The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [50]
“It was noisy under the water.”
Your head swivels instinctively toward the voice at the same time that your body jerks away from it, and your shoulder smacks hard into the gritty timbers beside you. But the voice is more startling than frightening. There, sitting next to you in the pit, is the child from the plane with the blond spit curls, her hair now wet with lake water and flattened against her scalp, who had boarded Flight 1611 with the Dora the Explorer backpack. The backpack is, in fact, in her arms even now, and she is sitting almost the way you are. Her arms are around her matchstick-like legs. You notice a bruise on one knee and a scratch on the other. Kiddie knees, Emily would call them. Too much tree climbing. Her uninflated life jacket looks like a bib.
“When I would have my head underwater at the swimming pool, it was always quiet,” she continues, her voice offhand, as if the two of you have known each other for years, “but that day in the lake? It was really, really noisy.”
When you think back to that moment, you realize she’s right. It was noisy. There were those ferryboat engines, which were much louder when you were in the water than when you were up on the deck, and the screams and shrieks from the passengers and the rescuers. There was a Coast Guard boat’s ululating siren. There was the chaotic, unorchestrated thwapping of the churned-up water and waves. And so you nod like a dad and tell the girl she is correct. You agree. Then you hear yourself asking the child her name, as if she is a slightly younger friend of Hallie and Garnet and you are sitting in a school classroom or, perhaps, at a Brownie picnic. (You wonder: Will your girls find a Girl Scout troop here or will this passage to the north lead them to leave the scouts altogether?)
“Ashley. I have two cats and a dog,” she tells you. “Your cat is huge. Much bigger than mine. Do you have any other pets?”
“Nope. Just Dessy. It’s short for Desdemona. And you’re right: She is a very big girl.”
“My cats are Mike and Ike. I didn’t name them. The animal shelter did. They were from the same litter, and the shelter named them after some candy because they loved each other so much as kittens and they were, like, always together. My dog is named Whisper. I got to name her. She’s a mutt, but she looks a little like a beagle.”
You wish you had gotten another dog after your chocolate Lab, Maxie, passed away the year before last. You would have liked to have had a dog here in the country. You would have liked to have had one to walk this past autumn when you were sleepwalking through life in Pennsylvania in the months after the crash. Desdemona might not have minded. She’d always seemed to like Maxie. But if you’d gotten a new dog, it would have been a puppy, and it’s possible that Desdemona would have had far less patience with the hysterical antics of a three-month-old Lab.
“Ashley’s a pretty name.”
“I don’t have a Mary-Kate.”
“I didn’t think so,” you tell her. You find yourself smiling, even though the child’s wet clothes are making the dirt between you turn to mud. Only recently have your daughters outgrown the Olsen sisters. “But you know what? My children are twins. I have twin girls.”
“I know.”
Of course she does. She knows about Dessy. Why wouldn’t she know about Hallie and Garnet?
“Most people think twins always look the same,” she tells you with great earnestness. “But I know that only happens sometimes. I have cousins who are twins, and one’s a boy and one’s a girl. It would be pretty weird if they looked identical! My family sometimes jokes about how Andrew—he’s the boy—is older than Becca. But it’s only by, like, a couple of minutes. Who’s older in this house: Hallie or Garnet?