The Singing River

The Singing River

By R.K. Ryals

Copyright © 2013 Regina K. Ryals

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To my dad, who sadly passed away while I was working on this project. Through the good times and the bad, you were loved. You are one of the strongest men I have ever known. Even in the end when you were allowed to be weak, you were strong. You have taught me about strength and about determination. You pushed me to always do better and to never settle. A scarred man of war, you also taught me about endurance. I am proud to be your daughter. Semper Fi, Dad. I love you.

Acknowledgements

Writing a book is like climbing a mountain. You start at the bottom, and as you climb, you need equipment to help you get to the top. This book would not be what it is without the people who helped me along the way, who encouraged me, pushed me, and helped me craft this book into something I am proud of. To my husband for his continued dedication, his shoulder when I needed it, and his unending love. To my family, my children and
 
my sisters for being who you are. To Audrey Welch, who not only encourages me but inspires me, who pushes me off the ledge when I’m afraid to jump. To Christina Silcox, my personal assistant extraordinaire, who tirelessly promotes, reads, laughs, and cries with me during a project. You have no idea what that means to me. We go through a lot of coffee together and a lot of phone calls to get through a project. You are amazing! To Melissa Ringsted, who edits tirelessly. I love the way you devote yourself to a project, to making it the very best that it can be. The book would not be what it is without your skill. Most of all, thank you for your patience and your kindness. You have become a true friend. To Melissa Wright, who is not only a beautiful author, but an awesome friend. The teddy bears you sent to me during this project brought tears to my eyes. I hugged them often. To Bree High, for your beautiful words and digital hugs during my father’s passing. It meant more than you will ever know. To Jodie O’Brien, for always getting so excited about each new project I have coming out. It makes writing so much more thrilling! To Pyxi Rose, whose messages and heartfelt conversations dug their way into my heart. You are loved! To Heather Savage, my new author friend who has made me laugh on countless nights with her messages. You are brilliant. To my amazing group of beta readers, who not only read but discuss my books with me. To Nanette Bradford, Ashley Ubinger, Derinda Love, Amy McCool, Jessica Johnson, Lisa Markson, Debbie Poole, Crystal Martin, Linda Terutty, Jill Zimmerman, Kate Wilson, Julie Bromley, Heather Andrews, Katherine Pegg Eccleston, Julia Roop, Mary Barscz, Merisha Abbot, Allison Potter, and Alexis O’Shell. I know I am forgetting some, and for that I apologize. All of you mean so much to me! To all of the bloggers out there who promote me and message me. You are all so amazing! And a very special thank you
 
to Regina Wamba, who gave this book its amazing cover. This cover spoke to me. It captured the essence of a book that has been haunting my brain and my heart for a while. It has become the living entity of an entire piece of work, and for that, I take my hat off
 
to you. Thank you so much.

And finally, to the fans. Your words, your encouragement, your discussions, and your excitement thrill me. You make every morning sitting at my computer with a cup of coffee a joy and an adventure. Your messages mean so much. I promise I read every review, good or bad, and I walk away from it knowing so much more. Your words are always brilliant, and your opinions are always highly respected. Massive hugs to all of you!

Chapter 1

Haven

There was an orange flicker in the darkness, a brief glow that robbed the night of its cover before extinguishing. It was demonic that glow, full of anxiety and beasts of burden. A glow, a sigh, and then nothing.

“You should be sleeping,” a heavily accented voice called into the darkness.

The glow again. A sigh. Nothing.

The heat in the single wide trailer was uncomfortable, the air conditioning having expired as it often did in the worst part of summer. I pulled at my black T-shirt, my fingers clinging to the broken up faces of the Beatles. The shirt was full of holes and came down to my knees. There were no pants. It was too hot for pants.

“
You’re
awake,” I replied.

The orange glow was brighter this time, the sigh louder, and I could smell the smoke as my mother leaned forward in her threadbare, red recliner. It was all the invitation I needed, and I crept forward, digging myself next to her in the small space, my sweat-dampened, sandy hair trailing onto her moist skin. She puffed on her cigarette, and the glow lit up the frames of her glasses.

“Too hot to sleep,” Mom said.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, my head falling to her shoulder. Her head dropped on top of mine, a comfortable weight marred only by the way her arms shook beneath my cheek. Even without light, I knew she cried. My eyes focused on other things, moving to the window just above our brown, springy couch. A red dot blinked in the darkness beyond, black shapes waving in front of it, trees attempting to obscure a radio tower in the distance. I counted the blinks.

“Remember,” Mom breathed, “hope is never lost, it’s just misplaced.”

The blinking light mesmerized me, eerie and beautiful in the darkness. Crickets chirped in the yard beyond, their cries rising in a loud crescendo. There was truly never any silence in Mississippi. When humans said nothing, bugs spoke.

“You’re a poet now,” I teased.

Mom’s breathing was ragged, tears welling up at the back of her throat.

“No,” she murmured, “but you are.”

I froze. Mom knew I lived and breathed my books, my journals full of stories. They were an anchor in a sea of chaos. She also liked to read, and devoured books despite never having finished high school.

My arm tightened around her waist, my head turning into her side. “No poet,” I mumbled into her shirt. She smelled like nicotine, hairspray, and Charlie perfume. It was her smell; Mom’s smell. No one else’s. I breathed it in.

“Don’t let life rob you of everything you are.” Her words were fierce and passionate when she spoke, but low, as if speaking too loud would make her voice crack, would bring sobs she wouldn’t be able to stop.

I cried for her, careful to keep my shoulders from shaking. There was too much sweat for her to recognize the dampness as tears.

The chair squeaked as Mom stood, gently pulling me away from her.

“Long day tomorrow,” she said.

I nodded into the darkness. Mom loved to hug, loved to hold, but loathed weakness and pity. She stroked my hair, leaning down to kiss my forehead, her smoky breath fanning my face before she retreated to her small bedroom. I stayed on the recliner, my eyes on the window, my feet tucked beneath me.

The tower blinked at me. Crickets cried. Somewhere a dog barked. A gust of wind lifted a portion of the trailer’s tin roof, causing a ghostly whistle that always preceded a small storm. And still, the radio tower blinked.

“I look into the eyes of the world,” I whispered, “and what do I see?”

Lightning streaked across the ebony sky just beyond the tower, briefly lighting up the trees surrounding it.

“I see the eyes of the world,” I continued, “looking back at me.”

The world had damning eyes.

Chapter 2

River

“I hate it!”

The yell was loud even from the front lawn. I stepped out of my car, my arm resting on the roof of the sleek, black Mustang. My eyes landed on a massive, white-washed colonial that had been in my family for generations. It was white even in the dark, every window lit up in the night. Lightning flashed through murky clouds above the house’s roof, highlighting the four white columns in front, the massive door, and its eye-like windows. The house watched me, like it wanted to breathe but was holding its breath for something. A strong wind ruffled my hair before moving to the wooden swing on the wraparound porch, its chains creaking as it rocked back and forth. The air smelled like rain.

“You don’t even try!” an angry, female voice shrieked.

Something shattered inside the diningroom.

I stuffed my hands into my blue jean pockets, my eyes following the two shapes circling each other beyond a large picture window covered in sheer lace. Some things never change.

Crash!

 
Reaching into the Mustang’s back seat, I grabbed a large red duffel bag, hefting it over my shoulder before heaving a long suffering sigh. Marissa didn’t get angry, she got downright livid. Bonnie, the woman who cleaned the house three times a week, had started moving fake, cheap ceramics down onto tables and hutches in an attempt to save anything antique, all the while muttering, “Pity the glass that enters this home.”

This was the reason I was completely unfazed when a grotesque, misshapen clown flew over my head as I opened the door, meeting its demise in three large pieces on the wooden floor in the front hall.

“The clown did it in the foyer with a wrench,” I called out, one hand up in a gesture of surrender.

A petite blonde-haired woman in a flowing blue dress swiveled, the back of her neatly pinned hair replaced by blazing blue eyes.

“You talk to him!” Marissa bellowed.

I eyed the culprit in question, my lanky younger brother, with a half-amused expression.

“Nice to see you too, Marissa.”

My stepmother paused, her fluttering hands going to her neck as she blew at her hair. “I’m sorry, River. It’s nice to have you home.” She exhaled, her shoes clicking as she moved in to give me a brisk hug. Her head came just under my chin in her heels. “Really, it’s good to see you.”

The hug was over as quick as it had begun, the scent of her perfume the only thing remaining where she’d stood.

“Now, talk to your brother.” She waved something in my face, and I grabbed for it. One look, and I groaned before glancing at Roman.

“It’s pointless anyway,” Roman groused. The petulance in his tone was obvious, his stormy eyes locked on mine. He was daring me to argue.

At seventeen, Roman was two years younger than me. He was carefree and careless, having broken as many bones figuratively as he had literally. It had gotten worse after our father died.

I dropped my duffel bag. “This is summer school?”

I looked at Marissa. She shrugged as if to say, ‘See what I mean?’

My gaze met my brother’s. Neither one of us said anything, but the words were there.

“Why?”
my gaze asked.

Out of the two of us, I had shouldered the responsibility of being the blue-blooded, competent son so Roman wouldn’t need to do anything other than finish highschool before moving on to his college of choice, majoring in anything he wanted to major in. I was stuck in an Ivy League school studying a major I hated. For Roman.

His eyes slid from mine.

Marissa shook her fist. “Now tell him what you do with your free time,” she growled. My gaze moved between them. “Tell him about the girl you got pregnant.”

Roman shoved away from the wall and rushed past us. A ceramic cat shattered near his feet on the stairs, its decapitated head rolling onto a rug at the bottom.

My brows rose. “That helps nothing,” I said.

Marissa huffed. “It helps me.” She stared at the stairs, her eyes weary. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

Reaching out, I placed a hand on her shoulder. Marissa wasn’t a bad woman. She’d married my father five years after my mother passed away; I was twelve at the time, Roman ten. We’d given her hell the first year, trying everything in our power to make her leave. We hadn’t wanted anyone new in our lives, but she’d proven to be made of much thicker stuff than glass, unmovable and stubborn. She had a temper, but she had a soft side, too.

A truce came in poison ivy. Roman and I had rubbed the stuff all over her clothes, and through some celestial injustice, had been affected by the plant, too. For a week, Marissa, Roman, and I lounged in the house passing around a massive bottle of calamine lotion. In some weird way, it turned into a ritual of acceptance.

“He got someone pregnant?”

Marissa sniffed. “She had a miscarriage, but yes. He drinks, too. There’s only so much I can do aside from locking him in his room or super gluing a condom to his penis.”

I choked. “God, Marissa!”

She threw her hands up. “Well, you tell me what I’m supposed to do. You two didn’t come with instruction manuals, you know.”

She bent, gathering up several large pieces of glass. I knelt down to help her, my eyes watching the stairs.

“I’ll stay for the summer,” I said.

Marissa’s head shot up. “Really?”

The relief in her voice was obvious.

“It’s what I always wanted out of my summer vacation,” I teased. “Super glue and condoms.”

A smile broke out across Marissa’s face. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I do my best.”

She watched me.

“You remind me of your father,” she murmured.

I turned away. Marissa was young, maybe thirty-five at most. She’d been twenty-eight when she’d married my father. He’d been twenty years her senior, and even though her family was old money, the age difference had turned a few heads. Marissa always said it was his humor and charm that did it. It didn’t hurt that at forty-eight, my father had still looked in his early thirties.

Marissa coughed. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re staying. “

She sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Her hand was still holding the glass, and her dress was riding up her legs. It wasn’t a seductive move, it was a tired one. I sat next to her.

Her eyes slid to my profile. “How’s school?”

“Dull,” I answered. “Nothing as exciting as Roman’s year.”

Marissa laughed at that. “You were always the level-headed one, way too serious as a child.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I didn’t.

“There’s more glass,” I pointed out, standing.

Marissa waved her hands. “I got that. Harvard’s a long way from home. Go rest.”

I should have argued, but disagreeing with Marissa was like arguing with a brick wall. Grabbing my duffel bag, I dumped the glass I had in a wastebasket and headed for the stairs. Roman was irresponsible, but deep down I had to admit there was something tantalizing about living life on the edge, no cares other than yourself. Living for others was harder.