too. “Man, he’s huge. You’d have to stand on a chair to make out with him.”
“Benji!”
“She’s turning red,” Benji gloats. “Girls only turn red when they like a boy, right? It’s like all the hotness goes right to their cheeks. Gramps told me that.”
My dad turns and looks at me. His eyes widen. “He’s got a lot of hair there.”
“It’s nice.”
“He’ll never get a job with hair like that.”
“Dad, shut up. Stop being such a suit.” I grab my bag and rush to the door. I yank it open before Alan can ring the bell. His arm’s upraised and his finger is ready to push. Everything inside of me sort of sighs out just seeing him. I touch the bulge the medicine bag makes on his chest. I can’t help myself.
“Hi,” I manage, blushing harder. I can’t believe I just touched him like that.
He smiles. “Hi.”
Benji materializes behind me. “Dad. They’ve said ‘hi.’ They’ve taken the first step, but like most teenagers, they’re failing to make any other words. They are dumbstruck by love. Dumbstruck! Dumbstruck!”
I whirl around and my backpack slams into the door frame. “Benji! Stop! You sound like Gramps!”
He grins devilishly.
I turn back to Alan, trying to apologize. “That’s my little brother.”
“I figured that by the whole height thing and the teasing and the fact that you’re both in the same house in the morning. It was either that or you just rent kids to seem more wholesome. I go for wholesome.”
“Funny. BYE!” I yell and shut the door behind me. We walk down the porch together. My hip bumps into his leg.
He opens the door of the truck for me.
“How’s Courtney?” I ask before he closes the door.
“Better …” He looks back at my house. “She’s better right now, at least. I think. Her mom is taking her to school. She insisted.” We get in the truck. It already smells like him, deodorant and earth and good. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“You thought I wasn’t okay?”
“I worried about you all night,” he admits, and puts the truck in reverse so he can get us out of the driveway. The truck kind of moans. “I couldn’t get you on your cell.”
“I forgot to charge it. Sorry.”
For a second neither of us says anything. I try to ignore the heebie-jeebie feeling creeping up on me. On the ride in he tells me what he’s learned from looking up possession last night. I tell him about my knife experience and how my dad thinks I’m somehow behind all the stuff that’s happening in our house.
“But you think it’s your mother?” he asks as he parks the truck.
We sit there for a moment. I must look scared or like I need comfort or something because he grabs my hand and says, “It’s okay, Red.”
Swallowing hard, I nod. “I don’t want to be crazy.”
“You aren’t.” He smiles, and I look away from his mouth to where our fingers touch as he says, “If you are, then so am I.”
“That’s not very convincing,” I try to tease.
He laughs and says, “We should get going.”
Just like that he lets go of my hand and we hop out of the truck. He doesn’t lock his truck like Blake always locks his car. Not that I’m comparing them. Oh my gosh, we held hands. It was only for a second. Maybe Oklahoma people always hold hands. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. Blake would kill him if it meant anything.
During my free period I head to the library instead of the art room. I flip open my laptop and connect. The sweet librarian lady, Mrs. Hessler, smiles at me. She leans over the table, but she’s careful not to look at my screen. She tries so hard to give us privacy.
“Let me know if you need any help, Aimee,” she says. Her frog earrings dangle and sway against the bottom curls of her dark brown cropped haircut.
“Thanks,” I say, and smile.
“You have such a beautiful smile.” She straightens up. “Just like your mom.”
She nods as if satisfied with her statement and turns away. I google “hex counter” and get all this crap about decimal counters.
“Great,” I mutter. Meanwhile, I check out the Cheeto bids on eBay. The picture Gramps took makes it really look like Marilyn Monroe. It’s kind of freaky. I click back to the search engine and type: “protect from evil.”
Bingo. The first site is some sort of healing medieval chapel based in the United Kingdom. It says that people vulnerable to psychic attacks are already nasty and already busy manipulating other people. But it also says there’s a whole other category of people who are vulnerable, and those are people who have healer personalities. They are the kind of people who are ultra caring and compassionate and kind of absorb all the emotions of the people around them.
“We have workshops!” it says. “Sign up now.”
“England is a little far,” I mutter, and scroll down the page to where there’s a special section about techniques to prevent psychic attacks. One of them is creating a protective field of energy, like a white light.
“Ha!” It’s like what I do when I try to heal people.
Two freshman kids look up from their computer with amused expressions.
Mrs. Hessler gently calls over, “You okay, Aimee?”
“Yep. Great, thanks.” I lower my voice to the appropriate library volume level. “Sorry I was loud.”
Mrs. Hessler’s smile is heart-singing. “It’s good to be happy in the library.”
I give her a cheese-ball thumbs-up, then read through the page really quickly, before googling “protective herbs.” I am going to do everything I can to protect the people I love. That’s that, River Man. Aimee Avery is on your ass. People think I’m all peace and love all the time, and I am, but part of that is wanting to keep people safe—safe from arguing, from meanness, from evil river men … The problem is that except for occasionally healing Benji’s baby cuts and scrapes, I haven’t actually practiced healing people. It always felt too much like my mom, too much like crazy …
There’s still time, so I look up “Alan Parson.” There are 2,190,000 results, and most of them have to do with the Alan Parsons Project, which I guess is some ancient rock band. So I narrow the search to “Alan Parson Oklahoma football.”
There is article after article. The first thing I pull up is a newspaper account from The Oklahoman newspaper’s online section. The headline reads: FOOTBALL PRODIGY PARSON LIFTS TEAM TO WIN. There are even pictures of him running on the field, ball clutched to his chest, his thigh muscles straining against his uniform.
He clutched me to his chest.
I close my laptop. I am being ridiculous. Okay. Big breaths.
I almost groan out loud. This is happening way too fast and everything is way too heated.
“Aimee? You okay?” Mrs. Hessler asks again.
I nod.
“I heard Courtney passed out yesterday. How is she doing?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “She’s supposed to be in school today. I haven’t seen her, though, but even before today she wasn’t always acting …”
“Like herself ?”
“Yeah.” I pack up my stuff. “Exactly.”
The bell rings. The freshmen leap out of their chairs, gathering up their stuff. I do the same.
Mrs. Hessler taps me on the shoulder right before I get to the door. “Aimee?” I stop and turn around, wondering if I’ve broken some library rule. “When Courtney passed out, did she do anything funny?”
“Her eyes rolled into her head.” I shiver. I hate remembering it.
“Oh … oh …” Mrs. Hessler looks strangely uncomfortable. “Did she have … Was there a lot of acne suddenly?”
I pull my computer tightly to my chest. “Yeah. There was. Why?”
She fiddles with her fingers nervously. “No reason. I was just wondering. That’s all. Do you need a slip? Are you going to be late?”
“No.” I can’t quite figure it all out. “No. I’ll be fine. Thanks, Mrs. Hessler.”
“Wait a minute, Aimee.” She goes to the counter and writes out a slip anyway, then she pulls out a pink file folder and walks back to me. “Take this. Read it. Okay?” I hesitate, but she pushes it into my hands and says, “Please. It’s information I’ve collected. It’s … well, you read it and make your own conclusions.”
I take the folder, totally confused. “Thanks.”
She raises her hand and waves as I hustle away. I turn back and look. She’s still standing at the door, watching, a very sad expression on her face.
I open the folder in math because I can’t wait. The first page is tiny articles from some old-fashioned newspaper. There aren’t even any bylines on them. Mrs. Hessler has circled one with a red felt pen. It’s from 1876.
DEATH IN RIVER—Last evening’s entertainment in East Goffs Town, by the “Goffs Harbor” club, was attended by many, and the program was carried out favorably. The essay by Mrs. Joshua Petengale was received with great favor and exemplified much labor in composition.
However, post the performance, Mr. Emulus Black, though suffering from a cold and fever, insisted that he could indeed make it back to his home on the Union River without assistance. This assertion seems to have been mistaken. Early this morning portions of Mr. Black’s body were found upon the river banks by Mrs. William Goodale. The means of his demise are not currently apparent and may not be suitable for the finer sex’s reading.
Shuddering, I look up. Mr. Block is droning on. The next piece is also a microfiche, but seems to be an editorial.
TOWN CURSED?—With the recent death of Mr. Emulus Black, the old heathen rumor of East Goffs Town’s curse has resurfaced. For those unfamiliar, it is said our town’s esteemed founders angered Indian woodland spirits by building this fair community without making sacrifices to trees and river. It is the opinion of this newspaper that belief in such legends is morally dangerous and criminal.
I want to go get Alan. Instead, I flip to the next page. It’s another microfiche article circled in red.
MYSTERIOUSLY INJURED—Doctor M. S. Hutton of 24 Maple Avenue came staggering into the First Congregational Church Sunday morning in an overcome condition, about a quarter of an hour into the service. He was unable to converse much, but it is said that he kept uttering the phrase, “Man in the river.” After a cursory examination, it became apparent that the respected citizen had been sorely injured with blows to the head and bore thick scratches around his wrists and ankles. Preparations to carry him to the closest doctor, his colleague, one Dr. Llewellyn Allen in Blue Hill, were unsuccessful because he rapidly died from his injuries or from the shock which had befallen him. A group of men from the church attempted to spot any men injured in the river but could not. No one else from the town is missing. What happened to the good doctor is as yet a mystery as far as we can ascertain at this time.
There are three more articles from the same week talking about two women going missing. They were last seen by the river. One woman’s body was found dismembered on the shore. There is a bit of a panic in the town. People are not allowed to go to the river by themselves. The newspaper runs a picture of the woman: she is small-faced and large-eyed and beautiful.
She reminds me of my mother.
The next page is dated 1938. In the headlines, there are more mysterious deaths in the river. I flip through some more. It’s the same stories every couple of decades. People die. They are found dismembered.
I put my hand on my forehead, like that’s going to keep my thoughts under control. I turn a page. It’s a newspaper story about my mother. It doesn’t say her name.
A Goffstown woman died in the Union River Sunday morning. Coast Guard units, local police and the harbor master responded to the scene. Foul play is not suspected.
I put my head on my desk.
I swallow hard. I will not cry. The desk is cold against my forehead. It smells like lemon cleaner, and if I close my eyes it is dark—dark and nothing, which is what I want to be right now. Nothing.
“Miss Avery?” It’s Mr. Block, with his comb-over hair and big red cheeks. “Miss Avery? Are you with us?”
People laugh.
I lift up my head, blinking against the light. “Not really.”
People laugh more, like I’m making a brilliant joke, but I’m not.
Mr. Block lets himself smile for a second, then hitches up his green cords and scratches at his bald spot. He leans back so his butt is resting on the edge of the desk and knocks off a pencil. Emily scoops it up off the floor and gives it back to him.
“Thank you, Miss Portman,” he says, then turns his attention to me. “Miss Avery, how about you tell us about the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
Ugh.
It is all I can do not to bash my head back down against the desk. It’s so heavy. My voice is heavy. But I push myself out of the bleak and say, “It’s that integration and differentiation are contrary operations.”
“Contrary?”
I blink. “Inverse. I meant inverse.”
He shakes his head. “I like contrary. That’s good. That’s really good.”
He smiles again, and I know he’s throwing out a lifeline to me, but it’s like I just can’t reach out and take it. He lifts himself away from his desk as though movement is the easiest thing in the world and scoots over to the blackboard to write it out: Fba F(x)dx = F (b) − F (a)
He turns and smiles at us. “There it is folks, the secret of the universe.”
If only it were that easy.
Right before she died, my mother’s feet were always moving. She’d sit down, and her feet would tap, tap, tap on the floor like they were revolting against the stillness of sitting, like they were meant to move and move and move.
One time we were having lunch, even though it was only about 9:30 in the morning. Benji was in this car-seat thing that could be taken in and out of the car and she put it on top of the table, next to a stack of library books we’d just gotten that morning. He slept there, rocking gently, his toy teddy blankie draped over him. I was having lunch—Annie’s macaroni and cheese, the all-natural kind, and some apple juice. My mom sat down. She stood up. She sat down. Her foot went tap-tap-tap against the floor.
“It’s hard to sit still,” she said. “Aimee, it’s just so hard sometimes for Mommy to sit still. There’s time to sit still when you’re dead.” She gave this funny laugh, short and hard. Her laugh stuck in my throat, made it hard to swallow my Annie’s macaroni and cheese. “Or maybe I should say there’s time to lie still when you’re dead, time to lie still when you’re dead, I mean. Oh, what do I mean? I have no clue. No idea. No clue. People’s jaws are so interesting, aren’t they, Aimee? You could almost imagine their skeletons when you look at their jaws.”
I looked at her jaw; it was pointed, thin. The skin stretched over it. She had boo-boos on it, small sores.
“You’re going to be quite the artist and you should draw people’s jaws first, I think, because that’s how you know the structure of the face. Oh, that sounds like I’m talking about a house, doesn’t it? The structure of a face. The structure of a house. The structure of a heart.” She stood up. She stared at me. Her face was sleek and nothing. “I’m going to go outside and cut down some trees. I do not like those trees leaning near the house. It’s not safe. My family has to be safe. That’s my responsibility.”
She rushed toward the door. It was March. She didn’t have a coat on. She didn’t have boots on. Snow covered everything.
“When I’m gone, you watch after Benji,” she said. “You keep him safe.”
And then she was gone for good.
I dreamed the night before that happened. I dreamed about her at the river, walking to the edge with a big machine in her hand. I dreamed that there was a man standing in the river, his face a skeleton. He was ready for her. I think he might be ready for us, too.