The River at Night(54)

We all laughed even though it hurt physically to do so; my ribs and back felt beat-up and sore. Dean watched us intently. He wore a look of confused delight when he saw us laugh, but lost no time in getting us on the raft. He motioned for me to climb aboard first. I waded out to where it rested in hip-high water, jigged and jagged by the mild current, and jimmied myself onto the thing, finally rolling onto it. Because it barely sank under my weight, I stupidly tried to stand, but lost my balance immediately and dropped to my knees, where I stayed until everybody else got on. Rachel, Pia, and Sandra climbed on more cautiously and settled, grinning like idiots as though we were already saved.

From the shore, Dean loosened the rope. Gripping the line, he freed the raft from the waist of the tree, dropped back into the water, and waded out toward us. Here the river flowed as if asleep, like something that only dreamed of violence and churning waters and death. He pushed himself up and lifted his slim body aboard.

We floated. The river bulged out in gentle turns like a fat snake dozing in the sun. Evening had begun to smoke up the air, and I put it at something like seven by the plush feel of the river and orange--lit water. I took off my life jacket, bunched it up for a pillow, and lay down. Smiling, Pia and Sandra joked about what a good idea I had and lay down to either side of me. Some kind of flower graced the breeze, so sweet I tried to breathe in more than out—a wild honeysuckle or clematis or phlox, I’ll never know. I just know that for a time I forgot to be afraid.

Dean knelt at one end of the raft, busy untying something, and I realized a flat section of wood had been lashed to the main body, and that it was a crudely hewn oar. He got to his feet, keeping us on course like a gondolier. I turned onto my stomach on the rough bark, letting my fingers trail into the current, and thought about how this easy, mild water was the same water that had killed Rory and nearly drowned us all.

Sandra lay next to me, her head resting on her arms, half-asleep. She blinked slowly and with a little half smile said, “I feel like Huck Finn.”

The last words she would ever say.

A small, bloodless hole appeared above her right eye. Her face went slack, but her eyes stayed open, watching me, her mouth finishing the word Finn. Then she lay motionless. A popping sound ricocheted from across the river, then another, and another, like distant fireworks. High-pitched whistling sounds. Water dimpled to the right of the raft, as if it were raining. I still hadn’t put it together until, viscerally, I did. Bullets.

I heard screaming. It was me.

I knew Loo was dead but rolled her on her back and shook her and screamed her name anyway. I shoved my hands in her armpits and tried to lift her. No idea why. I was out of my mind. I had no plan. Pia cowered by me, her mouth open in horror as Rachel scrambled to her feet and began shouting something, but there was only a rushing quiet in my ears; I couldn’t understand the words. Sandra’s head lolled back and to one side, and I felt her body absorb the almost soft, sickening impact of two more bullets before I let her go.





37


A vise-strong arm hooked around my waist and wrenched me from Sandra—jerked me up so hard I saw white stars of pain burst in the deep blue sky moments before I crashed into freezing water. For the first few moments of shocking cold, I could not orient myself, I only knew I had to swim underwater as far and as fast as possible. Turning, I gazed up at the black square that was the raft, sunlight glinting down around it through tea--colored water, and at the skittering lines the bullets made as they rammed into the surface then slowed and sank, twirling harmlessly down into the depths. But where was the shore? Which way should I swim?

I felt a rush of water behind my head. Rachel’s feet frog-kicked as she swam, her shorts and tank top billowing out underwater, black hair waving. She began to surface but fought it. Rolling, bubbles silvering out of her mouth, she struggled to unsnap and free herself from her life vest, which floated up like an orange balloon. She kicked off into the dark water, and I followed her bright blue water shoes.

Because I’d been thrown in the water and hadn’t taken a proper breath—only a shallow gasp—my lungs quickly cried out for air. A copper bullet stuttered down into the water inches from my face as I forced myself farther down into the depths, stroking my way along the silty bottom. I swam like some enormous catfish, the curtains of my vision closing on either side as my brain started to die.

Some animal hunger for life took over. I drew my knees to my chest and thrust my legs down, hoping to launch myself to the surface that way. Instead I sank to my shins in sludge and roots, trapping myself. I waved my arms like seaweed, my head a knot of pain, air gone. I blinked up at the light, my will fading. Would this be how it would end? Entombed in river quicksand, dead forever standing up? A visceral memory pushed panic aside for unreal seconds. When was the last time I was trapped this way, airless, gazing skyward through blue space, reaching up and grabbing at water to pull myself up?

I flashed on the moment my father, with his signature casual cruelty, “taught me to swim” one afternoon at the community pool when I was eleven. Marcus by his side, he threw me—without warning—into the deep end. Terror turned to fury as I sank like something weighted, Marcus’s shocked face squiggly above the water, his mouth an O, his hands reaching down for me. In a cyclone of bubbles, I kicked and punched at the water, willing myself to rise up. Rage taught me how to swim; fierce love brought me to the surface, back to my brother.