Kristopher Reisz - The Drowned Forest

But five barn swallows are sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten by God. How could I spend hours praying and not sense one glimmer of Him?

Last Tuesday, I decided it must be a test. God couldn’t really leave me; it was a test of faith. I knelt here for hours, Holly, not getting up for a sip of water, praying until my tongue got gummy and stuck to my teeth. Praying while the carpet chewed my knees raw, then offering the pain up as a sign of devotion. Tim was just worried about me, but when he wouldn’t leave me alone, I threatened to throw him down the stairs.

That’s when Dad called Dr. Haq, the psychiatrist. I told him I hadn’t been sleeping. I promised him and my parents I’d keep it together. But I couldn’t tell them I don’t feel God anymore, that whenever I close my eyes, it feels like I’m alone in ten billion miles of darkness. They would assure me that God will never give me more than I can handle. They’d make it seem like I’d given up on Him, not the other way around.

A knock on the door makes me jump. “Jane! Dinner.”

“I’m asleep. Go away.”

Tim leaves without another word. After a while, I hear Faye’s birdsong laugh from the kitchen. I’ve worn their patience down to a sullen nub. They cried at your funeral, and they were there for me afterward, but they’re exhausted now. They want everything to go back to normal. They want me to get back to normal and stop scaring them.

I try my best, Holly. Dr. Haq gave me a prescription for Tenex to help me sleep. I take my pill every night and show everybody a smiling face, just some days are harder than others. I miss you. Without you, I don’t have anybody to talk to about this stuff anymore.

Fear not, fear not, fear not. God commands His followers to “fear not” 365 times throughout the Old and New Testaments, once for every day of the year. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, I flip through my Bible. My fingers find those words, your creed, again and again.

Fear not, for I am with thee …

Say to them that are of a fearful heart, Be strong, fear not …

I whisper the verses, tasting the dry papery words on my tongue and lips. Please, let them change me, make me as faithful as you were. But they’re just words; they aren’t real anymore.

Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD thy God, He it is that doth go with thee; He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.

I throw the Bible. It hits the wall, falling splayed like a dead swallow. The violence feels good.

Then I feel guilty, then ashamed, then scared. I grab the Bible again, smoothing out the bent pages. Setting it on the bed, I fold to the floor, hiding my face in my hands. I want to cry, but I can’t anymore. I cried and cried for weeks, then my tears just ran out. I’m nothing but stomach acid and too-tight skin anymore.

Sadness swells in my chest but can’t escape. I try to force a sob, push it out, but it doesn’t work. I can’t cry, I can’t pray. I feel like a dead, dried-up fly on the windowsill.

Holly, how did you watch cancer eat your me-maw’s bones and still love God? How did you still feel His love for you? I’m an idiot, Holly, and I’m sorry. I really thought a few kind words and spray-painting your guitar were all you needed to cheer you up. I didn’t know anything could hurt this bad.

And your parents. Everybody says it’s a miracle you lived. They’d offer praise unto the Highest when they heard your story.

But sometimes you’d get sad for no reason. Those days, you’d try to tell me how it really felt, dangling in the flipped-over car with your parents’ torn bodies. You could only talk in a hoarse whisper that first day I met you because you’d lost your voice in that car. You screamed for your mom over and over, but she never answered.

I’m sorry, Holly. You would talk about the sticky blood and smashed glass and the smell of gasoline, and I’d try to change the subject. I’d yammer about clothes, bands, or boys, nothing that mattered, nothing that couldn’t be snatched away in an instant. I thought I was being a good friend, helping you take your mind off of it. I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry.

I should have washed your feet, Holly. I should have begged you to tell me how you could still be so beautiful, still bring so much beauty into the world. I had a million chances to ask, and I squandered every one.

I loved you, Holly, but I didn’t know how much I needed you. I know now. I’m ready to listen. Please, Holly, tell me how to open my heart again.

The carpet is hot and scratchy like a rash. I rub my eyes open. Sweat slicks my face and makes my church dress cling to my thighs. I stare up at the bed as fragments of dream chase me into waking.

I dreamed I was back in your house, but black lake- bottom mud had flooded it. The stuff sucked off one of my shoes. It caked my calves and hands and clumped in my hair. Holly, you were under there somewhere, coughed up from the drowned forest with the mud. Other bodies too, old tires, busted Mountain Dew bottles. And I knew—the certainty made me want to vomit—that no matter how carefully I walked, eventually I’d step on a cold hand or ankle.

I try to make myself cry again. I snuffle and sniff, but no tears come. The sadness never unwinds from the tight little knot in my breast.

It’s 11:51. I pull off my sweat-sticky dress and crawl into bed. My brain’s already woken up, though. Thoughts squawk and wheel around like barn swallows. I’ll lie here all night if I don’t take my medicine.

As I slip down to the kitchen, my feet probe for the stairs in the dark. This will always be strange to me, how quiet the house is at midnight, the daylight free-for-all fading to almost nothing. It gets so quiet I can hear the clunk of the air conditioner turning on. When we first moved into this house, the mechanical noises deep inside the walls scared me. Dad told me they were house elves. They watched over us at night, making sure we were always safe. I slept soundly curled up in the lie.

Blood drops have been wiped off the kitchen counter. The knife, already cleaned, sits in the dishwasher. I fill a glass with water and swallow two of the scab-pink Tenex. The stuff poisons time. It makes nights wither away. I won’t remember falling asleep or waking up. It’ll just suddenly be bright morning. I won’t have any dreams.

Mom left a cling-wrapped plate of spaghetti for me in the fridge. I eat a cold meatball with my fingers. I poke through the salad for tomato wedges and slices of cucumber. Your pa-paw, he’s moved close to the river, hasn’t he?

The thought lands as lightly as a bird on a twig. I freeze, afraid of startling it.

Your pa-paw couldn’t live in that house by himself—I was afraid to just visit, how could he live there by himself? But still, the river seeps into his thoughts just like it seeps into my dreams. Just like it seeped into Tyler’s mind when he wrote that lonely song. The drowned forest holds us all tight. If your pa-paw hasn’t run far away from it—and he hasn’t because we saw him at Rivercall—then he’s moved as close to the water as he can. As close as he can to you, Holly.

Yes, yes, yes! I flap my hands like Yuri.

It’s not much, but it’s a place to start looking. I’ll call Tyler first thing in the morning. We’re coming, Holly. We’re going to save you.

The light stings.

Mom talks through the door.

It’s 10:19.

I need to call Tyler; we should already be gone.

“Jane!”

“Wha … ?” I shift, stare at the closed door. “What?”

“Bo Greene is here,” Mom repeats. “Get up, Jane. Come downstairs.”

Why is Bo here? Then my heart thumps hard. Oh no, no, Holly, no. Did Pastor Wesley send him?