Page 36 of A Summer to Save Us

When he returns, he falls back into bed, exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon.

For a moment, I consider writing about the men, but when I take a closer look at him, I decide against it. It can wait. Besides, I’d have to write half a novel for that. That’s another thing when you stay silent—written words. They need so much more time.

I can almost feel Dad’s impatience again as he stood next to me, tapping his foot until I told him something in my own way, which he didn’t believe anyway.

I didn’t steal Millicent’s necklace. Someone must have hidden it in my things! I’m not even in her class, Dad!

Afterward, I’d describe in detail where I was and why it couldn’t have been me. All he said was, “Chester says otherwise. He and Hunter saw you, Kansas. I think there was an Amber, too.”

Amber lies because she’s getting pills from Chester.

“We’re lucky you didn’t get suspended.”

And so, long-written explanations became simple sentences, and feelings became words with no connection.

With River, it was different from the start, as if we shared an inner connection to each other that worked even without words.

Later, when evening falls, he eats the half-thawed frozen peas and then immediately lies down again.

Another day dawns, and River is still sleeping. I recite Rumi poems in my head as I pace back and forth.

When I’m with you, we stay up all night,

If I’m not with you, I can’t sleep.

Praise God for these two types of insomnia and the difference between them .

For once, I’d like to write to James to explain River’s condition, but River’s cell phone is still not working.

Also, I urgently need to let Dad know I’m okay.

If I could speak, I’d use the phone at the reception desk.

But I can’t ask the motel owner, whose name I now know is Buddy Miller, to call for me, or he’ll find out the truth and call the police.

No, there’s nothing I can do except wait.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask River if he can call my dad.

Despite all the misunderstandings between us, I don’t want him to worry.

That day, I follow River’s suggestion to put up a slackline and find two light fir trees on the edge of the forest behind the motel that are suitable. However, I only stay for ten minutes because I’m anxious about River.

When I return, the hippie is sitting cross-legged on the porch in front of the motel, laying out cards.

“Hi,” he says as I’m opening the room.

I nod at him and actually want to disappear into the room, but he stops me. “Would you like a little diversion from your life, young lady?”

I hesitate.

“It’s free.”

Maybe he’s offering because I smiled at him, if he even remembers it. I glance into our room. River is still in bed. I could leave the door open.

I don’t speak , I write on my notepad and show it to him. This is amazing to me because it would have been unthinkable three weeks ago.

He merely shrugs. “One does not speak; another talks a lot without really saying anything. I’ll let the cards do the talking.

” He grins and pushes one of his long dreadlocks out of his face.

I look at him. His colorful batik pants look harmless, as do his patched vest and blue T-shirt. Maybe he just wants to be nice.

I shyly sit down next to him on the wooden sidewalk and pull my legs up. The guy collects the cards again and shuffles them so quickly it makes me dizzy.

“We’ll make a simple divination. Past, present, and future,” he says, but it sounds like a suggestion, so I nod. I don’t believe in this mumbo jumbo anyway. “I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Tom” doesn’t suit him at all. Tom sounds so lifelike somehow, while this guy looks like he’s floating through life in a cloud of marijuana smoke.

Mariah , I write.

“Mariah?” He seems as surprised by my name as I am by his. “You don’t look like a Mariah at all.”

How do I look? I write.

“No idea. A Rosemarie, perhaps.” He smiles and spreads the cards out on the wooden sidewalk in a fan. “So, now you draw three. And use the left hand—that’s the one connected to your inner self.”

I only consist of an inner self, so it doesn’t really matter. But I do as he says and draw three cards with my left hand.

“So, let’s take a closer look at your life.” He adjusts his headband. “The cards show what you’ve experienced over the last few weeks, what you’re currently experiencing, and what the future holds.” He turns over the first card over.

“The moon,” he says mysteriously, and I only think of point three on my list; kissing a boy in the moonlight.

“In tarot, the moon represents the subconscious. It makes it more real and brings out deeply hidden feelings. It also represents all the fears that one should face.”

I allowed closeness, I think. I kissed River.

“The moon is also a symbol of the transition from the waking phase to the sleeping phase.”

I think again about River, who is apparently in a moon phase, and about how everything seems so dreamlike at the moment.

Tom turns over the next card. It shows a sinister Grim Reaper. “Death.” He laughs. “Don’t look so frightened. In tarot, death represents parting. You have to get rid of something lifeless to make room for something new. Consider it a transformation.”

I nod. That’s actually fits; it must be a coincidence.

Tom turns over the next card, and a wonderful smile spreads across his gaunt face. “The sun.”

A fixed star .

“Usually a pleasant card. The sun symbolizes a positive circumstance in life that brings about a new consciousness. My goodness, your three cards fit together perfectly.”

I look at him.

“Old fears must be overcome because from this arises a new will to live. The sun represents happiness and a yes to life.”

Was that why I wanted to be a fixed star?

Thank you, I have to check on my boyfriend , I write so he doesn’t get any stupid ideas.

“All right, Mariah.”

Why does he say the name like he doesn’t believe me?

I thoughtfully go back to River, and as he’s still lying in bed, I feel a twinge of frustration and disappointment.

I shake his shoulder, and he opens one eye as if it takes great effort. “Hmm,” he mumbles indistinctly. “What’s wrong, Tucks?”

Do you need a doctor? I ask him in front of his face.

His eyes widen, and he grabs my hand, squeezing his fingers so hard it hurts. “I’m sorry.” He loosens his grip, a pleading tone in his sleepy eyes. “No doctor. Nobody. Just you and me. Give me another day, and I’ll be fine again,” he says in a rough voice.

Just you and me . I examine him carefully. I have no idea what to do, but his condition scares me too much to tolerate it any longer.

He raises his hand and strokes my hair. “Tomorrow, we’re leaving and heading toward Vegas. I promise you.” I close my eyes for a moment and enjoy the touch. I miss it so much my heart aches: his kisses, his touches, River as he was before.

Another day passes. I sat by River’s bed throughout the morning, keeping vigil, but then I headed off to slackline around noon. His cell phone still doesn’t work.

As I climb the low embankment along the path, I resolve not to be too disappointed if he doesn’t get up today, despite his promise. I should just think about what I could actually do to help him.

A little later, I carefully put one foot in front of the other, my eyes focused on the trunk of the fir tree.

Everything is quiet, too quiet; even the birds aren’t chirping today.

It’s too hot. I happened to hear on the radio earlier when I bought a chocolate bar from the machine at the reception desk that it’s about ninety-five degrees in the shade.

At the end of the low slackline, I do a turn, wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm, and look absentmindedly at the shabby motel that lies below the edge of the forest.

I only ever leave shards behind.

He’s definitely on drugs. That would explain all of his behavior. Maybe amphetamines, that student drug that keeps you awake forever, and now, after days of withdrawal, River is catching up on all his sleep. That’s how it has to be; there can be no other explanation.

Exhausted, I put my face in my hands when there’s a cracking in the undergrowth behind me, as if someone—or something—stepped on a dry branch.

I abruptly turn and peer intently into the dense forest. The dark fir trees rise far into the blue sky, looking like statues. No breeze shakes the branches. There is nothing. No grizzly, no moose—just this silence.

Goosebumps crawl up my bare forearms. Something about it reminds me of my school—that calm before the storm.

I instinctively pull River’s white shirt down, but the hem only barely reaches my butt. Actually, I’ve had enough for today anyway.

I grab the small water bottle, ready to return, when I hear crunching footfalls from below.

Someone is walking around the motel. A long shadow appears at the end of the last wooden shack.

At first, I think River has finally gotten up and is coming to me on the slackline, but when the shadow turns the corner, my breath catches in my throat.

It’s John. Blond John from Berry’s Supermarket!

When he spots me, a strange grin crosses his face. “Look at that! Look who we got here. The blonde angel from the supermarket.” With long strides, he runs across the gravel backyard toward the embankment at the height of which I have stretched my line. “All alone?”

At first, I don't know how to react. I automatically glance into our motel window, but of course, River isn’t standing there. He’s in bed.

I take a deep breath.

“Don’t worry, I just wanna chat. Well, that might be difficult.” John laughs, and I notice in passing that he still looks like it’s been weeks since he’s seen the inside of a shower. His lumberjack shirt and jeans are covered in dirt, and his dripping ponytail looks like it could be wrung out.

He stops briefly along the path that leads up the embankment. “You know, my old man told us where to find you. This dump belongs to him.”

Us? My internal warning system goes on alert, and I automatically turn.

The water bottle slips from my fingers. The black-haired man is standing between the fir trees behind the slackline, but he only has to take one big step to overcome it.

“Hey, darlin’.” He winks at me, a dark glow flickering in his deep-set eyes.

I can’t move for seconds. Can’t breathe, nothing.

“Yeah, old Buddy had a lot to drink. Even told us about your companion, who we’ve never seen. Maybe he already left.”

“Maybe he didn’t come back from getting cigarettes!” John laughs at his own joke, then suddenly grows serious. “Hey, Jack, I think she truly is mute. She can’t even say peep.”

It’s like at my school. Harmless words at first, until a weak spot is found.

After that, they always want something from you.

Money, in Mr. Spock’s case. For me, it was often my school things, which were then destroyed.

The next level is a physical attack. Escape routes are cut off, and you’re boxed in. Pushed. Hit. Or more.

I’m numb with fright. John slowly takes the path up. “You really can’t speak? Not even scream?”

I swallow and look from one to the other, my legs paralyzed. The black-haired man climbs over the slackline and focuses on me like a sniper’s crosshairs. “She doesn’t have to talk to get fucked, right? It has its advantages.”

“Well, I like it when women scream my name.” John is level with me.

At that moment, the numbness disappears from me, and my body reacts. I rush through the bushes toward the motel. Toward River. Toward security.

“Dammit, stop!” John shouts from behind.

“It was only a joke, little angel!” Thorns rip at my arms, sharp as barbed wire.

The slope is steep and overgrown with bushes.

My long hair gets caught on a dry branch, and I pull out a clump as I rush forward.

Tears reflexively spring to my eyes. Footsteps follow me, and branches break under the weight of heavy soles. I’m not fast enough.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see John running down the path.

River! I scream silently. I’m here!

I try to take a sharp corner but lose my footing on the soft earth, staggering forward and landing hard on the gravel. But I don’t feel any pain.

“Look who’s trying to get away. We ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Before I can get to my feet, Jack pulls me up and twists my arm behind my back. A thousand glowing needles pierce my shoulder joint.

“You’re really not screaming, little angel. Good,” John, who has now caught up, whispers. I gasp, and Jack loosens his grip.

Now I get it. That was a test. Now they know how truly helpless I am.

“I’ll tell you what happens now,” John says quietly.

I turn my head away because he still smells of rotten meat and liquor.

I stare at the ground with shimmering eyes, hearing his words as if through water.

“I have a key to a room. My old man was so drunk he didn’t even notice.

Even if he had, little angel, he wouldn’t care.

After all, his brother is the police chief of this community.

My old man is basically above the law. So now, we’re gonna take you and this key, find a cozy room, and have lots of fun. Got it?”

John’s words flash through my head, but in my fear, they become a meaningless jumble of disjointed words.

They start moving, and Jack pushes me forward. But they’re going in the wrong direction. They walk across the back, not around the outside to the front, where someone else might see me.

“Get going!” There’s our window, and behind it is River. I struggle against his grip with all my strength, but it’s no use. This time, Jack pushes my elbow so high that the pain shoots up my arm, and a host of red stars flicker before my eyes.

They lead me to a room unseen from the front, right behind the reception desk and maybe part of Buddy Miller’s private residence.

The blond catches up. “It ain’t the honeymoon suite, but you’ll still like it.” He opens the door with one hand, and the black-haired man shoves me inside.

All I hear is the door slamming shut with a squeak.