The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

are no longer touching tile. I look down, then up again. And my world tilts sharply. Straight into the upstairs wing of the Summers’ old house.

“That’s not an answer.” I say But the Flood is already gone.

Central air drifts across my shoulders and fills the hall with a sputtering artificial chill. My jeans feel cool against my legs as I take a step. In the back of my mind, I can almost feel the nice black skirt I was wearing that day, brushing my ankles. That skirt was so soft. I wish I’d worn something I hated that day. At least then I wouldn’t mind never wearing it again.

Gaby always liked me in black. She liked that it made my red hair look redder. But I don’t think that was how she meant for me to wear it.

“It’s already happened,” I whisper. This day is over, done, already survived. Keep going. Keep breathing.

I move toward the sobs, remembering how my cheap heels wobbled in the carpet. I leave the hall lamp off, as I did then. There’s light coming through the door up ahead.

I raise my hand to knock. I’m not sure if the hesitation that follows is mine now, or mine then.

But eventually, I do knock. I do call out to her.

“Flora?”

JANUARY 5, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: There are days you never leave. Days of new rules you never meant to carry forward. But they stick, don’t they? They stick to the bottoms of your feet and the curves of your shadow.

Maybe it would have happened one way or the other, you and Flora. Knowing you and knowing her, it probably would have. But in reality, it happened like this, with you standing in the Summers’ hallway. You weren’t trying to be helpful. You weren’t trying to be there for anyone. You were just trying to find a second alone.

Gaby’s house is bigger in her absence. Longer. Stretched taut and quiet. And you were all running late, which she would have loved. You can almost hear it. My one and only funeral, and none of you assholes can tie a tie?

So with your mother and Dan fussing at Jon’s collar and Sammy fiddling with the edges of the carpet, you duck upstairs. You hadn’t noticed Flora wasn’t with the rest of them.

You don’t think to wonder where she is until you see the lights on in the master bedroom. Then you hear the crying.

The air shifts upward and the lights flicker as the AC kicks on. You could go back downstairs. She hasn’t heard you. She’d never know you were there.

She’s on her knees by the foot of the bed, a piece of paper curled into her fist. Her hands rest by her sides; she doesn’t bury her face in them like you do. She doesn’t swallow her gasps, like Mom did in the years after your father died. Her mouth is wide open. She doesn’t care who knows.

Flora’s always been like that. When she’s upset, Gaby knew it, you knew it, the cashier at Trader Joe’s knew it. You can’t help but wonder if that’s why she reacts so big: because she wants people to know. Maurice will tell you later that that’s not a bad thing, wanting people to know. You’re not a better person for suffering alone. No one’s going to give you a prize for the best poker face. If they did, you’d have won a long time ago.

Later, you’re going to be ashamed of how long it takes you to say something. But eventually, you do.

“Flora?”

She jerks the crumpled paper closer to her chest as she turns. Her breath hitches. Her lip keeps trembling.

“I can’t do it,” she whispers.

Carefully, you lower yourself to your knees in front of her, and you take the crumpled piece of paper as it’s offered. You smooth it out against the soft black skirt you’ll never wear again. And you catch the first few lines of a reading from the book of Ecclesiastes.

“I c-can’t get up there.” Her teeth are chattering.

“You don’t have to read it.” Your voice is low. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But it’s already planned,” she says, more firmly now. “And we’re already late, and I just don’t have time to call Judy—”

“Judy?” you ask.

Flora’s breath shudders as she speaks. “The venue coordinator.”

You laugh. God. There are venue coordinators for funerals.

Flora knows what you mean, though. Her lips even twitch. “There are so many steps, Rose. You have to wait for the congregation to sit, you have to finish the reading, you have to sit at the back of the altar until the cantor tells you to go—”

“Or what?” You can’t even sound angry. Just puzzled that Judy’s been given the slightest say. “She’s your daughter.”

Her face crumples again. “Please, Rose. I can’t. I can’t, please . . .”

The piece of paper trembles as your legs do, and you take in the words, line by line.

There are days you never leave. Days that change the makeup of the ground. And while you are looking at that paper, she will look at you, for the first time, like someone different. Not her daughter’s friend. Not a child. But someone strong enough to get through this. Strong enough to carry her with you. She will never stop looking at you like that.

And maybe that’s not true. Maybe you don’t want to get through today. Maybe you’ve never wanted anything less.

You’ll do it anyway.

Under the full force of that stare, it’s not hard to tuck your own grief away. To put it somewhere safe. To tie it tight like a boat on a dock.

But there’s something you don’t know yet about pain: it flourishes with or without you. You push it back, and nothing changes. All you’ve done is make it harder to reach.

“It’s fine,” you say. And it even sounds fine. “Okay, Flora, it’s fine. I’ll do it.”

She pitches forward against your chest with a muffled wail. And you rest your