Then, in the darkness, a sharp, ear-splitting scream bubbles forth from the ether. A long, droning holler that no one should ever have to hear. My eyes fly open to see Clover and Jonah looking back toward the house, eyes huge. They exchange a panicked glance before sprinting inside, and I follow close behind.

  “Opal?!” shrieks Clover. “Opal, where are you?!”

  “Clooooooverrrrr!!!!” comes Opal’s voice, terrified and jagged. I race behind Jonah and Clover, who dart down the long green hallway and up the stairwell where Clover explodes into a bathroom to find Opal crumpled up on the floor in a heap, and…

  …blood…

  …so much blood.

  Her face is pale, her eyes lifeless as she looks up at Clover and admits, “I’m sorry.”

  “Opal!” sobs Clover, kneeling and taking Opal’s arms in hers. She lifts them, against Opal’s whimpering protests, and I see a slash mark across each, deep red gashes bubbling forth with blood.

  “I’ll make a tourniquet,” she announces to Jonah. “You call 9-1-1.”

  I’m frozen to the ground, rooted to the spot. My legs are jelly, disobedient even as I will them to move. My stomach turns over, and I feel like I might throw up.

  There’s blood everywhere—splattered across the bowl of the bath tub and smeared across the faucets, dripping down the side and smudged and dragged across the floor to underneath Opal, her once vibrant green eyes fading, her limbs going limp.

  She’s wilting in Clover’s arms.

  “Opal?” come Clover’s pleas. “Opal! Please, God, no! Stay with me!”

  Memories flood me, bubbling forth so fast I can’t control them.

  A white body bag being carried out of the front door of the second children’s center I called home. All the interior door handles were replaced with grabbable indentations instead—things you couldn’t tie a bed sheet to.

  A supervisor I hadn’t met before, running with a child much younger than I, cradled in her arms, graying skin, dripping wet, and screaming for someone to call 9-1-1. The next day, the pool was closed.

  Several news crews with flashing camera lights and microphones waved in the faces of our teachers, demanding to know how a teenage boy was able to escape and make it to the highway, and what drove him to such lengths to take his own life.

  I’m back in the bathroom.

  Then, I’m back in the yard.

  “Alex?” comes Steph’s voice. “What do you think?”

  I blink myself back into the moment. Yanking my hand back from the memory and clutching my wrist as if it burned me.

  I can still see those… deep… gashes.

  I look at Steph, having no idea what the hell she and Clover have been talking about.

  Clover walks onward as if Steph hasn’t said a thing, but Steph sees me—like, really sees me, again—and I feel tears about to burst forth from me, like I’m about to explode.

  I want to disappear, I want to scream.

  She snatches my hand as desperately as if I were stranded in the middle of the ocean and bleeding strength.

  “Steph, I… I can’t do this—”

  “Let’s just get the pistons and go,” she whispers.

  “The hell are you two jabbering about back there?” snaps Clover, turning suddenly toward the building to our left and reaching up to take hold of a huge barn door clasp. “I said no questions.”

  “We weren’t asking questions,” protests Steph, clearly annoyed now. “Just give us the pistons and we’ll leave you alone forever.”

  That last word “forever” feels like it stabs me in the chest.

  Forever?

  We’re just going to leave Clover and Opal here? Like this? Opal almost died, for god’s sake! I can still see the blood. I can smell it.

  “I,” I whisper to Steph, but before I can say more, Clover yanks the clasp up, sending an eerie and piercing SQUEEEEEEAK ringing out through the yard. Steph jumps like I do, but Clover seems unbothered.

  “It’s right in here,” she says, sounding more exhausted than anything.

  “We’ll wait out here,” says Steph.

  Clover looks between the two of us and rolls her eyes. She doesn’t say it, but the word is implied.

  Babies.

  And I can’t blame her. Who looks this calm as their own sister is being carted away in an ambulance after another possible suicide attempt?

  I guess someone who can suppress all the rage I just stepped into. Someone who would be in that question with the word “another.”

  Opal has had at least two.

  Maybe she’s suppressed her own emotions, like I used to, before I learned to control them. I know what it’s like to feel rage like a fireball, fear like an icy storm, and joy like heavenly sunlight, and still have to carry on with life as if nothing happened, because practicality demands it.

  I’m no stranger to death. To suicide. To self harm. Not my own, but just as painful.

  I take a deep, desperate breath of the cool evening air. I look up at the horizon line, at the sun slowly sinking beyond the horizon through the sparse trees, and I remember the sunset from Haven Springs, wedging itself between the mountains in the distance.

  And suddenly, sharply, deeply, I miss home.

  We never should have left for good.

  I cradle my arms around myself.

  “Hey,” begins Steph gently, now that Clover is deep within the barn. “You saw something.”

  I shut my eyes and let the tears fall, my jaw burning from holding them back.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I croak. “I’m no closer to meeting Jonah. I just want to leave.”

  I shut my eyes tighter than I ever have and allow myself a single, biting sob. Then I feel something warm and hard against my forehead. I peek and see Steph’s eyes inches from mine, the tip of her nose touching the tip of mine, and I drink in her company.

  “We can go if you want,” she says. “You know I’ve got you. I promise.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. “What I saw… was… just…”

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” she says.

  “No, I want to,” I say, and I do. But not here.

  But I remember a detail of the memory that is important. Right now. Right this minute.

  “Clover and Jonah. They…” I begin, trying to figure out how to phrase this without implying anything.

  They were married? Not necessarily.

  Boyfriend and girlfriend?

  They were lovers? Who said anything about “were”? Maybe they’re still together!

  “They… kissed.”

  Steph pulls away and raises a single eyebrow, her face full of curiosity like she’s watching a juicy soap opera.

  “I… saw them. They were together.”

  Her eyes go wide and she glances at the barn door and lowers her voice.

  “You saw them in bed?”

  “No!” I exclaim, way too fast, feeling my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “No, no, they were together in the yard.”

  I glance past her and realize—the slope of the lawn, the building behind me—I know this area of the yard. I look to where I think I might find it, and…

  There it is.

  The magnolia tree.

  I let go of Steph’s hands and approach it. It’s not much taller than when I saw that memory of Clover and Jonah, and I realize Opal didn’t look much younger in the memory either.

  Maybe Clover and Jonah were together not nearly as long ago as the memory originally felt.

  I look up at it, at the leaves fluttering in a breeze so subtle I almost miss it. And for me, they glisten. Almost seem to glow, humming with memories dancing on the leaves in gold, blue, red, and purple auras along the edges. I reach out and take one. It feels warm between my fingers, then freezes like ice against my skin, and then back to warmth.

  “This is,” I whisper to Steph, “Magnolia’s tree. I saw all of them standing here. And this is where Clover and Jonah…”

  “Kissed,” finishes Steph, looking up at the leaves and then down to the base of the tree.

  “What’s this?” she asks, crouching down in the grass and inspecting a little wooden sign there. I kneel beside her, sinking to my knees on the hard, unforgiving earth, and read the inscription.

  Here lies Magnolia May Biggs. We will never forget you.

  “Damn,” whispers Steph. “How old was she?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  I remember what it felt like to say goodbye to my mom, knowing I would never see her again, after knowing her my whole life. I remember what it felt like to say goodbye to my dad when he walked out of our front door, not knowing if I’d ever see him again.

  That was almost worse.

  Believing he was somewhere out there, choosing to be dead to me and Gabe.

  And I remember Gabe.

  I remember standing on the mountainside with him as the rocks tumbled, catching him completely off guard. And I remember the sound of the rope between us snapping as Ryan cut it, freeing me from being dragged over the side with my brother.

  Believing I could save him until the last moment.

  I wonder if that’s how Clover felt as she held Opal in her arms.

  Or how she felt as she watched Opal on the stretcher, wheeled out to an ambulance.

  “Here’s your pistons.” Clover’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife, and I jump so hard, I turn and almost fall against the tree, but I catch myself in time. Steph pushes herself to her feet and takes the burlap bag gently, like we’re museum curators, and it’s a million-dollar—no—priceless vase.

  “Thank you,” offers Steph.

  “You’re welcome,” beams Clover with—is that a hint of a smile? “Now get off my property.”

  I look at Steph. Steph looks at me. I can read her face like a book.

  You still want to back out?

  I guess it’s now or never. I look down at the bag in Steph’s hand, and I picture us, arm in arm, walking back to Owen’s place, packing up my guitar and Steph’s drum kit out of Silas’s truck, maybe grabbing an extra plate of French toast for the road from the Barbazal diner, and hitting the highway.

  We could be out of here forever.

  We could leave behind Silas, Elias, Owen, Biggs, Jonah, Clover, and… Opal.

  No.

  I can’t leave Opal.

  Whatever is going on here in Barbazal, between the drought and the election, I just know Clover is the key to fixing this.

  “Clover,” I say her name before I talk myself out of it.

  “Aw, hell, here we go,” she grunts, turning and storming off. I hurry after her.

  “I don’t have any questions!”

  “Uh-huh, sure. I knew you were paparazzi!” She’s jogging now. “Leave me alone before I get my twenty-two!”

  “Dude, Alex!” calls Steph, her hand on my arm, but I yank it away and hurry on after Clover.

  “I just wanted you to know that we didn’t know Opal had taken—” I catch myself before I reveal that I somehow know she took five milligrams of cyclobenzaprine. “—whatever she took. She offered us the Moscato, and we thought everything was fine!”

  “Uh-huh, great,” she spits. “Now in the warmest Barbazal way, kindly fuck off.”

  We’re around the side of the house now and Clover begins to bound up the front steps to the porch, and I realize I have to dial this up a notch.

  “What made her do it?” I holler, stopping short of the porch, and watch Clover pause at the top.

  “What?” she asks.

  “In the brief time I talked to Opal,” I say, catching my breath, “I know she would’ve known what medications she was taking, and that they don’t mix with alcohol. This wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  She looks over her shoulder at me, eyes narrowed.

  Then she turns and walks back down the steps.

  Fists balled.

  Jaw clenched.

  I’m a little girl again, standing in my childhood living room, watching my brother and father face off over nothing, and I find my hands reaching behind me for my record player. I imagine that peaches song playing as I try to drown out their yelling.

  But instead, I find Steph’s hand.

  “You listen here, and you listen good,” says Clover. “Opal is none of your concern. You don’t know nothin’ about us. About our family. About Barbazal or what we need. So why don’t you get outta here and go home to the big city, where everything comes easy and there are no barn doors to startle you and you can get engine parts any ol’ where.”

  “Because I want to help,” I reply.

  Clover scoffs at me, hocks a loogie, and spits it into the grass, dangerously close to my Doc Martens.

  “If you want to help, vote.”

  I see my way in.

  “For Jonah?” I ask.

  The sheer mention of his name sends a blue spiral swirling into an aura over her head, and she blinks, giving her feelings away completely.

  Jonah makes her… sad?

  I didn’t see that coming. Just months ago, they seemed so… happy.

  How do two people go from being so close, to hearing the other’s name and experiencing such deep sadness?

  “I have to go,” she says.

  “Clover,” I venture, “I’m… not paparazzi. But I do want to help Barbazal. Really. I’m supposed to play a gig tomorrow night, but I’m staying here until I can talk some sense into Jonah Macon about—”

  “About this drought?” she hisses. “What do you want him to do, huh? Shoot a hole in the sky and bring rain down into the valley until the river flows through here again? Or maybe you want him to pray us all outta this?”

  Bitter silence settles between the three of us, until Clover grits her teeth and says, “Ain’t no talkin’ sense into that man.”

  I look to Steph, and she seems to understand what I do. Clover’s not just talking about politics here.

  “Clover—”

  “What makes you think I can help you anyway? What makes you think I have any influence over Jonah Macon?”

  “I can hear it in the way you talk about him. It’s clear you know him better than most out here. Don’t you?” I ask. Please, please, please, don’t let this be too obvious of a grab. I only know they were together because I reached into Clover’s personal memories, her deepest secrets, things she’s probably worked hard to repress for years, and saw them kissing under the Magnolia tree.

  “I just need to talk to him,” I plead. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “And what makes you so special?” she asks, taking another threatening step toward me. She’s trying to intimidate me, but it won’t work. “What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”

  How the hell am I going to get through such stubbornness? Clover is a rock, a fortress of resolve. She won’t budge without some serious convincing. I glance back up at the magnolia tree, remembering how strong it is, and I wonder if Clover’s baby sister had survived, would they be exactly alike?

  “That magnolia tree. The caption. Who is Magnolia May Biggs?”

  I know I can’t exactly jump head first into “I know the tree is here for your sister.”

  Clover’s face turns a shade paler, and I take a friendly step forward. “She meant a lot to you, didn’t she? And what about her tree? When Barbazal dries up, how will you keep it alive?”

  Clover’s face goes from pale to red, but the aura over her head isn’t.

  It’s twisty and vibrant, folding in on itself like a black hole, a confused swirl of blue and violet.

  “Magnolias are some of the most drought-resistant trees in the world. She’ll be fine. Her memory will be fine. Not that it’s any of your business. You have your parts, now get out!”

  “I won’t let Barbazal die without a fight!” I holler, surprised at the emotion in my own words. “I’ve met so many people here who need a bug in Jonah’s ear. Silas barely has enough water for himself, let alone guests. Elias can’t run his shop or restore cars without water, Anita’s having to ration water at the Plate and Skate, Bobby and Paisley are trying to keep the bookstore and flower shop afloat, and Magnolia—whoever she was—her tree. That caption says we will never forget you. But if that tree dies, doesn’t her legacy die with it?”

  I can’t let that happen.

  I won’t let it happen to my mom, to my dad, or to Gabe.

  Or to Magnolia May Biggs.

  I expect rage from Clover. I expect an explosion. But that purple aura remains. The truth is, Clover is scared to death of letting Magnolia’s legacy die. Without Magnolia, once the twelve of them are gone, Magnolia will be too.

  She has to help me.

  She narrows her eyes at me, in a way that says, I know you’re right, but I don’t like it.

  “Five in the morning,” she says simply.

  “Huh?” asks Steph, thoroughly confused.

  Clover looks at her, and then at me, like we should’ve understood the clue and been grateful for it.

  “Jonah Macon goes for a run every day at five in the morning.”

  An odd fact, but I don’t see how that helps us… until Clover continues.

  “He takes the old path around the lake—or, what used to be a lake. Start at the tree line,” she says, pointing to the far end of the property, where the grass ends and the trees begin. “Walk straight into the woods until you find the old stump. You can’t miss it. Turn left until you reach the clothes line. Follow the birches until you find the lake. Turn right and follow the footpath ’til you reach the old bench. Jonah will meet you there. He’ll be expecting me—”

  She cuts her own sentence short. I study her as she cradles her arms around herself, turning her gaze to the grass. Clover, still taller than me by about a foot, now looks very, very small.

  And I put it together.

  “Clover, is Jonah Macon—”

  “No questions,” she snaps, shutting her eyes tight. She turns suddenly and walks off. “Take your bag and go.”

  I watch Clover go, and I feel Steph’s fingers interlace with mine.

  “Holy shit,” she whispers to me. “So, Clover and Jonah are…”

  “Still together.”

  10: Gabe

  I blink my eyes awake to find that Steph has wrapped her arms around my waist in the night. I can feel her behind me, making the perfect big spoon. I feel her squeeze me gently.

 

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