The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

for me to follow, for one. But the hallways ahead are shimmering, just a little. Like something is shifting under the surface.

I think the Flood is agitated. And it doesn’t take me long to see why.

“. . . get to my age, you know more dead folks than live ones.” An elderly woman sits in the classroom to my right, her back straight and her smile taut. I pause long enough to see Loreen opposite her. “My parents. My best friend. My baby brother. Would you like me to start somewhere, Loreen, or shall I go in order?”

I know that voice. I’ve seen this woman before: she threw a dish at us yesterday when we tried to interview her. Maybe that’s a habit of hers, because Loreen looks ready to dodge a few projectiles, too.

“I know it’s hard,” Loreen says. “I’m sorry. But if you could walk me through it . . .”

“You already know that,” someone says in the next classroom up. “You were at the funeral.”

I straighten. Adrienne’s voice.

I hear Deputy Jay next, tight and strained. “If you don’t mind—for the record . . .”

Adrienne’s back is to me when I peer in. All I see is her auburn hair and her peach uniform. She adjusts the set of her shoulders as she speaks again. And for a second, the floor shifts to grass, dotted with gravestones.

I don’t think they can see it—they don’t react—but just like at the Mockingbird’s, the Flood’s focus has widened, taking in the torrent of memories around us. Maybe it’s all these interviews, stories of things and people lost. Or maybe it’s just another sign of how close the Flood is to Lotus Valley now.

“I don’t know, Deputy,” she says. “Have I suffered a notable loss? I think about it every day, every time I’m in that kitchen. Sometimes it’s more than I can bear. Sometimes it’s kind of comforting, like she’s there, guiding my hand. But most times it’s just like wallpaper. Just all around me, the rest of my life. Is that notable enough for you?”

I don’t hear Jay’s answer—harsh, terrified sobs from up the hall tear my attention away. I feel the cool, ancient air before I hear the voice. Maurice’s. And yet definitely not Maurice.

“I understand this is difficult for you, dear,” the Mockingbird soothes. “But if you don’t use your words, we’re not going to get anywhere.”

“We might need to find the Mockingbird another job.” There’s a dark chuckle behind me, and I turn to find Cassie, listening, too. “People get kind of . . . flustered . . . with her.”

I smile weakly. “To be fair, the others didn’t seem much happier.”

“They don’t like being asked to relive it,” Cassie says softly. “Guess I understand that.”

I glance back to Adrienne and Jay’s classroom. “I don’t know, Cassie.”

“About what?” she says.

“Adrienne.” I watch her back, watch the rigid line of her shoulders. “When Theresa told me what it was like for her, I just felt . . . I don’t know. Like it made sense? But look at her. That isn’t someone who thinks her pain is going to end soon.”

Cassie steps back, taking it in—not just Adrienne, but the whole line of classrooms. I think she gets what I mean. The only thing on display here is grief, scabbed-over and ripped-open. It’s no wonder I can feel the Flood taking it all in.

I wonder what we are looking for. Desperation? Relief? Anticipation?

We venture a little farther down the hall. Christie’s in the next classroom—she’s speaking quietly, her interviewee out of our sight. Cassie’s gaze unfocuses as she watches her.

“She told you about my parents,” she says. It’s not quite a question.

“She says they didn’t say much,” I say.

“Oh, I’m sure they said plenty,” Cassie says. “Just not what she wanted to know.”

Christie extends a hand to the woman opposite her, who instead nods curtly as she collects her purse. And as I watch her go, my mind begins to churn.

“Ms. Jones said they lost a child, before you,” I say.

“It wasn’t them,” Cassie says.

“I know that, I was—” Thinking out loud. I stop, and I put my thoughts in order before I try again. Though by the time I do, I’m not sure I want to.

“You told me yesterday,” I say slowly, “that they had a good reason to want the Flood here, but that they had a better reason not to.”

Cassie looks up at me. It’s the look she gave me three days ago, when she realized, for the first time, who I was. “I said that,” she says, carefully.

“So,” I say. “What was that reason, exactly?”

But if she was going to answer me, she doesn’t get the chance. Theresa Gibson strolls into the room in a tank top and jeans, her arms swinging freely at her sides. It’s different, somehow, from how she carried herself yesterday. She looks calm, almost balloon-light in her steps.

And the traces of memories all around us abruptly vanish.

“Chris,” Theresa says.

“Theresa!” Christie’s smile is warm, familiar. “Go ahead and sit down. This should only take a few minutes.”

“Something wrong?” Cassie says, seeing the look on my face, maybe.

“I’m . . . not sure,” I say slowly. I’ve been able to feel the Flood stirring since we got here, taking in all the grief and pain, but they’re completely still now. Theresa laughs as she pulls out the chair with her foot, and I wait to see her memories flicker into view. Nothing happens. It’s almost like—whatever the Flood is getting from everyone else in this school, they’re not getting it here.

I don’t see that grief and pain in Theresa, either. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her smile is easy. She doesn’t look like someone who knows she’s about to be asked about the worst day of her life.

And I think of yesterday, in the garage. When she’d told me about Adrienne. When she caught me looking at her pictures.

“You may have been invited in,” I whisper.

“Rose?” Cassie asks.

I grip her arm to quiet her. “Yesterday, in the garage, that’s what she said to me. ‘You may have been invited in.’ But she