The Riverman (The Riverman Trilogy) Read Free Page B

sack , which means I came out with the amniotic veil still around me. Some people say that makes me a clairvoyant, but I’m no clairvoyant.”
    She punctuated the point with a finger in the air, and then she moved the tape recorder and wedged it in between her feet, giving it the optimum angle to catch her voice.
    “I was born here in Thessaly,” she went on. “Or if you want to be technical about it, at Rose Memorial in Sutton. My dad worked as an insurance adjuster then. Mom didn’t work because she thought raising kids was work enough. There aren’t a lot of pictures of me from those days because I’m the third-born, and apparently cameras don’t work on the third. Maybe we’re vampires.”
    She smiled, and I smiled back, because I could certainly relate. I was the second of two kids. Our bookshelves were stacked with photo albums of Keri diaper-clad in the garden, on the hammock, with her face in a bowl of ice cream. There were far fewer pictures of me, a mere year and a half younger.
    “My first memory is from when I was two years old,” Fiona continued. “I was playing in our sandbox. Cody, our German shepherd, tried to steal my sand bucket, and I went to grab it back and Cody bit me on the arm and dragged me across the yard until my face hit the pole of a bird feeder and my nose broke and there was blood on my arm and my face. I remember the blood tasted dirty and hot. They put Cody down after that. I have this nose and this scar to show for it.”
    As she rolled her sleeve up, the purple ghost of the attack revealed itself. It was like a centipede crawling toward her bicep. My reaction must have been swift and obvious.
    “I know,” she said, and then launched into her best Valley girl impression. “Grody to the max.”
    I had never seen the scar before, but I had often wondered why Fiona always wore long sleeves, even in the summer. I stumbled through my response. “I just … I…”
    “Make a note,” she said. “‘A gnarly scar eats at her girly arm.’ Something like that. That’s what a writer would do.”
    “Good idea.” I scooted the beanbag chair over to my desk, reached up, and grabbed a pencil and the mostly empty notebook I had reserved for Social Studies. Below a doodle of Abe Lincoln riding a skateboard, I wrote: Big scar. Purple. Somewhat gross.
    She gave the scar a kiss and rolled her sleeve back down. “I remember other things from that time. Images and stuff. My mom in the driveway shoveling snow while wearing a yellow dress and a paisley coat. Me and my dad sharing a strawberry milk shake. Derek and Maria making a house of baseball cards. I’ve been told anecdotes from that time too, about how we used to do stuff as a family, but I think it’s best to stick with my memories.”
    “Probably best,” I said, but what did I know? My creative endeavors amounted to a handful of stories, only a couple of which I had actually put to paper. I didn’t have the first clue about what it took to “pen” someone’s biography. Fiona’s faith in my abilities was flattering, but as the warmth of flattery dissipated, a spiny chill was all that remained. This girl actually expected something from me. It finally struck me how strange that was.
    “My second memory is from a bit later,” she said. “I was four and I was in bed and I was listening to the radiators clicking. You know how they click? Well, the clicks were different this time. It was as if the radiators were talking to me, as if—”
    “Fiona?” I stood up, though not as quickly as I would have liked. Beanbag chairs.
    “Yes?”
    I set the notebook on the desk. “Why are we doing this?”
    Fiona pulled a pillow out from behind her back and hugged it. Tilting her head, she replied, “Because we’re weirdos, Alistair. We’re the aliens.”
    “I don’t know what that … I am not a weirdo,” I said. “And that’s not what I’m asking.”
    “What are you asking, then?”
    “I’m asking … I hardly know you