The Rattled Bones(6)

But my dad is everywhere.

At the window, I let Reed gather me in his arms. He rests my head against his side as I tuck my knees into a ball, my body turned toward the water, the sea breeze. Dad’s dress jacket drapes over me, a blanket.

“You’re stoned,” I tell him, like he doesn’t already know. It’s a familiar fog that covers Reed’s eyes lately.

Reed twists a curl at my temple, lets the soft hair wrap around his finger like an eager vine. “Ayuh.”

“At the funeral too.”

“Had to be.”

The funeral took years, each moment stretching itself into a day. “Did you have to smoke? It felt”—feels—“disrespectful.”

“It’s a heavy day, Rill.” His words make a bullet of anger rise in me. Like I don’t know today is weighted with loss? But then he takes my hand and my fury gets pulled down, pushed away. If I don’t know how to deal with this kind of grief, how can I be mad at Reed for dealing in his own way?

“Rill?”

“I’m here.” I close my eyes to Reed’s rhythmic stroking of my temple, the way his fingers draw precise lines around my features. Memorizing me, he says. For when we can’t be together.

“Maybe today. Maybe all this happened—”

“Don’t.” My quick warning is a whisper, a plea. “Please.” Don’t tell me there’s reason in this.

I can’t hear again how much Reed wants me to stay in Maine, turn down my scholarship. He’s never understood that I need to study harder, work harder than the men here. Reed left high school midway through our junior year to get his GED because he was already making good money catching bugs. Fishing’s all he’s ever wanted to do, which is fine. I just don’t have the energy to fight over our future again.

“Okay.” Reed pulls me closer, his arm wrapped around my waist. “Let’s just sit here in the quiet.”

Yes. Quiet. “Quiet is good.”

He leans his head back against the window, exhales softly. Outside, the Rilla Brae bobs at the dock. The water is calm for the entire stretch of the inlet, as far as Malaga Island and beyond. These are the days my father wouldn’t fish. “Never trust a quiet sea, sunfish,” he’d say—each time sounding like the first time he was bestowing this bit of advice.

I feel my father here with us as I fix my eyes on the sea and watch an impossible tidal wave begin to grow off the shores of Malaga. The water rises, becomes a wall reaching for the sky. Higher, stronger, its frothed cliff edge as white as the clouds. My back straightens. The rogue wave builds. Hurries toward my house. Its blue swell charges at us as if we are its target. I bolt upright and press my palms against the window, try to push back the water. The enormous wave slaps at the lawn, lunges toward the house.

I claw at Reed.

A scream rips from my throat, fills my ears.

The pelting spray crashes against my second-story window, hard as hail. The bullets of water drive me backward as wind squeals through the window’s frame. I trip to the floor, screaming. The gust carries a northeast chill that traps ice in my bones.

The air is as cold as death.

Then there is Reed’s voice, his strong arms shaking me. “Rilla?” His eyes are wide, so alert now. “What’s wrong?”

Reed. I scramble to my feet. “You’re okay.” My words mumble with disbelief. I dash to the window. “The wave, the—” The aftermath steals my thoughts.

The Rilla Brae buoys gently in the sleeping current. Unharmed.

I press my hand to the windowpanes, matching my fingers to the prints I left only seconds ago. The glass shimmers in the mid-June sun. Dry. “The water. It rose up over the lawn.”

Reed’s hand meets my back in a way that suggests he’s holding me upright. “Water?”

I point as Reed gazes out over our quiet yard. Our dry lawn. “Didn’t you . . . ?”

My memory hears my dad answer before my question can fully pass my lips: “It’s been a longer day than any twenty-four hours has a right, Rilla. A mind can bend with exhaustion.”

My father’s right. Even now, he’s right.

“Everything’s okay.” Reed presses his hand against the small of my back. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” But I sense how he’s trying to make sense of this strangeness in me. And I feel his distance, how he doesn’t gather me to his side.

“Tomorrows always arrive lighter,” my father says. Said.

It’s the first time I don’t believe him.





CHAPTER THREE


I fear I’ll never know deep sleep again.

Reed convinced me that yesterday’s vision was the fallout of insomnia: nightmares visiting in full view of the sun. I can’t shake the fear that it was something more. I should have asked him to stay with me last night—for protection or comfort. Or both. But independence was drilled into me early. I have a hard time asking anyone for help, even if it is Reed and I really needed it.

I crawl out of bed and layer for the sea. T-shirt. Leggings. Fleece. My bright orange Grundens are on a hook upon the Rilla Brae, like always, even though I won’t need my rubber overalls or my all-weather jacket today. It’ll be different this winter. I won’t be able to pull on enough layers. If I stay.