Page 44 of A Summer to Save Us

Exactly five minutes after I sent my message, Dad sends me a voice memo.

His voice sounds rough, and he claims he has a cold, but I think he’s been crying.

He says he’s incredibly glad I got in touch, and he doesn’t even sound angry.

He’s probably just so relieved to hear from me that he’s forgotten his anger.

“Kans,” he says at the end of the memo. “Come back. Come back home.” He clears his throat awkwardly.

“Even if you don’t believe me, we will find a solution.

Definitely...” There is a long, long pause, and then, “I love you.”

For a moment, my heart is completely still, as if all sentiment has flown away. A few seconds later, it warms up.

I hate to admit it, but his words touch me without meaning to.

I try to close my mind to it, but an I love you is hard to keep from my heart.

It leaves a wound in me that feels good, even if it seems paradoxical.

I wonder, though, why he only remembered that now, after I ran away.

I’d love to ask him where his love was hidden all those years and months ago and if he’s ready to believe me and fight for me if necessary.

But I just put the phone back in my pocket.

This morning, River uses Chester’s money to buy an old Yamaha—something between a moped and a motorcycle—as well as two helmets so that we no longer have to rely on the bike.

Before we leave the motel, he stops at the door and looks at me seriously.

“I hate my family, Tucks,” he says suddenly.

“The night I wrote that on the wall, I left forever. Until recently, my parents didn’t even know where I had been all this time.

They don’t know anything about me... And Ches,” he sighs, “he’s become more and more like my father.

He’s... I don’t even want to imagine what he did to you.

..” He swallows and takes my fingers. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. That’s all I can offer you.”

I nod and squeeze his hand. That’s more than enough, I think, and I’m firmly convinced that he can interpret that from my touch.

Days go by. Days when I text my dad over and over again.

Of course, I don’t write him where I am, but I tell him how far the prairie extends and that the stars appear much brighter in nature.

He always tells me to come back or to tell him where I am, but I always tell him that I won’t come back until I’ve found my speech again.

Nevertheless, these lines that we exchange are the first real communication we’ve had in a long time.

I also write Mr. Spock: Sorry, I’m fine! I didn’t have a charging cable! However, I keep my explanation brief. I leave out the Jack and John incident and everything about River, even though I really need to talk to someone about it.

I thought something terrible had happened to you, he replies promptly.

It could have been that you were caught and had to go back to school.

Don’t you want to write to me about what’s happening there?

Sometimes, it’s better to talk things out, no matter the space-time continuum!

He also sent me numerous messages, several every day.

Where are you? Are you all right? Should I come to you?

The last message irritated me because I thought he couldn’t leave his mom alone. But apparently, the attacks at his school have worsened. They wanted to hang me , he writes. Mr. X had already put the rope around my neck when the director arrived. I’m afraid.

I seriously contemplate telling him where I am. It’s not fair that I have some kind of refuge with River, yet he’s all alone.

Spock, if you can’t take it anymore, tell me , I text.

Maybe that’s best. I could talk to River, who might have an idea.

I briefly scroll through all the messages I’ve received over the last few days and even come across some from Chester’s friends, which I don’t look at.

Chester didn’t send any himself, probably because his videos delete themselves when they aren’t watched within a certain timeframe.

River is still too quiet, and I don’t understand anything anymore.

Again and again, I catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice.

And then his eyes always shine, weirdly dreamy and lost, and I ask myself who he sees in me.

Tucks? Or Kansas, the girl his brother abused?

Or even June? I still don’t know what happened between them. What triggered his butterfly effect.

I did something terrible .

Did he leave her, and she killed herself?

These are strange days. Now that we know the truth, we’re closer, yet we aren’t. We only meet via touches. In an embrace on a low-spanning slackline. A shy kiss by the edge of the dusty highway.

My heart is constantly pounding.

“On your private property, it is allowed to hang someone if he shot your dog,” River says one evening, the first thing he has said since lunch at a burger joint.

I laugh as silently as always. We’re in Nevada.

The truth that initially overwhelmed us has become an ally that changes everything. It allows for depth in a different way than I’ve known.

I feel how everything I know about River is anchored in my heart and binds him to me. I feel his kisses changing.

At night, when we lay in bed, I stroke his white scars and imagine how lonely he must have been as a child, without someone to show him that he’s loved.

He strokes my face and, at times, invents beautiful words for me.

He still restrains himself and never touches me in a way that suggests he wants more, even though his eyes say differently.

A glow of desire, a deep blue sparkle, even if he tries to hide it.

I secretly long for our hours at the blue-green river, where we enjoyed much more uninhibited closeness.

I long for deeper kisses, for hands that go further than just to my naval.

I long to feel River’s skin against mine, inside me, no matter how weird and confusing that is.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I find him at the window or outside the motel room, gazing at the stars. No idea what is going on inside him during these moments, and for some reason, I don’t dare ask.

This morning, I found my origami swan with the Big Five. He saved it for me all this time. My heart warms, like when he gave me the sound generator, which I still carry with me every day.

“We’re still missing three things,” he says. “We should hurry before we run out of time, Kentucky-Michigan.”

What are your Big Five? I write in my little silver book and show it to him.

A little later, he hands me a crane and gestures for me to unfold it.

Curious, I unfold it and smooth out the paper with my hands.

Always be River McFarley.

Always be River McFarley.

Always be River McFarley.

Always be River McFarley.

Always be River McFarley.

Aghast and somewhat irritated, I shake my head. I want to answer him, but he has left the motel room and is sitting on the Yamaha with the engine running. Quickly, I put the note into my pants pocket. I don’t know whether to find it spooky or concerning.

For a moment, I watch how he sits there with the helmet in his hands, his hair shining like gold in deep-black waters. He smiles, waiting for me, lost in thought. I shoulder my backpack, put the helmet on, and fish my phone from my pocket. The foreboding is growing stronger.

Dad , I text with flying fingers as I approach River, making him feel assured all is well. What’s the name of Chester Davenport’s older brother?