The River Man (An excerpt), Jenifer D. Ruano [top 10 novels to read .TXT] 📗

~ PROLOGUE ~

When I was a young girl I used to have a reoccurring dream that my brother and I were running together up a hill that led to an old oak tree. The tree would bend in the wind in that strange way objects move in dreams. We always came to rest at the trunk of the tree and my brother would look out over the valley with a half moon smile on his face. His eyes would reflect off the golden sun and he would turn to me and ask, “Isn’t it beautiful Alice?” I could never hear the sound of his voice but saw the words fall from his lips. I’d gaze out to the valley and see nothing but white fog and when I turned back to him, he was gone. When I was a teenager the dreams came in less frequency and one year ago when my brother was killed in Iraq the dreams stopped completely. I used to think that if I thought hard enough I could will the dreams to come back. I tried everything. I would sleep with a picture of him under my pillow and I’d wear one of his old flannel shirts to bed. Soon nothing worked and as time passed I eventually gave up and put his picture on top of my bookshelf, where it began to collect dust.

His name was Benjamin Rowley; he was 25 years old and exactly four years older than me. On the day he died he was patrolling the streets along side a local market just east of Baghdad. It was a bright and hot day on May 25th, 2006 and a lieutenant scheduled to take over Ben’s shift had just arrived when a suicide bomber stepped out into the courtyard of the market and blew him self up. The lieutenant survived, my brother did not. A month later he was laid to rest under the soft soil of Davenport’s only cemetery with the words, “Our Son” inscribed on his stone. Ben’s death haunted my mother and grew wings on my father which he soon used to flee our sad home and settle with a new woman.

Months past and my mother fell ill. The doctors called it a clinical depression, but I knew she was sick from a broken heart. She would stray from reality and sit for hours gazing out the window to the birch tree outside. On her worst days she never left her bed and she soaked her pillow with her tears. I soon became her caretaker and I would bring her medication and small plates of food to leave on her nightstand. “Mama,” I’d whisper. “Please don’t cry.” And I’d move golden strands of hair from her face. At night I’d lie in bed and stare up at the pale blue ceiling and think up ways of how to save her. I would pray for miracles and talk to my picture of Ben until the wee hours of the night, begging for him to help me. And I’d rise again the next morning and face the same sadness.

Until the day I met the River Man, and nothing was ever the same.


ONE

I wake to the sound of droplets of rain hitting the small puddles just outside my window. The last of the winter storm had passed through Davenport in the night and left the trees sagging and wet. A small beam of yellow sunlight penetrates through my ivory lace curtain and casts a textured shadow against the wall. I stare at is as the sleep washes away from my eyes. When I rise from bed I feel surprisingly refreshed and pull on my slippers and robe. As I was walk toward the bathroom a strange feeling comes over me when I turn the corner and it causes me to pull tighter on the collar of my robe. I stare down the hallway a notice a light cascading out from my brother’s room and onto the carpeted hall floor. Ben’s room had always been kept closed since his death and no one entered it. The feeling becomes stronger as I walk towards his room. Something isn’t right.

For a moment I stand frozen outside his bedroom door and I quietly call out, “Mama?” There is no answer. I take a small step forward and peek inside the room and see his bed is neatly made. Shelves full of books, various medals and trophies stands in the corner. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, just the feeling of emptiness and the smell of stale air. I scan the room one more time before I slip my hand over the doorknob and pull the door closed. The white door stares back at me and the strange feeling lifts and the hallway somehow feels lighter.

~~

My mother’s room has always smelled of lilacs with the undertone of damp wood. Her room is the only one in the house with hardwood floors and they creaked loudly when I walk along the small path that leads to her four poster bed. She lies there on her side with her hands tucked around her pillow, holding it like a teddy bear, and she stares out the large window next to her bed. A leaf from the oak tree outside reflects off the window and casts a dancing shadow upon her cheek.

“Alice.” She says quietly.

“Yes.” I reply resting my hand gently on the blanket wrapped around her leg.

“Why did you open my curtain?” She asks.

I glance over at the window and out at the tree where the leafy shadow originates and realize that always drawn curtains now showed the glare of the sun through the glass. It begins to warm my hand.

“I didn’t,” I say confused.

“Well, please close it.” She says and rolls to her other side.

In my confusion I walk over to the window, “but the sunlight is good for you.” I say.

“Please don’t argue with me.” Her voice crackles from sleep, and annoyance. I let out a sigh and pull the curtains closed turning the room a soft purple.

I walk around to the opposite side of her bed I kneel down next to her. Her tired eyes slowly meet mine. “Mama,” I whisper. “Are you going to get up today?”

She stares past me with the familiar look that always left me feeling helpless and alone.

“Mama,” I try again. “You should get up. It’s a beautiful day. The storm has past and the sun is out.” I stroke the back of my hand over her cheek and smile at her sweetly until her eyes flick back over to mine.

For a moment her eyes recognize me and she reaches up to squeeze my hand. “Thank you sweetheart,” she says quietly. Her endearment pulls at the nerves in my heart. I am grateful for it, however brief it is. Her eyes begin to close again and I tuck in the loose bed sheet around her shoulders and decide to leave her there to sleep in the pale violets and purples of her room for a few hours more.

In the kitchen I prepare myself a cup of black coffee with no sugar, with toast and gaze out the small window above the sink. The silence of the house is unnerving and makes me restless. I eat quickly and tip toe back through the hallway toward my room where I dress in my jeans, heavy sweater and tennis shoes. In the bathroom I splash cold water on my face and look into the mirror at my reflection. For the first time in months my complexion seems rosier, more alive. I pull my hair back with a hair band and walk back to my mother’s room and look in on her through the slivered opening. Her chest rises and falls in deep sleep and I silently close her door. I gather my keys and pull on my jacket before opening the front door and stepping out into the winter air.

~~~

The smell of wet earth kicks up around me and the cold air tickles my nostrils. I walk past rows of houses that line our street and then out onto the rugged road that leads north, towards the wooded area of Davenport. My pace quickens as I proceed north until I reach the outer edge of the woods and the dirt trail that leads to a thicket of sycamore trees. I stop and catch my breath as the sounds of birds call overhead. Davenport Wood is vast and the trees sway delicately in the wind.

As a child my family would picnic here on weekends near the small campground just east of the entrance of the wood. One time I got poison oak and Mama had to soak me in a warm bath and paint me white with lotion to stop the itch. The wood seemed alive now and full of energy. If I closed my eyes I could have heard it calling to me. Instead I walk along the dirt trail which is lined with remnants of cracked branches and leaves from days of relentless rain. The trail leads me deeper into the forest and to an open area surrounded by shrubs and large rocks. It was here where Ben and I would play hide-and-seek and cowboys-and-Indians on late summer days. I come to rest at the smooth rock near a clearing at the base of the wood and inhale the cool air. The sun beams through the redwood trees. I feel free. Free of my cage.

It is quiet but in the distance I can faintly make out the sound of running water from Sky River. It’s called Sky River because at its middle, where the water ran calm, the trees separated and allowed the sky to reflect off the cool water, making it appear as if the sky was painted on the water. The locals would jump rocks along the river in the summer or walk on the large tree trunks that had fallen across it and pretend to dance in the reflected clouds.

A sudden breeze rustles the sycamores and sends a chill down my back. I zip up my jacket to the neck and head further north towards Sky River.


TWO

The dirt trail narrows and then veers to the east slightly to a fork in the road. To my right a hiking trail climbs up and then disappears around the mountain. To my left a hollow in the forest opens to patchy grass being hugged by redwoods. It is here where Sky River bends and widens. I walk over and stand at the river bank and stare into the rambling water by my feet. My reflection ripples and curls back up at me as tiny whirlpools collect at the rivers edge, creating a build up of fallen leaves. A caw of a crow breaks