The Valley and the Flood Rebecca Mahoney (top 10 motivational books TXT) š
- Author: Rebecca Mahoney
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Maybe itāll go to voicemail. He told me it almost always goes to voicemail. But even then I still have to tell him something. And not about Flashback Theater in 3D. Or that I ruined my visit with Flora. Or that I might soon be responsible for the destruction of an entire town.
Rescheduling. Iāll tell him I need to push back a week. And then Iāll sound like I donāt need to see him the second I get back.
So Iām completely prepared. For everything except the possibility that heāll pick up.
āHello?ā he says.
āOh, shit,ā I blurt out.
āRose?ā he says.
And I immediately hang up.
The phone sits flat in the palm of my hand. Itās silent for a few beats. And then it rings.
I suck in a deep breath through my teeth, and I pick it up.
āHi, Maurice,ā I say.
āHello, Rose?ā Maurice sounds totally, enviably even. āI think I just missed a call from you?ā
Oh my God. That was way more generous than I deserved.
āUm. Yes. Sorry,ā I say. āI was going to leave a message. I thought you had a separate work phone.ā
āThatās right,ā he says.
āYouāre checking your work phone at midnight?ā I say.
āIt was next to me.ā I can hear the jovial shrug. āI was awake anyway.ā Probably at his desk, learning a fourth language. Goddamnit, Maurice.
āYou know,ā I say, āthereās this thing called work-life balanceāā
āAnd Iāll be sure to look into it,ā he says. āSomething on your mind?ā
I straighten. Mild as it sounds, thatās as direct as Iāve ever heard him. I can waste time all I want in our appointments. But if Iām going so far as to call him, heās going to know somethingās up.
I think. Itās not like I know a lot about him personally. His office is in a first-floor apartment, facing the street. He takes clients in French, English, and three dialects of Arabic. When I ask if he had a nice week, he always says that he did, in a way that suggests weāre stopping there. He has two framed paintings of cities behind his chair. The first is Paris. When I asked about the second, he told me it was Algiers.
And heās a ridiculously, frustratingly kind person. Kind in a way Iāve never doubted.
So. Whatās on my mind.
I laugh. āCan I have an easier question?ā
āOkay,ā he says. āWhat would help, then?ā
I start tapping my feet in a rhythm. The beat echoes. āWhat helps other people, when they call you?ā
āSometimes it helps to just talk,ā he says.
āHard pass,ā I say, smiling despite myself. āWhat else?ā
I can hear him mulling it over. āWell . . . Iām not sure how to put this, but oftentimes what people are looking for is a . . . Iām trying to think of a better phrase than reality check.ā
āReality check is an excellent phrase,ā I say. āBut youāre probably not talking about the āblue just isnāt your colorā type.ā
āBlue is everyoneās color,ā he says very seriously.
This time, I laugh for real.
āSo you mean, like . . .ā I rub my thumb against the inside of my palm. But the cuts Iām thinking about are long gone. āIf someoneās seeing things?ā
āCould be like that,ā he says. If he reads anything into the question, it doesnāt show. āOr maybe they see whatās there just fine, but they donāt know how to interpret it.ā
Somehow, sitting on a street I know is hundreds of miles away, watching a night from seven months agoāit feels about ten times more surreal now, talking to someone so unrelentingly grounded. But I know what heās saying. Everything Iāve ever asked him, since that first appointment, has been some form of āIs this happening or not?ā
I swallow, hard. āYou get texts, right?ā
āI do,ā he says.
āSo . . .ā I stare into the floodlights of the house across the street until it hurts my eyes. āIf I texted you a picture, right now, could you describe whatās in it without asking any questions?ā
Thereās a beat of silence. And this is the one thing that annoys me about him. No matter what I say, he never seems that surprised.
āAnd thatād help?ā he says.
āYeah. I think it would.ā Itās my turn to pause. āIām going to hang up now.ā
āYou can always call back later if you want to talk.ā After some consideration, he adds, āMaybe not later tonight.ā
āSure, yeah,ā I say. āSorry again.ā
āNot at all. Take care, Rose.ā
I hang up. And for a second, I consider not taking the picture. But maybe this will help.
I angle my phoneās camera straight down the middle of the street, I take the shot, and I text him the picture. No context.
An ellipsis pops up on his side of the screen. Heās typing.
Cul-de-sac with three trees in the middle, says the text. The same thing I see.
But when I look up again, that cul-de-sac is gone. Iām in the middle of the street, but a street back in the Lethe Ridge housing development. That ever-present stirring over my shoulder feels farther away now, like whoever it was took a big step back. And Marinās neighborhood isnāt there.
But if my reality check saw it, too, then there we are.
The phone buzzes again. Maurice sent another text. Why?
I shake my head as I text back. I said no questions. āŗ
I read his message again. And this time, it lands. Cul-de-sac. There had been a cul-de-sac on the public access channel when I had that little jolt of panic, back at the house. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw that and thought of Marinās neighborhood. Itās the kind of logic leap that hypervigilance is so good at. But I didnāt consciously connect the dots.
So how did this thingāthis floodārecognize what I didnāt?
I close out my messages and go back to my home screen. Itās midnight. If Iām going to trust Cassie, that means that in exactly three days, whatever Iāve brought to this town will be here.
And it suddenly
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