Where the River Ends Read Online Free Page B

into the back of the Jeep and lay down next to Abbie. She curled inward toward me. I pulled the plastic bag holding the yellowed and wrinkled newspaper article from my shirt pocket. I’d learned a few years ago to use whatever I could to stoke her hopes—keep her thinking out beyond the present moment. Because if she concentrated on the here and now, she’d spiral down fast. It was how I’d learned to get here from there to here.
    Her eyes cracked long enough to recognize it. She smiled and nodded—meaning she’d play along. “I’d like to…” The whisper was hoarse and distant. It was the drugs. Her pain threshold was rather high. She’d had a lot of practice. Her face told me she was fending it off as best she could.
    Abbie had always suffered with migraines. She internalized most everything, and in her case the tension had to go somewhere. Maybe her dad had something to do with it. They came on quickly and left slowly. By the time we met, she’d tried a dozen different medicines, yoga, acupuncture and deep-tissue massage, but all with little to no relief.
    When we were alone, she’d place my index finger just above her ear. That was Abbie-speak for “Trace me.” From her temple, my fingertips followed the lines of her ears and neck, her collarbone, the rise and fall of her breast, her arms, wrist, fingertips, the mound of her hips, the descent of her thigh, the little knot on her knee, the curve of her calf and the arch of her foot. Often, she’d fall asleep and when she woke the migraine was gone.
    I traced her. “Number one?”
    She swallowed. “Ride an antique carousel.”
    I prodded, “Number two.”
    She read the list off the backs of her eyelids: “Do a loopty-loop in an old plane.”
    The items were printed in no particular order. When one didn’t make sense to him, he’d inquire and she’d explain. To keep the simplicity of her list, he printed it the way she said it, but the clarification became a parenthetical note in his article. “I just love the way you say ‘loopty-loop.’ Say it again. One more time.”
    She licked her lips. Her tongue was cottony white. The first
l
stuck to the top of her mouth. “Loopty-loop.”
    “Keep going.”
    “Sip wine on the beach.”
    “We’re not even halfway.” She placed her head on my chest and breathed deeply. “Number four.”
    She paused. “I’ve forgotten.”
    It was good to know she’d not lost her sense of humor. “I highly doubt it.” She almost laughed. I shook the ziplock bag holding the article. “Still waiting.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Go skinny-dipping.”
    “And number five?”
    The vein on her right temple had appeared blue and bulging. Meaning her head was throbbing. She pressed her palm to her forehead and held it there.
    I asked, “Scale of one to ten?”
    “Yes.”
    That meant nine point eight. I flipped open both the latches on the Pelican case and dug through the contents. River guides call them “otter boxes.” They’re watertight, they float and are crash proof. Chances are good you could load it with your mother’s china dinnerware, fling it off Niagara Falls and when you found it at the bottom, you could eat dinner off the plates. I found what I needed, popped the safety tip on the syringe, squeezed out the air and injected the dexamethasone into her arm. She didn’t even flinch. After four years, I was better than a lot of nurses at giving Abbie her shots.
    Minutes passed. Slowly, she spoke, “Swim with dolphins.”
    “Keep going. You’re on a roll.”
    “Wet a line.”
    “Number seven.”
    “Pose.” She chuckled.
    “Number eight.”
    She spoke without reading. “Dance with my husband.”
    “Two to go.”
    “Laugh so hard it hurts.”
    “And? Last but not least.” I mimed a drum roll with my fingers and made a trill sound with my tongue.
    “Ride the river…all the way from Moniac.”
    She pushed my hat back. It was felt. Called a Banjo Patterson hat. Made in Australia by Akubra. A 4 1 / 2