Black River Falls by Jeff Hirsch(71)

Mom took hold of an edge of the dusty curtain and crimped it between her fingers.

“I was helping Fred cook once,” she said. “I went to chop some carrots, but as soon as my hand touched the knife, I started crying and I couldn’t stop. Every time I try to think about why, it’s like I can’t breathe.”

Tears came into her eyes. Outside the window Fred and some of their guests were clearing an area in the middle of the yard. Fred must have felt Mom looking at him, because he turned and waved expansively, like someone hailing a ship. She smiled and brushed away her tears.

“When I was first getting to know Fred, it was like . . . it was like I was walking by a pool on a summer day. I wanted to run right at it and dive into the deepest part without looking. Just to get cool as fast as possible, you know? I think maybe that’s how I did things before, but I didn’t want to do that with him. I eased in.” She smiled again. “As much as I could, anyway. Everything seems so simple now. We’re just happy. It’s like learning to walk. It seems so obvious once you know how.”

Mom swept away the last of her tears and then her hand fell to her side. I thought she was going to pull away when I took it, but she didn’t. Her fingers curled around mine and pressed into my palm.

“You were right,” I said. “We did know each other. Before.”

Mom didn’t say anything for a long time. She didn’t move. The air in the house became perfectly still. Outside, her friends seemed to move in slow motion.

“How?”

When I didn’t answer, she turned around.

“Will I be better off if I know?”

In that second it seemed like our whole life streamed by. Mom dancing. Mom bent over a garden washed in sunlight, her hands buried in the soil. Mom collapsed on her knees on the other side of your body.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

There was a round of applause outside, and then the musicians started to play. Fred lifted his arms and mimed a waltz, grinning up at the window. I let go of Mom’s hand.

“You should go,” I said. “You don’t want to miss your dance.”

Mom looked into a mirror that hung by the window and smoothed her hair. When she was done, she crossed to the porch door, pausing there with her palm pressed against the glass.

“Do you remember a game called Monopoly?”

I nodded.

“We have a tournament every Monday night,” she said. “Fred and I and our friends. Maybe you could join us sometime. And then we could talk more. The three of us. I think I’d like that. I think we both would.”

A chant started up outside. “Sa-ra! Sa-ra! Sa-ra!”

She smiled. “Guess that’s my cue.”

“Don’t worry about the dance,” I said. “You’re going to be great.”

“Fingers crossed.”

The crowd cheered as Mom went out the porch door and waved regally. I watched from the window as she descended the stairs, and then she and Fred moved out to the middle of the yard. At first Mom clutched at Fred, resting her head on his chest as he turned them through the grass and whispered in her ear. But then something seemed to ease in her, and her long legs swept across the grass, her toes pointed. Her chest rose and her head and shoulders fell back, making her body into this perfect swanlike curve. Fred responded immediately. His body straightened and lifted. It was as if the music had moved through the air and into Mom and then, through her, into him. Their bodies melded together and whirled through space, perfectly unmoored, gliding. As they came near the window, Mom looked up at me and smiled a radiant, laughing smile. The strangeness of it was overwhelming. It was her, but not her. It was then. It was before.

There was a buzz behind me. I returned to the kitchen and took the phone from my backpack. A text from Gonzalez: Front gate. One hour.

I stood in the kitchen imagining all the different ways my future could branch out from that single point. Go to the gate and leave Black River. Stay here with Mom and Fred. I saw the three of us sitting at the kitchen table with the Monopoly board between us. We’d play deep into the night and end up draped over the furniture in the living room, talking.

But then how long would it be before Mom asked about our life before? And then, how long until I told her? What good would it do, I wondered, to bring that old world into this one? Would she be any happier? Would any of us?

The music surged. I turned back to the window. The rest of the crowd had joined in the dance, making the backyard into a universe of spinning bodies. I caught one last glimpse of Mom and Fred, and then they vanished into it. It was a future that belonged to them and them alone. I had no right to take it away.

My phone buzzed again. There was one last thing I had to do before I left Black River. I lifted the backpack onto my shoulder and walked out the front door.



A few minutes later I was standing on our front lawn. It didn’t surprise me. By then the house’s ability to draw me back seemed perfectly natural. I climbed the porch steps and went inside, letting the same invisible hand that had guided me across Black River lead me up the stairs, past your room and mine and Mom and Dad’s. I didn’t stop until I came to Dad’s office.

The door was closed. Covered in months of dust that turned the white wood an ashy gray. I took hold of the cool metal knob. The works inside it creaked as the bolt drew back into its housing. A crack of light appeared between the wall and the door. I let go and it swung open. There was a sigh as the air trapped inside the room was released.