River

by Daniel Kennedy

Her rideshare apps won’t connect. She tried calling a taxi service, but the phone just rang and rang. She’s been searching on foot for hours.  

A moment later, headlights pierce the fog. Pausing to catch her breath, Becca sticks out her thumb. Her Jameson buzz has morphed into a headache. Moisture seems to emanate from her Nike cross-trainers, dampening her knees, the crescent of her lower back. Strands of auburn hair stick to her face.    

It’s her lucky night. An old-fashioned cab draws alongside her. Rust obscures the logo on the door—some kind of boat. Becca doesn’t recognize it. She clicks the handle and hops in.  

“Shouldn’t hitchhike,” chides the driver. He has a thick Boston accent. “Where to?”  

She checks her phone for the millionth time, noting the 11% battery. Still nothing from Harper. She fires off another text: I’m sorry!  

They’ve had many fights over their twenty-three years as siblings. Tonight’s, however, exploded like a supernova. Becca lost control; she knows that. She allowed herself to be drawn into Harper’s antagonism, briefly abandoning her post as the responsible older sister. Harper, who studies astrophysics at MIT, is impressionable and spontaneous. Her life is an ode to caprice, a middle finger to consequences. 

“Miss?”

“Can you take me around MIT’s campus?”   

“Around?”

She peels her eyes from her phone and observes her new surroundings. Postcards cover the cab’s interior, save for the windows. Tavarius from Chicago. Lumi from Helsinki. Rosa from Athens. 

“I’m looking for someone,” she says, studying the symbols on a card from Beijing. 

“Not yourself, I hope.”  

When Becca meets the driver’s gaze, she is forced to stifle a gasp. He has a shock of white hair, cheeks like eroded cliffs. His skin is little more than a translucent caul, wound tightly over his skull. His gray eyes ripple with impatience.  

“In my experience,” he continues, “Searching for yourself is the best way to get lost. I say that to all my riders. ‘Specially the young ones.” 

Becca does not care for this man’s appearance. She hears her parents’ voices, imploring her to get out. But she must find Harper. Her parents would want that, too.  

“May we go?” 

“How bout I drive you across the river, then we figure it out.” 

“Perfect.”

He taps the meter with a small, polished stick. Red glyphs appear where the fare should be. The cab glides away from the curb.   

“Long night?” he asks. 

“What was that?”

“Pardon?”

“That thing you did.” 

“Oh. Been driving long as I have, you make rituals to pass the time. One day they’re not there, one day they are.”  

She tries to imagine a life in that order. Three years ago, her parents died in a car crash on the Mass Pike. They were heading home after moving Harper in at MIT. Becca had recently completed a BA in graphic design at UMass Boston and gotten a job selling life insurance in Rhode Island. The job was meant to be a placeholder, not a morbid joke. Before the tragedy, she’d planned to continue drawing—her work wasn’t there yet—and, in a few years, to apply to MFA programs. That all changed. On the day of the funeral, speaking without words to the monoliths that now represented her parents, Becca vowed to look after Harper, no matter what. 

“You have it backwards,” she says, making no effort to mask the bitterness of her tone. “One second, something’s there, and then poof! Gone.”

The driver laughs, clears his throat. “No Ubers, huh?” 

“Would I be sitting here?”   

He laughs again. “Fair play.”    

Beyond the finger-smudged glass, blurry buildings swim through her vision. The glittering constellation of Mass General hovers in the hazy dark, as if detached from the ground.  

“Who’re you looking for?” He darts his eyes from her to the road. “Late to be out alone.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“I drive all types. I don’t judge.”  

“I’m visiting my sister, okay? We got separated and she won’t answer her phone.”

“Where you from?” 

“Providence.”

“Maybe you could use a guide, you know, someone to help you with the lay of the land.”

Becca digs her nails into her palms. She was over this conversation before it started. 

“I’m actually familiar with the city,” she says.

“Just being friendly.” 

“Right.”

On her previous trip, she and Harper went to the Bell in Hand. Their evening, full of drinks and nostalgia, was going fine until Harper confessed that she was seeing someone. Wouldn’t have been a big deal, except the guy was thirty-four and claimed to be connected in Southie. Harper proudly reported she’d seen him fight three Coast Guard cadets at once, one of whom required an ambulance. By the time last call was announced, Becca and Harper were arguing with such vehemence the bouncers were forced to step between them.

Tonight’s visit was meant to bridge the gap in their relationship. Harper had suggested a place called Acheron, this hip new spot in the Seaport. Instead of having dinner and a heart-to-heart chat—the plan on which they’d agreed—Harper invited two acquaintances to join them. 

“Where’d you meet?” Becca asked. They stood outside the bar, waiting for Harper’s friends.    

Harper yawned, casually covered her mouth. “A frat party at Brown. They go to RISD.”   

“When were you there?”  

“It was a last-minute decision. Figured you’d be busy.”

“I live ten minutes from the campus.”  

Harper shrugged. 

It was like her sister couldn’t bear to be alone with her. Still, Becca sought to accommodate the pair when they arrived. She mentioned her dream of starting a design firm, hoping the topic might afford them common ground. The RISD girls smirked. They wore bandanas and lots of makeup. The shorter one had several diamond studs in her left ear. They kept mouthing sentences to each other. After dinner, in a moment of premeditated unison, Harper followed them to the bathroom. She glanced back at Becca, alone at the table. Becca noticed a pang of guilt on her sister’s face. The door swung closed.    

“What’d you do in Providence?” the driver asks.

“I’m an artist who sells insurance from a cubicle. I’ll have my college loans paid off in a decade if I’m lucky. My generation’s American Dream.”  

“Could be worse.”

 “I don’t mean to be impolite, maybe you didn’t notice, but I’m not in the mood for conversation.”   

Something about her voice is different; it sounds oddly far off. A flower of pain unfurls in her chest. She tells herself it’s the alcohol. 

To reorient her focus, Becca takes a deep breath. She has already checked Harper’s apartment twice. Both times, it was dark. She went to the student center, back to the bar. Where next? The police? Harper would kill her.    

They’re almost at the Longfellow Bridge. They stop at a red light. Fog coils off the Charles River. Beyond the purling mist, the night shift works on repairs. They climb up and down the scaffolding, in and out of the invisible space below the bridge. 

“Is this light ever going to change?”

“Don’t worry,” replies the driver. “Meter runs slow.” 

Her phone remains at 11%. She furiously taps the screen: I don’t care about any of it. You’re my fucking sister. That’s all that matters. Call me. PLEASE.

Like powerful fingers, feelings of panic and helplessness close around Becca’s throat. The sensation makes her want to scream. Since her parents’ accident, her promise to remain strong for Harper has been like oxygen, imbuing the drab days with a glimmer of purpose. Did her conscious recognition of this fact render it selfish in nature?      

When Harper followed those smug bitches to the bathroom, she left her phone on the table. Becca knew the passcode—a portion of their old landline. She entered the digits with no intention of snooping through her sister’s life. It was just that, sometimes, Harper went AWOL for days. The outcomes Becca pictured intensified operatically: Harper sick in a bathroom; Harper stuck in a holding cell; Harper face-down on a bed, a drunk boy weeping beside her.  

Becca was attempting to share Harper’s location when her sister, wide-eyed and red-nosed, returned from the bathroom. 

“What are you doing?”

“I should be asking you,” Becca said, her face hot. 

“Is that my phone?” 

She placed the phone on the table; Harper snatched it immediately.

“I wasn’t looking at anything,” Becca said. 

“Bullshit.”

“I was only trying to share your location. That way, when you ignore me, I’ll know you’re alive.”

“Stalking me is your solution?”

The RISD girls had also returned. They stood behind Harper, one at each shoulder. 

“Do you even care how much I worry?” Becca asked. “Or about how hard you make this?”

“Make what? Bec, I’m an adult.”

“No, you’re out of control. You act like nothing bad can ever happen. It’s an insult to Mom and Dad’s memory.”

“And you honor them by living your life in a box?”  

Becca clenched her teeth. The cords on her neck stood out. “I work so I can pay bills and send you money! You think this is what I wanted?” 

“Right, I forgot, only your parents died.” 

“What will you do when you graduate and need a job?” 

“None of this is about jobs, or money, or anything like that.”

Becca scoffed. “Sure. Keep parroting these rich hipsters you hang with.”

“I’m referring to you, Bec. You’re entombed in a routine that you built. Aren’t you scared of regret? Of missing out on life?”  

“You’ve got some pixie dust on your nostril, miss wanderlust.”   

Harper pinched her nose and sniffed. “Know why you’ll never make it as an artist?”

“Fuck you.”

Harper’s delicate mouth drew taut as a bow. “Your work takes no risks. Ever. I swear, when I look at your drawings, I hear them saying helllllp meeee, like they’re suffocating.”

The RISD girls winced and nodded like they’d heard this before. Possibly they had. The critique was a blunt version of what Becca’s teachers used to say. 

Becca drained a whiskey, her fifth. Her eyes were wet. Without thinking, she leaned forward and slapped Harper—hard. Harper touched her cheek and studied her palm, as though an explanation for what had just transpired might be scribed there. She leapt to her feet. Other patrons stared. A man in a suit made a beeline for their table.  

“At least my conscience is clear,” Becca said, possessed by an icy rage. “I wasn’t the one who waited until the last possible move-in date. I’m not the reason Mom and Dad are dead.” It was the cheapest of shots, and she regretted it instantly. 

Harper charged out of the restaurant. Becca tried to follow, but the man in the suit, brandishing their check and ranting about decorum, blocked her path. The RISD girls were busy filming the ordeal with their phones. Becca shoved past all of them. By the time she got outside, Harper was gone.   

“Can we go a different way? I swear, they’ve been working on this stupid bridge forever.” 

The driver shakes his head. “We’re in the lane now.”

“No one’s around. Just bang a U-turn.” 

“You realize what a traffic ticket would do to someone in my position?” 

They ease onto the bridge, stop again. Fog veils the other side. The driver’s identification badge is wedged between postcards from Mumbai and Lagos. Thomas Karin. For some reason, the name rings a bell. 

“Where’d you get these?” Becca asks.

“How’s that?”

“The postcards. There’re so many.”

Thomas Karin grins. “Thought you preferred the quiet.”

“Fine.”

“It’s okay. Talking helps. To answer your question, I’ve driven everywhere. Got friends everywhere, too.”  

“Are you from Boston?”

“Not originally. Been here awhile, though. I like old places. They’re like stories with lots of layers, you know? Evidence of life, the certainty of death. In places like that, you can feel the current of human history running beneath your feet.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He waves off her comment. “Time is a river.”

“So they say.”

“Look at it like this. Ever get in a fight with someone you love?”

Becca sighs. If she weren’t so stressed and exhausted, she’d laugh at the irony. 

“Sure,” she concedes. “Who hasn’t.” 

“One morning, you wake up and say, I gotta make that right. And you do. Why?”

“I don’t know. Life’s too short for grudges.”

“Exactly!” he shouts, banging the wheel.   

“Seriously, why aren’t we moving?” 

“If life was infinite, who would rush to fix anything? Knowing a problem could be fixed whenever would itself be the solution.” 

The old man has a point. Becca thinks about her family. She often wonders how the four of them might’ve lived, had they known what was coming. 

She shuts her eyes. Occasionally, she and Harper find themselves in a good place. Why, then, can’t she summon an example? Her memory is like a steel door on which vague reflections dance. She presses her forehead, trying to knead her thoughts into coherent shapes. There was that night last summer, when she helped Harper with internship applications. Becca hardly understood the jargon concerning statistical physics, but Harper accepted her advice on word choice, tone. After they finished, they drank two bottles of Malbec and watched reruns of Modern Family, laughing into the night.  

The cab rolls slowly past the construction vehicles.  

“Tell me more about Harper,” he says. 

Becca goes cold. “I never mentioned my sister’s name.”

He regards her in the mirror. “You been talking about her the whole ride.” 

“Stop. I’ll get out here. What do I owe?”

“It’s always like this at first. Blurry, confusing. Trust me, it’ll pass.”   

“Stop the car now.” 

“Don’t you understand? When you’re drunk, and upset, it only takes one false step and into the river you go.” 

“I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

“Listen, when you reach your destination, will you send me a postcard? Be sure to sign your name.” 

Becca pulls the chrome handle and ejects herself from the cab. Like dying lightbulbs, memories pop and sizzle in her brain. 

The cab screeches to a halt. Thomas Karin opens his door and calmly steps out. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says. He is surprisingly tall. His long arms are nets of veins. Though he’s wearing a black t-shirt and black jeans, his scaly feet are bare.  

“Leave me alone!” 

Becca races toward the construction, screaming for help, but the laborers have vanished. She glances over her shoulder. Thomas Karin is on her heels, reaching for her. She hops the rail of the bridge and scampers down the scaffolding. Her hand tears open but doesn’t bleed.  

Ashen banks gird the Charles. The river is scarcely discernible in the gloom. Rosy dawn cowers behind a wall of iron clouds. From the bridge, Thomas Karin calls down to her. She hides under a concrete block. He claims that it isn’t safe—that if she doesn’t come with him, she might be lost forever. Becca waits. She wants to be rid of this crazy man, this crazy night.  

Finally, he gives up. He reminds her to send a postcard if she reaches the other side. The doors close, one and then the other. The sound of the cab fades like an echo. 

Becca emerges from her hiding spot. She claws through her pockets. Her phone isn’t there; she must’ve left it on the seat. Her stomach sinks. What if Harper calls?

In all likelihood, her sister is fine. Probably blowing off steam at a friend’s. This flicker of rational optimism warms Becca’s heart. Now that her anger and hurt have evaporated, she can assess herself with a degree of clarity. She understands that by acting like Harper’s mom, she denies their relationship as sisters. When she finds Harper, she’ll apologize. It’s not too late. 

As she plods along the riverbank, she struggles to envision her family. She can conjure their silhouettes, the auras of their love, but their faces melt away. A guttural sound rises from a nearby source. The sound, she realizes, is coming from her throat. 

She screams when a three-legged hound lunges from the shadows, barking maniacally. She plucks a shard of glass from the mud and makes wild, slashing arcs. The dog whimpers, then slinks away.      

Up ahead, a large object spins in an eddy of brown water.   

“Oh, god.”  

As she draws closer, she discerns a body, its red sweatshirt identical to the one she’s wearing. 

From across the river, a woman calls the name Becca, over and over. Becca leans forward, reaching for that familiar voice, even as it fades away.  

---

Author Daniel Kennedy (he/him) is a writer and teacher from Dingmans Ferry, Pennsylvania. He holds an MFA from Virginia Tech and a PhD from the University of Houston. His writing appears or is forthcoming in The Guardian, New England Review, The Florida Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Puerto del Sol, Sequestrum, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and listed among the ‘notables’ in Best American Essays. He is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Angelo State University. For more, visit https://www.danielpkennedy.com/.

Artist Taber Falconer holds an MFA in poetry from Texas State University. Her visual art is forthcoming in Chicago Quarterly Review. This work was created in Central Texas, where she previously lived. She now resides in Tennessee.