Washout

It had been one of the wettest springs recorded in Georgia history. The rain and moisture sank into the earth and turned the land into a bog. But spring soon washed by, which exploded into a muddy summer that came like a hot breath and cooled into autumn. The drop in temperature solidified the mire, and by October, the ground was finally dry enough to stand on.

The blue skies hung clouds so low that they left shadows stretching along the prickly grass. The leaves died, leaving dried-up remnants on the sidewalks that crunched underfoot. Clementine liked autumn. It reminded her of a simpler time: summer barbeques coming to a close, raking the leaves that spilled over from the tree in Kenny's yard, watching Lee grade papers while she pretended to do her homework…

Seasons were an easier thing to count—months just as well could have been years. In her head, she counted almost three seasons since the night in Savannah. Three seasons since she'd seen Lee.

Well, that was only half-true. She saw Lee plenty of times after the night on the rooftop: his face had been plastered all over the news for weeks, and his name was uttered in whispers of adults.

"After a tip from concerned citizens Charles Jackson—a local—and Kenneth Hammon, authorities have located the victims thanks to the use of a signal flare. One of the victims has been identified as Lee Everett…"

"...ex-convict accused of voluntary manslaughter..."

"...a body found in the Marsh House…"

"...evidence of a struggle…"

"...killer…"

The deaths of her parents were hardly mentioned on the news. Next to the thrilling showdown between Lee and her kidnapper—or "The Marsh House Maniac" as the media had readily dubbed him—there was hardly room for an obituary. But Ed and Diana were dead, with or without the deserved recognition as Clementine's loving parents. However, by the time their funeral came around Clementine had no more tears left to cry. There was still a raw ache that creeped up whenever Clem thought about them, but it had been so long since she'd seen her parents—since they'd been there—that it almost felt like another lifetime. Those were the parents of a different girl entirely.

When she remembered that Lee had wanted to adopt her, that's when the real tears came.

She felt horrible for that.

Clementine wandered up the pathway from the car to the concrete building, occasionally going out of her way to step on a crunchy-looking leaf. Christa and Omid followed a few paces behind, the low murmur of their voices fading into the sound of the highway rushing somewhere. Clem caught them whispering a lot lately, as though she was too fragile to handle whatever they had to say. She tugged on the sleeves of her blue hoodie and didn't wait for them to catch up, even when she reached the front doors and pushed her way in.

"We'll be in the waiting room!" came Omid's call from behind. Slightly embarrassed for rushing ahead, Clem nodded without looking and slipped further into the facility to sign in, following the small crowd of visitors. She was ushered into a small box-like room with a wall of smudged windows, and she promptly took a seat where she was directed. The chair's metal legs were uneven and rocked back and forth with every shift of her weight. Clem did her best to remain still, which proved difficult thanks to the fresh set of jitters. She tried to look anywhere but the other side of the window, pretending to be interested in the grimy, curly-corded telephone hanging on the side of her little cubicle. That was when a sudden thumping noise yanked her out of her distraction. Someone was tapping on the wall of plexiglass, a man with soft eyes and a thick black beard.

"Lee."

He was smiling at her, like she'd see him do a million times before. He didn't say anything, only pointed to the side of the window where the phone hung. She held the receiver to her ear and leaned in to hear him say,

"Hey, sweet pea."

Her immediate urge was to reach out for him, but that wasn't happening thanks to the wall that cut between them. Lee looked different, scruffier. She'd never seen him with a beard that thick before—he'd always kept it trimmed and close to his jaw, but now his chin disappeared under hair like a steel sponge.

And his left hand was gone completely. She felt like she should have noticed that first. All that remained of his limb was a stump from the elbow up, which she could just see poking out from under the sleeve of his tangerine jumpsuit. She'd always been told not to stare because it was rude, but she couldn't help but remember the last image she had of him: bloody, hardly breathing, an inch from death. At the time she had been sure he had been dead, even when the rescue team showed up. "He's not gonna make it," they'd said over and over. She had to keep reminding herself that this Lee in front of her was real, even if he was sitting behind a wall of glass, even with an amputated arm and more facial hair than she was used to.

"Your beard," was all she could think of to say. Three seasons apart, and that was the best she could do.

He moved his jaw around, as though to showcase it. "You like it?" he asked.

She thought about lying, then shook her head no. His chuckle reverberated over the line, and the rich sound released the tension in her shoulders. The last time she'd heard that sound was in her memories.

"I'm so happy to see you," he said.

She clutched the phone tightly. "I missed you, too."

She then asked him how he was doing—a stupid question, she thought, since he was in prison—but he didn't make it sound like it was so. He said things were fine, a little boring, but he was reading lots. He told her that he'd blazed through the first four Harry Potter books twice each, since the prison library only had those four in stock. She promised to send him the last three from her personal collection, and he replied, "I'm gonna read the entire library by the time I'm out of here." She was sure he'd meant it as a joke, but she couldn't bring herself to laugh at it.

He then asked her how Omid and Christa were. Fine, she said. She wasn't actually sure, but assumed they were worried about her.

He asked how she liked her room. She said it was okay, but too yellow. She was a little nervous about asking Christa if she could repaint it, since it was supposed to have been for someone else.

He asked if she'd made any new friends at school. She hesitated. It wasn't like she was never invited to things—in fact, there was a fall festival coming up at the school with corn mazes and pumpkins and candy. But she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to a sleepover or played with the kids at recess.

He asked how she liked therapy. He couldn't hide his concern behind that beard of his. Fine, she said. The lady was nice, and Clem was taking something to help her sleep now. He seemed relieved to hear that.

Running out of pleasantries was what Clementine was most afraid of, and when the conversation reached an inevitable lull, she found herself looking around the prison for something to fixate on, from the sticky concrete walls to the place where Lee's left arm receded into a misshapen stump. She reminded herself not to stare but meeting his eyeline would be just as bad—if she did, she would remember the night when she thought his eyes had closed for good.

"Oh, honey, don't cry," came his static-edged voice from the receiver.

She hadn't realized she was. Clem swiped her arm across her face. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

She had mastered the art of avoiding eye-contact, and shoving everything down into a dark corner somewhere, like she did instead of cleaning her room. Now her closet was full to bursting, and she wasn't sure that she would be able to close the door and hide it away much longer. "It's my fault," she told him, the words hitting her like someone else had said them. "It's all my fault."

"Don't say that," he said.

"But it is."

"You did nothing wrong."

"People keep telling me that, but it's not true." She wanted to pound her fists on the glass until it shattered. People were watching: the guards against the wall, the visitors, and inmates on the other side. She didn't care. "I was so stupid."

Lee moved close so every exhale fogged the scratched window. She shivered under his soothing gaze and almost wished he would say something cruel. "Listen to me." His voice was stern, like it got when she was awake past her bedtime. "You can't live the rest of your life staying stuck in the things you did before. I...did that for a long time."

"You're in here because of me."

"I'm in here because I made a choice, but I would do it again if it meant keeping you safe."

"I don't want to be safe," she said. "I want to be with you."

He blinked at that. "Me too, Clem," he whispered. "More than anything."

She cried for a bit. Her tears were hot and splattered onto the table below, leaving starburst-like patterns on the grimy surface. The sound of Lee's breathing through the receiver soothed her.

"Do you remember what I told you?" he asked when Clem was finished.

"I don't know," she mumbled.

"Yes, you do."

She did. His words had echoed in her head since Savannah. She took a shuddering breath. "You said I was...strong. But I'm not," she said, pressing one hand against the glass as if he could actually feel it. "I just feel...sad. And like I have to keep going, even though it feels like nothing will ever be the way it was before."

She waited in hurt silence as he looked on, a strange expression hidden beneath watery eyes and a beard-cloaked smile. After a few long seconds, his voice returned.

"That's what makes you strong, Clem," he said quietly.

She stopped and looked at him—at him looking at her. Something inside lifted, though she couldn't describe what or why. Everything she had shoved inside the closet had spilled out, broken shards strewn on the ground around her. But in a way, it was…good. From here she could see the mess for what it was: a chance to take all those bitty broken parts she had inside and build something new.

She could try.

Visiting hours came to a close all too soon. Clementine said a reluctant goodbye, and promised she would return next week with as many books as she was allowed to carry in. As she turned to follow the guard out of the visiting room, she stole one more glance back and carved the image of Lee's beardy grin into her memories.

An autumn breeze cooled her hot face as she stepped outside again. The sky was a crystal blue, framed with maple leaves so yellow they could have been gold. She walked between Christa and Omid to the car, her hands enveloped between theirs, and swung them a little as they went. Omid asked Christa—in a normal voice, not a whisper—if an ex-convict was allowed adopt a kid. "Hypothetically," he verified.

It depended on the circumstances of the incarceration, Christa said. But for Lee, she couldn't see why not. She squeezed Clem's hand at that.

They piled into the station wagon and eased onto the highway, autumn rushing by in sunset hues. It was a little chilly, but Christa didn't tell Clementine to shut the window against the cold, spicy air. They asked what she and Lee talked about, and she gave them a little insight, but not all. There were some things she wanted to keep between herself and him.

"Could I have a ride tomorrow?" she suddenly asked. Omid's eyes flicked in the rearview mirror.

"Do you have another session?"

"No." Clementine splayed her fingers against the silky wind. "But there's a hayride at the school and everyone from class will be there. I thought I might go."

She saw the two exchange surprised looks. They didn't comment, but Omid reached back to give her knee an affectionate little shake.

A lot could change in three years she thought, leaning out the window so she could catch the teasing scent of a bonfire somewhere in the distance. A lot could change in a season, too; the dry, solid ground was proof of that.