The River's Edge

Praise for The River’s Edge
. . .

“Such a fresh voice . . . a lovely, painful, powerful
coming of age story.  Truly chilling and captivating.” — Diane Les Becquets,
best-selling author of
Breaking Wild

“In a voice reminiscent of Scout in
To Kill A
Mockingbird
, Tina Sears evokes striking physical and emotional landscapes
that are rife with danger and secrets. It’s a marvel to witness her characters
navigate this world that Sears has created for them.” — Wiley Cash, New York
Times bestselling author of
A Land More Kind Than Home
and
This Dark
Road to Mercy,
William Morrow/HarperCollinsPublishers

“Sears has written a hard-hitting coming of age novel
that pulls the curtain off of family secrets and shame. She lovingly captures
the innocence of the time, and then swiftly and honestly shows the darker side
of it.” — Jo Knowles, author of
Read Between the Lines

“Tina Sears is a brave and compassionate writer with a
vital story to tell. I believe this will be a book with the power to heal.” —
Mitch Wieland, author of
God’s Dogs

“Tina Sears tackles a tough subject, having written
about the thievery of innocence. If there was ever any doubt about the need to
tell about such a crime, it is dispelled in this lovely
coming of age story set in the 1970s.” — Laurie Salzler, au
thor of
After a Time

The River’s Edge

Tina Sears

© 2016 Tina
Sears

All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced
or transmitted in any means,

electronic
or mechanical, without permission in

writing from
the publisher.

This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products
of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely

coincidental.

ISBN
978-1-943837-40-3 paperback

ISBN
978-1-943837-41-0 epub

ISBN
978-1-943837-17-5 mobi

Cover Design

by

Bink Books
YA

a division
of

Bedazzled
Ink Publishing, LLC

Fairfield,
California

http://www.bedazzledink.com

Forced
to spend the summer of 1976 with relatives, Chris Morgan faces many challenges.
Her mom and dad are splitting up and she hates being away from them. Now she
has to make some tough choices about what she knows is right or giving in to
the expectations of her new friends. Surrounded by the danger of the river and
the shadows of her family’s past, Chris realizes her carefree childhood is
ending.

Dedicated to Katie Gnadt,
who kept my head above water until I could swim again.

She makes everything
possible.

Acknowledgments

Behind every
novel is an author—the one who writes the
words,
but there are many behind the scene in guiding a sto
ry. Thanks to Sharon
Killian, therapist extraordinaire, who set my truth on fire and chased the
monsters away. I would also like to thank Jo Knowles, who helped me find my
emotional truth, Wiley Cash, who helped me find my voice, and to Mitch Wieland,
who set me in the right direction. Also thanks to Diane Les Becquets for
encouraging me to be brave and the rest of the MFA writing community of
Southern New Hampshire University. Special thanks to C.A. Casey and Claudia
Wilde for their dedication to literary fiction that celebrate the unique and
under-represented voices of women. Thank you to my first readers, Jackee Alston
and Rebekah Aidukaitis, and to my sisters Lepha Sears and Becki Carlysle for
shared stories.

Chapter One

Baptism

WHEN MY DAD left, Mom said he would come back to us, but I said I
would believe it when I saw the whites of his eyes. I knew my dad was as
reliable as a fart in a windstorm. He was a good dad when he was around, but he
travelled a lot for his job. He would always bring me some sort of special gift
when he returned. Something good, too. Not like some old crappy prize you get
in a Cracker Jack box. One time he gave me a pen that had four different color
inks. It had black, red, blue, and purple. Purple! My favorite color. It wasn’t
a girlie pink or a boyish blue, it was a color that rebelled.

I immediately grabbed my diary so I could write my life down in
purple ink. Somehow it seemed that purple would make what I wrote down more
exciting, like I was writing a Broadway musical.

But I guess he took one trip too many because he never showed up
after the last one. That was nine months ago. After that, it seemed like a
sadness fell over my mother that she never could shake. I was different. He
disappeared right out of my life like a cruel magic trick and I didn’t know how
to bring him back, so I learned how to live without him, how to block my heart.

After he left it didn’t seem appropriate to write in purple ink
anymore, so I just wrote in black and blue because that’s how I felt inside,
all bruised up. When I really wanted to spill my guts, I wrote in red. So when
Mom told me that I had to spend the summer with my relatives in Ohio, my diary
looked more like a bloody crime scene than a field of lavender.

The first month after my dad left, Mom would jump when the
telephone rang and answer it on the first ring, hoping it was him. But it never
was. As time passed, she gave up answering the phone altogether because no one
ever called except bill collectors. Lately when she smiled, she had a stare
that looked far beyond me. The darkness that sometimes strangled her for days
at a time had taken a stronger hold of her, and now she was sending me away for
the summer because of it. Of course she didn’t say it was because of that, but
I knew. I knew deep down in my heart and I was afraid for her. I was afraid for
myself.

One of my earliest memories of my parents together was at our
house. We were in the front yard sitting on a blanket, having a picnic. My mom
sang to me while she brushed my hair, and I blew dandelion puffs at my dad. But
that was a long time ago, and I knew he was gone for good.

Now, as Mom backed out of the driveway, I took
one last look at our house. It was no longer a home, but an empty, sad place.

“I don’t understand why I have to spend the
whole summer away,” I said to Mom as we hit the road. “I won’t get to hang out
with my friends.” I said
friends
but Lisa was my only friend. We were
The Loners and didn’t fit in with the cool people.

“Plus, I won’t be able to swim on the team.”

“They have a pool. Besides, this is a good year for you to visit
your cousins. On the Fourth of July, there will be an extra special celebration
because of the bicentennial.”

“They have fireworks here, too, Mom.” I was having what my mom
called an “attitude problem.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen with your Dad being gone. I
have to figure some things out.” She paused. She rarely spoke about him to me
anymore. “Besides, your aunt and uncle agreed to take care of you and that’s
final.”

I sat in the passenger seat with my arms folded across my chest.
The morning sun fought to find us through the tall trees as Mom navigated
through the country. Shady areas were interrupted by splashes of sunlight,
moving too quickly for my eyes to adjust. I closed them, but the sun was so
bright, I could still see the strobe light affect through my eyelids.

I gave her The Silent Treatment. I had never been away from my mom
and I wasn’t looking forward to it now. But I also knew she was in a tight spot
since Dad left, and that I should give her a break. I was what you call
“conflicted” about the whole thing.

After an hour’s drive, I saw a sign pass by quickly. “You are now
leaving Virginia.”

Virginia. Where I grew up and my family broke apart.

My mom saw the sign too and she reached over and touched my knee.
“Come on, you can’t be mad at me the whole trip. We still have a long way to
go.” She turned up the radio and started singing.

The memory of my mother singing to me as a child washed over me
and loosened me up a bit. I loved her voice. I loved her. I could never stay
mad at my mom for very long. I chimed in and after a chorus or two, we were
like two kittens rolling in the grass again. When the Bee Gees came on the
radio, we started to sing about mending our own broken hearts. Each sharp note
cutting through me as I sang the words, asked the question, “Why does the sun
keep on shining?”

The music filled up all the empty space between us. It felt good
to sing out loud, my voice pushing up from my lungs. It was everything that I
couldn’t say and everything I wanted to say at the same time.

We sang and sang, and pretty soon, I wasn’t just singing any more,
I was yelling too, because I wanted to get rid of the bruises inside. And Mom
started to sing-yell with me. We were singing like two crazy people. I think it
helped her release some of the hurt she was feeling inside. I never felt closer
to her.

After singing my guts out, I felt exhausted, so I laid my head
against the warm window and fell asleep.

When I woke up, it felt like we had been in
the car forever. We finally reached Cincinnati a few hours later and pulled off
the interstate.

The two-way street started getting narrow as we headed into the
country, and by the time we took a sharp right, the corn fields were closing in
on us from both sides. The ears of corn bent their heads toward us as we passed
by, bowing. There was barely enough room for one car, and if we encountered any
oncoming traffic, we surely would be hugging the edge of the road to let them
pass.

The sign that governed the entrance to the camp greeted us. It
read, “Shady Grove” in big, hand-painted letters, and in smaller letters
beneath it, “Private.” We followed the one way dirt road with cottages on
either side of us. Most had screened-in porches with cheerful outdoor lights
strung along the top of them.

Two blocks later we reached Uncle Butch’s cottage. It was wooden
like the rest of them, and the white paint was chipping. It looked like all the
other cottages in the place. They were small, one story cottages, each on a
square of land with dirt roads cutting them into little fudge squares. The yard
was only big enough for an old oak tree and a picnic table.

The cottage was my grandmother’s, and both my mom and uncle
inherited it when she passed on. They had grown up here during the summers in
this place with few modern amenities. It had a washing machine but not a dryer,
and you had to hang the wet clothes on a clothesline in the yard. When Uncle
Butch married, he bought a house in Mount Adams, a subdivision just fifteen
minutes away. Nevertheless, he never abandoned the childhood home he shared
with my mother. His family moved into the cottage at the beginning of each
summer and stayed until school started again in the fall.

There wasn’t a driveway at Uncle Butch’s cottage, so Mom pulled up
in front of the screened-in porch as close as she could. When I opened my door
it bumped up against the cottage and I had a hard time getting out of the car.

“They’re here!” Aunt Lori’s voice sang out.

My cousin Wendy greeted me with a big smile.
“Hey, Chris.”

“Hey,” I said, a little nervous.

Although my cousin and I had written letters to each other, this
was the first time I’d seen her since we moved to Virginia four years ago. I
examined her for signs of maturity in her deep-dimpled cheeks and
root-beer-colored eyes.

My aunt hugged my mother. “You made it! It’s so good to see you
again.”

I reached in the trunk for my suitcase. I tried to hold my hand
steady, forcing a smile.

My aunt walked up to me and hugged me tight, surprising me a
little. Then she uncurled my knuckles from the handle of my suitcase. “Wendy,
take this into the bedroom for Chris, would you, honey?”

Wendy took the suitcase and disappeared inside the cottage.

My aunt put her arm around my shoulders and scooped me up to her.
My face was smashed up against her breast. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen
you. How are you doing?” She certainly was very enthusiastic.

She let me go so I could answer. “I’m doing okay.”

“Just okay?” She hugged me tight again. “We’re going to have to do
something about that.”

After she released me from her bear hug, she touched my mom’s
shoulder. “How are you feeling these days?”

“Oh,” my mom sighed heavily, “I have good days
and bad.” Lately it seemed like all her days were bad, but I didn’t say
anything.

Wendy returned and leaned into me. “Come on, I want to show you
something.”

“Don’t go near the river girls,” my aunt called out to us as we
left.

Wendy and I followed a dirt road that was muddy and full of pot
holes. Then we crossed a grassy field until we reached a row of trees. We
slipped between an opening of an overgrown path, barely visible from the
cottage.

The underbrush bared its thorns as we ducked under them at the
beginning of the path. We made our way downhill through scrub, across twisted
roots, and into a section of pine trees. The pine scent was like perfume and
the sprawling limbs spread over the top of us like a canopy.

The afternoon was alive with the smell of the Ohio River, of mud
and honeysuckle so sweet I could taste it in my mouth. It reminded me of home,
of how my mom taught me to pinch the flower and lick the nectar from the bulb.
The sun-drenched river glowed like fire, and the expanse of water between us
and the other side seemed like an eternity.

I stood beside Wendy on the edge of the river. “God! I can see
forever,” I panted, half winded from the walk, half breath-taken by the view. I
saw something jutting out from the middle of the water.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Slippery Rock,” my cousin whispered, as if uttering the name
alone would cause something dreadful to happen.

“Does anyone ever swim out to it?” I asked.

“Too dangerous. Last time someone tried, the
only thing that was found of her was that shoe,” Wendy said, pointing to a tree
right on the edge of the water. A muddy red tennis shoe was nailed to its
enormous trunk, a reminder of the river’s strength.

“No way. You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t even know how to swim.”

“Maybe I can teach you how this summer,” I said in a feeble
attempt to connect with her.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She shrugged.

My cousin and I were like two people standing on opposite sides of
the river, recklessly leaning forward to speak to each other. The great
distance between us made me homesick, and the summer was just beginning.

“Is this the river we’re not supposed to be near?” I asked.

“Yeah, this is it.”

“Then why are we here? You must love danger.”

“Not really. This is where Julie and the gang hang out. They’re
the only ones because they’re the popular kids and have claimed this spot as
their own. Everyone else is afraid of them. But not me. I used to hang out with
them.”

“Used too? What happened?”

“Last year, the boys really started liking Julie, and she didn’t
want me around anymore. But I want back in to the group and this is my chance.”

I followed Wendy over to a log and sat down
next to her. We both had on tank tops, but mine was green to match my eyes.

“I like your hair like that,” I said. “It’s grown since the last
time I saw you.” We both had long blond hair but mine was pulled back in a
ponytail and hers was hanging over her shoulder like angel hair pasta.

“Thanks. My mom said I could grow it out on account of my ears.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, my left ear is growing faster than my right and I’m
lopsided. So I’m growing my hair longer to cover it up.” Wendy stood up and
pulled back her hair. “See?”

“You’re not lopsided.”

“I think I might have a brain tumor.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

“My mom’s sister died from a brain tumor and I have the same blood
as her. It’s possible.”

“Sorry,” I said, glad I wasn’t related to her aunt.

I heard a girl’s voice from the path. “Because I said so.”

Wendy tapped my arm excitedly. “Julie’s coming.”

A few seconds later Julie appeared. Four boys stood behind her
like loyal subjects.

She was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Her fine blond-brown
hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but the wisps at her hairline escaped,
curling across the sides of her face. Her hair looked like the color of coffee
with too much cream. Her eyebrows were two curves, like a child’s drawing of a
seagull in flight, and her lips seemed so full I thought it might take some effort
to keep them closed. When she ran her tongue over them, the sun sparkled on the
moisture.