Chapter 20
Mikayla's vacant gaze rested briefly on Hannah before she returned her attention back to the river. Hannah emerged from the shadows cast by the thick black oak beside her. What was Mikayla doing in the river at night? At this point, the current was too strong, and at this time of year, the water too cold for swimming. Mikayla's wet shirt clung to her skin. She raised her arms from the water and looked at something in her hand. A new wave of soft sobs shook her shoulders. There was only one possible explanation.
Bile rose in the back of Hannah's throat. The river was no longer deep enough at this point, but Mikayla was probably planning on letting the current carry her to the deeper parts. She didn't stand a chance. She would either drown or crash into the rocks. Miley tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry and her throat was clogged.
"Mikayla?" Her voice broke.
Mikayla remained facing the river.
Miley Stewart was a liar, a life destroyer, and if she didn't get Mikayla out of the water soon, she would be a murderer too. But there was only one person who could save Mikayla right now: Hannah Montana.
Hannah stepped into the water and liquid ice pooled into her boot. She took the next step on the slippery lake bottom. The current tore at her calves. She waded deeper and deeper, the water rising to her knees and then her hips. Her breath hitched, and her muscles tensed. A voice inside her head yelled at her to get out of the river. Now. It was too cold. She would freeze to death. Hannah kept her gaze fixed on Mikayla. The water splashed with each step.
Mikayla spun around, her blue lips quivering. She wiped her tear-stained cheeks.
Hannah stopped right in front of her.
"I-I m-made it, d-didn't I?"
Between Mikayla's drowsy voice and stuttering, and the rushing current, Hannah could barely understand her. "Made what?"
"M-made it t-to heaven."
"Heaven? Don't you recognize me?"
"You're H-Hannah M-montana, o-or rather an angel who l-looks like her."
"Listen. I'm not an angel. I ran out of gas, and when I went looking for help, I came across you."
"Am I-I n-not dead?"
"No."
Mikayla reached out a hand and poked her shoulder as if to see if she was solid.
"I want you to come out of the water with me." A shudder shook Hannah's body, and her teeth clattered together.
Mikayla's gaze shifted to the riverbank and then back to Hannah. "I-I c-can't."
"Of course you can."
Mikayla's pale chin sagged against her chest.
Hannah cast a glance behind her. It was only a few steps to the river bank; she needed to get Mikayla there before they both froze to death. She grabbed Mikayla's shoulders and searched for her gaze.
Mikayla raised her gaze.
"Please."
"Y-you're n-not real."
"I promise you, I am… You were at my last autograph session, and-and a year ago we spent half a day together, do you remember?"
Mikalya closed her eyes and bobbed her head. Hannah wasn't sure if it was a sign of approval or if the cold water had made her sleepy.
"We went shopping in Nashville after my concert, and you saw a pink hoodie in the shop window that you liked. I bought it for you because you didn't have enough money." Hannah had told her that all she had to do was point at it and she would buy it, but Mikayla had looked down and whispered that she could never accept such an offer.
"Thanks." Mikayla's gaze stayed down.
"You called me your lucky charm." The sun had cast its warm rays down on her that day. Mikayla had told her it had to be a good omen that Hannah chose her from all of her fans, and that she wouldn't tell anyone about their trip so as not to jinx her luck. At that time, Hannah still hoped she could relieve Mikayla's and her own pain. "Do you remember?"
Mikayla hmmed and nodded.
Hannah would never forget that day. She had let herself be adored by her victim. She had allowed Mikayla to tell her her innermost secrets. She was a disgusting liar. Hannah took a quivering breath. Now she had to be honest. She had to tell her something she had never told anyone except her father. "I—" Her voice cracked and she forced a hard swallow. "At the risk of sounding cliche, I-I understand how you feel. I used to spend a lot of time at Crop Creek… staring out into the water… wondering how deep it was… if the current was strong enough… and if I'd have to suffer for a long time before… "
Mikayla jerked her head up. "Y-you w-would n-never."
Hannah averted her gaze from Mikayla, tiny waves lapping at her body.
"B-but your life i-is p-perfect."
Hannah would've giggled hysterically if the biting cold hadn't numbed her to the core. "It-it's far from it. Everyone has a cross to bear."
"W-what if the cross is so h-heavy that it buries y-you beneath it and there's n-no hope of ever g-getting b-back up?"
Oh gosh, what had she done! She could simply join Mikayla and float down the current together. In a matter of minutes, it would all be over. It was so simple, but… no, she had to make amends. There had to be a way to make Mikayla happy. "I'm… I'm incredibly sorry—" Hannah's voice broke.
Mikayla shook her head, as if to say, This has nothing to do with you.
"It will get better." Her father had told her so.
"W-when?" "
It takes time." Those were also his words. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder if I should just give up. But then there's that little voice in my head that says, Just one more day, maybe tomorrow everything will change for the better." Underwater, Hannah's stiff fingers curled around Mikayla's hand, but when she tried to drag Mikayla forward with her, she wouldn't budge.
"I d-didn't k-know… "
"We're not that different."
Mikayla blinked and shook her head, as if trying to shake off her exhaustion.
"I t-tried."
"Tried what?"
"T-to fight. To m-make my d-dreams c-come true."
"You can still—"
"—No. T-this y-year, I had p-planned t-to g-go to Arts High Sc-school in Ch-chicago. T-they invited me t-to a-an interview. When I-I told them I d-didn't want to learn an instrument, b-become an o-opera singer, or-or perform on Broadway, but instead w-wanted to be a pop singer, a-a performer, they said t-they had to be honest with me: no f-famous p-pop singer in h-history has had s-such a prominent scar on her face a-as I do. I-it just wouldn't s-sell."
Goodness Gracious, it was all her fault. The music industry was superficial. Hannah had witnessed talented people being rejected because their voices and appearance did not match.
"I'm u-ugly."
"You're pretty."
"I-I h-have an ugly s-scar on my f-face."
"So you're a pretty girl with a scar."
Mikayla muttered incomprehensible words under her breath. "Y-you're rea… really… angel."
A fallen angel. Hannah grasped Mikayla's hand.
Mikayla's eyes fluttered shut, and her chin sagged on her chest once more.
A tremor quaked Hannah's insides. She would never be able to get Mikayla out of the water! Why was she so exhausted? Was it the cold?
Mikayla rubbed a hand over her face, leaving waterdrops on her pale skin. A passport photo slipped through her fingers. She watched it float away with the current with wide eyes.
Hannah's mind went blank as she lunged after it. Her upper body submerged, and cold water splashed in her face. Hannah shrieked. Her stiff-frozen fingers paddled around for the photo as the moonlit waves washed it back and forth. Her fingers closed around it and she turned it over. Even in the dim moonlight, she recognized the million-dollar smile. Hannah held it out for Mikayla to take.
"Thanks." Mikayla squeezed her eyes in a grimace and pressed the photo in a fist against her chest.
"Is this your boyfriend?"
"I-I wanted h-him t-to be the last p-person I saw."
"He is cute."
"H-he is. S-sweet, too."
"And he loves you despite your scar." Hannah knew she was likely grasping at straws, but she had to try.
Mikayla gazed at the photo. "He d-does."
"Then you have one less cross to bear than I do."
Glazed eyes met Hannah's.
"The-the person I like doesn't like me back."
Mikayla remained silent, her expression unreadable.
A frog croaked from somewhere among the dried reeds.
"B-but y-you're so b-beautiful."
"In the end, looks don't matter." Hannah licked her lips. "My looks may have helped my music career, but the career alone can't make me happy."
Mikayla's eyes grew distant, then fluttered close. Her chin sagged back against her chest.
"Mikayla?" She didn't respond. Had she fallen asleep? Hannah's shaky hand reached out to touch her.
Mikayla's hand emerged from the water and gripped her wrist. "H-help m-me."
Hannah swallowed and nodded. Finally. She waded ahead and dragged Mikayla behind her. Mikayla's fingers slipped off her wrist. Hearing a splash, Hannah spun around. Mikayla floated face down on the surface, the current slowly pulling her along. Hannah leaped forward, arms outstretched, and grabbed fabric. Freezing wet darkness rose around her head. She gasped in a large breath of water. Air. She needed air. She pushed her feet off the ground, resurfaced, and coughed up water. The dark current swept away her blonde wig. Miley threw her soggy hood over her head, slid her arms under Mikayla's, and yanked her up so her forehead rested against her shoulder.
"Mikayla?"
Mikayla remained motionless.
Gosh, why didn't she react? Had she swallowed too much water? Miley dragged her backwards towards the riverbank, and when Mikayla broke into a sudden coughing fit on her shoulder, she didn't let go, leaving Mikayla with no choice but to continue forward. Miley stepped onto solid ground and dragged Mikayla up the grassy river bank.
Mikayla let herself fall backwards onto the ground. The cold air condensed her long exhale into a cloud. She rolled onto her back and blinked with glazed eyes into the sky. Miley followed her gaze upwards. The full moon seemed brighter than before, and its face seemed to smile down at her. Had a higher power helped her in saving Mikayla? For a few seconds, Miley just sat there and basked in the feeling of lightness. Her wet clothes stuck to her skin, and cold air settled around her. Mikayla's eyes drifted shut.
They couldn't let their guard down. They had to change out of their nasty wet clothes as fast as possible. Miley reached over and shook Mikayla.
Her eyes remained closed.
"Mikayla?"
Strands of wet hair clung to the corners of her blue lips. The silver of the moon reflected in the water droplets that dotted her ashen skin. If it hadn't been for the steady rise and fall of her chest, Miley would have assumed she was dead. Miley shook her again. Did Mikayla pass out from the cold? Or… could it be? Sleeping pills? They weren't supposed to keep anyone from waking up, though. At least that had never happened to her in the two years she had taken them every night.
Shadowy outlines of pine trees and bare branches formed a silhouette against the clear starry sky.
It was still a twenty-minute walk through the woods. She could never carry Mikayla for that long. She probably wouldn't last a minute. She needed to get help. But where? Her dad? Or Mr. Baker? His farm was closer. But first, she needed to prevent Mikalya from over-cooling any further. Hay would be ideal, but there wasn't any around… Her gaze lingered on the dried leaves on the forest undergrowth.
Miley pushed her way through the wall of branches, whose skinny, gnarled fingers grabbed her hood and yanked it off her head. She gathered the dried leaves that had accumulated on the bushes' roots and layed them out in a five-foot-long rectangle on the ground next to Mikayla. Now she just had to get her on it somehow. Miley grabbed her arms and dragged her onto the pile of leaves. The leaves slid to the side, leaving Mikayla on the cold ground. Miley had to approach this differently. She spread another rectangle and rolled Mikayla over so she was lying with her back on the brown crispy leaves. She piled several arms full of them on top of her body. With shaky hands, Miley picked up the flashlight from the ground, and with a tap against the case, the beam fluttered back on.
She continued to follow the river against the current. The rushing gradually turned into a burbling, and a clearing opened up in the distance. She only had to walk halfway down the dirt road to reach Mr. Baker's farm. A snort broke through the wet squishing of her shoes. Miley swung around, waving her flashlight over the undergrowth. The beam caught a wild hog a few feet away, who tossed its head back and forth. Her heart pounded up her throat. It only took her a fraction of a second to assess the situation: its tail stood up and it snorted again—aggressive, barely visible tusks—a wild sow, not a boar. This wasn't much better. Miley took a step back. Instead of slashing her legs with its tusks, it would bite her. Either way, she would bleed to death. Running away was pointless. She would only be able to take a few steps before being caught.
Another snort. It would only be a matter of seconds before it launched an attack.
Miley took another shaky step back, the undergrowth crunching beneath her shoes. Then another. Her back hit resistance, and her fingers brushed against the rough bark of the tree behind her. Miley swung her flashlight up. A thick branch stretched over her. The boar charged forward. She didn't have time to consider whether she would make the jump. She dropped the flashlight and leaped up.
One hand reached into space.
The other one wrapped around the branch. Her arm muscles burned from her body's weight, and her legs dangled in the air. Her fingers slipped from the wet bark, inch by inch. She reached up with her other hand and grabbed the branch; her leg followed, and she pulled herself up onto her stomach. The flashlight had gone out, and darkness veiled the forest floor. Miley got up on all fours, balanced on the branch, and leaped forward, her arms flung around the trunk, her cheek pressed against the slick bark.
Where was the wild hog? Blood thundered through her ears as she listened. It was quiet. She couldn't afford to waste time. She needed to get help before Mikayla died from hypothermia.
A sliver of cold light flitted behind distant tree trunks. Thank goodness.
"Help m—" The rest got stuck in Miley's throat. There were only two reasons for wandering through the woods at night: to hide or to seek, and not in the fun way. The radio announcement unrolled like an audiotape in Hannah's mind. The Tenessee killer was near Crowley Corners, looking for scarred girls.
The light beam grew closer before going out. Someone didn't want to be noticed.
Miley brushed a strand of hair in front of her temple. The water had undoubtedly washed the makeup off her scar. The sound of her ragged breath mixed with the splashing creek in the distance. A warm beam of light appeared to her right. How did he get there so quickly? The beam slid across her, stopped on the tree next to hers, and swung back into her face. Miley squinted. He had spotted her, but she could still outrun him. She crouched, jumped, and landed on the ground with a crunching thud. She stumbled towards the clearing. The thudding footsteps behind her accelerated. The light beam swung back and forth over her head. She had to get to Mr. Baker's farm to be safe. Branches snapped under her feet, and leaves rustled and crunched. The clearing drew closer. Behind it was the farm, was safety. Just a little further. She could do it. To the farm, to safety—
"—Miley?"
He knew her name? Miley tripped over a root but caught her balance.
"Wait!"
The deep-toned voice rang out with a thick southern drawl. So familiar. Mr. Baker! Miley stopped and twirled around. She blinked into the harsh light beam. A man's silhouette stood in front of the dim moonlit trees.
"Mr. Baker?"
The man lowered his flashlight's beam to the ground, his gray bushy brows drawn together on his ruddy-toned forehead. "I just noticed another light beam and was wonderin' if it was ya. I thought ya were done with night hikes?"
Miley had been terrified the first time she had noticed the warm flashlight beam in the forest, but once she had realized it was Mr. Baker, she had always been thrilled to run into him. He had taught her about Native American rituals, such as the Grandmother Moon Ceremony. "That-that wasn't me, and here was a wild hog just now."
"Is that why ya ran away?" Mr. Baker swung his flashlight beam around over fallen branches, withered leaves, and moss. "It must've fled."
"You-you have to help me." Miley crossed her arms over her chest in a desperate attempt to stop the tremor that ran through her body. "A-A classmate. She-she wanted to kill herself. Sleepin' pills, I think, or the cold water. I left her at Crop Creek. I— "
"—Slow down. She is still alive?"
"I don't know. I-I hope… She'll freeze to death. We have to help her."
Mr. Baker removed his jacket and handed it to Miley. "Leave your wet hoodie an' shirt here and then take me to her." He shifted his gaze away from Miley.
As the warmed-up sheepskin nestled against Miley's skin, she almost sighed with relief. She zipped up the oversized jacket and pulled the hood over her head. "I-I left her on the river bank." Miley spun in a circle, one identical-looking trunk lining up with the next. She had no idea where she had come from. She knew her way around the woods like the back of her hand, so why, of all times, did her inner compass seem to have conked out when it could literally mean the difference between life and death?
Mr. Baker closed his eyes. A breeze ruffled his long gray hair, the same breeze that carried the faint splashing of the creek from her right. Before Miley could point it out, Mr. Baker turned in the direction of the sound.
"This way."
He took the lead, and Miley trailed behind. His calm steps appeared to be more akin to a continuation of his hike than a rescue operation. Miley clenched her teeth to keep from yelling at him to hurry up.
"Mikayla was real pale."
As if he understood Miley's implication, he replied, "If I run now, I won't be able to carry her all the way back. If a higher power wishes for her to be saved, she will be. And I believe so. Otherwise, you wouldn't have found her." Despite his quick steps and advanced age, his breathing remained calm. "Today is Usgiyi, the Cold Moon. Full moons are always a good omen for us Cherokees."
"I know." But he was wrong. He had explained to her that a woman could perform a ceremony to seek guidance from Grandmother Moon when the moon was full. He had given her a traditional dress, a fur scarf, and a necklace made of shells, as well as an urn for the water ritual. Every Sunday at church, Miley had prayed to God to heal Mikayla's scar or, at the very least, to take away her pain. She had continued her prayers every night before going to bed, but to no avail. Mikayla had still despised her life and resented Miley for doing this to her. Mr. Baker had then told her about the ritual. Maybe she had been praying to the wrong god?
Someone had died that night.
Miley had discovered a deer struck by a car on the side of the road. It was too badly wounded to survive. She had stroked it across the bloodied fur of its neck and said her tearful goodbyes before Mr. Baker had shot it in the head to put it out of its misery.
Not only had the entire ritual been for naught, but Jake had later told everyone at school that his father had seen her dressed in blood-stained animal fur carrying an urn.
They followed the creek until the moonlit clearing opened up in the distance. Miley staggered ahead and dropped to her knees in front of the pale, leaf-covered figure. Her trembling hand probed for a pulse.
She couldn't find one!
Mr. Baker knelt beside her and replaced her hand on Mikayla's neck with his. "Weak, but she is alive."
He lifted her into his arms and carried her back, his pace remaining calm and brisk despite the additional weight. They walked back through the woods and down the dirt road past bare fields to a white wooden-fronted cottage.
"The keys are in the right jacket pocket."
Miley yanked them from her pocket, and they clattered to the front porch floorboards. Her trembling hands inserted the key and turned the lock. Mr. Baker shoved his way past her. Miley stayed under the open front door, her thumb making its way into her mouth, and she chewed on her nail. The oak floorboards creaked under Mr. Baker's steps as he made his way into the living room and laid Mikayla on the couch. He came back and vanished down the foyer, and when he returned, he held several blankets in his hands. With a jerk of his head, he motioned for Miley to come in.
"Shut the door. The cold is makin' its way into the house."
Miley followed Mr. Baker into the living room, knocking over one of the many woven baskets that stood in the corners. Dried corn cobs rustled across the floor. Miley scooped them up and sagged on one of the leather-covered chairs.
"What are ya doin'?" A line formed between Mr. Baker's brows, but his gruff voice held a warm undertone.
Miley jerked up as if the seat had stung her.
"Ya need to take her wet clothes off." Mr. Baker walked over to a drawer, rummaged through it, and turned around with a space blanket in his hands. "What are ya waitin' for?"
The demanding glint in his eyes made Miley not even think to object as she stumbled over to the couch.
"Begin with the rescue blanket, then the other two." He vanished into the corridor with quick steps.
Miley left Mikayla's underwear on and placed the blankets on her in the order mentioned by Mr. Baker.
Footsteps approached again. "Not like that." Mr. Baker pushed Miley gently aside, wrapped the blankets around Mikayla, and lifted her into his arms. "I'll drive her to the hospital. Please put on dry clothes before you go home." He stopped under the front door and threw a backward glance at Miley. "Ya did a good thin' helpin' her."
Miley listened to the fading roar of the car's engine and into the successive silence that filled the room. She waited for her pulse to slow, but after a half-minute, her heart still pounded in her throat. So Mikayla was still alive. It was a long journey to the hospital, but she would make it, wouldn't she? If not, then… The future remained hazy in her mind's eye. It was as if a heavy veil had draped over her, pressing her to the ground and enveloping her in total darkness.
Miley disregarded Mr. Baker's request to change her clothes before returning home. The windows were pitch black when Miley arrived at the farm. She startled her father awake by collapsing face-first on the mattress next to him.
"Miley?"
The bedside lamp clicked on.
"What's wrong?"
Her heavy arms dragged the pillow under her head. "Jackson is stranded on Rodeo Road and needs gas," she mumbled.
"Did ya walk all the way home?"
Miley uh-huhed.
A large hand stroked her wet hair. "What happened? Did ya get caught in the rain?"
"I don't want to live any longer."
Mr. Stewart took a sharp breath. "Ya didn't try to… " His voice shook.
Miley knew what he was getting at. "No… but Mikayla tried. Mr. Baker is takin' her to the hospital."
There was a rustle, and the other side of the mattress rose. "I'll make us some Loco Hot Cocoa, and then ya tell me everythin'."
"Can't. Tired." Miley groaned. "And Jackson… "
"That boy is nothin' but trouble." Mr. Stewart shuffled around the room. "Can I really leave ya alone?"
Miley made a noncommittal sound.
"Darlin'?"
"Yes."
"All right, we'll talk about it tomorrow."
When the slamming of the front door sounded up the stairs, Miley peeled her wet clothes off and crawled under the covers of her father's bed. Her eyes slid shut, and she drifted into a restless sleep.