EMILY


We were treated to another full day of warmth. A good omen, Elder Rich said, for our crossing of the Sweetwater.
It felt like a mockery.
If Marian had held on for one more day, she might have lived.

It was her time, Sam told me, carefully. She knew it, and she was ready.

We were sitting outside my tent, the cratered surface of the Wyoming plains spread out before us.

You believe she is in Heaven, I ask him.

He nods. I do. I wish you could as well.

He looks at me with such compassion and I do, I wish it too.

Marian read to me, I tell him, every night. The stories, and all of that.

Sister Malone had a strong faith, he says. But it’s not only stories. It’s what you believe when you can’t see it.

My father said we had fairies in the garden, I tell him. Just under the goat pen. I never saw those either.

Sam grins, a real grin, the light glinting off his teeth.

Could be your father is a prophet, he says. I should have brought him along instead.

I’m sorry, I say, that I distracted you.

And Sam laughs at that, a rare and perfect sound.

You do, he says. Distract me much.

I wonder if I could kiss him again.

Instead, I ask: Marian and her husband. You said they weren’t “sealed”?

Sam nods, his face suddenly somber. If you marry in the temple, and both of you are baptized in the church and keep faith to its covenants, you’re said to be sealed together for eternity.

Eternity is a long time, I say.

He doesn’t smile.

You’ve never asked, he says. Why I am not married.

My breath catches in my throat.

Most of the other Elders are, he says. It’s expected, even.

And so I ask him: Why aren’t you married, Sam?

Because, he says, I believe in eternity.

I don’t, I say. 

He takes a deep, long breath.
Yes, he says, I know.

Our eyes meet and I can see my own hunger in his face. My own fear, too.

His hair is growing long again.

I reach out and tuck it behind his ear.

There, I say, in my best imitation of Marian. Now we can see your eyes.


KAYLEEN


The police are waiting when we wake up.
The sight of blue-and-red lights playing across the front porch of our house is worse to me than any severed arm or scaly monster.
My Dad knows it too, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wrap an arm around my shoulders like he used to and tell me Hey Marv, it’s okay.
It’s not even the deja vu. It’s the way that the first glimpse of the cars makes my heart leap, like they made a mistake.
Like they’re here to tell me they found her. 

Tanya and I haven’t had time to think about what to say, so we answer in a series of yes and nos:
Yes, we found an arm.
Yes, Hyrum went on ahead.
No, we don’t know where he went.

It’s still too soon. No-one wants to believe in a catastrophe. But they ask:

No, neither of us harmed Hyrum.
No, he didn’t have any enemies.
Yes, we’re available for further questioning.

I remember what Tanya said about those two girls in New Zealand and try to focus on seeming undeniably sane.

As the cops are packing up one of them says, it just seems like everything happens to you, doesn’t it?


THE MONSTER


We destroy our own hearts, you see.
You will die, they will die, we will die, they will leave you, they will not want you, you will die you will die you will die.
And all that yearning, all the snapped cello strings inside your chest
for nothing, all for nothing.

I know that I am not immortal.

And one day I notice my scales are shedding, peeling from my tail like crepe paper.

I pick Hyrum Bates out of my teeth and try to shellack them back on.

I hadn’t liked the taste of him, grass and cleaning products and basketball shorts and sweat and anger. The other boy, too, rage and purple socks and bandages and a thick patina of chalk.

I did it for her. Stupid, stupid.

Julia, still inside me, burned with a white-hot rage when anyone put their hands on Kayleen.

Or was it my own wretched, blasted heart that yearned so?


EMILY


I do not sleep that night, or the next.

I am waiting for him to come to me.

I roll over in the night and feel the dent in the pillow where Marian’s head used to lie.

In the morning I see little Thomas Fielding playing in the stream, flinching like he did when Marian splashed him with the laundry bucket.

I have never felt so terrible and so alive.

The snow returns, freezing rain and sleet and sideways winds that threaten to blow us off our feet.

Others have died. The ground is too cold to dig their graves.

We arrive on the banks of the Sweetwater on the first day of October, waylaid by the snow.

The water, Mrs. Fielding mutters, will be cold enough to freeze blood.

I do not feel fear.

The night before the crossing, the elders gather us around a bonfire.

Dear Heavenly Father, Elder Rich intones, we thank thee thus far for thy providence on our journey.
We ask that you continue to shelter us in these perilous conditions, and that you watch over your Saints tomorrow as we make our crossing of the Sweetwater. We say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Amen, we answer.
The crossing, Elder Rich tells us, will be swift but arduous. The river is only twenty feet across, but it’s waist-deep in places, with a lethal current. The children are to be carried; those of us that can abandon our handcarts should do so.

Sam’s face is a mask of anxiety.

He finds me as I am putting out my fire, my fingers numb with cold.
He kneels down next to me, all hair and elbows, and takes my hands inside his coat.
 
I ask him, how cold do you think the water will be?

Very, he says. And then: I have something to ask you.

I can feel his heart beating faster. His eyes are bright in the firelight.
I was going to wait, he says. I did not want to - to put you in an uncomfortable position. I ask this with every expectation that you will refuse me.

I raise my head to meet his eyes.

Emily, he says, I have loved you from the moment I met you.

There is nothing I can say to equal that.

He’s grinning again, that actual face-splitting grin and he says -
I am asking you to marry me.

Yes, I say, yes.
Sam kisses me, and it feels like coming home.

Will you stay with me tonight? I ask, my breath short. I let my hands move through his hair, overwhelmed with the solidity of him, his brown eyes, his capable hands.

He hesitates.

I don’t trust myself, he says finally. Not until - until we are wed.

A thrill runs down the length of my spine.

Tomorrow, he says, taking my hands in his. Do not carry your cart. Leave it, if you must, and go by foot. The water is too fast, the carts are not steady. Step carefully, watch how you go, and you’ll be fine.

If I fall you’ll catch me?

He kisses my hand one last time before standing.

Undoubtedly.


KAYLEEN


The day is grey and hot.
We sit, the three of us, long after the cops leave.
I want to throw up.
My Dad can’t stop fidgeting.
It’s 5pm by the time Tanya says:
Kayleen and I are gonna borrow the car.
Like it’s a fact.

And honestly I think my Dad is relieved.
You girls be safe, okay? He says.
He also thrusts a crumpled $20 bill in my hand and says: buy anything you want, Marv.
In the car, Tanya says only:
Are you hungry? Because I’m fucking hungry.
She drives us to somewhere I’ve never been
This checkered-tablecloth-and-red-sauce place on the other side of town.
Italian, family-style.
This is where we used to go on fancy nights, she says. Then:
I know it’s shitty.
Inside it’s empty except for families with kids drawing on the tablecloths.

I’ve never seen someone eat the way Tanya does, like it’s her last meal on Earth.
Just like, reams of garlic bread hurtling down her throat.
Eat, she keeps saying, poking at my clam linguini.
The TV above the bar is running the news about Hyrum and Bronson.
Isn’t it technically not a missing persons case until like, 48 hours? I ask.
Tanya shrugs. I think everyone’s really freaked.
Her eyeliner’s all over her face, hair standing on end. She’s in the same clothes from yesterday, Doc Martens smeared with blood.
She looks good.
Tanya, I say.
She polishes off the last of her penne a la vodka with relish.
Yeah, Kayleen?
I want to kill the monster.

Tanya chokes so hard she has to chug her Coke.
When did we become the fucking heroes, Rick Moranis?

No one else knows it exists. If we don’t do something it’s just gonna keep taking people.

She rolls her eyes. “We?”

Or um, me, whatever.

Okay. How are you gonna kill a giant lake monster?
She pokes at the clams and I force one down.

I haven’t decided yet, I say. But everything has a weakness.

The TV reporter is saying something about the FBI stepping in. Behind him, someone is gingerly retrieving Bronson’s arm from the ground.


Kayleen, Tanya says. You don’t even know if that’s what happened.

But it might be, I say.

She’s shaking her head.
You wanna go get yourself killed about it, I can’t stop you.
She takes a deep breath.
But this isn’t gonna bring your Mom back.

The silence hangs between us. 

That’s not what this is about, I say.
Okay, she says.
I mean, I know that.
Okay.
They never found anything.
I know.
So she might still be alive.
Tanya bites her lip and says:
Kayleen. When are you gonna wake up?

I dig into my wallet and pull out the crumpled $20 bill and then I’m out the door onto the hot pavement.
I don’t care if she follows me or not.


EMILY


The crossing begins at midday, when we can hope to keep the sun above our heads.

Per Elder Rich’s instructions, the women carry children on their shoulders. Most of the men are needed to push our one covered wagon through the current.
Those that have to - families with too many belongings, the elders carrying food supplies - drag their handcarts through the river.

Ahead of me, Thomas Fielding sits atop his Father’s shoulders. His mother and older brother prepare to drag their handcart. My own cart has been abandoned on the shore.

I look for Sam and find him mid-river, guiding the wagon.
Trusting him, fixed on him, I shoulder what I can and step into the river.

The first step is agony; icy, rushing water.˜
Gritting my teeth, I take another step, then another, each more painful than the last.

Halfway across, it becomes easier. The current is less insistent now that I am up to my waist, and ahead of me the huge covered wagon is almost to shore.
I’ve started to breathe again.

And then it all happens at once.

Mr. Fielding trips ahead of me, and Thomas careens into the water.
Mrs. Fielding screams -
Mr. Fielding’s head strikes something underwater and he comes back up bleeding -
The elder Fielding son panics and loses his grip on their handcart and it slams into my side.
I am knocked into the water.

Pain, freezing pain. 
But I swim for Thomas, my belongings forgotten, knowing I am going to die but thinking I can save him, at least -

And then Sam is there, scooping Thomas up, handing him to his mother -
I am swallowing water -
Sam splashes over to me, his feet unsteady-

Like a knife slicing through the cold, the Fieldings’ forgotten handcart swings around and hits Sam in the side, carrying him under.

Mr. Fielding is still bleeding from the head, trying to catch the handcart, and no one is helping Sam -

I am choking on water -

Then Sam is standing back up, he is on on his feet -
He grabs me and holds me against him, breathing hard.

He says only come on, come on -
And together, supporting each other, we stumble the rest of the way across the river.

I look back.
Only twenty feet across.

Those who’ve made it are feverishly boiling water, trying to light fires in the frozen ground.
Many are crying.
Elder Rich is sobbing, soaked up to the waist.

My body goes limp.
Sam guides me to the closest fire, a paltry blaze.
He thrusts my frozen hands over the flame and throws a blanket over my shoulders.

I don’t notice Sam slip away, back into the crowd.

As my eyes drift closed, I feel only that I am floating somewhere deep, deep underwater.

When I awake, the sun is gone, and the hairs inside my nose have frozen solid.

Miss - please wake up -

The Fieldings’ eldest son is standing over me, trying to shake me awake.
I will my eyes open, and already I can feel the pain in my fingers.

Miss - we need you -
I sit straight up even though every limb in my body begs me not to.
Is it Thomas? I ask him. Is he alright?
The boy shakes his head.
He’s fine, it’s  - it’s Elder Crane, miss. Sam.

The boy points towards the covered wagon.

He said to come and find you. Or I think that’s what he said -

I am already on my feet. 

There is another elder outside the wagon.
There weren’t enough blankets, he said. He told us he’d be alright.

It’s warmer inside the wagon.

There is only one small lantern, but I can see him.

Sam is lying on a makeshift cot.
His breathing like sandpaper.

He doesn’t see me until I am kneeling beside him.
I ask him:
Why didn’t you take the blanket?

He shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand.
I want to strip off my own skin and give it to him.


Emily, he says.

I peel off my blanket, my wet clothes.
I put them gently to the side.

And then wordlessly, I lay down beside him and cover us both.


KAYLEEN


Tanya and I drive home in silence. When she drops me off she says only: I hope you find what you’re looking for.
I slam the door in her face.

My dad is full-on snoring when I sneak into his room to steal the shotgun and a walkie-talkie. The gun isn’t even locked up, just lying on the floor like a rusty nail.

A-plus parenting.

I walk out the front door and down the gravel path.

I can see the lake glimmering away at the bottom of the hill, Monster Mania! rising above it like a glittery appendage.

I remember standing here with Tanya, just over this crest, when we made our pact.

I stop on the shore. The lake stretches out for miles and miles.

For the first time I feel pretty stupid.

But I won’t give Tanya the satisfaction.

I find the biggest rock I can and heave it into the lake.

Nothing.

Feeling even stupider, I yell:

STOP HIDING, DIPSHIT because that’s what Tanya would say.

I throw another rock.

My Mom always loved the lake.

Another one.

One time we sat right here and she said to me: Your Dad is the kind of person where things just ...slide off him. Like water. I think you’re more like me. We hold the water inside.

Another rock. An empty splash.
Bodies are sixty percent water, I’d said. If that’s what you mean. 

And she laughed. Marv, not everything is science. You gotta learn to let your water out.

Another rock.

‘The night she disappeared I sat on my porch for nine hours. I remember thinking: she’s never late. And then the panic, deep in my guts. My Dad, on the phone, calling every place in town where she might be. Dad getting in the car to drive around looking for her. Dad coming back, the face behind his face. She’d come back because she had to. She’d come back because she was my Mom.

Another rock. A bigger splash.
   
That was four years ago. There was still time.

Another rock.

Maybe I want the monster to eat me.

The splash gets bigger, not a splash but a ripple, not a ripple but the water moving, parting-

First a head, a whirlwind of teeth and fangs and bulbous, glistening eyes. Its skin is slick and striated, its breath harsh and briny. It seems to expand even as it rises, the lake boiling with tentacles and jagged, sharpened claws.

The Bear Lake Monster rises above me, majestic and infinite and terrifying.

We consider one another.

And then The Monster says, his voice low and rumbling through my bones:

Hello, sprog.