Across the way, nobody seems to notice this peculiar figure, despite the fact that she’s standing less than ten feet behind them in the underbrush.
“See what?” Isaiah asks.
I point to the other side of the swimming hole, but just as Isaiah follows my gesture the eerie woman steps back into the lush Montana forest, disappearing just as quickly as she arrived.
I peer into the shadows, struggling to catch sight of her but coming up empty.
“There was a woman over there,” I continue. “She looked … kinda off.”
“Off how?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply, then shake my head as though this futile gesture might clear out the cobwebs. I certainly don’t intend to make a scene out of some poor old woman who happens to appear, well, frightening.
Maybe she’s sick.
“Could’ve been someone’s mom checking in on them,” I suggest, offering this explanation more to myself than to Isaiah.
“I really don’t see anything,” he says, genuinely apologetic, then lowers his voice a bit. “Hey, if you don’t wanna jump, it’s all good.”
Someone else steps up next to us, a girl I don’t know who’s anxious to get things going again. “Are you gonna jump?” she asks, clearly annoyed.
I glance around to find a line has formed behind me, folks waiting their turn while I stare off into space and let my imagination run wild.
“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, stepping back.
Martina isn’t as receptive. “Chill out, she’s getting ready,” my friend retorts angrily from the sidelines.
I push away any thoughts of that curious lady in the woods, or the height of this drop, or the fact that school is ending and life is waiting for me with wide open jaws like the whale ready to swallow Jonah whole. Instead, I focus on the simple act of putting one foot before the next.
I take one final look at Martina, just about ready to step forward, when something startling and warm slips between my fingers.
Glancing down, I find that Isaiah is gripping my hand in his, an unexpected gesture of friendship.
“We’ll jump together,” Isaiah offers.
I was about to go on my own, but a little more support couldn’t hurt.
A strange coo falls from the lips of everyone watching, a sound I’m not quite sure what to make of as expressions shift into knowing smiles and glances are exchanged between this cliffside and the next.
I begin to recite a short verse under my breath, repeating it to myself in quiet anticipation. “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you.”
“Go on three,” Isaiah proclaims. “One. Two. Three!”
We take off down the short runway, our feet thundering against the dirt until there’s no ground left to slam against. I push off with my final step and erupt into the air, unable to keep myself from crying out with a long scream of equal parts fear and excitement.
There are a few precious moments of high school left, but this one feels like the pinnacle of summer.
An electric tingle surges across my frame as gravity catches hold, Isaiah and I plummeting toward the deep blue below. It’s a strange sensation that my brain immediately struggles to analyze and dissect, but before I get the chance to understand it fully I’m slamming into the cool water.
My senses are swallowed by darkness, the sound of the world around me sucking inward and holding tight as I struggle to get my bearings. I’m still plummeting, just slower now, and for a brief moment my feet touch the welcome clay of the riverbed below. I push back against the bottom and swim up in a cascade of tiny bubbles, finally breaking the surface once again.
The resulting rush is incredible, my body fresh and rejuvenated in a way I didn’t quite expect.
That was my first jump ever; a welcome baptism.
I run fingers through my long blond hair, pushing it away from my face as I spit out some of the water that managed to force its way down my throat. As I sputter and cough, Isaiah emerges next to me in the dark pool.
“You alright, Rose?” He chuckles as he watches me awkwardly pull myself together.
“I’m amazing,” I reply. “I can’t believe I just did that! God is good!”
Isaiah is unable to keep himself from smiling even wider as we tread water next to each other, savoring the unexpected calm following such a gaudy stunt.
Silence falls, bathing the scene in an awkward hush.
I was so relaxed and now this is tense. Why is this tense?
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I splash some water in Isaiah’s face and let the pressure deflate with a good-hearted laugh.
“I’m going again,” I announce before slipping below the surface and swimming toward the rocky shore nearby.
* * *
As we drive home in Isaiah’s old Jeep, I can’t help noticing the way his eyes dance across the heating panel of his center console, focused on a dial that sits precariously shifted to the blazing hot side. I get the feeling Isaiah is struggling to tell me something—or maybe he wants me to ask something of him?—but he’s too afraid.
Truth be told, this is becoming a theme with Isaiah, and I just can’t figure out why. We’ve been close for a long time, and I’ve always appreciated the way he’s there for me through thick and thin, a reliable shoulder to cry on and a source of great Christian companionship on these long days.
“What is it?” I finally ask.
Isaiah plays dumb, glancing over from the driver’s seat as his vehicle rumbles onward. The trees of the forest have finally started giving way, revealing the modest suburban homes of Neverton.
Tucked against the side of a horseshoe-shaped mountain range, these foothills feel distinctly separate from the rest of the world. While a vast landscape of rolling golden farmlands extends to the east, the majority of this county is swathed in mysterious evergreen forest, hiding our hamlet like a secret as looming peaks rise beyond.
I recognize every intricate step of this route, the signs and sidewalks etched into the depths of my soul. It’s a humble Montana town of 15,000 locals, so finding your way around isn’t much of an accomplishment, but it certainly makes you notice when your driver isn’t paying attention.
“That was the turn,” I remind him, charting a route we’d traveled a thousand times before. “Just get the next one.”
“Sorry,” Isaiah apologizes, shaking his head and wiping his brow. He glances at the heater once again. “You sure you want it that warm?”
I notice now that he’s getting a little red, sweating as the car continues to fill with hot air.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
“It’s … really hot in here.” Isaiah finally cuts to the chase. “Can I turn the heat down?”
I nod.
Lately, it feels as though I can’t warm up for the life of me, trapped in sporadic states of frigid discomfort. It comes without warning, and the curious part of my mind wonders if this might be a symptom of a larger medical issue.
It hasn’t been worth bringing up with my parents yet, because by the time I’m irritated enough to do something about this sensation the chill has thawed.