Signs of You (8 page)

“There's a Speedway four miles from here. Gas is two cents cheaper per gallon,” Jay says, urgently tapping my shoulder from the backseat.

“How do you know that?” I say.

“Gas price app,” he says, waving his phone. “It's the bomb.”

I resist the urge to tell him he sounds as dorky as Noah right now. I don't want to think about Noah until I can scream at him face-to-face for all he's done.

“Yeah, but do you have an app that tells you whether the Speedway has a slushie machine?” Kate asks, f lipping her long black hair over her shoulder. “Because I can see one inside the Sheetz, and I
need
a slushie. And some gummy worms.”

“I thought you needed Sweet Tarts and a Dew?” Jay asks. He stows his papers and books in the way-back, maybe mentally exhausted himself.

“I'm wildly unpredictable like that,” Kate says dryly, hopping out.

I head for the pump, but Jay beats me there.

“I'll do it.” His f ingers brush mine as we both reach for the pump handle.

“Dude,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks, but this isn't a guys-pump-gas-while-girls-go-to-the-bathroom thing is it? Because I can totally pump my own—”

“Hold on, Susan B. Anthony,” he says with a smile. “You're driving and all, and I just thought I could do something nice. Go in. Have a slushie. Relax.”

Again, I wish Noah were here, so we could f inish our last conversation, so I could say to him:
See, this is why I'm into Jay. He really
is
wildly unpredictable. And always in the best way and always at the right time.

But then I imagine the super intense eye roll Noah would give me if I actually proclaimed this about Jay. And how he'd probably nail me for labeling someone who plays a loop of exactly three Pink Floyd songs and likes the same parade of popular girls
wildly unpredictable.
I shake it off and follow Kate into Sheetz.

She immediately heads for the slushie machine, f illing a cup the size of her head with bright red frozen goo. I look around at all my options—Fritos, nuts, granola bars, candy, gum, pop, f ifteen million types of water. Thoughts I don't want to have start swirling in my head. I think about my mom, the f lapper girl in the auditorium, Jay's dad. I look around at the other shoppers, my eyes locking on each one to see if any of them look old-fashioned or out of place. Suddenly, I can't handle being in here. All the strangers start to look sinister to me and the f luorescent lights remind me too much of the grocery store where I saw Mom. I hit the door a little too hard on my way out and the bell above it jangles madly as I head toward the parking lot.

And that's when I hear my name. It's a raspy whisper. Frantic almost. Coming from—

“Riley.”

I hear it again. I follow the sound around to the left, behind the building. There, sitting on the asphalt, leaning up against a huge dumpster, is a woman who looks homeless. Her face is smeared with grime, and her hair is a tangled brown mess. A bottle of booze peeks out from the ratty handbag she's holding. She takes a long swig and smiles. We lock eyes, and then, like a f lickering light, I see another woman in her place.

Instead of a mad nest of hair, this new woman I see has a long, neat braid hanging over her shoulder, and she's wearing a veil and a white old-fashioned dress—a wedding dress with puffy sleeves and antique, yellowed lace. Her dainty feet are suddenly laced up in white leather boots. And she says something to me. And I hear it, and I understand it, but it's terrifying, and immediately I try to push it out of my mind.

As I back away, she changes again—back to the homeless woman in dirty clothes and ripped jeans, swigging booze from a beaten-up handbag.

I want to run, to scream, but it's like one of those dreams where you're being chased but you can't get away or make a sound louder than a whisper. I back away from the dumpster as quickly as I can, but I feel like I'm moving through waist-high peanut butter—my legs feel thick and heavy, and as usual, a wave of numbness starts crashing over me. I turn and walk to the car in a half-daze, climb into the back seat, and slam the door shut.

“Whoa, you okay?” Jay asks, opening the door.

“Yep,” I say, staring straight ahead at nothing.

“Okay, you
said
yes, but it's obviously a no.”

I just keep staring into space; I keep thinking about that wedding dress, hearing the bride's raspy voice
.

Kate comes back, her arms loaded down with drinks, snacks, and a giant slushie. “Why are you in the backseat?” she asks me. “Oh, god. You look awful. What happened?” She holds out a Vitamin Water for me, but I wave it away. “Did you see someone?”

I nod.

“Your mom?”

I shake my head no. “A homeless woman,” I say. My voice is so calm, so f lat, that it scares me. “By the dumpster. She turned into some old-timey bride. In a wedding dress.” My throat catches, and I stop. “But this time it was different.”

“Different how?” Jay asks.

“She said something to me.”

“OMG,” Kate says. “OMG. What did she say?”

The numbness cracks for just a second, and I feel the closest I've come to crying since the day I buried my mom. But of course I don't. I just shove it down to that place deep inside, to the vast emotional graveyard where all feelings other than “f ine” go to die.

“Help me,” I quote.

“We
will
,” Kate says, grabbing my hand. “I'm seeing things, too. We're in this together. We're here for you—”

“No,” I say. “That's what the bride said.
Riley. Help me.
”

Chapter 8

Little Voices

We're quiet the rest of the way. Jay drives because I'm in no shape to be behind the wheel. I stretch out in the backseat and try to rest. Except I don't. At all. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is that bride by the dumpster; I hear her voice over and over.

I text Noah again. I ask where he is. I ask him to text me something, anything—a comma, a period, any emoji he wants—just to let me know he's okay.

But he doesn't text back.

About three and a half hours in, we start seeing signs for tourists, advertisements for things to do in Maryland. I try to read every sign to keep my mind in the present, to slow my brain down. There's a billboard for a restaurant called Medieval Meals where for f ifty dollars you can get all the large turkey legs and jousting you can handle—all inside a “real castle.” The only problem is that you can tell from the picture that the “real castle” is totally and obviously made of cinderblocks. Then there's a sign for Assateague Island where apparently a large herd of ponies “still runs free” and you can “bond with the horse spirit.”

It's a testament to how scared we are that no one comments on any of this. Dinner and fake jousting in a cinderblock castle? A pony island with “ass” as its root word? But even Kate can't muster a wisecrack.

It's just before two
o'clock when we reach Catoctin Mountain Park. Kate holds the map we took down from Noah's wall and calls out directions as we take a winding road that curves through the entrance. It feels darker than it should at this time of day; the sunlight is muted by crowded pine trees and oaks. Jay drives up a steep hill past a small, muddy lake. Ducks waddle underneath a sign that reads in chipped-off paint:
ridenhour lake
.
We drive for what feels like ages and f inally come to the southern border of the park. Kate tells Jay to stop.

“There was a pin on the map here,” she says. “And a line down this road and up a creek.”

“But this will take us just outside the park,” Jay says.

“I know, but look,” Kate points at the map. “This is where Noah's pin was, and the line goes right down this road.”

I sit up to get a closer look. “What's that writing? There? Is it a number?”

“Four twenty-six,” Jay says. “No idea what that means.”

Jay pulls the car to the side of the road and we all get out and start walking. Intense heat comes off the dark pavement; the smell of baking tar f loats up my nose. Dragonf lies hover in the humid air, and I swat big black f lies away from my arms.

Finally, we reach a driveway with a mailbox. It's 426 Blake's Creek Road. And at the end of it is a house—a plain white one-story farmhouse that looks normal enough. Next to the driveway is a creek. It snakes through the property and disappears into thick woods beside a pasture where several horses graze and swat at f lies with their long stringy tails. A sleek chestnut one stomps a hoof on the ground, sending a shudder over his skin, knocking the f lies off all at once.

Jay and I turn to Kate.

“This is the creek,” she says, looking at the map again. “But this isn't park property. What if whoever lives here sees us, like, trespassing? I mean, I want to f ind Noah—but I really don't want to get shot in the process.”

“Then stay low as we walk up the creek,” Jay instructs her. “The banks will keep us hidden.”

“I don't like this,” she says. “I need someone to hold my hand.”

So Jay grabs Kate's hand and we make our way down into the creek, the shallow water churning a muddy brown beneath us. I don't like this, either, but I know we have no other choice. After creeping quietly along for maybe twenty minutes, I start to get nervous. What if we get lost? What if we're not really in the right place like Kate thinks? The banks get higher and higher the farther we go. Massive slabs of rock jut out of the earth; green moss and lichens crawl over damp surfaces. A few small waterfalls pour between boulders; some trees have initials carved into their sides. We come to a fork in the creek and pause while Jay and Kate study the map. Jay is sweating a little and seems edgy, like when we were in the cemetery together.

“I don't see a fork on the map,” he says, peering over Kate's shoulder.

Kate blinks at the map. “Maybe this is the wrong creek?”

“Let me see that,” I say, taking it from her. But I can't make any more sense of it than she can.

“Let's go right,” Kate says. “No. Left. My f irst idea is always the wrong one.”

Often your second, too.
But we keep going, to the left. I hear a snapping branch and turn. I scan the woods around us, but all I see are endless trees, their trunks like soldiers standing guard.

“Did you hear something?” Kate asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Like a snapping twig or something? Or—”

“Voices,” Kate says, stiffening. “I hear voices.”

“Wait. I hear them, too,” Jay says. He narrows his eyes. “I hear kids.”

And then I hear them, as well. They get louder as we continue up the creek. I hear what sounds like a small boy shouting and then a girl answering back. We pick up our pace. For some reason, we all seem to forget that we're trespassing.

“Noah?” I call. I do it again. My cry echoes through the creek bed. I wonder if Kate and Jay are thinking what I am . . . that these voices don't sound quite right; they sound processed in some way. Like they seem to be all around us, but at the same time, they sound distant. And distressed.

“Let's just go back,” Kate says, stopping mid-creek. “Seriously.”

But Jay walks ahead, listening. Ever since I've known him, he's had a thing about kids in trouble. He's always looking out for them. If he sees one fall on a playground, he rushes to help. If we're watching a movie and a kid is about to get hurt, he turns it off. He can't stand to see kids in pain. He wants the world to abide by some unbreakable rule that children are not allowed to be harmed. That they should be protected from witnessing horrible things, especially the things that adults can't explain or give good reasons for. Like why someone can't stop drinking and has to fall down the basement stairs and die.

“Jay, come on,” Kate protests. “Let's just go.” I can tell she's about to fall apart. She's looking all around us, up and down the creek and even into the trees, searching for the voices. Her hands are trembling.

But Jay keeps moving, fast.

“Noah?” he calls into the woods. My heart thumps. I grab Kate's hand. I want to leave, run down this creek and never look back. I can hear the voices in my bones, like the children have crawled inside my body and are screaming from the inside out.

“Dammit,” Kate says. “There he goes.”

I spot the small cave ahead just as Jay vanishes inside it. Squeezing each other's hands more tightly, Kate and I approach the mouth and squint into the blackness.

“Come on!” he calls to us from a place I can't see.

Now I can hear what sounds like teenagers laughing—or are they crying?

Kate abruptly lets go of me and starts backing down the creek.

“What are you doing?” I ask. She just shakes her head. “Kate. Come on. We go after him. And maybe Noah is in there. Maybe he's in trouble. We go in.
Obviously
.”

I don't have to explain the
obviously
. Kate knows better. We clean up the puke after games of Truth of Dare; we sit under willow trees and chew mounds of gum; we tell each other the lie that
it'll be okay.
That's all we want for each other. That's all we want for Noah at this moment.
Obviously
we go in the cave
.

“Okay, okay,” Kate says, sighing. “Sorry. My bad. Hold my hand again?”

I roll my eyes.
Obviously.

The afternoon sun quickly
disappears behind us and the air goes cool and quiet as we make our way into the cave. The tunnel angles down, and I follow it deeper and deeper, leading Kate as gently as I can. I'm suddenly aware of the weight of the earth above me, and it makes me feel pretty close to helpless. If this cave wants to crush me, it can. If it wants to f lood, unannounced, and bury me in a watery grave, it can. I read once that when you take tours through caves, you're never supposed to touch the walls. The oil from the f ingertips of tourists damages the cave ecosystem. Mineral rock deposits that have been forming into long and beautiful stalagmites and stalactites are stopped by our touch. The delicate balance of moisture and temperature is disturbed. The idea that the cave needs to be protected from me is comforting. I like not being the only vulnerable one.

Kate taps on her iPhone light and clings to my side. I call for Jay and then for Noah, my voice echoing against the cave walls. We wait and listen for an answer back.

Silence.

But then the voices start again, like wisps of smoke I can smell but can't see. And again, they seem to be coming from all directions at once.

“I'm freaking out,” Kate says. “Sing something. Anything.”

“Like what?”

“Something happy. From childhood. Like a nursery rhyme.”

“Fine,” I say, too freaked out to protest.
“Mary had a little lamb,”
I begin weakly, my voice cracking. But then I take a deep breath and f ind the right notes.
“Whose f leece was white as snow—”

“Whoa,” Kate says. She stops and shines the light right at me. “You do know that your voice is, like, beautiful
or something. We need to get you on a stage somewhere.”

“Shut up,” I say, bending down to avoid a low hanging rock. “I'll sing in the car with you guys. But that's it. No stages.”

“Why not?”

I glance over my shoulder at her. “I don't sing in front of people. I just—don't. No real reason.”

Even in the dim iPhone light, I can see the face Kate makes.
Obviously
there's a reason. And now, thanks to my best friend, in the unrelenting blackness of the cave, that reason f lashes in my mind, bright and depressing as an aisle of grocery store f luorescents.

When I was eleven
I f igured out I could sing. Like,
really
sing. I came in from playing outside and saw my mother in the living room, sitting on the couch with an electronic keyboard in her lap. And it had this little stand sticking up in the back that held a piece of sheet music. Mom was hunched over, squinting at it, her face all scrunched up and only inches from the page. I knew she couldn't see well enough to read a sheet of music, and I didn't understand why she was even trying. One wrong note after the other f illed the air. She'd hit a key that didn't go with the last and sigh—a deep, this-is-about-way-more-than-a-song sigh—lots of them.

“Where'd you get the keyboard?” I asked.

“Your father bought it for me,” she said, still squinting at the sheet music. “We went to Gordy's, that little music store downtown? And they didn't have my favorite sheet music in braille. It's so frustrating. But your father thought I should try playing again.”

I hopped onto the couch next to her, sidling close. My feet didn't quite touch the ground. I remember looking down at my black Converse sneakers swinging just above the carpet. Those were the only shoes I would agree to wear until I was twelve years old. Even when I was forced to wear a Christmas dress, and then an Easter dress, and then a dress for the stupid sixth grade dance—I wore them all with black Chucks.

“He thought you should try again?” I asked.

“Well, I used to play,” she said absently. “We used to have a real piano. Sat over there in that corner. But that was before . . .”

She didn't have to f inish the sentence, because I could guess what the rest of it was.
Before
. Before I came along, before the stroke during childbirth wrecked her eyesight, before her life was completely messed up by yours truly. A lump formed in the back of my throat, so tight it was almost painful. I remember thinking that sadness felt like getting sick—like strep throat or a cold or the f lu.

I knew she couldn't see my face, but she must have sensed what I was feeling. “I used to do the Hula-Hoop, too,” she joked. “Some things you just outgrow.”

But I knew she hadn't outgrown the piano. She'd
lost
it. So I tried, in my eleven-year-old way, to f ix the situation.

“What if we sing?” I asked. “You don't have to see sheet music to sing a song you know.”

“No, no,” Mom said, tucking a strand of her chestnut hair behind her ear. “I'm a terrible singer. But you sing. That would be lovely to hear you.”

So I stood up, right in the middle of the living room, and tried to think of a song. I opted for the very f irst one I ever learned: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
.
” I wanted to make her happy with my voice, so I put everything I had into my little performance. I threw in a few runs here and there and kind of spiced it up a little. And I could tell by my mom's face that she was into it. Like,
really
into it.

“Riley,” she said slowly. “Your voice is gorgeous. How did I not know you could sing like that? Sing it again.”

And so I did. And at f irst, she looked so happy. But then there was something else. Something about the way she was looking at me as I continued to belt out the notes. It wasn't pure joy; it wasn't plain happiness at seeing her daughter spread her wings and f ind a talent. There was wistfulness, an I'm-happy-for-you-but-sad-for-me quality in her half-smile. And when I f inished the song, it didn't feel good anymore. It felt bad, slightly wrong, like my talent and my life were the consolation prizes my mother received for losing her own.

That was the moment I decided that I shouldn't sing in front of people. Or ever try to do the Hula-Hoop.