Meet Me at the River (33 page)

“The second,” I say, “is about you and me. How we’ll always be you and me, no matter what happens, even if one of us is gone. I can mourn the loss of you, but I don’t have to mourn the loss of
us
, because that continues.”

He nods again, less slowly, and also—I think—less certain. This is a mission, a duty. He knows what he has
to do but feels no more certain than I about these messages.

“The last one,” I say, “is that it’s okay for me to move on, and love someone else.”

Luke stops nodding; his eyes become unfocused. He stares off over my shoulder. An expression that I can only call
pained
transforms his entire lovely face, and I’m afraid I’ve got that one wrong.

I touch my fingers to my lips, then press them against his. No feeling, just the sight of it. And I can’t ask forgiveness for what comes after, because I don’t have any choice. I can’t even call it a decision. It’s only what I do next.

I step forward. I don’t slide like he did, I don’t stumble. I spring from the balls of my feet and jump into the river. The water rises around me, and my head bobs above the current. I can’t believe the river’s strength, or its temperature, stronger and more frigid than I ever expected or knew.

From the banks I can hear his voice. Summoned one last time, for me. “Tressa,” he shouts. And then, the same running, springing step and splash.

The water is freezing. It pushes me under, then pulls me back up. I know what I have to do. I learned the lesson from watching Carlo and Luke. I saw the one who fought go under, and the one who gave in come out the other side. So I don’t move my arms or my legs, I don’t listen to what every last nerve or instinct screams to do, which is swim, fight, battle against the current. If
I fight to stay alive, I will die; wanting one will cause the other, and I don’t know what to do, because I don’t know what I want.

I feel rocks scrape my legs and arms. Every time I go under, at the very moment I think I will have to give in and breathe—filling my lungs with water—the current delivers me back to the top, the air, just long enough to take in a gulp of dry oxygen.

And then, very suddenly, I stop going under at all. Instead I float on top, like a kayak, facing upward, my head pointed downriver, my arms flung out at my sides. Not even feeling cold anymore, I watch the blue, blue sky moving over my head, along with the clouds and sun. The flickering pine needles and aspen leaves, the world up there and more, beyond it, everything I will never understand if I live to be a thousand years old.

And I
feel
them, his hands on my back, his body beneath me, holding me above the current, refusing to let me sink.

I don’t need to breathe. Water surrounds me for the last time. When we get to the calm it’ll finally be over.
Goodbye,
I say, but the words turn to bubbles in the current. Tressa gives in. She stops fighting. She’s going to live.

I am gone.

Once and for all, as I make this trip; I know that it wasn’t my fault, or my mother’s, or Paul’s or Carlo’s or Luke’s or anyone’s at all. The blame belongs to the wanting, and the longing, and the trying with all your might. And how can that possibly be avoided? By anyone?

I remember one version of death, the light and the tunnel and every departed loved one waiting there to greet you. I can’t know if that’s true. But I do know that when I survive this trip, there will be a line of beloved faces waiting for me somewhere on the other end—my mother, my grandparents, my sisters. H. J. and Evie.

A few minutes, a hundred years, a thousand. I float where the current stops, by the beaver dam, faceup, alone. If I feel sorry, it’s only for a moment. The sky above me so blue and harmless. The whole world, welcoming me back.

Good-bye
, I say, for the second time this year.
I will miss you my whole life
.

I climb out of the river. The light widens—my skin frigid and scraped, my bones aching, the familiar pain of resuscitation.

*   *   *

I walk up the river shivering, back to my postal bag, and trade my soaked T-shirt for the gray sweater. I take off my shoes and socks and perch them on a rock to dry.
Then I lie down on the bank for a long, long time, drying off in the increasingly hot sun. Finally the color of the light changes. The sun dries my skin, my shorts. It’s June after all, so night’s still a long way off. I stuff my socks into my bag and pull on my sneakers. They still squish, but I get to my feet and walk through the forest.

At home I stand under a hot, hot shower, then change into long sleeves and pants so my scrapes and bruises will not be visible. My grandparents give me their gift—a new camera. I take a picture of them, arms around each other, smiling at me. They’re still standing there when I put the camera down.

Birthday calls came while I was gone—from H. J. and Evie, my sisters, and Isabelle. Grandma asks me if I want to invite the Burdicks over to share the chocolate cake she baked. I say I’d rather be with just her and Grandpa. He plays my ukulele and they sing “Happy Birthday.” I blow out twenty candles, that lovely, traditional, optimistic wish.
To grow on.

*   *   *

The next day I walk through near-dawn, my sneakers still damp, a squeak in their soles that may never go away. When I get to the Burdick house, I’m surprised to see H. J. already awake, sitting on the front stoop, a steaming mug in his hand. He wears gray sweatpants and a faded lifeguard T-shirt. No glasses, but as I walk up, it looks like he recognizes me—my form, my outline—without squinting.

Birds make a racket all around us. We can hear the
frogs from Silver Lake, half a mile away. Morning light has yet to make itself apparent. I stand in mist left over from last night.

“Hi,” I say when I reach him. “You’re up early.”

“I had this feeling you were coming.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hands me his mug of coffee. I don’t take a sip but let my hands close around it, warmth pulsing into my palms.

“It’s not light yet,” he says. “Predators are still stirring. When are you going to learn not to wander around after dark?”

“Probably never,” I say.

He shrugs, giving up, and says, “Happy birthday, Tressa Earnshaw.”

“Thanks, H. J. Burdick.” I take a sip of coffee. It tastes thick, chalky, and good. It warms my bones, my body. H. J. watches me. I hand the mug back and sit down on the step beside him.

“Have you been thinking?” he asks me.

“I have.”

“It would be fun to travel together.”

“It would,” I agree.

“But you’re not ready to decide just yet.”

I stare out across his front yard. The sun has picked up steam. Before long it will shine brightly enough that puddles of sunlight will look like puddles of water. Yesterday I said good-bye. Honestly that feels like a big
enough decision to last a long while. I have started to feel certain that autumn won’t find me here in Rabbitbrush. But just now I can’t say which direction I’ll decide to take.

“I’m only nineteen,” I hear myself saying. My voice sounds lighter than it has in a very long time.

H. J. puts his arm around my shoulder. He moves slowly, not in any kind of a hurry. “That’s true,” he says. “You’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Oh, yeah? You said I only had to get through one more day
.”

“Well,” says H. J. “They have a way of mounting up. If all goes well.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his arm. It’s a good weight. H. J. and I watch as a small pack of mule deer clatter out of the woods across the street. Arapahoe Road at this hour—at most hours, really—is quiet enough for them to graze without being disturbed. It occurs to me that it’s been years since I drew a map of this road, and that I’m due for a new one. By now the houses represent such different things to me.

But that’s a project for another day. I take a sip of coffee. H. J. gets up and goes inside, probably to pour another cup for himself. I know he’ll be back in a minute, to sit here on the stoop with me. Later on plans will be made, and maps will be drawn. But right now I just want to watch those deer while the last bits of night fade away. Life can work itself out later.

I have all the time in the world.

I want to end there. I swear I do. But a part of me too will always be waiting.

That day by the river was Luke’s last. I know that. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned this past year, it’s that not everything we know turns out to be true.

I knew my mother would always keep moving. Then I knew for certain she had settled down. I knew Luke and I would always be together, and then I knew he was dead and never coming back. I knew I wanted to die. Now I know I want to live.

So I will travel this world with the best intentions. I will explore its countries and its continents. The sun will beat down on my head, and the ocean will wash over my feet.

Meanwhile hope will never entirely leave me. One
day I’ll be walking. Maybe there will be a premonition, or maybe he’ll take me by surprise. I might be hiking up the Jud Wiebe Trail, or by the Sustantivo River. I might be on a beach off the coast of Georgia, or a city street in Jerusalem. I will turn a corner. Luke will be there.

Tressa Gentle
, he’ll say.

The old joy will explode around us—firecrackers, a native dance. Saluting the universe and all its secret, pulsing possibility. And I won’t be able to help it.

I will run to him.

My agent Peter Steinberg not only championed this novel from its first draft, he came up with the title. I can never thank him enough for his tireless work, faith, and friendship.

I still have a hard time believing how much love and sweat Caitlyn Dlouhy poured into this story. I couldn’t have written it without her determination and vision. She is every writer’s dream editor.

Dr. Lori Birdsong helped me understand Tressa’s mental state and her treatment. Early readers—Danae Woodward, Daisy Barringer, and Kristina Serrano—gave me insight and encouragement. Bill Roorbach helped me with Luke’s voice. My mother, Carol de Gramont, proofread the galleys.

Cassie Wright was walking by a river on a November day in 1998 when her dog was swept away by the current. Cassie is always loved and dearly missed.

As always, all my love and many thanks to David and Hadley.

also by nina de gramont

every little thing in the world

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Copyright © 2013 by Nina de Gramont

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