Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,62

my mother walked in. My mother tried to take the pillow off my head but I yelled at her. She told me she had something to say, something important, but I screamed at her to leave me alone.

I thought she’d fight it, tell me to behave or something, but she just did as I told her to. She put her cold, clammy hand on my bare knee and whispered an “I love you,” then walked out of my room. There wasn’t anything different about that, she was constantly saying she loved me, so much that I forgot what it meant. A minute later I heard the screen door slam and feet swishing on the grass. I scrambled to look out my window. In that red-and-white baseball shirt, she was walking toward the river. The way she moved should have made me nervous; she walked very deliberately, not like she was just going for a stroll. And she wouldn’t ever leave me alone in the house, not even for a minute, to go get the mail. But I was so angry, partly at Lannie and partly at myself for not having made any real friends, that I turned away and shoved the pillow over my head and held it there until the sirens screamed me back into reality.

I ran downstairs. I can still remember the look on my father’s face when he came home from work and the police told him that several people had seen his wife walk into the river. Some had dove in to rescue her, but she’d never been found. His body kind of crumpled and he grabbed my shoulder so tight that pain rocketed down my arm. “I didn’t think she’d go so soon,” he sobbed. I’d found those words strange at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew what he meant. Maybe it was how sad my mother always seemed. She always smiled at me, but it was as if she worked to achieve that smile. Whenever she thought she was alone, I’d catch her frowning, her brow furrowed as if the weight of everything was on her shoulders. Deep down, I guess we both always knew she’d leave us.

I’m so engrossed in the memory, I don’t see anything else around me, only her form, coming nearer. When she is close to me, she puts a hand on my cheek. Her hand is cold and clammy, as I remember it. “Kiandra,” she says. “How I’ve missed you.” She pulls me into a hug. Her smell is the same, sweet and clean.

There are so many questions I want to ask, but for now I just allow her arms to swallow me up and I press my cheek against her shoulder so hard that it hurts. “Mom,” I say. It comes out hoarse and watery, and I realize I’m crying.

It’s only then I see Trey standing beside me, fidgeting nervously. When I pull back, my mother’s giving him a look I often had directed at me whenever I did something wrong. Quickly I say, “It’s not Trey’s fault. He wanted me to leave but I’m too stubborn.”

She contemplates this for a moment. “That is true,” she says with a hint of a smile.

I frown. I don’t like her professing to know me. She left me. When I was seven, I wanted her so much, ached for her. The pain from those days was so bad, I can still feel it, but it’s an old wound. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted her. Now, standing in front of her, hugging her, it’s like being presented to someone only slightly more familiar than a stranger. All I know is that I don’t want those wounds to be reopened. I don’t want to get so close that I ache and ache and nothing can fill that hole.

Trey speaks up. “I thought I’d show her around.”

I’m relieved by the suggestion, but my mother shakes her head. “I need to talk to my daughter in private.”

The thought makes my stomach tighten. Trey is already turning back down the path when my mother tells him to wait a moment. She takes him aside and says, “I have a job for you. On the east side,” then whispers something into his ear. He listens intently, gives me a nervous glance, and then heads out. I’m amazed. Here, she is a leader. At home, I was the only person she was in charge of, and she was gentle,