Chapter Eight
For as long as I can remember, my mother had a strong aversion to processed foods.
The sight of pizza at kids’ parties made her face pinch with distaste, while at home, we always had a hot, homemade dinner.
As a first-generation immigrant, she treasured her mother’s old handwritten recipe book, frequently consulting it when cooking or baking.
Our pantry was a testament to her culinary traditions, lined with labeled jars of marinated goods and homemade jams. Every Thanksgiving, she’d proudly place her cranberry jam alongside the turkey, only for my father to sneak in a can of jellied cranberry sauce, teasing that "the bad stuff" was better for the soul.
My mother would frown but never protested.
Whenever my dad and I went to an arcade or theme park, she’d pack me a healthy lunch, complete with carrot sticks, and warn him not to let me indulge in "those places." But every time, he’d disobey, and I’d end up enjoying pizza, hot dogs, ice cream, and cookies.
When I was a child, their constant tug-of-war felt like a game. But as I got older, it became exhausting. My mother was all about rules and expectations, while my dad was just about having fun.
After he died, my mother stopped cooking as much.
She picked up more shifts at the hospital and was home less often, leaving me money to order pizza—something once banished from our house.
She started making trays of lasagna and freezing them to save time.
To my seventeen-year-old self, it felt like all her nutrition rules had only existed to challenge my dad.
With him gone, so was the discipline. It seemed like she’d been pushing him away all along.
And my teenage brain couldn’t forgive her for that.
September, 2020
The nearby vintage diner we settled into screamed retro: red leather booths lined one side of the restaurant, and a long, shiny counter with spinning stools stretched along the other.
The walls were plastered with posters from classic 80s movies.
As we were flipping through the laminated menus filled with greasy goodness, I took charge of the conversation.
"I think we can push through and make it to Ohio before stopping for the night. From there, it’s only about four to five hours to Black Water."
Mitchell gave a thumbs-up. "I like the way you think, Foster. Let’s do it. June, your turn to drive."
"I know," June grumbled.
"Tomorrow, we’ll get up early and have a few hours of daylight to look around," her brother decided.
"What are we going to do in Black Water?" Nick asked.
"Good question, Boyd. That’s why…" Mitchell eagerly cleared a space, pushing the condiments and water glasses aside. He reached under the table, pulled out his backpack, and extracted a folded paper map of the United States, a notepad, and a mechanical pen, carefully laying them out.
June, used to her brother’s methods, watched with a detached expression, sipping her Coke through a straw. Nick maintained a deliberately neutral face. Mitchell’s enthusiasm felt slightly over the top, like that of a child absorbed in a game.
He spread the map across the table, taking up a significant portion of the surface. "So," he said, clicking his pen, "What do we know?"
"Lucas’s parents are here," I said, pointing at Black Water on the map. The town was too small to be marked, but I’d studied it so much on Google Maps that I’d memorized the area. Mitchell circled the spot.
"When Amanda went to West Virginia, her last known location was here." He placed another mark not too far from where Lucas’s parents were. "Do you recall where your mother was found?" Mitchell asked Nick.
Nick turned the map and quickly scanned the surrounding areas before pointing to a spot near Black Water. The fact that the three locations were all close to each other didn’t surprise me.
"But they didn’t go missing in Black Water. Lucas disappeared in Minneapolis, and Amanda in Kansas City." I voiced the obvious, just to keep track of everything.
Mitchell nodded and marked them on the map. Now, the area was too vast, the connections too tenuous.
June raised an eyebrow. "This doesn’t add up."
"Perhaps we should focus on Black Water and not other places. At least for now," Nick suggested.
The waitress brought our order, and the aroma of tangy tomato sauce, sweet caramelized onions, and rich melted mozzarella instantly shifted our priorities to the most basic one: hunger.
Mitchell swiftly folded the map with practiced motions, clearing space on the table.
"Maybe it’s not about where they went missing. Maybe these are just symptoms, and the main cause is there," Nick continued, slipping a slice of pizza onto his plate. Cheese strings trailed from the tray with a gooey, melty resistance.
Mitchell shifted his jaw, then gave a small grunt of agreement. "Alright. We’re going there anyway. Let’s just concentrate on these," he said, tapping his finger on the folded map under his hand. "I agree, Black Water might be our best bet."
Nick finished his first slice of pizza, and as his initial hunger was sated, he turned and said, "Can you show me the sign Lucas and Amanda kept again?"
June looked at her brother, who nodded his consent. She slid the phone to Nick.
"So, what do you think?" she asked after he examined the photos for a few seconds.
"I’m not sure."
"Come on, you’re not gonna tell me you don’t know anything? Your mom was, like, a psychic."
I wasn’t sure why June was clinging to Nick’s mother so much. My mother was a nurse, and I didn’t know the first thing about CPR or anything else medically sound.
Whatever Nick felt, he kept it to himself this time. "What does that have to do with anything?"
June snorted, but I interjected once again to diffuse her. "How about we talk to Lucas’s parents first and see where that leads us?"
"What about this sign, then?" June insisted, tapping her phone screen.
"Alright, let’s play it smart," her brother said. "We can ask around about this symbol, but let’s not go waving it in Lucas’s folks’ faces. Might spook them. You know what his folks do for a living, by the way?"
The last question was addressed directly to me.
"I think his father owns a business," I paused as I racked my brain. "A sawmill, maybe? Or was it a lumberyard? Something with wood, anyway." I snapped my fingers, trying to conjure up the memory. "And his mom is a stay-at-home mom, I’m pretty sure."
Whatever we had was very sparse, but it was something.
At the very least, the pizza was good.
We arrived at the rundown motel, the neon sign creaking in the wind. June shot her brother a disapproving look.
"What the hell did you book?"
"I booked whatever had room for four people! It looked fine in the pictures! And it’s just for one night, anyway."
While Mitchell was checking us in, June browsed Google for reviews, her brow furrowed with concern.
I shared her unease but decided not to say anything.
Mitchell paid out of his own pocket for all of us, and I didn’t want to upset him.
Nick kept to himself, seemingly trying to avoid any further confrontation with June.
She gasped at her phone. "Look at this! Someone wrote there were bloodstains on the sheets!"
The tired clerk gave her a blank stare as if to say, ‘Yeah, yeah, heard this one before,’ and then turned to Mitchell. "Anything else?"
June kept pushing, "Do you sell plastic sheets and Clorox?"
"No, but you can try Dollar General, about half a mile from here," the clerk replied, handing us the keys.
As soon as we entered the room, June pulled back the covers to check if her sheets were clean. They appeared to be fine.
"You should also check for bedbugs behind the headboard," I suggested. "I mean, if you want to be really thorough."
June scrunched her nose, visibly repulsed. "Eww."
She tried to push the entire bed set away from the wall to no avail.
I chuckled and checked my sheets and mattress for suspicious stains as well. I’m not a germaphobe, but sleeping where someone might have been killed wasn’t something I could easily dismiss.
June grumbled for a little longer and finally settled down in bed, having inspected it once again with her phone flashlight.
Just as we were getting ready to sleep, she suddenly asked, "Do you think they’re still alive?"
I hesitated. "I don’t know."
I’d never navigated a situation like that before.
When Lucas went missing, I was alone in my grief.
Now, I was struggling to find words to console June.
I felt like a trapezist, walking the fine line between offering comfort and overstepping the fragile connection we’d established.
Nothing I could say would ease her pain.
June’s silence stretched a beat before she added, "Do you think we’ll find Lucas in Black Water?"
I shook my head. "No... I don’t think so."
"Then why are you even here?"
I took a deep breath. "I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try."
June’s voice cracked in the darkness. "I want Amanda to come back."
My heart went out to her. "Me too."
She choked back a sob and whispered, "I don’t think she will, though."
That night, I had a dream about Lucas. He stood alone in the empty stadium, impassiveness dulling his features. I expected to feel happiness, or at least relief, at seeing him. God knew I wanted to run to him, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my head beneath his chin.
I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed with fear. I couldn’t move or look away.
My legs felt rooted, deeper than the trees that grew through the bleachers, as if nature had claimed the place long ago. Lucas slipped backward, vanishing into their shadows. Silent, menacing, like a ghoul.
I tried to flee, but my limbs were lead, pulling me to my hands and knees. Grass shifted beneath my fingers, rolling into a damp, mossy floor speckled with stones and twigs and foetid animal carcasses.
I tried to crawl away, to writhe with the worms spilling from the dull eyes and open mouths of deer, but my body was heavy and unresponsive.
Help!
Every time I looked away, the trees crept closer.
I hid my face in the collar of my shirt. Another presence shifted nearby, heavy as a storm, but I was too afraid to look up.
My mouth moved to form words. Please. Leave me alone. Go away. But they stayed trapped in my head, a whisper dying in my arid throat.
And then, I heard his voice.
"Nell."
I looked up.
Symbols were burned into the trunks of trees around us. Crows perched on their wiry branches, watching with unforgiving eyes.
"Lucas?"
He emerged from the dark all at once, his eyes staring past me as he came closer, but his feet barely moved. He was gliding, a puppet suspended in the air. It looked like him, but he was all angles and blurred edges. Skin turned to moss and bone.
I willed myself to wake up, certain this was a nightmare, but my eyes locked onto the figure standing over me.
Lucas’s image was frozen, unyielding, like a photograph.
It seared into my mind like a branding iron.
His gray, unblinking eyes wouldn’t release me.
I tried to scream, but only air rushed out.
A crushing weight pinned me down, making every breath a struggle. I squirmed beneath him, slapping and kicking for freedom. My throat was on fire, and my vision flashed.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure lifted, and I choked on the scent of wet wood and mulch and the muskiness of old sheets. I bolted upright in bed, drenched with sweat, my heart racing like a wild animal.
I frantically scanned the room, but Lucas wasn’t there. June slept peacefully in her bed. She’d thrown the covers off. Her T-shirt had ridden up, exposing her pierced belly button. Her gentle breathing was accompanied by soft, quiet snores.
The room was stifling and heavy with heat, and the air conditioning busted. I tossed aside the tangled sheets and stumbled to the window, gulping down a rush of cool air.
I remained awake until dawn.