“Your momma there?”
No, Ruth told him. She’d moved to Alabama.
“Dammit,” he sighed. “I knew that.” He cleared his throat. “There an adult there I could talk to?”
“It’s just me, sir.” Ruth rubbed her palm against her eye. “Me and my sister.”
“Well,” Pat began, and something in his tone awakened Ruth. “There’s been an incident.” Hot, sour dread ballooned in her gut. Before her mother left, a collapse had been her greatest fear. Any time the news reported some mine-related accident, she’d recount it to Ruth breathlessly, almost joyously. Ruth could practically hear her thoughts: It wasn’t us this time. Thank God it wasn’t us. But this time it was, and her mother was gone.
Pat continued, “Four of my guys are trapped, including your daddy.” Ruth slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. Agnes was already awake. She usually woke around four. Their father would get her dressed and ready for school and then set her up in front of the TV with some breakfast before he left for his five AM shift. From the living room, a donkey brayed loudly, and Agnes cackled. “We have reason to believe all four men are together and safe. We couldn’t ask for much more at this point.”
Before Ruth hung up the phone, Pat told her to call her mother. “We may have them out before she gets here, but no matter. Your family will want to be together after something like this.”
❦
The families of the miners were gathering at the Alcona Miner’s Union Hall, Pat told Ruth, and there they would be among the first to receive news. The Union Hall was a squat, concrete building with a glass façade in the northwest quadrant of town. It sat nestled between dusty clapboard rowhouses, alternately painted red and blue. Just after seven, after a neighbor dropped them off, Ruth and Agnes settled themselves into metal folding chairs beneath a square window that faced east. A valley draped in a rumpled quilt of maples, whose murmuring leaves were various shades of red and rust, lay beyond the parking lot for a half-mile before reaching the Shantee River, a moderate tributary of the Susquehanna. As they’d entered the building, the sound of the river carried over the trees and roared in Ruth’s ears. Her father once explained that the sound signified the coming or going of a storm. Even inside the building, it was discernable—a faint and ceaseless white noise.
“I want Miss Annie, Ru,” Agnes whined. Miss Annie was the special-education teacher at the high school, and Agnes adored her.
“I know, Ag,” Ruth said. Suddenly she wondered if she should call the school and let them know that she and Agnes would be absent that day. But she reasoned that they would figure it out. The whole town must be buzzing with the news of the collapse. Part of Ruth reveled in the idea of the office ladies, her teachers, the principal, flitting about, alighting in one classroom after the next: “You have Ruth Byrd in your class, don’t you? Did you hear? Her father is one of them. Poor dear.” Ruth imagined their faces plump with sorrow just for her.
Ruth’s half-sister, Agnes, was eighteen, but still had the wispy white-blonde hair and blameless eyes of a child. The sunlight streaming through the window had landed on her, and in this moment of calm, Ruth was able to disregard the gravity of the situation. With the sunlight illuminating her sister’s face, courage glimmered through Ruth’s chest, and she believed that, if she must, she could care for Agnes and provide for her a life that was full and secure. But these feelings fell quickly away when the door banged open and two women passed through, the distant roar of the river rushing in behind them like a third, their faces already wounded, their expectations already fulfilled.
One of those women was Janet Mahoney, wife of their father’s best friend. Eric Mahoney, like Ruth’s father, Jack, was an adoptee into the world of bituminous coal. The men had become friends at eighteen, working together at the aluminum factory in nearby Rockridge until it shut down twelve years ago. Eric’s uncle, since passed, hired them both on at Shannon Hill as operators of the continuous mining machine—a job they’d both performed faithfully and without incident until today.
Mrs. Mahoney met Ruth’s eye and rushed over, draping her body on Ruth in a heavy hug. “Oh, Ruth. I so hoped that your father wasn’t one of them.” Ruth greeted her and returned the sentiment. Mrs. Mahoney continued, saying it was good that Eric and Jack were together and that they’d rely on each other’s strength to come through this. As Mrs. Mahoney talked, Ruth wondered how dark it was in the cave where her father was trapped. Had he or any of the others turned off their cap lamps to preserve the battery? Ruth understood rationally that, because there had been no communication with the miners, their safety couldn’t be assumed. A pebble of understanding, deep within her brain, suggested that a deluge of falling rocks, cracked shards of coal, and piled sandstone might have pinned his body to the floor. But, as a gift, another element of her brain refused to allow Ruth to believe it true.
Ruth watched as Mrs. Mahoney then spoke gently to Agnes. She watched that smile begin to form on Agnes’s face, that open-mouth smile that came at the most inappropriate times, overwhelming her small face, as if the discomfort or unhappiness of others brought her frantic, irrepressible joy. Mrs. Mahoney patted Agnes’ leg three times and looked at Ruth. “You’ve talked to your mother, I presume?”
“Yes,” Ruth lied, her answer coming too quick. “I mean, I called her. I got her voicemail.” After a moment, she added, “I left a message.”
“She’ll call back any moment, I’m certain.” Brightening, she added, “Maybe she’s already on her way.”
Ruth hoped the woman would walk away, but she grabbed a nearby folding chair and sat. “Your mother and I weren’t close. You know that. We weren’t even friendly, really. But I feel, because of how close Eric and I am to your daddy, that I know her still.” She made a fluttery motion with her fingers. “And I know she wants the best for you, Ruth. She wants you taken care of.”
Mrs. Mahoney turned, then, to Agnes, cupped a hand on her knee and said, “Your mother loves you, too, Agnes. She misses you very much.”
Ruth’s mouth formed a rictus of disbelief. The audacity of that woman, she thought, before recognizing her mother’s words. Anger flared hot in her chest. “She doesn’t—” she began, but stopped, and forced a polite smile. It wasn’t worth the energy to try to convey to this woman the extent of her mother’s emotional detachment from her stepdaughter.
❦
It was two years ago, when Ruth was fourteen and Agnes sixteen, that Ruth’s mother left. In the weeks prior, Ruth had sensed a tremendous escalation of tension. Small incidents unfolded in unexpected ways, leaving one or the other parent upset. It started the day her father asked her and her mother, Marilyn, to leave the house, something he’d never done. Agnes was having a bad morning. She’d woken angry about something, and since no one knew what she wanted (she kept screaming what sounded like “boo-ma”), she’d just become angrier and angrier. When Ruth and her mother left, Jack had pulled Agnes out of the bathroom, where she was knocking her head against the toilet bowl, and laid her on the couch, where she continued to bounce her head against the cushions. Jack was the one who handled Agnes when no one else could, and he did it with a level of patience that no one else in their family could summon.
Outside, Ruth and Marilyn began walking north on Sanborn toward Painted Sky Park, where they could cross over the Shantee on the covered bridge to reach downtown. When Ruth was young, the city restored the bridge, which was over a century old, to accommodate motorized traffic. A narrow walkway, wide enough for only one person to walk comfortably, served pedestrian traffic. Marilyn stepped onto the bridge first. Still facing forward, she finally spoke, saying loudly enough to be heard over the river, “Do you see how they both act? A retard and a goddamn robot.” Being behind her mother, Ruth couldn’t see her face, but her posture and pace remained constant, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
On Main, they picked up coffees from Sanderson’s deli and then crossed back over the bridge, settling at a picnic table in the park. They chose one behind the swingset, close enough to the water to watch it churn and froth.
Gripping her Styrofoam cup with both hands, her elbows resting on the ridged wooden tabletop, Marilyn said, “Ruthie, I’d like for you to be more,” she paused, “firm. With your sister.” She squinted at Ruth in the sunlight, her sunglasses resting atop her head. “Don’t follow your father’s lead. He coddles her. I mean, she does something stupid, and he treats her like she shits diamonds. She’s never going to learn.”
“Okay,” Ruth said. Though recently she’d noticed how quick to anger she’d become toward Agnes—once giving the finger to the back of her head—and was going to try to be more patient.
“You know that Agnes is never going to be any different than she is right now, right? She’ll look more and more like an adult. And that’s probably going to make it even more frustrating to care for her. She’ll look like someone who could carry her own weight, but she won’t.”
Sweating from the hot coffee, Ruth wiped her forehead against her shirtsleeve. “I know,” she said.
“She’s never going to live on her own,” Marilyn continued. “She’s not going to get married. She might work. They have programs for people like her. To give them a sense of purpose, I guess. Maybe that’s important.” Finally, she slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and leaned forward. “What would you do if something happened to your father and me?” Before Ruth could answer, Marilyn held up her hand, as if under oath, and said, “I mean, God forbid. There’s no need to worry right now. But, it’s good to have a plan in place, right?”
Ruth supposed she had always considered Agnes to be her parents’ concern. Their death—or their becoming incapable or even old—was a scenario she’d never considered. She thought about her own future occasionally. She pictured herself with a couple of kids and a hardworking husband, if not in Alcona, then nearby. Agnes had never made an appearance in her notion of the future.
“I guess I’d do what I could,” she said lamely.
Marilyn leaned back, gripping the tabletop, and bobbed her head. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
❦
In the Union Hall, families sat clustered together at folding tables. There were mainly women, the wives and mothers, maybe sisters, but a couple men congregated on a threadbare orange sofa by the door. Everyone spoke in whispers. Ruth had hoped there would be a TV tuned to the news but knew there wouldn’t. On the phone, Pat had told her not to rely upon the news. He was asking everyone to stow their cell phones, because no one had better information than the mine company officials, who would stop by regularly to provide updates. Ruth didn’t even have a smart phone, but she knew the adults in the room must. Still, no one had their phones out. Instead, they flipped through magazines or chewed on donuts. Every few minutes, someone glanced at Ruth and Agnes, always giving them the same half smile. Ruth was certain they were wondering where their mother was. Ruth wanted to walk around and stretch her legs, but there wasn’t enough room. She thought about going outside but knew she couldn’t leave Agnes. Ruth stared hard at her sister. A paste of saliva and chocolate frosting encircled her mouth from the donut and soda Ruth had gotten her from the table in the corner. The tablet’s screen was smeared with the same paste. Its artificial light shone brightly on Agnes’ face, illuminating her eyes and a lack of awareness that reflected like glass. Ruth thought of what Mrs. Mahoney had said earlier: that her father and Mr. Mahoney would help each other get through this, that their friendship was all they needed to unearth the drive to await rescue. However much Ruth wanted to believe her, she couldn’t imagine her father finding the motivation to fight for the life awaiting him above ground. But then again, she couldn’t imagine him finding the motivation to be Agnes’ keeper, day in and day out. To wipe her ass every day, fix her food she regularly threw on the floor and ground into the carpet with her heel, and try to decipher her garbled requests before a meltdown ensued. And to do all this without the help of a partner, one wife having found her way into the ground and the other, physically, to Alabama, but emotionally, to a realm wholly elusive to both Jack and Ruth. But he did it all.
Still staring at Agnes, Ruth became suddenly aware of two dark lines stretching from either corner of her mouth to behind her neck.
“Agnes,” she said. “What’s in your mouth?”
Agnes ignored her, made a sucking motion with her lips.
Ruth reached out and touched the thin, black cords. When she tugged on one side, Agnes opened her mouth. She was wearing a necklace that belonged to their father. In her mouth was a small, glassy black rock—obsidian. He found it last year in Shannon Hill. That day, he’d been waiting at the bus stop for them, saying excitedly, “Look! Look what I found.” Ruth touched it and told him it was pretty. He said she didn’t understand. That natural obsidian, which resulted from cooled volcanic lava, had no business being found in the gentle hills of eastern Pennsylvania, the bellies of which were solid and still. At the end of his shift, he had leaned his hand against the innermost wall of the cave and felt embedded amongst the gritty rock a small patch of smooth glass. He turned his cap lamp on and gently dug it out with the tip of his pickaxe. He kneeled down in the grass between his daughters. He still wore his rumpled blue jumpsuit with the reflective strips crisscrossing his body. That day, like every day, his clothes and hair were covered in a sheen of gray dust and grit. Eyes alight, he repeated: “It had no business being there.”
“That’s Dad’s,” Ruth hissed. “Ag, did you take Dad’s necklace?”
“Ag necklace,” she protested, squirming as Ruth felt for the clasp behind her neck.
“No,” Ruth told her. “It’s not yours. You can’t just take anything you want.” Ruth wondered whether Agnes had been rifling through his things or if he’d accidentally left it where she could find it. She became suddenly nauseated at the thought that their father had given the necklace to Agnes. She could imagine him doing it. Throughout their lives, he’d given both daughters small trinkets, things that held sentimental value to him, but that Ruth merely let collect in a drawer. The necklace, alluring in its rarity and implausibility, she would have worn cool against her chest every day. She’d been surprised when he kept the obsidian for himself, and held hope that one day he’d give it to her, because surely he knew Agnes couldn’t conceive of its value. Ruth told herself that Agnes must have taken it, that their father simply wouldn’t have given it to her, but the rock’s very existence was proof that the incomprehensible occurs.
She finally managed to unclasp the necklace and tried to pull it away, but Agnes gripped the rock between her palms. Ruth glanced quickly around the room, but no one was looking at them.
“My,” Agnes said.
“Agnes,” Ruth said, “let go.”
“My,” she repeated.
“Let go, and you can have a cookie,” Ruth’s voice rumbled. This was a trick her mother had used often, but Ruth resented being forced to use it.
When Agnes released the rock, Ruth couldn’t keep from glaring at her. “You’re like some dumb animal,” she hissed. In response, Agnes blinked, unaware. Guilt tightened Ruth’s chest, and, in that moment, she hated herself and her sister equally.
❦
The summer after Marilyn left, Jack began taking the girls to the city pool every Saturday. Water had always soothed Agnes, and Jack, having become concerned about the effects of Marilyn’s absence, hoped visiting the pool would serve as a salve on her psyche.
One day near the end of the summer, shortly after they’d arrived at the pool and Ruth had settled near the high-dive with her friend, Samantha, Jack called her over to where Agnes played in the kiddie pool. He told her that he couldn’t find his wallet and must’ve left it at the Chevron station. He’d have to run back, he said, and would she watch Agnes for a few minutes? She’d watched her sister for short amounts of time at home but never in public. But before Ruth could object, Jack had slipped on his rubber sandals and was hurrying toward the gate. “Ten, fifteen minutes!” he called.
Vaguely stunned, Ruth looked at her sister in the small, shallow pool. Agnes sat with her doughy legs splayed out, smacking her hands against the water between them. Ruth stepped into the kiddie pool and sat down on the ledge.
“Ru,” Agnes said, her smile widening. “Water!” Agnes wore one of Marilyn’s old suits, chlorine-faded and ill-fitting. A roll of fat bloomed out of the low-cut back.
Ruth bobbed her head. “Yep.”
“Da?”
“Dad’ll be back soon.”
Seemingly in a panic, Agnes struggled to stand. With her hands on the pool floor, she pushed herself up onto wobbly legs. “Water,” she said, pointing to the full-size pool.
“No,” Ruth said. “Not without Dad.”
“Water,” she said again, more insistent.
Ruth stood, too. An unfamiliar feeling of power swelled in her chest. “Dad put me in charge. And I say no.”
“No. Water, Ru. Water.” Agnes appeared to charge toward Ruth, but bypassed her, knocking a meaty arm into her as she passed. She crawled clumsily out of the foot-deep water, her knees scraping along the hot concrete.
“No!” Ruth spoke as loudly as she dared. Ruth glanced at Sam, who’d looked up from her magazine. “Get back in the kiddie pool, Agnes. Dad is going to be mad at you.” Ruth hadn’t wanted to invoke the power of their father, but she began to panic when Agnes so readily disobeyed her. Agnes was six inches taller than Ruth and had easily fifty pounds on her. During moments in which her happiness was at stake, she exhibited a frightening lack of inhibition.
“Water!” Agnes bellowed, having found her footing, and waddled to the adult pool. Ruth ran after her, and Agnes allowed her sister to steer her by the arm from the bare edge of the pool toward the sloping set of stairs in the shallowest corner.
Agnes gripped Ruth’s shoulder as they descended the steps together. Standing together in the three-foot water, “Water,” Agnes said to her, and beamed, as if this were something they both wanted.
Ruth looked toward Sam, who smiled weakly and waved. Ruth also noticed a few moms looking in her direction, who shifted their gaze when their eyes met.
Still holding Ruth’s shoulder with one hand, Agnes slapped the water with her free hand and cackled. Ruth held the weight of Agnes’ instability in her shoulder, her sister’s untrimmed fingernails digging into her skin. Feet from them, someone jumped into the pool, and the splash startled Agnes, causing her to dig her nails in deeper.
“Hey!” Ruth yelled. “That hurts!” She wrenched her shoulder out of Agnes’ grip and felt her weight ease off her bones.
As Agnes stumbled backward on rigid legs, her smile didn’t waver, but something like awareness glimmered in her eyes. She flailed her arms in a way that was mechanical, her arms faulty pieces of machinery. Before she became submerged, she began to laugh loudly, boisterously. Ruth allowed herself a deep breath before positioning herself behind Agnes, wrapping her arms around Agnes’ chest, and lifting her out of the water. Agnes gasped and sputtered. Before Ruth could look up to signal a lifeguard, two of them were by her side, pulling Agnes out of the pool.
Sam was waiting as Ruth climbed out of the water, and Ruth appreciated that her friend said nothing and simply stood with her until Jack arrived. Ruth watched while one of the lifeguards steered her father to the side and began karate-chopping the air. She understood he was being reprimanded for leaving Agnes alone with her. Unable to watch any longer, she grabbed Sam’s wrist and pulled her away, muttering, “I knew she’d pull that shit.”
❦
As Agnes chewed on an oatmeal cookie, the door banged open and two men in suits entered. One, disheveled and pear-shaped, Ruth recognized as Pat Smithson. Ruth had met Pat once before, years ago, when she and her father had run into him outside the post office one Saturday. He’d said, “You gonna work for me someday, hon? You could support your daddy here when the tables turn.” He regarded Ruth languidly, as if her presence exhausted him.
The man next to Pat was as round but taller and looked like he made his living delivering bad news in a suit. He appeared to be in his late forties, was aggressively bald, and wore a blindingly red tie. The two men situated themselves about three feet inside the door. Everyone, except Agnes, rushed to crowd around them.
Pat spoke first, introducing himself to those who may not know him and then telling everyone how sorry he was that they’re together on these terms. He told them that he was as upset as they were. That all four men were his family, too. One of the wives chuffed at that. Pat then read all the names of the trapped miners. Eric Mahoney was the first name he called. Ruth watched Mrs. Mahoney blanch and nod. When Pat read her father’s name, Ruth turned toward Agnes, who, hearing the familiar syllables of her father’s name, thrust her feet against the floor and emitted a garbled shriek.
“Quiet!” Ruth hissed. Agnes immediately resumed her game, but Ruth, heat throbbing in her cheeks, continued staring in her direction, aware of the silence at her back. She only turned once Pat said, “That’s everyone.” His tired eyes floated over the crowd. “Let’s all be grateful the number isn’t greater.” The same woman chuffed again.
“Alright,” Pat said, and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him. “This is James Windsor, president of Oyster River Mining. Mr. Windsor has traveled from his office in Scranton to do what he can to keep our guys safe and all of you informed.”
“Thanks, Pat,” Windsor said sharply. He stood with his hands behind his back. Ruth fixed her eyes on his face, avoiding his tie the way one restricts the sun to their periphery; its brightness made her eyes ache.
Windsor began by saying how regretful he was of the situation and that he, like Pat, considered all his men family. He told the crowd that he believed they’d located the exact area of the mine in which the men were trapped, and if he’s correct, they should have plenty of room to move around and enough oxygen to last a good while. He said he couldn’t say when they’d be out, but that they would. He’s put the rest of his life on hold and won’t rest until all four men are out of that mine.
Ruth knew Windsor wouldn’t breathe a word about what caused the collapse. Years ago, after a collapse in Wyoming killed seven miners, Oyster River announced that, due to its dangerous nature, they’d begin to phase out retreat mining. But it was widely understood that the technique was still commonplace. Ruth once overheard her father tell her uncle that over half the coal in the room is left in the supporting pillars, so the company would be stupid not to pull them. “Robbing the pillars,” he called it. He stressed they had safety measures in place so that when the final pillar was pulled, the collapse was confined to the empty room. Remembering this, Ruth stared hard at Windsor and wondered whether she’d ever hated anyone so much in her entire life.
After being there less than ten minutes, Pat promised another update soon, and the two men left the building. While Windsor was talking, Ruth’s phone had buzzed a few times in her pocket. She took it out and saw that Samantha had texted and called. The text read: “Ur dad ok?????”
Ruth sat down next to Agnes and texted back: “don’t know, with ag at union hall waiting.” Two seconds after she hit send, Sam called and told Ruth she was ditching and to meet her at her house.
“I have Agnes.” Ruth lowered her voice and turned toward the wall. “And I can’t just leave. They’re not telling us shit, but I think we’re supposed to stay.”
“Nobody’s telling you what’s going on? I spent all of study hall watching CNN’s live feed. Jesus, you need a smart phone.” She paused, probably remembering that Ruth had been pestering her dad about getting one. “Ruthie, come over. You shouldn’t be sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers right now.” She lowered her voice. “My mom just bought a bunch of beer. We’ll crack open a couple and wait this thing out.”
Ruth felt a rush of gratitude for her friend and, for the first time that day, the warm threat of tears behind her eyes. Before she could agree, Sam added, “We’ll make popcorn and put on a movie for Ags. She’ll be in heaven.”
As Ruth considered how to get Agnes out of the building without anyone asking questions, Mrs. Mahoney came back.
“Have you heard from your mother yet, Ruth?”
“Not yet,” Ruth said. “She’s just really busy at work right now.” Marilyn was a receptionist at a hospice care facility. Before Mrs. Mahoney could ask what was keeping her so busy, Ruth said, “She’ll call soon. I know.”
“Well, honey,” Mrs. Mahoney said, and then trailed off. “Have you tried her work phone?”
“Yes,” Ruth lied again. “It went to voicemail.”
The truth was that Ruth hadn’t had contact with her mother in six weeks. Marilyn used to call on Sunday nights, but those calls had stopped. Ruth had seen activity on her Facebook account at night, so she knew that she was alright and home, idle. Ruth even looked into her phone’s history to see if it had malfunctioned, bypassing the ring and going straight to missed calls. Because her mother had been borderline obsessed with the idea of a mine disaster, Ruth had a hard time believing she hadn’t caught wind of what happened. Again, she thought of her mother’s face in those moments when a collapse had occurred elsewhere. Thank God it wasn’t us. However, Ruth considered, now that there was no us, a collapse was no longer a relevant threat to her life.
Ruth decided that she and Agnes would simply walk out the door. If anyone asked, she’d say that Agnes needed some fresh air. Ruth saw this as one of the few benefits of having a special-needs family member: people generally don’t ask questions. Ruth quietly gathered their things and pulled Agnes out the door.
Outside, the air held a slight chill despite the blazing sun. The river was a ten-minute walk from where they were, and it would only take a few more minutes to reach the pedestrian bridge. Once they crossed it, they would be on the outskirts of Samantha’s neighborhood. Entering the forest, it was quiet, but for the growing intensity of the rushing river. The dense ceiling of red, yellow, and brown leaves filtered the sunlight, creating an autumnal glow. As they walked, the sisters dodged low branches and exposed roots. Ruth kept her eyes on Agnes, whose skin appeared orange in the tunnel of strange light. She kept pace with Ruth, even occasionally darted ahead, and then looked back proudly. As Ruth walked, she kept her hand in her pocket, gripping her father’s necklace, running her thumb over the small hole he’d drilled himself.
❦
Ruth’s mother had left her family before, when Ruth was eleven, and Agnes, at thirteen, had just entered puberty. Shortly before she left, Marilyn had burst into the living room, where Jack and Agnes were sitting on the couch watching TV. Ruth was cross-legged on the floor, doing homework.
“Is this supposed to happen?”
Jack and Ruth looked up at Marilyn, who held, stretched between her fists, a pair of Agnes’ pink underwear, the crusted bloody crotch on display. Her expression and tone were more baffled than anything.
Jack glanced at Agnes, whose gaze hadn’t shifted from the TV, and then back at Marilyn. He appeared slightly amused. “Well, hon,” he said slowly. “She’s thirteen.”
Marilyn stepped into the kitchen to toss the underwear into the trashcan, then settled into the armchair next to the couch. Speaking quietly, she said, “I mean. Mentally, physically. She can’t care for a child, right? Why would her body prepare for one?”
Jack shrugged. “I don’t know, Mar. A body doesn’t account for those things, I suppose.”
“It just seems cruel,” she whispered, glancing at Agnes, still staring straight ahead.
“You’re thinking too much about this,” said Jack.
Marilyn huffed and stood up. Then she squeezed her body between the coffee table and Jack’s legs and sat down on the couch beside Agnes.
“Agnes,” she said lightly. “Can you look at me, please?”
Agnes grunted.
“C’mon now, Agnes,” Marilyn said, grabbing the remote, switching off the TV.
Immediately Agnes threw back her head and began screaming and kicking her legs, nearly flipping the coffee table.
Jack started to stand, but Marilyn shot him a look. She said something that sounded like, This doesn’t involve you, but it was hard to hear amidst Agnes’ screams.
Ruth watched in wonder as Marilyn lay a hand on Agnes’ arm and spoke softly to her. After a moment, Agnes abruptly quieted, as if startled by her stepmother’s tenderness.
“Agnes, did you find blood in your underpants? Do you know what that means?”
Agnes stared at Marilyn with the same blankness with which she’d stared at the TV.
“You’re growing up, honey,” she said. “It’s a good thing. It’s cause for hope.”
Seeing her mother treat Agnes so gently made her uncomfortable the same way it had to see her father cry at her grandfather’s funeral.
Marilyn was gone the next day, and stayed away—at her sister’s, she revealed later—for three weeks. As if this simple kindness had depleted her reserves of maternal stamina. Ruth, who hadn’t gotten her own period yet, was left to show Agnes how to peel the paper off a bulky pad and affix it to her underwear, to remind Agnes every day for the next week to complete this task, and to run her underwear and pants through the wash when she failed to listen.
❦
When the Shantee came into view, Ruth led Agnes by the hand toward the gravel path that followed the river. Ruth knew not to mention the river, especially to not say the word “water.” To Agnes, the river was simply part of a mural painted on the horizon. Ruth briefly considered calling her mother. If her father didn’t make it out of Shannon Hill, would her mother come home? If not to tend to Agnes, then to support her flesh-and-blood daughter? To walk her through the unknown territory of a parent’s death and see her finish school. Would Ruth be forced to move to Alabama? Would Agnes be allowed to come? What would happen if Marilyn simply refused them both? Being sixteen, Ruth knew she couldn’t legally be required to care for her sister. But on her eighteenth birthday, would a social worker knock on her door, holding Agnes by the wrist, to deliver what she’d been deemed unfit to support eighteen months earlier? She wasn’t sure how it worked. She could almost hear her father’s voice: We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. He was an expert at not focusing on what couldn’t be changed.
As Ruth neared the footbridge, she turned around. Agnes was twenty-five feet back, hunched over, her long arms dangling inches above the ground.
“C’mon, Ag. Hurry up.”
“No, Ru. No walk.”
“We’re going to Samantha’s house. You like Samantha, remember?” Ruth spoke with an exaggerated smile plastered on her face. “And you know what? She has candy! Suckers and M&Ms and chocolate. We’ll be there in a few minutes, but you have to keep walking.”
Agnes moaned, but straightened up and continued on.
As Ruth stood on the narrow iron bridge waiting for Agnes, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t hear it ring over the river thundering beneath her. She darted back toward the path and pulled it out—ready, expectant. On the phone with Pat that morning, she had given him her cell number, so if it wasn’t her mother, maybe it was him; maybe her dad was out. But the caller ID flashed Sam. Ruth almost didn’t answer, but she did, and when Samantha spoke, her voice quaked: “Where are you?”
Ruth told her that they were at the bridge and to chill.
“Ruthie, there’s been another collapse. I was watching and saw it happen. I mean,” Samantha paused, and for a moment Ruth heard only the river, and then a sharp intake of breath. “I felt it. Here, in my living room. Did you feel it?”
“No,” Ruth said. Agnes had finally reached the bridge. She walked directly to it, then fell to her knees and moaned. “What do I do?” Ruth said.
“Come over. Don’t go back. My mom will be home in a couple hours. We’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” Ruth said and snapped her phone shut.
Ruth looked at Agnes lying on the ground at the threshold of the bridge. To know that she couldn’t simply ask her sister to stand and walk to a safe place, to know that she’d have to plan and scheme and utter the right words to coax her up and in the right direction was what finally brought her to cry, a low, guttural sobbing that lasted until Agnes turned her head and wailed, “No walk, Ru.”
Ruth wiped her eyes and glared at her sister. “Agnes, get up! Now!” But instead Agnes rolled into a fetal position and wrapped her arms around an iron beam at the base of the bridge. A sculpted depiction of the state bird, the ruffed grouse, sat atop the beam.
Ruth heard herself say, “Dammit, Agnes.” Her mother’s words. Ruth went to her and pulled on her arm as hard as she could, but Agnes wouldn’t budge.
“Candy,” Ruth pleaded. “Let’s go get some candy, Ag.” But Agnes remained locked on the beam. Ruth tried to pry her fingers from it, but it was useless. Agnes was so much stronger.
Then Ruth remembered the necklace. She felt it in her pocket, pressed against her thigh.
“Look,” she said, pulling it out. “Do you want Dad’s necklace?”
Agnes finally looked toward Ruth. “My,” she said, with a peculiar hint of anger.
“It’s not yours,” Ruth snapped. “Stop saying it is.”
Agnes began to rise, pushing herself up on her hands and knees.
Ruth gripped the obsidian tightly. She felt its jagged edges push into her palm. She lifted her hand high into the air and cocked her arm back. Staring hard at the river below, her hand tingled with potential energy. “I’ll throw it,” she said. “Then it’ll be gone forever.”
Agnes, rigid on all fours, appeared on the verge of making a decision. Ruth watched as Agnes rose to her full height. Her depth perception failed, and she couldn’t tell whether Agnes was stumbling backward, toward the embankment, or lunging toward her. She wasn’t sure which she feared more: losing Agnes or being overcome by her.
Ruth’s vision stabilized, and she realized Agnes was trudging toward her. “Necklace, Ru. My.”
Ruth threw the necklace, the weight of the rock carrying the cheap cord through the air, until it landed amidst the roiling surf. Then she looked to her sister and saw in Agnes’ face the realization of what she’d done. Agnes straightened up, her eyes wide. She dropped to her knees and crawled toward the embankment.
“Agnes, stop!” Ruth yelled and ran to her sister, grabbing onto her trunk and pulling as if attempting to dislodge a boulder from the pitiless grip of the earth. Ruth wasn’t strong enough to restrain her for long, and Agnes broke away, striking Ruth in the head with enough force to knock her onto her back. Agnes tumbled down the rocky dirt wall, landing on her side on the gravel bar below. Then she stood and waded into the river. While the water flowed rapidly around her, she seemed to find stability in the water’s contempt for it. Agnes followed the gradual slope of the riverbed until she was waist-deep.
Ruth remained on the ground, disoriented, her gaze fixed on the water where the necklace had landed. She’d been surprised when she’d thrown it. Doing so hadn’t felt like a choice, but she understood that she would do it again and again.
“Agnes!” she called suddenly, sitting up. She swung her feet over the edge of the embankment and was about to jump down when Agnes fell backward and was pulled beneath the water. Ruth screamed her sister’s name again. Agnes reappeared, the current having carried her south several yards, her arms thrashing and head bobbing, but on her face, she wore the contented expression of a sleeping child. Above the Shantee were brambles and low-hanging branches. With what felt like wasted breath, Ruth called out to Agnes to grab hold of something, to save herself.
Ruth ran back to the path and began sprinting south, attempting to keep pace with Agnes. “Agnes!” she tried again, and her sister, seeming to hear her, turned her head searchingly. She looked so small, and the river so big. “Grab something!” Ruth screamed, shredding her throat. Several yards ahead, the ground off the path sloped down to the water, leading to a strip of packed mud that followed the river for as far as Ruth could see. Running down the small hill and then alongside the river, Ruth continued to scream at Agnes. “Drag your feet, Ags!” she called, hoping the water was shallow enough. As soon as she said it, Agnes’ body came to a jolting stop, and then shuddered forward for a moment before regaining momentum. “Good, Ags!” Ruth yelled. Ahead she spotted a narrow gravel bar jutting into the hungry maw of the river, and she ran with all her might to beat Agnes there. “Keep dragging your feet! I’m coming!”
Ruth tore across the bar and splashed into the frigid water, anchoring her feet in the gummy silt. She waited, arms outstretched, for Agnes’ halting form to arrive. When it did, the sisters reached for each other with balanced desperation. Within Ruth’s arms, the water shared the burden of Agnes’ weight, allowing Ruth the strength to heave her sister onto land. The sisters lay together, their tandem breaths hard and ragged. In the river, Agnes had lost the hoodie she was wearing; her pale, cold arm lay strewn across Ruth’s neck. Ruth allowed her eyes to close. The blanket of pebbles beneath her was like a bed of nails, her own weight providing widespread, comforting pressure.
Finally, Ruth moved Agnes’ arm aside and rolled over to gaze at the river, at the pulsing blue artery of the Shantee, flowing southbound for miles without hesitation. She realized then how lucky she and Agnes had been that this gravel bar had been there and that they had reached each other. Sitting up, Ruth pulled her phone from her pocket, realizing it was finally time to call her mother, that if she would receive help, she would need to ask for it first.
As it rang, Ruth looked upriver. The bridge was small in the distance and clouded by mist. She imagined the obsidian lying still on the riverbed, the water above it flowing swiftly yet silently until it broke the surface. She wondered how many years the rock could endure the unrelenting pressure of millions of gallons of water before it eroded into a sliver of its former self. ⬥
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