“Paige, good to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Thanks, Dr. Lutmer. I noticed an unusual test result for one of our samples.”
I slide the printout across the desk. “On all of the other vials from this sample, the arsenic is nonexistent or in trace amounts. The level on this result seems exceptionally high.”
Dr. Lutmer puts on a pair of reading glasses and studies the information with a furrowed brow. “I agree. Where was this water taken?”
“By the Cheshire Walking Bridge.”
He leans back, his office chair groaning. I have the unshakable feeling that I’m being evaluated. “What do you make of it?”
Sweat blooms under both of my arms. It’s definitely a test. He wants to know what I know. It hits me that until now, Melanie has done all the talking. She moved smoothly into the limelight with wide smiles and SAT vocabulary words and…I don’t know if I can compare.
“Well…” My throat is dry, and my heart’s going too fast. I can barely think about the results. I feel pinned to the carpet.
This is when I hate anxiety the most. When I can feel it, like a big hand pushing me down. Making it hard to breathe and speak.
If I don’t answer correctly, he could think I’m dead weight. That Melanie did all the work for our project. Maybe I’m not her, but I’m not in this program for nothing either.
I square my shoulders. “My partner thinks it’s an aberration, but I felt it warranted more research.”
“Oh?”
“I recognize that only one vial yielded this result. Something could have happened in the test process, creating a false positive.”
“Possible,” he agrees, his face giving nothing away. All I want is to ask him what he thinks, but that’s exactly why I can’t.
My shirt is clinging between my shoulder blades now, but the words come easier. “If the implications of a result like that weren’t so serious, I might be able to write it off, but I looked it up. That reading is three times the acceptable max.”
“What’s your instinct?”
“To run another seven samples from the same source.”
“I agree. Good plan.” He takes his reading glasses off and leans back even further in his chair. I can’t see the legs from here, but I bet the front two aren’t touching the floor.
“We haven’t had much opportunity to talk, Paige,” he says. “Are you enjoying the program?”
It’s probably more mature not to smile, but I grin anyway. “I love it.”
He smiles back. “I understand you’re hoping to pursue a career in chemistry. Do you have a specialty?”
I shrug, because I don’t have a clue. Most of the kids in my school are interested in pretty basic careers. Business. Nursing. A few of the ambitious kids—the ones vying for valedictorian—are aiming for prelaw or premed tracks. My biology teacher told me I’m the first kid in our school for years who’s been interested in a chemistry degree.
Until I started looking at college brochures, I had no idea how many directions I could go in the field.
“I’m still considering several programs,” I say, because every one of those programs is a complete blank for me in this moment.
He smiles, and I have that same feeling. Like I’m still being tested. “The lab work and the independent study? You feel comfortable with those aspects?”
The right answer is easy. “Yes, completely.”
“Not too stressed out?”
My smile wavers. Why would he ask that? “No. No, I’m good.”
“Good. You’re doing terrific, but it’s not just grades we care about here. We want you to come out of this program feeling confident about your experience and your college plans. We try to provide an opportunity that will highlight your strengths and personal challenges. Everyone’s college experience is unique.”
“Of course,” I say, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. He knows. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, I’m sure he knows about my challenges. My jaw aches with remembered pain, and I think of my orange prescription bottles. The ones I don’t keep on my dresser anymore.
Who talked to him? My parents? Melanie?
“I’m really grateful to be a part of this program,” I say. “It’s been wonderful.”
“Good,” he says. “But if at any time the pressure is too much…”
I smile again, and it feels stuck on the wrong way. “Of course.”
I excuse myself from his office. My heart is pounding, and I feel hot all over. Melanie is still at the table, hunched over, but I think about her in our room. The questions she asked.
Would she have spoken to Dr. Lutmer?
I’m being paranoid. My parents haven’t talked to everyone at the school. That would be ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as them discussing my mental health with Melanie.
Or Dr. Lutmer asking about my stress level for no reason whatsoever.
My face burns. I tug my phone from my shorts and look at it. My thumb hovers over the speed dial for my mom. I try to picture the conversation. Me furiously demanding the details. Who did she call? What did she ask? How many people are going to be checking on me?
She’ll tell me, because she probably doesn’t think it’s a big deal. Mom’s a big believer in open, honest communication. I’m not sure what’s worse—spending the next three weeks wondering if people are keeping an eye on me, or calling my mom and verifying it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
One point feels crystal clear. If she finds out I’m worried about her saying too much to my friends, she’ll use it. It will be another piece of ammunition to justify her belief that my stress levels would be better managed at home.
I take two slow breaths to center myself and pocket my phone. Melanie is calling one of her website friends about musical backgrounds for our final presentation. When I tell her I’m off for more samples, she’s all too happy to wave me away.
I grab a pair of rubber boots and a collection kit from the supply room and head out.
The walk to the river is short, and I wish it wasn’t. I’m knotted up inside, so I could use a long stroll to unwind. At the crest of the hill above the bridge, I stop. I miss Theo so much in that moment that I feel a little sick with it.
Normally, he’s the first person I’d call. I could count on him for a burst of righteous indignation on my behalf. Then he’d make me laugh. And then he’d talk me down.
I know this can’t be healthy, the way it is with us. He’s a walking contradiction. Theo is good for me. And Theo is terrible for me. Those statements are both completely true and impossibly opposite at the same time. How do I make sense of that?
He’s not on the bridge. Denny’s there, working on the railing, but Theo’s nowhere in sight. Odd, since it’s only two o’clock. I think about calling or texting, but decide against it.
I head down the banks, my ballet flats nearly silent in the grass. I pass Melanie’s favorite picnic table and head straight to the walking paths that switchback down to the water. There’s a shallow section near the bridge support where we collected the first time. I tug on my boots and head out.
The water is moving fast, so I’m careful. Even with cleanup programs in place, I could run into a million unsavory things on the bottom of this river, and I’d rather not.
I make my way closer to the supports. The wind is whipping tiny waves across the river. Water sloshes over the tops of my rubber boots, little rivulets of filthy water soaking my feet. On the bridge overhead, two bikes bump-bump onto the wooden walkway and roll their way to the Village.
I shudder. It’s weirdly cold down here—maybe it’s the wind. I just want to be done. I push a few feet closer to the original collection site, near the first support pillar.
The current drags cold and fast at my feet, and my fingers fumble with the first vial. I plunge it into the muddy water and pull it out. On
ce the cap is on, I fill the second. The third.
The wind whips my hair into my face. My teeth chatter.
Come on, finish already.
I cap the fourth, and the air goes still. Utterly motionless, as if someone switched off the weather.
My hands shake as I push my hair out of my face. I can hear my own heart. A thump-thump that’s growing faster. My body can tell something is different. Wrong.
I cap my final sample and shove it in my bag. Something brushes my boot in the water. A fish? I kick my heel free of the silt in the riverbed. The thing I can’t see wraps around my ankle.
I kick hard, thrashing. My other ankle twists… I’ll trip. I’ll fall!
I recover with a step to the right, hands wide, samples rattling in the case.
Stop. Stop freaking out!
I pull in a deep breath and test a step, feeling the drag of whatever’s caught on my boot. A tangle of weeds or maybe fishing line. I’ll be fine.
The samples are my first priority, so I settle them back into the slots in the case and snap it shut. Once it’s tucked safely under my arm, I reach into the water. I feel my way down carefully. A wad of fishing line could have hooks. But it’s not fishing line, it’s cloth—maybe old rope or a cotton strap.
See? Nothing.
It untangles easily enough. I pull my foot free and fish the rope out of the water. There’s something dangling off it, caked and dripping in mud. It’s a little purse.
I turn it over, hearing heavy footsteps start over the bridge, rusty-red sludge dripping off my hands.
Like blood.
It’s not blood. It can’t be. But blood is what I think of when my throat goes dry and my heart squeezes out two beats together. My finger drags across a smooth metal clasp, and I’m struck with immediate familiarity. I know this purse. I remember the crisp little snap it makes when I pinch it closed.
This is my purse.
I turn the muddy hunk over in my hands, wondering if my lipstick is still inside. Or the single tampon I had hidden in the zippered compartment because I was going to get my period soon. My hands shake and pull at the bag. Liquid weeps from the seams, dark red, black, brown, and it’s on my hands. It’s all over me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t—
Above me, the clomping tread goes silent. I freeze. Someone’s up there. Chills slither up my spine as I look up, water lapping at my boots. Light peeks between each slat of wood. And two dark smudges appear at the edge. Feet.
Who is that?
My teeth clack painfully. I stare up at the underside of the bridge, blood roaring behind my ears. I can’t see who it is. Are they watching me?
One of the planks groans. Like that person is leaning. I gasp. Are they going to jump? The feet are planted. Unmoving. I feel a strange weight in my chest.
I look down at the purse, at the putrid liquid running down my arms. Dripping on my legs. It’s like my blood from that night. It is blood, isn’t it?
I recoil, flinging the purse into the river. The current takes it fast. The shoulder strap trails behind, a coiling snake dancing in the water. My heart pounds as I watch the purse disappear. Then I plunge my hands into the river. When I pull my arms out, they look clean.
Was there ever any blood?
My hands shake as I swipe them down my shorts. I slosh toward the bank, panting. It’s like running through honey. Or sand. I can’t move fast enough. My lungs are burning by the time I reach the shore ten feet away.
I climb the walking path quickly, boots slipping on the gravel. I go down on my knees in the grass at the top, folding into an awkward heap as I look at the bridge.
There’s no one there. No one on the ramp leading into the Village or even on the street beyond.
What did I see up there? What did I fish out of that water?
Not what I thought—that much is sure. Now with my breath steady, I know that bag couldn’t have been my purse. My purse is at home, hanging on a hook in the back of my closet. It was in my bag from the hospital, and I watched my mom pull it out and put it away.
Which means I dreamed some random purse into something personal and terrifying. Why would I do that? Unless, of course, I’m a completely anxious wreck who flies to the worst possible conclusion at every turn.
I look up, squinting into the blotch of bright white in the overcast sky. So, what do I do? Can I call my doctor for a dosage increase? I turned eighteen in April, so technically it’s my business now. My parents shouldn’t have access.
But I think of all the forms I blindly signed after the party, forms at the hospital, at the dentist, at the therapist’s office too. My mother filled out those forms. She would have taken steps to be the decision maker, and it’s not like I paid attention to what I was signing.
What if I told her? Not the craziest parts of what happened—but that I need a bump in my meds. Because it’s true, and I know my parents want to help me. But I also know they want me home.
What if they’re right about that?
I close my eyes against the thought. If it’s true, then I’m exactly where I’ve always been, the little girl afraid to go through the cave at camp. The one who won’t climb the rope in gym. The me who’s afraid of every new story because she doesn’t know how it will end.
I don’t know if I can live with being that girl for one more minute.
But I can’t ignore this paranoia either. I need help. I stand up, knees wobbly, and start toward the bridge.
Theo
I’m officially blowing off work to talk ghosts with a fifteen-year-old librarian named Gabriel. Denny didn’t seem pissed, but pissed is difficult to interpret when you’re dealing with monosyllabic responses. Through text, no less.
Screw it, though. It’s too hot to work on the beams now, and he messed up his bolt cutter order, so we can’t do the locks.
It’s too hot to be inside, so we’re out on Denny’s porch. No furniture, and I’m too lazy to drag out one of the kitchen chairs, so I’m sitting on the floor, and Gabriel’s sitting on the dead air conditioner.
“Let start at the beginning,” he says, sounding really serious for someone with an untied shoe and a can of orange soda beside him. “Tell me about your paranormal encounters.”
I push my legs out in front of me, my socks catching on the splintered porch. “Who talks like that? Also, sorry to be an ass here, but how much experience does someone your age have with paranormal encounters?”
“I used to live in the Village,” he says. “We live in one of those apartments by the library now. Back then I lived on Maple Street, and I’d run across the bridge a lot. Getting ice cream and stuff. You know the ice cream shop?”
“Okay.”
“I lived with my uncle for a while, and he used to let me walk over there. I’d buy a vanilla ice cream cone, dipped in that butterscotch topping that gets kinda hard. You know that topping?”
I do. I just can’t understand why a dipped cone is relevant to a conversation about seriously messed-up haunting shit. But I nod to get him to go on.
“I liked to walk there every day, even if I didn’t have the money for the ice cream, because there was always this nice lady saying my name over and over. She said it like a song.”
“So, you were haunted by a creepy lady on the bridge?”
“No lady. Just her voice.”
“Just her voice?”
“Yes. I was too young to realize how scary that was. I thought it was cool, like the bridge knew I was coming and liked me, I guess.”
He bursts into a flurry of motion for a moment, adjusting his notebook and shifting around on the air conditioner.
“So, who do you think the lady was?”
“I have no idea. But it went on until I moved in with my grandfather.”
“In the library apartment.”
“Right.” r />
“And you never heard it again?”
“When I moved in with my grandfather, he didn’t want me on the bridge. Didn’t go for years.”
“Okay, fine. Not sure what it has to do with me.”
“It doesn’t, but it’s how I know about the voices people hear. The things they see. People come in sometimes too. To the library, you know? They want to know about ghosts and stuff. Some people see things. Some people hear things. One girl smelled things.”
“I’ve smelled things,” I say. “So, what is it? What’s behind it?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But it doesn’t happen to everyone. There were enough rumors that the ghost tours tried to add the bridge for a while. But it never caught on. Too far from the hotel and old school that really creep out customers. Plus, most people think the bridge and locks are romantic.”
“So, what’s your theory? If you want to help me, you obviously have one, right?”
“Yes, but I want to hear your story first.”
I fill him in on the basics and flip my phone over and over in my hands. I know that’s what I need to get to—the recording. That’s the point of all of this, but it’s the start of my worst night. I don’t know if I want him to hear me like that, especially since I’m going to have to explain the rest.
But hell, it’s not like he didn’t peg me as a screwup already.
I put the phone on the porch between us and turn up the volume before pressing Play. There’s the soft static hiss of recorded wind. Rustling like I’m adjusting the phone. I glance down, because I thought the audio would have started several seconds ago. We’re at ten seconds, then fifteen, then twenty, and my stomach wads up because this isn’t right. There were voices on this recording, mine and Chase’s. I heard them on the bridge.
“Something’s screwed up,” I say, grabbing the phone and checking my videos. I play it again, but it’s the same. Fifty-one seconds of me rustling and breathing. One or two distant whoops that sound like the kids who crossed over. There is no Chase and no Paige and no former drunk me blundering into the worst mistake of my life.