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

told me what happened,” I say. “You just wanted to watch us, right? And now here you are. What a species we must be to do this to you.”

Silence this time. I venture on. “But it was me who did this to you.”

This time I feel it, as clearly as words: a deepening of the chill around me. A yes, I think.

There’s someone walking down the road to me. Indistinct enough, at first, that I start to get hopeful. But they’re tall, skinny. Not short with dyed black hair and a fluttering, long-gone maxi dress. And the image of Nick Lansbury settles, straight-backed and blank-faced, in the middle of Sutton Avenue.

“You saw me back in that kitchen. Right?” I breathe. This time, the Flood definitively nods. “So what exactly did we feel back then?”

He stands there, smack in the middle of my vision. The fulcrum of the memory. And undoubtedly, the answer to my question.

Unlike the Flood, I have the language to describe that moment, how it felt. But I can’t do it any more than they can. The only thing that’s held me together these past couple of days is that I’ve shoved every second of it to the back of my mind.

But they’re watching. Quiet, unblinking. So maybe they need me to say it.

“Was I really going to—”

My phone buzzes, and the present snaps back into place.

I scramble for my phone, heart hammering. I really wish I could bring myself to turn it off already. Especially when I swipe up to find Flora Summer’s name.

It figures. Gaby used to say her mom was like Beetlejuice. Say her name three times and she’ll appear, asking how many carbs you’ve consumed today.

Can we please talk? the text says.

Maybe I should answer honestly. What’s the point of a nervous breakdown if you’re going to keep it to yourself?

hey! babysitting Sammy right now, I blatantly lie. what’s up?

There’s a long beat. Then she’s typing.

You’re not being fair, Rosie.

My chest feels tight. Hot. It’s hard to believe I was shivering a second ago. I don’t understand, I type.

Another pause. It took time for me to forgive Nick, too. But it wasn’t his fault. He still has nightmares.

It’s not the kind of thing I should laugh at. It’s not, but—holy shit. According to Flora-logic, Nick fucking Lansbury gets to have trauma and I don’t.

I’m trying is all I write. It’s all I can get down. Even once I control my laughter, my entire body is still vibrating,

Please give him a chance, she writes back. We could call you now.

I know that if I did, she’d back off. If I white-knuckled it through a fifteen-minute call, it’d be over, done, back to normal. But I’ve done so many things I didn’t want to since all of this started. Calling Nick is not going to be one of them.

not right now, I type. I’m really sorry.

A pause. This is important. I thought you’d understand that.

I shouldn’t respond to that. I shouldn’t be responding to anything when I’m seeing this much red. My fingers are typing before my brain can think to stop them.

if that’s what you thought, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited him?

There’s an interminable beat, filled only by the sound of the sun sizzling on the sand. The next response comes not long after she starts typing.

I’m not having this conversation by text, Rose. Call or don’t call. It’s entirely up to you.

I almost fling my phone as far as it will go. The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that I’d just have to go find it again.

My breath is coming in shuddering gasps, though my eyes are stubbornly dry. I think it’d probably feel better if I cried, like finally throwing up after hours of nausea. I used to be a crier. I cried at sad movies, and bad days at school, and the day at Astronomy Club when we brought the Thorn Brook Elementary kids to look in a telescope for the first time. But I bit it back that morning of the funeral, the morning I heard Flora’s sobs and shoved my own away, and they stayed like that. I’ve tried going through the physical motions of crying, like it would jog my memory. But it feels clumsy and unfamiliar. Something’s missing. Something’s stuck.

It might be the eeriest part of this. It has some stiff competition. But nothing makes you feel sick inside like forgetting what you never had to learn.

Just down the road, I catch sight of Theresa’s garage, and numbly, I walk toward it. I’ll go to the station right after. But first I want to check on my car.

I pass a line of metered parking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the keys dangling in the ignition of a sleek red sedan. Miles away, out in the desert, I see another car turn onto the access road and toward the highway. And the urge to slide into this car, to floor it until I catch up—it’s unbearable.

But I’m surrounded by people who want to run as badly as I do. I can go home. They are home. And every one of us is in this mess because of me.

Even the Flood.

I pull my hand back. And the wide open desert closes in around me.

I jog the rest of the way to the garage.

“Theresa?” I ring the bell once, twice, and it echoes back to me.

Stanley the Sedan looks better at least. His car-guts are spilling out a little, but honestly, it’s a relatable look. With everything wide open like this, maybe she won’t be gone for long. It won’t hurt if I kill a little time here.

Theresa’s garage, upon closer inspection, is surprisingly normal. Her desk looks like anyone else’s might. She has knickknacks. She has a to-do list, half crossed out. She has pictures.

I reach for one of the frames, even knowing I should leave them be. Most of them are of the same two people: a preteen girl and