I was grateful that she didn’t expect me to answer. It seemed like something I should have known, and I didn’t.
Collette flipped past photos—my parents when they were young, posed on front steps and car trunks, their eyes squinting in the sun. We stopped at a grainy shot of them in front of a Ferris wheel. Daddy and Mama took up the middle, though Mama wasn’t looking at the camera. She had her head tilted back and was smiling at Daddy, her arms around his waist.
Elijah hadn’t been facing the camera, either. Though he had his arms wrapped around a younger, softer-looking Miss Nan, he gazed toward something in the distance.
I murmured in surprise when I realized he was wearing the same jersey he’d worn in my dream. That little sliver of truth felt like ice on the back of my neck.
“What else is there?”
Sliding to the floor to sit shoulder to shoulder with me, Collette spread the book so that half lay on my leg, the other half on hers, and she turned the pages with vicious efficiency. If the pictures didn’t have Elijah in them, she didn’t stop.
There were notes under some of the pictures. One was Valentine Lake, Summer 1987 —Elijah and Daddy trying to start a campfire. Another showed Mama crossing her eyes while Elijah put bunny ears up behind her head—that read simply Summer 1988 .
I wanted to trace my fingers over her words, in ink like blood, some living part of my mama suddenly unearthed. And there she was with the boy who was haunting me. Making faces with him. Laughing with him and Daddy.
The last picture in the book had all three of them in it—Daddy and Mama and Elijah, dressed up in church clothes and hats. Underneath it, Mama had written Easter 1989 .
Leaning my head against Collette’s shoulder, I turned the last page back and forth, gazing at them in their Easter best.
That was the last of them, the end of their saved memories. There were a few blank pages still in the book; Mama must have quit filling it when Elijah disappeared.
An unexpected touch of grief settled on me, and for a minute, I was afraid I might cry, afraid I wouldn’t be able to explain why, either. I sat up too fast and got a deep breath of paint fumes.
Feeling dizzy, I slid to my feet and held my hand back to haul Collette up. “I’m gonna die in here. Let’s go.”
In the shade and quiet by the creek, we ran into Ben. Me on one bank, Collette on the other, we went around the old downed oak and there he was. His bare toes touched the edge of the water; streaked sunlight danced on his golden hair. He had his fishing pole propped between his knees, his dirty fingers working at a tangled lure. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t look up.
Collette lit up when she saw him. She ducked around the tree, coming up with a smile on the other side. “What do you think you’re catching down here?”
“Nothing but flies,” he said. His smile dimmed when he looked past her and saw me.
My last words to him rattled in my head, echoing until they got so loud I wanted to shake them right out. I felt stuck, because I really needed to say something, but I didn’t want to do it in front of Collette and give her the wrong impression.
Fortunately, Collette had plenty to talk about. I nodded along while she explained the memory book and how we had to court Elijah back, only carefully this time. In my opinion, she was hinting about the witchboard again, but Ben didn’t volunteer it.
“Anyway,” Collette said, breezing right past Ben’s missed chance to be a hero, “we ought to look at the stuff in your attic, Ben. Maybe he’ll show himself if we find something good.”
I had to talk then. “We don’t need anything. We just need me.” I peeked up and nearly hit Ben’s gaze.
“How do you figure?” Squinting one eye at me, Collette waited for me to squirm, but I didn’t.
“He’s following me.” I stood on certain ground, my heart almost still with the truth of it. “He showed himself when I was out with
Collette flipped past photos—my parents when they were young, posed on front steps and car trunks, their eyes squinting in the sun. We stopped at a grainy shot of them in front of a Ferris wheel. Daddy and Mama took up the middle, though Mama wasn’t looking at the camera. She had her head tilted back and was smiling at Daddy, her arms around his waist.
Elijah hadn’t been facing the camera, either. Though he had his arms wrapped around a younger, softer-looking Miss Nan, he gazed toward something in the distance.
I murmured in surprise when I realized he was wearing the same jersey he’d worn in my dream. That little sliver of truth felt like ice on the back of my neck.
“What else is there?”
Sliding to the floor to sit shoulder to shoulder with me, Collette spread the book so that half lay on my leg, the other half on hers, and she turned the pages with vicious efficiency. If the pictures didn’t have Elijah in them, she didn’t stop.
There were notes under some of the pictures. One was Valentine Lake, Summer 1987 —Elijah and Daddy trying to start a campfire. Another showed Mama crossing her eyes while Elijah put bunny ears up behind her head—that read simply Summer 1988 .
I wanted to trace my fingers over her words, in ink like blood, some living part of my mama suddenly unearthed. And there she was with the boy who was haunting me. Making faces with him. Laughing with him and Daddy.
The last picture in the book had all three of them in it—Daddy and Mama and Elijah, dressed up in church clothes and hats. Underneath it, Mama had written Easter 1989 .
Leaning my head against Collette’s shoulder, I turned the last page back and forth, gazing at them in their Easter best.
That was the last of them, the end of their saved memories. There were a few blank pages still in the book; Mama must have quit filling it when Elijah disappeared.
An unexpected touch of grief settled on me, and for a minute, I was afraid I might cry, afraid I wouldn’t be able to explain why, either. I sat up too fast and got a deep breath of paint fumes.
Feeling dizzy, I slid to my feet and held my hand back to haul Collette up. “I’m gonna die in here. Let’s go.”
In the shade and quiet by the creek, we ran into Ben. Me on one bank, Collette on the other, we went around the old downed oak and there he was. His bare toes touched the edge of the water; streaked sunlight danced on his golden hair. He had his fishing pole propped between his knees, his dirty fingers working at a tangled lure. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t look up.
Collette lit up when she saw him. She ducked around the tree, coming up with a smile on the other side. “What do you think you’re catching down here?”
“Nothing but flies,” he said. His smile dimmed when he looked past her and saw me.
My last words to him rattled in my head, echoing until they got so loud I wanted to shake them right out. I felt stuck, because I really needed to say something, but I didn’t want to do it in front of Collette and give her the wrong impression.
Fortunately, Collette had plenty to talk about. I nodded along while she explained the memory book and how we had to court Elijah back, only carefully this time. In my opinion, she was hinting about the witchboard again, but Ben didn’t volunteer it.
“Anyway,” Collette said, breezing right past Ben’s missed chance to be a hero, “we ought to look at the stuff in your attic, Ben. Maybe he’ll show himself if we find something good.”
I had to talk then. “We don’t need anything. We just need me.” I peeked up and nearly hit Ben’s gaze.
“How do you figure?” Squinting one eye at me, Collette waited for me to squirm, but I didn’t.
“He’s following me.” I stood on certain ground, my heart almost still with the truth of it. “He showed himself when I was out with
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