He looks at me like I’m a child asking how many carrots the Easter bunny ate to get so big. “I don’t know what’s back there, but I guess you’ll find out. Always preferred the swimming hole farther down the creek, myself.” He glances back toward the trail. “I’ll let you know if anyone’s coming. Do watch out, though—the rocks are slippery.”
None of this information is helpful, but it’s not like it matters. I’m here, and I have to go through with this next, strange step. This inheritance is the only way I can hope to offer any possibility of stability to my sisters—and myself. I hold out my backpack.
“Will you hold Doris, please? She’s happier off the ground.”
He raises a white eyebrow at my cockatoo. “Does she bite?”
“Not unless you start singing anything fromCats.She hatesCats.”
He takes the backpack and holds it at arm’s length. “Never was an animal sort of person, but she seems like a polite creature.”
“Oh, Captain!” she says happily, and I begin to think she’s a little in love with him.
Now armed with only the urn, I consider my approach.
The falls tumble down into a wide pool before emptying away into a creek littered with slime-coated stones. It’s only knee-deep, maybe, and if I’d known the setup, I would’ve changed out of my jeans and into shorts; I’ve got most of my wardrobe packed in the many tubs shoved in the back of my old Explorer parked at the law office. As it is, I set down the urn and scrunch up the legs of my jeans, forcing them up over my knees. I take off my shoes and socks, leaving them on a flat rock.
The first step into the water is startlingly frigid, my feet going numb. I pick my way toward the falls, stepping on the biggest, flattest rocks. It’s loud, up close, and I’m guessing that even if Colonel started squawking about visitors now, I wouldn’t hear him. I glance back, and he’s not watching the trail—he’s watching me. Intently, seriously, with his one good eye. Which is all the funnier when you consider his three-piece suit, lime-green sneakers, and pink backpack full of worried cockatoo.
“Oh, lordy. Oh, lordy. Shipoopi!” she squawks, flapping her wings in frustration at my distance. I give her a little wave of reassurance, and Colonel waves back and gestures for me to get on with it.
I turn back around. Eyes on the prize. I’m close enough now to feel the spray of the falls hitting the rocks. The water is deeper than I thought, wetting my jeans up to my thighs. Mist fills the air, rainbows shimmering as the sunlight hits the sparkling droplets. I unscrew the cap of the—
No, wait. If I have to get behind the falls, I should probably keep the cap on the urn, or else the falling water will just turn my grandmother’s cremains into gray soup. But once I’m on the other side, my hands might be too wet….
I unscrew it most of the way, to where it just needs one tinylittle twist to come off. I read about three books a week, and I hate it when the main character doesn’t think of these little details.
Looking up at the waterfall, I accept that I’m about to get soaked. I wonder if Colonel considered this part of the process, what he’s going to say when my sopping-wet jeans squelch onto his fine leather seats.
Oh, well.
Not my leather seats, not my problem.
I take a deep breath and hold out my right hand as I enter the falls, expecting to bumble through the sheet of water into some sort of open area.
Instead, my hand hits solid stone, and the pounding water slams into my head, into my eyes, into my mouth, into my nose. I stumble back, gasping and gargling for air, and the urn goes flying. My bare heel catches on a slippery stone, and I fall on my butt in the pool, surrounded by floating human cremains. Colonel panics, dropping my bag, and Doris bursts out from the door she has yet again half unzipped because she’s as smart as a toddler and just as reckless. Screeching, she flutters toward me and tries to land on my head. I throw up my hands, and her claws scratch bird calligraphy down my forearms. I finally get her settled on my wrist, and she shouts, “No, Horace, bad boy!” and bites my finger, holding on for dear life.
I flail and screech—I can’t help it; that bitehurts!—and she flaps away and lands in the water, squawking and splashing as gritty gray rivulets soak my hair and run down my face, the world’s grossest baptism. I reach for her, the cool water thankfully chilling my bleeding finger.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
It feels…
I feel…
Weirdly amazing.
“What the hell?” someone shrieks—and it’s not Colonel Gooch.
And then everything changes.
5.
I swipe awaythe hair matting over my eyes and struggle to stand, my senses overwhelmed by being wet and hurt and covered with moistened grandma cremains.
“Diana? Diana!” the shrieking voice continues.
Once I can see more clearly…
