“About the river,” I said, and I thought they would say who cares because nothing in the emails said anything about a river.
But Mab sat up and looked at me. “What about it?”
“There used to be two,” I said. “Twins at least. There might have been triplets. We cannot assume,” and I felt stupid because rivers are not twins or triplets, but I said it anyway because I could not think of another reason why the river was where it was not and also because they are my sisters and I know they love me even when I am stupid.
“Two?” Mab said, and she did not mean me. She meant two rivers.
“It is probably not important,” I admitted.
Mirabel typed. “River is important,” her Voice said, and I thought she meant because Mab kissed him, but then I realized she meant the river is important.
“Why?” I asked because the river has nothing to do with paperwork or winter activities.
Mirabel looked at Mab. Mab said, “Because it runs next to the plant? Because that’s what got poisoned in the first place? Because it smelled and ran contaminated water to our taps and turned green? Because that’s what killed us last time Belsum was up and running?” Her voice made questions at the end, but I did not know what the questions were. “What do you mean there used to be two?”
So I showed them the Santa picture that could not be but could not not be either that revealed how at Christmas 1963 there was a river running right through the middle of downtown.
Mab looked and looked, and Mirabel looked and looked, and Mirabel made a squeak, and Mirabel started to type, and then her Voice said, “What did the fish say when it swam into a wall?”
And I said, “Fish cannot talk.”
And I said, “There are no walls in the ocean.”
And I said, “You might think fish are stupid because their brains are small but fish are not stupid and—”
But Mab interrupted, “Oh.” And then Mab said, “Damn.”
Or, to be more accurate, Mab said, “Dam.”
Mirabel explained that the rivers were not triplets or even twins. Mirabel explained that the river in the Santa photograph was our very same river but in a different place. It took all night for Mirabel to explain because her predictive software did not predict you could move a river just like I did not and because she did not have anything saved already on the subject of river diversion so she had to type every single word. It also took a long time because I did not understand. When she told me you can move a river I was thinking you would have to fill a bucket with water and carry it somewhere else and dump it out and then go back and fill it again and carry it again and dump it again and then do that over and over and over. I said no matter how many times you did that it would not work because more water would keep coming. But Mirabel helped me understand you can turn the river itself which is the difference between big dams and little dams. The big dams you think of when you think of dams generate power which is called hydroelectric, but smaller dams like ours are used to make lakes and divert rivers which means move them, and then the place where the river used to run would be a ravine and fill with vines and plants and brambles so you would not think that a river used to run there but it did.
Which means sometime between when the Santas pretended to fish in 1963 and every single memory we have, someone put in the dam.
Mab got very excited and started asking questions we did not know the answers to. I do not know why she did this since we did not know the answers, but Mirabel kept nodding her head and tapping her screen and her Voice kept saying, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Mab said, “When was the dam put in?”
Mab said, “No, wait, why was the dam put in?”
Mab said, “No, no, no! Who put the dam in?”
Mirabel’s Voice did not answer any of these questions. Mirabel’s Voice said, “Yes yes yes yes yes.”
* * *
This morning we are very tired because we were up too late last night understanding dams, but it is Saturday so Pastor Jeff is here so we get out of bed anyway. We have many questions we cannot remember the answers to because we were not born yet, but he and Mama probably remember because they were.
By the time we finish getting up and dressed, Pastor Jeff is already eating. Mama has made blueberry danish and chocolate brioche plus lemon muffins for me, but Pastor Jeff is eating one of my muffins, even though he is a man of God. (He does not care what color his food is, and also what if he touched all the muffins when he took one?) But then Mama puts out a separate plate of untouched lemon muffins for just me. This is nice of her.
“When did they build the dam?” I shout which I did not mean to, but I am very excited. Mama stops pouring coffee. Pastor Jeff stops chewing my muffin.
“Good morning to you too, Monday,” says Pastor Jeff.
“When did they build the dam?” I say again.
Pastor Jeff and Mama share a look which means confused but also laughing at me.
“Why are you asking about the dam, love?” Mama says.
“We cannot remember before it was built,” I explain, “because every time we can remember it was already there.”
Mama looks at Mab who sometimes explains me when I am too confused or excited or upset to explain me myself, but Mab is just sitting there looking like she is wondering the answer too, so Mama figures that the question I am asking is the question I am asking. Her face does a funny thing. “It was right before…” But she does not finish.
“Right before what?” I ask even though I should not have to because people should complete their sentences.
“It was right before Belsum came to town,” Pastor Jeff says quietly. “Before they broke ground on the plant even.”
“We thought…” Mama begins, then has to clear her throat. “We thought everything was about to get so great. And instead everything got so terrible.”
“But the park was nice,” Pastor Jeff says.
“Briefly.” Mama snorts.
“Why did they?” I ask.
“Why did they what?” says Mama, as if I have changed the subject which I have not.
“Why did they build the dam?”
“To make Bluebell Lake,” Mama says like this is obvious.
Pastor Jeff does a better job of saying more. “In the summer, kids used to wade in the river to cool off.” I try to picture this. I cannot picture this. “Splashing contests, prying up rocks, catching tadpoles in jars, that kind of thing. But the water moved too fast out in the middle. Parents started to worry about some kid getting swept away. I think there was a petition or something. People lobbied the mayor—this was the mayor before Omar—until finally they dammed the river to build the lake and the park so we’d have somewhere to hang out and swim safely.”
“Did you?” I cannot picture anyone swimming in Bluebell Lake or anywhere in Bourne. It is like Pastor Jeff has admitted he spent his summers swimming in something gross and also dangerous like a vat of drooling wolves.
“Sure we did. It was really nice.”
“Briefly,” Mama says again.
“It was nice to have somewhere to swim instead of just wade,” Pastor Jeff continues. “And the park was pretty all year long.”
“Your dad proposed to me there,” Mama says. Suddenly my sisters and I are alert as birds because we have never heard this story. “It had snowed, and it was late, and we were walking around the lake holding hands, just, you know, to be out in it, throwing snowballs at each other, hugging to keep warm. And it was so pretty, all white and moonlit and quiet. Clean. It was one of those nights you could stay in, perfectly content, forever. You know?”