Water rushes up my nose and down my throat, filling my lungs.
My eyes fly open as pressure rips through my chest. I gasp and struggle as someone tries to hold me under. Fingers dig into my arms. Whoever it is, they’re stronger than I am. I manage to break free just long enough to glimpse a wide face and gray hair and catch a handful of words—“I’ll show you. You’re not laughing now”—before I’m forced back down.
I’m forced back down and I can’t breathe and I can’t break free. I can’t break free and . . .
Everything shatters, and I’m left struggling for air in an unfamiliar place.
The bus, I realize as I press a hand to my chest. I’m on the bus. Even though the sensation of being unable to breathe was only in my mind, my lungs ache and my heart races.
“Are you all right?” The woman in the seat next to me has a hand on my shoulder. Her fingers must have skimmed the exposed skin at the collar of my shirt; they are, in fact, perilously close to touching skin right now. “We’re almost at the border. I thought I should wake you.”
Outside, the rushing landscape slows and then spins as we make the turn for the border crossing.
The woman’s face knots with concern as she removes her hand. She glances toward the front of the bus, wondering, maybe, if she should call out to the driver.
Other people twist in their seats to see if anything interesting is happening, but they barely register. I stare at the woman, trying to reconcile the concern on her face with the sensation of being held underwater. I force myself to nod, to tell her I’m fine, to play the whole thing off as a nightmare as the bus comes to a stop.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she gathers up her things and disembarks with everyone else. Determined to put as much distance between us as possible, I linger for a few minutes before stepping off the air-conditioned bus and into the summer heat. Shouldering my bag, I head to the small customs building at the edge of the parking lot.
A faint but steady ache begins to chip at my temples as I slip through the door and take my place at the end of the line.
As people inch forward, I can’t help but think that what just happened is some sort of omen and that maybe it’s not too late to sabotage my father’s plans and head home.
It wouldn’t even be that hard.
All I would have to do is step out of the line. Head to the bathroom and shred the documents Dad’s lawyer drew up. Flush the pieces down the toilet like contraband. They can’t let me cross without those papers—no matter what destination is printed on my ticket. They won’t let me cross, and I’ll use half of the money in my bag to get myself home.
Between problems with his publisher and his upcoming trip to California, Dad might not even realize I’m back. Not right away.
Of course, it’s not like my father is the only one in New York I have to worry about. As much as this trip feels like a punishment, there might be a tiny part of me that’s almost relieved to have an escape.
A very, very tiny part, but a part of me nonetheless.
And so I stay in line until I reach the front and then hand the letter and my passport over to a customs agent whose open, friendly expression practically screams, Welcome to Canada! He asks to see my bus ticket. “Mary Catherine Montgomery on her way to Montgomery Falls? A girl who has a whole town named after her.”
I force myself to smile. It feels tight around the edges. “Coincidence,” I lie.
“New York,” he says, still scanning the ticket. “Hell of a bus trip. You know you can fly into Bangor or Saint John and then just take the bus from there?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly, “I’ve heard that.” My father claimed the bus would be an adventure. Like being Jack Kerouac or Paul Simon. I didn’t bother telling him that I had only the faintest idea who he was talking about. Personally, I think his choice was motivated less by the romanticism of traveling America by road and more by the idea of saving a few hundred bucks on the ticket. Dad’s last two books were critical and commercial flops, and he hasn’t sold a screenplay in years. Things have been tight for a while—not that we ever directly talk about it.
The agent hands everything back. “Someone meeting you at the station?”
“My aunt.” It’s all in the letter, but he nods as though me saying those two words makes some sort of difference and tells me to enjoy Canada.
I buy a bottle of Coke in the duty-free shop and then wander back toward the bus, pausing in front of a bulletin board to take a drink. The headache is still dancing around my skull, but it’s not nearly bad enough for me to reach for the pills in my backpack. On the scale of one-to-awful, it’s a four at most.
My eyes trail idly over the brightly colored flyers on the board next to me. A hardware store on the US side that will hold parcels for Canadians. Reminders that plants aren’t supposed to be taken across the border. Ads for whale-watching tours along the coast and antique sales up and down the valley. Ordinary, forgettable stuff. But in among the other notices, partly covered by a plea for the return of a lost engagement ring, is a missing poster.
The word “missing” by itself wouldn’t be enough to hold my attention. Not really. It’s the name underneath that wraps itself around me and pins me to the spot.
Riley Fraser.
It has to be a coincidence, I think. There have to be about a thousand Riley Frasers in the world. But I still find myself reaching out and peeling away the flyer for the lost ring to reveal a black-and-white yearbook photo.
The boy in the picture is handsome. Chiseled jaw and wavy hair kind of handsome. The kind of handsome that gets crowned prom king or maybe class president. Even though the smile on the boy’s face looks forced around the edges, it’s wide enough to bring out the dimple in his left cheek.
A dimple isn’t proof, but there are other hints. Planes and angles around the eyes and the mouth. Echoes of a boy I used to know. The boy I’ve spent years trying not to think about.
There are a thousand Riley Frasers in the world, and the boy on the poster is mine.
Two
THERE’S A MOMENT, WHEN THE BUS CROSSES THAT IMAGINARY line between the US and Canada, that I catch myself listening for the second something changes. It’s a thing Dad used to do on our infrequent trips back to his mother country. “Do you hear it?” he’d ask as the car rolled toward the place where America ended and something else began. He swore there was a sound when you crossed, one you could hear if you really tried.
According to my father, hearing that sound was about a thousand times better than any lucky penny you could find. Hear that sound and you’d better make a wish.
For someone who doesn’t believe in magic, he talks a good game.
At six, I had tried so hard I gave myself a headache and threw up thirty paces over the border. At nine, I had been suspicious, but unwilling to completely discount the idea. Now, at seventeen, I know it’s bullshit, but I still find myself closing my eyes and holding my breath.
Because even though it was only ever just one of my father’s stories, I could use a wish or two.
But as hard as I listen, I can’t hear that moment any more now than I could when I was six, and when I close my eyes, I see the missing poster—Riley’s missing poster—and my head fills with questions. The date on the poster—the date Riley vanished—was March 19. Three months ago.