The Dark Beneath the Ice by Amelinda Bérubé

Author:Amelinda Bérubé [Bérubé, Amelinda]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, pdf
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2018-05-07T04:00:00+00:00

13

I spend the rest of the night curled in the farthest corner of the bed, watching the room, fighting the quetiapine, waiting for something to happen. The night oozes by, and I can’t tell whether I’m awake anymore. The moments flake apart into fragments, like the mirror, sharp-edged, disjointed. I’m not sure whether I’ve slept by the time gray morning finally thins the lamplight. Either way, it’s a relief, kind of, despite the gritty feeling in my eyes and a dull headache. I scrub my hands over my face and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

My feet splash down into icy water.

I snatch them back up. My socks are soaked through, the cuffs of my pajamas clinging wet around my ankles. The crows tock and chuckle outside. A car door slams. The rainy-day light is limp, ordinary. But my feet leave soggy prints on the dry sheet.

Slowly, I lean out over the edge of the bed. My shadow looks back at me, the faintest ripply reflection. Clear water covers the linoleum, laps at the feet of the dresser. The cords of the lamp and the alarm clock are underwater; I jerk the plugs from their sockets.

I jump, cringing, at a sound from the hallway, but it’s only Aunt Jen opening her door.

“Good lord!” she exclaims. She knocks on my door, but opens it before I can answer.

“Mare-bear, get up, there’s—” She gasps as the door splashes through the water on the floor, and lets out a wail. “Oh, look at this!”

“It wasn’t me!” I cry. “I don’t know where it came from!”

“Well of course, of course it wasn’t you! Why would I think that?” She reaches a placating hand toward me. “Don’t cry, sweetie, it’s okay. A pipe must have burst. Or maybe it’s the roof, with all this rain. I’ll call the landlord right away. It’s okay, Mare-bear, it’s—”

“My name is Marianne!”

My shout brings her up short, but only for a moment; she splashes across the floor, pulls me gently, insistently to my feet in the knife-cold water, wraps her arm around my shoulders to lead me from the room. I wipe my eyes, feeling guilty, feeling stupid. She may as well call me Mare-bear. Look at me, crying and needing a hug.

Behind us, the lamp on the nightstand crashes to the floor.

• • •

We sit on the couch while the maintenance guys clank around the furnace room, troop up and down the stairs. I can feel Aunt Jen looking at me, but I keep my eyes on my hands. They declare the drywall in my room shot, make noises about checking the insulation, set up huge clattering fans.

“Damnedest thing,” one of them tells Aunt Jen. “I mean, the ceiling’s dry. And there’s a lake up on the roof, all right, but it’s on the other side of the building. And all the pipes are fine, but they’re across the hall anyway. So where the hell did it come from?”

“I guess that’s what you get with an old building,” Aunt Jen responds helplessly.

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