It seems to take forever, but the woman finally nods. “They’re out at the end of Lakeshore Drive. ”
I can’t help smiling. I even laugh a little, though it sounds hysterical. “Thanks. ”
I limp out of the diner. I am in my car, easing away from the curb when I realize I didn’t ask for directions.
But my heart will lead me. I’m sure of it.
I drive out along the park to the old highway.
And keep going.
There’s no turn off where I remember.
I drive all the way to Forks before I finally turn around. On the way back, I study every sign carefully, slow down at every one. In the old part of Rain Valley, the houses are tiny and crammed together; the streets are named after trees. None of them is Lakeshore Drive. The sun is lower in the sky now; the streets are slowly fading into shadow. There are no street lamps out here, no sign of people.
I am about to turn around again when I see a small green marker that points to Spirit Lake.
A shiver moves through me at the name. I follow the road out of town. I haven’t gone more than a mile when I come to a barricade that reads: “Danger: High Water. ” The river has exceeded its banks and washed out a portion of the road. At least a foot of brown water runs across the asphalt.
I pull off the side of the road and park.
What now?
Is it a sign, this flooded road? Am I not supposed to go down to the lake?
Or am I supposed to walk? There’s a strange pull in me at that answer. I walked here once, if the magic is real.
Maybe I need to repeat history to find my present. I can’t help noticing that there’s a huge, skinned log lying along the edge of the road. A woman with a cane could walk across that, if she wanted to.
I am crazy. Even by my own standard, and God knows my threshold has fallen to almost nothing these days.
As I sit there, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the ruined road, my cell phone rings. I know without looking at the number who it is. “Hey, Stacey,” I answer.
“I’ve been calling for an hour. ”
“It’s no-man’s-land out here. I’m surprised there’s service. You should see this place, it’s . . . ”
“I don’t want a travelogue. Well?”
I am afraid to put it into words, this fragile impossible hope of mine, and more afraid not to. The split between what I imagined and what I now see throws me into a kind of tailspin; I don’t know what to think. “I’m parked on Lakeshore Drive. The woman at the diner said Daniel and Bobby O’Shea live at the end of the road. ”
“Wow,” Stacey says sharply. “Is it them?”
“I hope so. Who knows? I could be Brad Pitt/Twelve Monkeys crazy. I’m probably still in the airport, sitting in my seat, drooling. ”
“You’re not in the airport drooling. I watched you board the plane. ”
“You were there?”
“I didn’t think you’d be able to do it. ”
“Yeah, well, I’m stronger than I used to be. ” As I say the words, I realize the truth of them. I am stronger now. Strong enough to reach for this dream . . . and strong enough to handle disappointment.
What matters is that I’ve finally made a move. Whether Daniel and Bobby are real or not, I belong here. Soon I will have over two hundred and ninety thousand dollars in the bank. That definitely gives me the freedom I need to start over somewhere. And this is where I want to be.
I look through the windshield. No raindrops blotch the glass. “It’s time,” I say to Stacey.
“Don’t you vanish on me. ”