We were at an impasse.
This is where she decided whether we were to continue this odd friendship of ours.
When she took my hand, I released the breath I’d been holding and simultaneously discovered that I was relying on her more than I dared admit to myself.
I helped her from the truck and closed her door for her, and my heart beat a little bit faster in relief of her choice. I followed her quietly in the moonlight through the trail to Doris Lake, a trail she so obviously knew like the back of her hand. About a mile in, we passed Blow Lake, the little stone bridge amongst the trail as well and in another mile and a half, we’d arrived at Doris.
We’d walked briskly and in silence, so I was surprised when she turned toward me at the water’s edge. A single tear fell down her face that reflected in the moonlight. It surprised me how tender Finley could be yet how strong she was as well. She was a dichotomy of marvelous.
“I’m sorry, truly sorry,” I told her in earnest.
She sucked in a ragged breath and nodded, then turned her head toward the stock-still surface of the water. The moon mirrored in its round face.
The lake was stunning. Surrounded by staggered mountain peaks, the back of the water was enveloped by a sharp ridge of rock that cascaded down the sides of the lake and peppered with fresh, emerald forest that rounded to the beaches and met us where we stood. The water was so clear even in the moonlight, we could not only see through to bottom of the shallows but also at its deepest in the center of the lake.
“I can see why you would come here as often as you do,” I told her.
She turned her face toward mine once more. “Let me have them,” she said.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The knives.” She swallowed. “Let me have them.”
I closed my eyes briefly in shame and guilt before lifting the back of my shirt and sliding my blades out, then handing them over to her. She took them in her hands and examined them, running her fingers over the blades.
“They’re warm,” she told no one.
“They were laid against my skin.”
She looked up at me sadly. “I know, Ethan.”
She laid one blade over the other and set them together on the bit of rocky beach we stood upon.
Finley wrapped her arms around herself and slowly began to rock from side to side. I’d seen her do this so many, many times for years but it wasn’t until that moment did I realize it was a coping mechanism for her. She swayed slowly as her eyes glazed over, seemingly staring at nothing.
I looked on her, really studied this young girl willing to help me, willing to risk my unpredictable behavior and discovered something. Finley was a victim. It practically smacked me in the face now that I’d been willing to pay attention to her. She emanated something. Something terrible. Yeah, she may have been strong as hell but even the strong fall. They’re human, after all.
“What happened to you, Finley Dyer?”
She stopped swaying. “Nothing at all,” she answered, looking at me with a secret smile, implying that those words meant something else.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What is ‘nothing at all’? Why is that significant?”
She faced the wilderness. “It means I have nothing to say.”
I drew closer to her, stood beside her and stared into the same dark abyss. “Your words, they meant something to you. Explain them to me?”
She sighed and faced the beach below our feet. “I was told that phrase very often as a kid.”
“Why?” I prodded, interested to know what it all meant.
I surprised myself then because I suddenly realized I hadn’t cared about anyone else but myself for a very, very long time. I wondered in that moment whether it was because she took the time to care for me. I wondered if she’d impressed upon me a sense of empathy, despite my attempt at fighting any such human emotion other than the hate I wanted to hold so closely. I could tell she’d influenced me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“The first time I heard it or rather, the first time I remember it,” she began in an almost whisper, “was the day I turned five years old. The school keeps records of the student’s birth dates and all that, right? Well, my teacher marked on a big calendar at the front of the classroom each kid’s birthday. If it hadn’t been for that calendar, I believe I wouldn’t have ever known my birthday.
“I can still remember every detail of that thing like it was yesterday. A big green apple with the months all staggered in rows of three. Mine was right at the end. December third. I remember quietly counting the days until I got to the little worm marker that read Finley.
“That day, my teacher placed the big button she put on everyone on their birthday on the front of my yellow gingham dress. It was my best outfit. The girl in the trailer next to mine grew out of it and her mother asked mine if she wanted it. My mom said she didn’t care, so the woman placed it in my hands.
She shook her head at the memory. “God, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, that hand-me-down. I took it in my hands and lovingly examined every seam, every pleat, every inch. The front had two feminine little pockets sort of like what you’d see on an apron.
“It was my most cherished possession. I’d put it on when I was all by myself and pretend I was the president,” she related, making me smile to myself a bit. Of course Finley wouldn’t have been the kind of girl to pretend anything else. “I’d made a makeshift oval office,” she continued, “out of the ironing board and an old sheet. Anyway, I put this little dress on knowing that the day was going to focus on me, and I just couldn’t wait.