Page 13 of A Summer to Save Us

“Is she dead?” a wide-eyed Arizona wanted to know.

“No, she packed her things and left. She wants to go on with her life without us.” A letter on the table was all she had left him.

James probed in his inimitable way. Arizona complained that Mom wouldn’t be baking us any more birthday cakes and that Dad wouldn’t know what she wanted for her birthday.

It took me forever to find the courage to even ask my dad a question. “When is she coming back?” I squeaked softly. After all, moms don’t just leave; only a few fathers do that every now and then.

When I asked, the color drained from his face, and his eyes darkened. “Never!” he shouted. “Never, ever again. Don’t you understand, you stupid child?”

His words were like thunderbolts striking my heart, and I felt like I was having a stroke.

But even though Dad was yelling, I didn’t believe him. Mom would come back. At the time, I thought I had understood the meaning of Tolstoy’s saying about waiting, and that it was some sort of magical agreement between Mom and me. A secret code.

Every night, I snuck into the kitchen because the window overlooked the driveway, and I wanted to be the first to hear her car, the slamming of the door, the slapping of her heels on the gravel.

Every night, I opened the window, sat on the old wooden table, and waited.

I wanted to be patient until things were okay.

I waited through the spring and many hot summer nights until the fall, when the wind was cool and smelled of dead leaves and farewell.

I was still waiting when the first snow blew through the window.

I often fell asleep on the kitchen table and woke up almost frozen the next morning.

When I finally went to bed with disappointed hopes, it was usually six in the morning.

I remember I had many colds during that time. Dad bought tons of cough syrup, but he never wondered why I was always sick.

Strange. Just as I feel like I’ve been falling ever since, I also feel like I’ve never stopped waiting, even though I’m no longer sleeping on the kitchen table. Mom was the only one, besides Ari, that I could talk to freely. And suddenly, she was gone—without saying goodbye, without a word.

Something about it made me close myself off to the outside world.

I didn’t know how I would live in a world without my mom, and everything changed overnight.

Mom had always been my bridge to the life out there, which scared me then, and still does now.

For a long time, I lived in two worlds, the outside world without words, and at home, the inside world, with words for Arizona, James, and sometimes Dad.

Maybe everything would have stayed the same.

It could have worked. A girl might be able to live in two worlds, albeit under extreme conditions.

However, after the incident, my inside world got even smaller, now only existing in my head.

Everything else, including my home, became the outside.

I locked myself in and hid the key so well that I couldn’t find it again.

Maybe I should look for it. For a moment, I listen to the melody that flows through the night like a dark stream. I feel it like a bittersweet vibration and a tremor in my limbs, as if my body is responding and finally connecting with something from the outside world again.

After a while, River falls silent, and I smell cigarette smoke and hear a soda can being opened. Judging by his footsteps, he’s pacing in front of the tent, muttering something to himself that I don’t understand. Is he listing the states? What is he saying?

I think I’m going crazy; there’s too much new stuff bombarding me. Also, my throat burns so much, like I swallowed tons of sandpaper. I have to write Dad a letter tomorrow; I can’t go through this another night.

It feels like hours before River re-enters the tent. He sits quietly next to me, and I feel his gaze a second time. It rests on me, gentle and still, yet crackles like fire against my skin.

“I have to save you, Little Lost Girl. I’m sorry, but I have to.”

His words stretch out in the silence, and I picture him lying with his head on the Old Sheriff’s rail, a fallen angel with arms like wings.

I’m sorry, but I have to . It sounds strange. Not like it’s a good thing, more like it hurt. Yet his voice sounded so gentle. It would be a sentence for my Beautiful Words book, but that’s floating somewhere down Willow River.

Eventually, he falls asleep, or at least his breathing sounds like it, and I can’t wait any longer.

Almost silently, I slide out of the blanket and unzip the sports bag near the tent flap.

I search the contents with one hand, looking for the set of keys that River put in his pocket earlier.

At least, that’s what it sounded like when he returned to the tent.

I feel clothes and small crackling packets at the bottom and wonder if they’re the drugs he uses to get high.

It doesn’t shock me because a lot of the rich kids at Kensington do coke, ecstasy, or whatever.

Sometimes, I think the Hills are so bored with their daddy’s money that they can’t get a kick out of life other than by getting high or torturing others.

And who knows? Maybe the stuff was in Chester’s Porsche.

I continue to search quietly. My throat is so dry, I can hardly swallow.

Where’s the damn key?

I stroke the sides and feel a bunch of keys. I give River another glance, but he doesn’t move, so I push the flap away and climb out of the tent.

Morning mist hangs like a blanket over the meadow, and the air feels so moist you could quench your thirst simply by breathing. I can almost feel the Fanta running down my throat. I hurry barefoot toward the Porsche.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I freeze.

“Do you want to drive the Porsche into the nearest tree and end it that way? I thought we had a deal.”

I slowly turn. River is standing in front of the tent with his arms crossed, but I don’t recognize his expression; it’s too hazy and dark for that.

Damn, why isn’t he asleep?

“Did you plan this from the beginning, or did it just occur to you?” He sounds composed, though anger smolders underneath. He comes toward me, step by step. “Don’t deny that you were planning to do just that.”

Heart pounding, I shake my head, but his tense posture and facial expression say he isn’t buying it. Now that the dull morning light hits his high cheekbones, I see his pitch-black look. He appears even more sinister than he did yesterday morning, as if I’d committed treason.

I shakily pull out my phone. I just wanted something to drink. And I’m hungry . I hold it out to him, extending my arm, and he comes close enough to read it.

“Hungry?” he asks incredulously.

My heart is racing.

“Hey, Tucks... you’re shaking.” The pitch-black expression disappears, leaving me so confused, I might have smiled if I wasn’t so afraid. Afraid he’ll laugh at me, abandon me, or something else.

“Why didn’t you say or write this to me? I would have gotten you something.” He holds out his hand, and I give him the key, keeping my head bowed. He immediately goes to the trunk and takes out the sandwich and Fanta.

I didn’t want to wake you , I explain.

“I don’t sleep much.” He pushes the Fanta and sandwich into my hands a little too forcefully, as if he still isn’t convinced. “At times, not at all.”

This must be a bad joke.

I clutch the can convulsively.

“I thought you were thirsty. I was surprised you didn’t touch anything all day.”

I slowly pull open the tab of the can and put my lips to it, but I can't take a sip—my throat has closed up. I pretend to take a sip so he doesn’t notice my ineptitude. I look up cautiously.

River raises his eyebrows.

Please, don’t think I’m lying to you , I plead silently. I want him to trust me.

“I think you’re thirsty.”

I have no choice but to write him the truth. I can’t , I type, my hand shaking as I hold the phone out to him.

He appears to be even more baffled than before. “What can’t you do?”

My face burns with shame. Eat and drink when someone is watching. I show him what I typed, and my cheeks get even redder. Freak, whispers through my head.

River eyes me intently, and I look away, then back at him.

Finally, he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and his face softens. “Okay. Go back inside. I wanted to have another smoke anyway.”

I stare at him.

“Go on. I don’t smoke forever.” He turns, but I notice the grin on his face.

My heart is still pounding as I gratefully crawl into the tent and down the Fanta.

Then, I inhale the sandwich in record time, even though it’s tuna, which I don’t normally like.

Something in my stomach feels very warm.

River doesn’t think I’m weird—or even if he does think I’m weird, he still likes me.

At some point, he comes back into the tent and lies down next to me. “Sleep well, Tucks. By the way, that wasn’t the car key you took from me earlier—it was just a house key.”

I save the information about the house on the list I just created called What I know about River .

It’s not even YOUR car , I type and hold the text under his nose, feeling somewhat triumphant. I have no idea why I do that. Probably because he said he wanted to save me when he believed I was sleeping.

He turns his head toward me, his blue eyes sparkling unfathomably in the dim light. They seem almost black. I have to look away because his gaze is so intense.

“I’m borrowing it, Kentucky, not stealing it,” he replies calmly. “How would you know anyway? You think I couldn’t afford it?”

With so many questions floating through my head, I don’t fall asleep for a long time. At some point, River begins texting again. Sometimes, I hear a quiet bing announcing a message, so he’s actually conversing with someone.

After a while, the noises become hypnotic, and I hear them as if they are far off. I’m exhausted, my head filled with vast plains, wind, and River’s eyes.

I never sleep, I hear him whispering in my mind. And I’m borrowing it, not stealing it .

Chester would definitely kill him, but strangely, I don’t think anymore about him or the Hills. I don’t even think about the letter I wanted to write to Dad anymore. I no longer want to go home.