Page 93 of Beauty and the Beach
Part of me is envious of them, so rowdy and carefree. I would have loved to come to a river like this one in high school. I liked swimming, I liked boating, I liked hanging out with my friends. But the other part of me wants to shout at them to be respectful, to screamThis river stole my brother’s life and never gave it back.I want to ask them how on earth they can play when something so horrible happened here.
I don’t get out of the car immediately, even after Phoenix has parked and killed the engine. I stare around the parking lot instead, although I don’t know why or what I’m looking for. I’m stalling, I guess. I let myself linger for a minute or two, and then I get out. Phoenix follows suit.
He walks behind me as we cross the parking lot. These heels were not made for gravel, so every step I take is wobbly, and I have no doubt we look like idiots. We’ve rolled up to a river in skirts and suits and ties. But I press on anyway, and Phoenix follows, not saying a word. We walk until gravel turns to dirt and sand and the river sprawls into view.
I come to a stop without thinking. It’s a beautiful place, really, one that looks deceptively harmless. This is no raging river with angry undercurrents and fierce tides; it’s medium-sized at most, meandering and lazy rather than swift. This is the kind of place people bring rafts on sun-drenched summer afternoons. I can see the bridge, too, not here but a waysdown; I turn and begin the trek down the trail that runs parallel to the banks, my steps heavy but my heart frantic. I feel like pure chaos inside, spinning and whirling and too big for my skin—cut my palm and not blood but a tornado would leak out.
A tornado that could whisk me away to a place where Trev isn’t dead, maybe—an alternate dimension—a place where he’s alive and happy and he and I and Phoenix are at this same river together, laughing and splashing each other and being stupid.
But there is no such place.
I swallow thickly and walk a little faster, further and further until at last we reach the section of river with the bridge. My heart is a piece of whirring machinery, automatic and impossibly active even though it feels so broken. It beats and beats and beats as I turn toward Phoenix and hold onto his arm, lifting each foot in turn and removing my shoes. He stands steady until I’m done, at which point he holds out his hands wordlessly. I pass him the heels with a nod of thanks; he nods back, and then we make our way toward the water.
The breeze is warm and pleasant; from down the river I can hear faint laughter. But all I can really focus on is the water.
Why does it look the same? How is that possible?
How is it possible that the water beneath the bridge looks the same as the rest of the river? The place where Trev died isn’t the same as everywhere else. It’s tainted, foul. But the river flows cheerfully on, going about its business, Trev’s memory swept away long ago like driftwood in a current.
It isn’t until I look around that I realize I’m still approaching the water. And even though I wasn’t sure if I’d want to get in, I suddenly know that I have to. I have to, and I won’t be able to stop myself even if I try. So I step gingerlydown the bank, footprints in the dirt and sand, until I reach the river.
Just my toes, at first. I can feel Phoenix behind me more than I can see him or hear him, but he doesn’t speak or try to stop me. I take one step in, and then another, the water chilly against my ankles and then my calves and then my knees. The sandy bottom is sharp with pebbles and bits of rock and debris, but I barely notice.
When the river hits the hem of my skirt, I stop.
I look down at my clothes. I hate them. I mean, they’re pretty enough. But they’re not me, and they’re not comfortable, and they belong to the world of Phoenix’s family. They don’t belong to my world or to this river. So I reach down and unbutton my shirt; from behind me I hear a noise of surprise from Phoenix, but I ignore it. I pull off the silk blouse and pass it back to Phoenix; he takes it without a word. Then I reach around for the zipper of my skirt, finagling it down until I can step out of that too, and then the pantyhose.
I take off everything until I’m left in nothing but my underwear and camisole.
When I turn to Phoenix, his eyebrows are up in surprise, but he still doesn’t say anything; he just holds out his hand for the skirt and tights, his gaze darting up and down the riverbank, probably to check if anyone can see. When I’ve passed him the clothes, he steps around me, placing himself between me and the sight of anyone who drives across the bridge.
“That’s looking better,” he says quietly, his eyes on my now-bare knee. The bruising has gone down significantly.
“It is,” I say. Then I continue on in my underthings, well aware that this is a weird thing to do.
I do it anyway.
My emotions rise with the water as I continue—a knotted jumble of fear and guilt and anticipation and grief up to my knees, up to my waist, up to my ribcage. When I’m about to go even further, I feel Phoenix’s gentle tug on the back of my camisole, and I look over my shoulder at him.
“I’m not sure how deep this goes or if there are any drop offs,” he says, his voice still soft. “It was pretty deep back then.”
I stay where I am, looking around at the water surrounding me, because he’s right. “Do you want to know a secret?” I say softly.
“Mmm.” A low hum of assent.
“I’m not actually afraid of the water.”
When I look at him, his dark brows are raised.
I nod. “The water itself doesn’t bother me. What I’m scared of…” I inhale deeply and then let the breath out. “Is all the things the water makes me feel. The things it makes me remember.”
Phoenix inclines his head slowly. “I understand that.”
I know he does.
I’ve been running from those feelings and those memories for years, searching for something I’ll never find because it doesn’t exist.
There is no place on earth where Trev is still alive. He’s gone. He’s gone, but I’m not. That’s the world I live in. And the emotions that have been chasing me, haunting me in my dreams—ignoring them won’t change anything.
