The Lake

“That’s where you belong!”

She fell and fell.

She wanted to scream out her terror, but she couldn’t get a breath.

Why is it so deep?

It always is.

She’d been here before. She realized that now. Familiar territory, this bottomless grave.

Only, it’s not bottomless.

She knew that. And she remembered what was below. Choking out a whimper, she flapped her arms and kicked, desperate to stop, to take flight, to get the hell out of here.

Pitch dark. Grave dark.

But she could see in the dark.

The coffin didn’t have a lid. There had been a lid when it was lowered, but not anymore. He wore a necktie and brown suit. His feet were bare. His face, as pale as chalk, glowed beneath her.

Okay now, don’t, she thought as she fell closer. Please don’t.

Oh, but he will.

Oh shit he will he always does but they were dreams before and this is real and he’s really dead so he won’t open his eyes this time, not this time, or reach up like a goddamn zombie to grab me, not this time.

The holes where his eyes had been opened wide.

He reached up.

“NO!”

Leigh heard her voice and opened her eyes as she thrust herself away from him. Below was her powder-blue pillow. She was on her hands and knees, gasping.

It was a dream. Of course.

Thank God.

And thank God morning was here.

Still braced on stiff arms, Leigh lowered her head.

Scratch one nightgown, she thought.

It used to happen a lot. But the last time, Deana was about four.

Talk about Allan’s funeral, that’s what did it. The last thing before sleep.

Leigh rolled off the bed. When she stood, the nightgown slipped the rest of the way down. She stepped out of it, picked it up, and inspected the damage. The gauzy fabric was split down the middle, breast to belly, and one of the straps had been wrenched from its seam. One for the rag bag.

No, better get rid of it. You don’t want Deana seeing it. Deana didn’t know about the dreams. Or about the funeral of Charlie Payne. And finding out wouldn’t do her any good.

Leigh looked down at herself.

She groaned.

Edith Payne didn’t grab her for real in nightmare-land and do this. Leigh had done it to herself.

But this was a new twist.

Not even in the old days when the dream came regularly did she ever wake up to find fingernail marks on her breasts.

Tiny little crescent moons.

They looked a lot like the ones Edith Payne gave her the day of the funeral.

SEVEN

When Deana woke up, she heard bathwater running. It was unusual for Mom to take a bath first thing in the morning.

She remembered the shopping trip. To buy a black dress. For tomorrow’s funeral.

Her fresh, morning eagerness collapsed. Her stomach went jittery and she knew she had to get up fast or she would lie here immobilized, sinking.

She swung her legs down, sat on the edge of the bed, and wondered if she could force herself to go running. She always went running as soon as she got up. She loved it—the peacefulness of the quiet streets, the smell and feel of the morning air, the way it felt when she was pushing to make it up a slope, and especially when she reached the top and there was level road ahead and she would really go all out.

Night. The woods.

Deana went numb.

She saw herself racing through the darkness, dodging trees. She felt the terror.

You weren’t going to think about that.

It was the running that saved me.

She rubbed her thighs, trying to make the goose bumps go down. As she rubbed, she stayed away from the bruises and scrapes she got shinnying up the tree.

I will go running, she decided. She had to do something, and maybe it would wipe her mind clean, at least for a while.

Pulling the nightshirt over her head, she stepped to the dresser. She put the nightshirt away and opened the drawer where she kept her running clothes. The faded red shorts, neatly folded on top, were Allan’s. His gym shorts from Redwood High. Deana lifted them from the drawer and held them up by the waistband.

He wore them that day on the Dipsey Trail. They were too small for him, and the seat ripped when he squatted to catch his breath. It happened at the top of those endless stairs. They weren’t even out of Mill Valley by then, and still had miles to go before reaching Stinson Beach—including a stretch through Muir Woods that was certain to be crowded with tourists. When the ripping sound came, he reached back and felt around. “Uh-oh,” he said. “We’d better go back.”

“We can’t.” She reminded him that Sally and Murray would be waiting at the beach that afternoon, to give them a lift back to Tiburon.

“We can drive over and meet them.”

“Oh, come on. We can’t let a little rip stop us.”

“It’s not so little.”

“Let me see.”

“Are you kidding?”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“I haven’t got any…uh…just a supporter.”

“How tacky.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Take off your shirt. You can tuck it in back there—eclipse the moon, so to speak.”

“I’ve got very fair skin,” he said. “I’d sunburn. How about if I use your shirt instead?”

“Normally, I’d be glad to give you the shirt off my back.” Mimicking him, she added, “I haven’t got any…uh…”

“I know, I know.”