Chapter 1 #3
When I hear the kitchen floor creak, I’m instantly ten years old again, sitting at the half-moon table, watching my Nana make raisin scones.
The rippled glass windows bring in such beautiful, dappled light, who cares if you need an extra blanket or two in the winter?
I did agree with him on the bathroom though.
It really is more of a broom closet with a toilet, and the shower is so small I have to step out of the stall to properly soap up my hair.
Someday I’ll save up enough to give it the facelift it deserves, but for now I’ll live with chilly sudsing.
My phone dings from the confines of my purse on the kitchen counter. I reach in to grab it and smile when I see a text from my mom pop up. It’s a photo of her with her arms spread wide across the trunk of a massive Sequoia tree with the message:
Trying to figure out how to use this bad boy as a bat so I can knock John into the stratosphere.
Love u hun. Hope today wasn’t too terrible xoxo mom
I heart the message and promise to call her tomorrow. I love my mom deeply, but I’ve had plenty of crazy for one night without adding her into the mix.
My stomach growls loudly. Crap, I completely forgot to pick up something for dinner.
A quick investigation of the cupboard reveals a box of moderately stale crackers and a snack pack of roasted almonds.
I really need to be better about keeping food in the house.
Looks like dinner is going to be wine with a side of dusty squirrel food.
I pour myself an enormous glass of pinot gris and make my way into the living room to bury myself in the couch.
I scroll through Netflix for a few minutes, but nothing, not even a second ginormous glass of wine, manages to quell the noise in my head.
Despite everything, despite having made more than enough bad decisions from today to obsess over, every other damn thought racing through my mind tonight is about John.
What are they doing right now? Is he feeding her cake?
Is he telling her she’s the only woman he’s ever really loved?
“Enough!” I yell and the sound bounces loudly back at me off the pine walls.
I lurch up from the couch and wobble on wine-soaked legs.
I can’t just sit here so I pace around the living room, swearing as I bump my knee on the sharp corner of the coffee table.
Way too much wine on an empty stomach. The wine isn’t the only thing that’s got me buzzing.
A hive of bees has settled underneath my skin.
I need…something. A release. Anything to quiet the noise in my head.
Also, why am I so hot? I’m braless and only wearing a button-down shirt that barely covers my ass, but I feel like I’m wearing a fur-lined parka.
I stumble over to the sliding glass door that leads onto the back patio.
The cool night air brushes against my bare legs, a welcome relief on my too-warm skin.
The sound of the chirruping bugs almost manages to drown out my inner turmoil.
If I concentrate enough, I can hear the rush of the river below through the din of the insects.
This was John’s favorite time of night, right after the sun had fully set and the bugs were out in full force.
He told me once that he loved the sound of moths beating their wings against the porch lights. I hated that.
“Get out of my head, John!” I shout, jostling the insects into a moment of silence.
I need…I don’t know what I need. I want to feel like I’ve been thrown into a washing machine until all the leftover pieces of John residing in my psyche have been wrung out.
Hey now. That’s an idea.
I may not be able to wring John out of my system. But I might be able to plunge him out.
The river.
I must baptize myself into my new, John-free existence in the frigid waters of the Silvercreek River!
The more I think it about it, the better this idea sounds. Not only will a cold plunge rinse John from my system, but it’s supposedly great for endorphins, and I have been living with an endorphin deficit for far too long. Maybe a nighttime river soak is exactly the kind of reset I need?
Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I grab my gardening clogs from their place by the backdoor and pick my way down the deck stairs to the yard below.
It’s hard to call this rock-strewn space a yard.
It’s more of a graveyard for dead spruce needles that slopes gradually and then steeply into a cliff that I will plummet off into an icy death if I’m not careful.
My footsteps are heavy and clumsy over the uneven earth.
I stumble a couple of times and am cursing by the time I reach the small path cut into the rock face.
My grandfather hand-carved this path down to the bank below to assuage his daily fishing fetish.
Why drive to the water’s edge when you can rappel down a rock face?
Thankfully the path has an “oh shit” rope railing along one side of it, which I rely heavily on during my painfully slow creep down.
The moon must be hiding tonight because I can barely see anything—only the occasional glint from the river below.
This was such a dumb idea. Why didn’t I at least grab a flashlight?
Oh right, because wine.
When I finally reach the bottom, I spread my arms wide and gingerly make my way to the river’s edge. Just before I reach the water, my toe bumps against a sharp rock edge.
“Fuck you, rock!” I curse, loudly.
A sharp rustle of branches sounds to my left and I freeze, mentally preparing myself for the knife-edged fangs that are about to rip into my jugular.
A few fangless moments later, I release a loud, pent-up breath into the darkness.
“Okay, animals,” I singsong, “I promise you I won’t taste good. I’m currently very dry, very…unpalatable.”
The night air seems to pulse around me. I’m shivering more from adrenaline than the bite of the breeze.
Before my better sense can stop me, I kick off my clogs and then strip out of my shirt and underwear, tossing them haphazardly behind me. I shuffle-step into the water, breathing in sharply as my feet feel the icy river. It is fucking freezing.
I let out a series of yelps as I stumble in deeper, the water tugging at my calves and then my knees. I do not feel refreshed or whole now. Just wholly stupid for attempting this. It’s so cold it feels like my flesh is burning.
I take in as much air as my clenched lungs will allow and lean full body into a resounding “FUCK YOU, JOHN!” My voice echoes around me, the sound reverberating off the trees.
“Who’s John?” a deep voice asks from somewhere to my right. My blood freezes solid in my veins.
Oh shit, I’m about to be serial killed.
“Who’s there?!” my voice comes out as a strangled whisper. I wrap my arms around myself, but it’s no use—I’m totally naked and afraid. I doubt this murderer can see anything but my outline, but I know I’m naked and about to be murdered naked, and I’m terrified.
“Well, I’m not John,” the voice answers, and I detect a slight hint of amusement.
Great, a serial killer with a sense of humor.
“Where are you? I can’t see you at all.”
“About ten feet behind you to your right.”
I spin around but can see only darkness. But he can definitely see me. All of me. I crouch down quickly, sinking down until the water reaches my armpits. All the air rushes from my body in a loud whoosh.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” I am instantly made sober, as if the freezing water were a vacuum made to target any alcohol left in my bloodstream.
“Is this a regular ritual for you? Nightly water torture before bed?” Leaves and branches rustle somewhere to my left, but I still can’t see anything.
“Stop! Don’t come any closer. I have a gun!”
“Pretty sure I’ve seen everything you’re carrying.”
“Well, I’m highly trained in self-defense so if you value your balls, halt right there!”
“I’m just leaving you my coat. No cause for alarm.
Or ball mutilation.” As the voice comes closer, a shape begins to separate from the darkness.
The figure is just a set of large moving shapes in the inky blackness.
If future me needs to describe this shadow creature to law enforcement, that’ll be an interesting conversation: “He was a deep voice, rectangular in shape with a triangle on top.” A snort of laughter escapes my chattering lips.
“I’m glad you find this funny, ma’am. But I’m exhausted and I’d sleep a whole lot better knowing you weren’t out here freezing to death.”
“It’s cute that you care, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m getting out before you leave. What are you doing out here, anyway?” I should be shooing this man away, not trying to start a conversation.
“You do realize there’s a public campground about a hundred yards downstream? I was asleep in my tent when a hollering banshee woke me up. I ran over here to make sure no one was getting mauled.”
“Mission accomplished. Now leave.”
The figure holds up a large bundle. “Here’s my coat. I’m going to put it here, right on this boulder and then you can get out and I can get back to sleep.”
“I don’t want your coat.” Yes, yes I do really want his coat. “I’m not getting out until you leave,” I repeat, but I’m shaking so bad the words come out sounding more like gibberish.
“Well, as fun as this interaction has been, I don’t have the energy to argue anymore.
Goodnight, ma’am.” The man has the audacity to sound exasperated.
I’m freezing to death and he’s exasperated?
Gravel shifts and twigs crack as he turns.
I can hear him muttering to himself as he stomps away through the underbrush.
The words “stubborn” and “pain in the ass” float back to me.