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

It’s not exactly the Maurice-approved method. But it’s enough that when I look back a few moments later, the kitchen is gone.

When I can finally speak again, I ask her, “What was that?” My voice is wildly shaking. “It’s never been other people’s memories before.”

“I don’t know, either,” the Mockingbird says softly. “I wonder if that’s how this starts.”

“What do you mean?” Felix says.

“Their focus shifted,” the Mockingbird says. “From the girl to all of us. Maybe that’s what it will look like when they arrive. This entire town’s history, bearing down upon us.”

I keep breathing, careful not to think this through more than I have to. If I think about that kitchen—about what the Flood must have felt from me, maybe still feels now—I don’t know if I can keep us calm.

At length, the Mockingbird sighs. “Listen. Rose, was it? To be perfectly frank, I hadn’t planned to do anything about this. If my friend wants to destroy this place, well, that’s their prerogative. But I confess, you’ve got me fascinated. I’d like to see what comes of this conversation of yours.”

“There’s no conversation,” I say. “They won’t even tell me why this is happening.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” She chuckles. “Except, perhaps, suggest that you get going. You have, at my estimate, a little more than a day.”

“You’re their friend.” I’m begging suddenly. “You can tell them to stop.”

“I wish that I could. Truly.” And I think she actually does. “But there’s only one voice that can reach them now. And if you can’t speak the same language, you’ll need to find some other way to communicate.”

Her gaze shifts back to Alex. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay, little one? I’ll keep you safe. However it goes.”

His stare hardens for a moment. Then, grabbing Felix’s hand, he tugs them both toward the stairs. “Thank you for your time, Mockingbird,” he says.

I nudge Cassie to go first, and I start to follow. But there’s a small shift behind me.

“Do you know,” she says quietly, “what that boy hears when I speak?”

I don’t quite look back, but I stop.

“Me. Just me, speaking.” There’s a strange, sad sound. “Such a rare thing for my kind, to be known by one of you.”

The sound of her voice fades, leaving only a swish and pull, like a moving current. And slowly, finally, my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of the cavern, enough that I can see all the way to the back. And there’s nothing there.

I wait another moment, just in case. But she’s long gone.

AUGUST 14, FOUR MONTHS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: Flora collects tragedies. She doesn’t lead with hello anymore—she says, “Two kids died in an ATV crash in Sacramento,” or “A little boy drowned in La Jolla.” She dives into the tragedies of the day, sorts out the knives to the heart. And then she takes them straight to you.

It’s a Saturday when she calls about this one. By now, this is normal. You don’t think anything of picking up.

“Rose,” she says, breathless. “A man down the street was taken into psychiatric care this morning.”

The last thing you want to add to your day is the sadness of someone you’ll never meet. But too tired to make an excuse, you nod through it. Mmhmm, Suzanne saw the whole thing. Mmhmm, Hector heard it on his police scanner. Yes, it was a volunteer firefighter—popular, well-liked, commendations from the city just last year—home with a wife and a newborn. Yes, the wife called the ambulance. Said she was scared he’d “do something.”

Her voice drops on those last two words. And you, without meaning to, sit straighter.

“Do something?” you echo.

“To himself, Suzanne thinks. Said he wouldn’t hurt his family. Wouldn’t mean to, anyway.” She heaves a giant shuddering sigh. “Irresponsible, don’t you think? Bringing a baby into that situation. He had to have known he wasn’t well.”

Wasn’t well.

You will talk for fifteen more minutes. You will hang up. And you will think about this for months.

“What’s an intrusive thought?” you’ll ask Maurice later that week.

It’ll catch him off-guard. He’ll say, “Why do you ask?” instead of just answering you. He’s usually so careful about his questions, of coming too close without invitation.

You will tell him it’s something you read. And that’s true. You read it at the three a.m. point of an all-night Google spiral. You’ll know what it is. You’ll know the definition in your sleep by then. You’ll want to hear it in his words.

His definition won’t be different. Unwelcome, involuntary words and images, over and over to the point of obsession.

(Like you can’t dig it out. Like every effort to untangle wraps it tighter and tighter.)

But then he’ll look at you and smile. And he’ll say, “It happens to everyone.”

“Everyone,” you’ll say, dubious.

“If I told you right now not to think of a polar bear,” he’ll say, “what else would you think of but a polar bear?”

“Well.” You smile past dry lips. “At any given time I’m thinking about polar bears.”

Wasn’t well.

You don’t have a spouse, but you have Mom, and Dan. You don’t have a newborn, but you have Sammy.

Sometimes you’ll stand in front of the mirror for long quiet minutes. You don’t look dangerous, you think. Maybe if you did, fewer men would scream at you from their cars. But you’ll think of those ads on the bus, too. Those posters of girls, always blonde, thin, and white, tear tracks lit in sepia. MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS, it advertises. It never says what to be aware of.

Imagine what people would see—if you wore your insides out, if they could see your thoughts projected. Imagine what they’d think. Hysterical. Paranoid. Crazy.

Mom, and Dan, and Sammy—they wouldn’t look at you like that. They’d never.

They just might not look at you the way they do now.

The volunteer firefighter is doing better, you’ll learn three weeks from today. He looks happier. He’s gained some weight.

“But you never really