THREE YEARS LATER: MOLLY
Though the years have passed by me in a blur, I can still hear the song he played for me that night by the fire, I can still smell of the flannel shirt and cracked leather jacket he was wearing, and remember how it felt to kiss him.
After I learned of River's death, I admit I didn't know what to do with myself for months. Instead of assimilating back into society like I should have, I stayed out in the woods in my own self-imposed solitary confinement. Occasionally I would travel back to my hometown in Kansas to check up on things. My friends and neighbors barely ever recognized me. On the rare occasions that they did, they glared at me with undisguised malice. Apparently, the word had been spread about my frolic with the Devil. I learned that my middle sister had been tithed in my place—she volunteered. As much as I wanted to be able to mourn her loss, I could not. Honestly, I had hardly even known her. I also discovered that my brother, Paul, was taking after me; listening to heavy metal for hours in his room, wearing skinny jeans and band t-shirts, skipping church and going to the Waffle House instead. My parents had scheduled him for unwinding, citing that he was a disgrace to their family, and deserved it for his blasphemous behavior. I had him out of there, along with my youngest brother, Tom, who was now six, in a week. My parents didn't bother to send out a search party.
After I had turned twenty, I met Jack. He was my age—a dark and serious boy who had managed to establish a home for runaway unwinds in the deserts of Nevada. After I'd explained my history, he invited me to join the group as a trail guide, leading kids to other safe houses in the north or even taking them across the Canadian border, where unwinding was still illegal. He allowed my brothers to stay as well, living in the dormitories built beneath the sand.
His kindness was welcome, but it also created an unwelcome problem. I knew Jack's interest in me wasn't purely restricted to my leadership skills or trail knowledge by any means, but I managed to spurn any advances he made. He knew about River of course. Anyone who had access to a television knew of our connection-the news stations had refused to let the story of our unfortunate romance go, so much so that I hadn't been anywhere near a T.V. in almost a year.
It frustrated him to no end that he was being overlooked because of a boy long dead. "He's gone Molly," he'd sighed the last time I rejected him. "When are you going to let yourself live again?"
I didn't answer, because if I was being honest with myself, I didn't know the answer. Jack was kind, smart, funny, and brave, but all the same… he was no River.
I started going into town for the sole purpose of people watching—to see if anyone had been given his arms, his hands, his eyes. It was unhealthy of course, but no one tried to stop me. If Jack had learned anything in the year I'd been in his service, it was that I would not be controlled. Paul accompanied me on many of these trips, for what reason I did not know. Maybe he wanted to comfort me in my grief, or perhaps he was simply curious to see even a piece of the boy who had bewitched me so fully. I never bothered to ask.
I turned on the news one day out of curiosity and almost smiled as I saw the headline flashing on the screen and heard the anchor announce, "Francis Gaines, the father of the famed Shoulder-Shot Unwind, River Gaines, was arrested and convicted today for the attempted rape and murder of an eighteen year old girl. He was sentenced this morning to life in prison with no possibility of parole. Some suspicion has been aroused about the true cause of his wife's death several years ago. Though Gaines claims it was suicide, authorities have re-opened the case, and say that if sufficient evidence is found, Gaines may be subject to the death penalty."
My brothers continued to grow, happy in their new home. Thomas delighted in the amount of playmates and the absence of, "Boring Sundays." Paul similarly adjusted, spending more and more time with an escaped Unwind named Angie, who he seemed completely taken with despite the fact that she had been traumatized so much by her escape that she communicated solely through sign language.
Their progress made me exceedingly happy, but it seemed that nothing could ever completely heal me. The cold metal of the little peace sign that pressed against my throat was a constant reminder of what I had lost. Jack refused to give up on me, which was flattering, but also a complete waste of his time. Still, it was nice to know I had options, even if I wasn't planning on taking advantage of them, now or ever.
Sometimes we miss our happy ending by a hair's breath. Sometimes we have to learn to move on.
