Into This River I Drown

I love you, Cal had said.

“I need to see him,” I mutter. “He needs me.” I make to get up from the bed, but my body is one gigantic ball of pain and I can barely move. I groan as I force my way through it, but my mother leaps up from the chair and pushes me back down.

“You need your rest,” she says sternly. “I swear to God, if you try to leave here and something happens to you because of it, I will never forgive you.”

“If he dies while I’m here,” I say to her coldly, “I will never forgive you.” And in my secret heart, I know this to be true, no matter how dark it makes me feel.

She flinches and looks away.

See me, I pray to him. Cal, see my thread. Please hold on. Please don’t leave me. I need you.

But anger continues to rise. At her. At my father. At God and Michael. And at Cal. Mostly, at him.

Sleep takes me only moments later.

Many people want to speak to me the next day. Doctors, therapists. Nurses and

radiologists. They all have questions as they poke and prod me, as they take my blood or wheel me down to yet another test. I’m lucky, I’m told repeatedly. Only a few more inches to the left, and the bullet would have pierced my heart. So lucky, they sigh. I could have died, they say in hushed voices. It’s a miracle.

Many people want to speak with me the next day, but none more than the FBI. Turns out a man named Teddy Earle was found wandering near Old Forest Highway with some surface burns on his skin. He was dazed and slightly confused. He said that his friend had been burned to a crisp, that his boss was gone when he awoke. He was taken to a clinic in Jackson County, and when they found crystal meth in his pocket, they called the police. Police came (thankfully, I was told, not the Douglas County Sheriff’s office) and Mr. Earle was interviewed. Turns out he had quite the tale to tell, dropping names most could not believe. A psychopath named Jack Traynor. A dead arrestee named Arthur Davis. An FBI agent named Joshua Corwin. A sheriff named George Griggs. A mayor of a small town named Judd Walken. The woman in charge named Christie Fisette.

And, of course, a man named Edward Benjamin Green. Big Eddie, to his friends.

The storm cleared and four different law enforcement agencies ascended the mountain to the caves Earle had pointed them to. They found remnants of a large methamphetamine operation up there. They found the body of Mr. Earle’s associate, a man named Horatio Macias. They found the body of one Abraham Dufree, pulled away into the forest. Eventually, they found the

body of George Griggs, who had drowned in the river, pinned up against a rock by a tree.

Mayor Walken fled the day of the storm. He made it as far as Glendale, forty miles down the road. His car was found overturned in the river. They thought he survived the impact, but might have drowned when the water rose too high. He must have lost control, they said.

Jack Traynor was found a day later, washed up on the banks down river five miles away.

My Aunt Christie was found the day before I woke up. Her body was deep in the woods, huddled up against a large rock. It was unclear exactly how she died, but most likely it was from exposure. It appeared she’d gotten turned around while trying to escape into the woods. Water, I was told, had filled her lungs. Like she had drowned. They didn’t know how that had happened.

I told those who asked what had happened, leaving Cal out of every part of it. I told them about Traynor trying to run us off the road. I told them how Abe had saved us by shooting Traynor in the head. I told them about how Griggs and my aunt had shown up only moments later. I told them about my meeting with Corwin, and how Griggs and Christie tried to use Abe to find out if I’d told anyone else. I’d told them, my voice breaking, how they’d shot Abe right in front of me.

I told them about my escape, the explosion, my run through the woods. I told them how Griggs had followed me, and that he shot me, only to slip and fall into the river. Did I remember who found me? No. Did I remember getting taken back into town? No. Did anyone in town remember who had brought me in?

Apparently no one did. Just some stranger, the agents were told. Some stranger who passed right on through and didn’t leave any information.

Small towns take care of their own.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” an agent named Nathan Rosado told me once the interview was done. “Most wouldn’t have gotten away like you did. You did a very brave thing, even if you had no business trying to go up there in the first place.” But his admonishment was soft, and I saw he was impressed. I knew I’d corroborated almost everything Mr. Earle had told them, and Agent Rosado told me that most likely I wouldn’t have to testify, seeing as how almost everyone involved appeared to be dead. “There will be more questions, though,” he said. “But those can wait for now.”

They left me alone after that, for a time. No one from town had been in my room to see me, though I knew some of them were nearby. I didn’t want to see them, not yet. I wasn’t ready to face the questions they would have, about the angel that slept in the church. I wasn’t ready for those questions, because I didn’t know what answers to give. I needed to see him first. I needed to get the fuck out of this damned hospital. I needed to see the man I loved.

And my anger grew.

These thoughts were interrupted when my mother came back into the room shortly after the FBI agent had left. It was only then that it hit me how hard this had to be on her as well. Not only had she lost her husband, she’d found out her sister had ordered it done. Whatever I was going through, she was experiencing almost the same. She looked tired, dark smudges circling her eyes. Her hair was frazzled and pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her clothes looked wrinkled and slept in.

I knew we were survivors, she and I. I knew we’d have to pick ourselves up from the dirt yet again. If we didn’t, then we’d be nothing and blow away. So much of life demanded sacrifice, I knew, and the only way to make it through was to take one step at a time, one day at a time. She needed me to help her back up, and I was the only person left who could.

So for the moment, I stopped planning my escape when she wasn’t looking. I stopped trying to figure out a way to get to Cal before the day was over. I started thinking about more than just myself and what I needed. She came back into my room and I opened my arms, and there was a stutter in her step, a frown on her face that turned into something more. She cracked and rushed over to me, and as she shattered, I ran my fingers through her hair and told her it’d be okay, that it’d be all right. I told her that even though it may not seem like it, one day, we’d be okay again.

There was a brief moment when I almost told her about seeing Big Eddie again. I opened my mouth to spill the words, wondering what, if any, comfort it might bring her. But a second later, I closed my mouth again. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel fair to her. I didn’t want her to know that he’d been trapped by the river for five years while trying to protect me. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something more. I don’t know. Maybe I will tell her. One day.

“How do you know?” she sobbed into me, clutching at my arms. “How do you know we’ll be okay? The world has gone to shit and everything is broken! How do you know? How do you know!”

“Because I have faith it will,” I whispered back. “And because I have faith in you. There’s no one I know who is stronger than you. It might be rough, and it might seem unfair, but we’ll be okay. I promise you we’ll be okay.”