left is to head toward Lost Hill Memorial.
To turn right? To turn right is to go to the highway. To mile marker seventy-seven.
I told myself I wasn’t going to go there anymore, that there was nothing left at the river for me to see. There was no longer any trace that a man had ever died at seventy-seven. Someone (I don’t know who) had put up a small white cross on the river’s bank shortly after the accident. I saw it for the first time four days after the funeral. It confused me. BIG EDDIE had been written in a childish scrawl across the horizontal bar. I knew what had happened there. I knew now where my father lay. I was certain that having two memorials would trap him, that he’d be stuck between the two, forced to return to the river over and over again, unable to leave.
I tore the cross from the earth. I broke it in half, then in half again. I threw the pieces into the river.
No one ever put up a cross again.
But they could have , I think now, irrationally. These are strange days and strange nights. There are feathers and blues. Dreams and storms. There are things Nina sees that aren’t really there. The script has been broken with Abe. The FBI wants to know if my father was a good man, and I think Little House is haunted. I think I’m haunted and it’s not real. It can’t be real. I am drowning in this river and I don’t know how to stop. I haven’t been to seventy-seven in days. Weeks. Someone could have put a cross back up again.
It’s no question, of course. I turn right.
It only takes ten minutes before I am at mile marker seventy-seven. I pull up in front of the sign and turn off the truck, the flares of lightning above illuminating the white numbers. They reflect back at me with each pulse from above and it’s like they’re calling me. Beckoning.
Just gonna make sure there’s no cross , I tell myself. Once I see there’s no cross, I can go home. I can go home and forget about all of this. I need to move on. After tonight, it’s time for me to move on. Just gotta check one last time. Make sure there’s nothing there.
I hesitate with my hand on the door handle. Before I can stop myself, I reach into my bag and grab the feather, then open the door out into the storm.
The wind is howling in my ears, almost drowning out the roar from the river below. Another arc of electricity shoots overhead, and I count to two before another crack of thunder blasts the world around me. Just gotta see, I tell myself. I’ll be quick.
I slide down the embankment, careful not to fall on my ass and roll down the hill. I reach the bottom as another gust of wind blows against me, almost knocking me back. The feather begins to slide from my fingers. I grip it tighter. It pokes into my flesh, giving me a small cut. I ignore it.
I am at the river’s edge. There is no cross. There is nothing here.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lightning flash.
There’s a truck in the water. Upside down. Back end sticking up, at an angle.
Another flash and it’s gone.
Another flash and the cry of an engine roaring down the embankment.
Lightning above and there’s nothing behind me.
I close my eyes.
I open them and there are thousands of crosses on the river’s edge, all white and glaring and blazing. Big Eddie! they shout. Big motherfucking Eddie!
I close my eyes. I open my eyes.
The crosses are gone, but the world around me is filled with feathers, billions of them falling from the sky.
A hand on my shoulder. A breath against my neck. A flash of blue.
I fall to my knees and cover my ears, the feather in my hand stabbing my skin. I can’t do this anymore, I think, my own voice almost lost in the storm. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t face this on my own. I am drowning in this river and I am haunted in this house my father built and my mind is breaking. It is shattering . I am broken and alone and afraid. Please. Please. Help me. Help me. Oh. Oh, someone please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Not
To turn right? To turn right is to go to the highway. To mile marker seventy-seven.
I told myself I wasn’t going to go there anymore, that there was nothing left at the river for me to see. There was no longer any trace that a man had ever died at seventy-seven. Someone (I don’t know who) had put up a small white cross on the river’s bank shortly after the accident. I saw it for the first time four days after the funeral. It confused me. BIG EDDIE had been written in a childish scrawl across the horizontal bar. I knew what had happened there. I knew now where my father lay. I was certain that having two memorials would trap him, that he’d be stuck between the two, forced to return to the river over and over again, unable to leave.
I tore the cross from the earth. I broke it in half, then in half again. I threw the pieces into the river.
No one ever put up a cross again.
But they could have , I think now, irrationally. These are strange days and strange nights. There are feathers and blues. Dreams and storms. There are things Nina sees that aren’t really there. The script has been broken with Abe. The FBI wants to know if my father was a good man, and I think Little House is haunted. I think I’m haunted and it’s not real. It can’t be real. I am drowning in this river and I don’t know how to stop. I haven’t been to seventy-seven in days. Weeks. Someone could have put a cross back up again.
It’s no question, of course. I turn right.
It only takes ten minutes before I am at mile marker seventy-seven. I pull up in front of the sign and turn off the truck, the flares of lightning above illuminating the white numbers. They reflect back at me with each pulse from above and it’s like they’re calling me. Beckoning.
Just gonna make sure there’s no cross , I tell myself. Once I see there’s no cross, I can go home. I can go home and forget about all of this. I need to move on. After tonight, it’s time for me to move on. Just gotta check one last time. Make sure there’s nothing there.
I hesitate with my hand on the door handle. Before I can stop myself, I reach into my bag and grab the feather, then open the door out into the storm.
The wind is howling in my ears, almost drowning out the roar from the river below. Another arc of electricity shoots overhead, and I count to two before another crack of thunder blasts the world around me. Just gotta see, I tell myself. I’ll be quick.
I slide down the embankment, careful not to fall on my ass and roll down the hill. I reach the bottom as another gust of wind blows against me, almost knocking me back. The feather begins to slide from my fingers. I grip it tighter. It pokes into my flesh, giving me a small cut. I ignore it.
I am at the river’s edge. There is no cross. There is nothing here.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Lightning flash.
There’s a truck in the water. Upside down. Back end sticking up, at an angle.
Another flash and it’s gone.
Another flash and the cry of an engine roaring down the embankment.
Lightning above and there’s nothing behind me.
I close my eyes.
I open them and there are thousands of crosses on the river’s edge, all white and glaring and blazing. Big Eddie! they shout. Big motherfucking Eddie!
I close my eyes. I open my eyes.
The crosses are gone, but the world around me is filled with feathers, billions of them falling from the sky.
A hand on my shoulder. A breath against my neck. A flash of blue.
I fall to my knees and cover my ears, the feather in my hand stabbing my skin. I can’t do this anymore, I think, my own voice almost lost in the storm. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t face this on my own. I am drowning in this river and I am haunted in this house my father built and my mind is breaking. It is shattering . I am broken and alone and afraid. Please. Please. Help me. Help me. Oh. Oh, someone please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Not
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