11. Nicole

The television screen becomes white static and the younger versions of me, Beth, and Michael disappear. Mom's voice is back where it belongs... in the past. I glance over at Beth. Fat tears escape the corners of her eyes. She swipes them away with the back of her hand, but I've already seen them. The color in Michael's face has drained like he's seen a ghost. I guess we all have. Ghosts of the people we once were. He was right. This is depressing. Hearing Mom's voice again when she's no longer here feels wrong. Glimpsing at the past feels unnatural as though we're not supposed to be able to. It's like looking in a mirror, but I'm not the other person staring back. That version of myself no longer exists. I swallow hard, forcing the lump of grief in my throat back down where it belongs.

No one says anything. The only sound comes from the hum of the VCR as the tape continues. I get up and walk toward the television to eject it. Suddenly, the screen is black and the date in the bottom corner reads June 15, 1999. It feels significant, but I can't remember why it might be. I scoot away from the television, keeping my eyes glued to it. There's an outline of trees and a full moon illuminating the sky. An owl hoots from somewhere in the branches. The camcorder is unsteady as it scans the tree line.

"Where are you, little owl?" Mom says offscreen.

I grab the remote and crank up the volume. The speaker on the TV emits the sound of buzzing cicadas and squeaking bats. The camcorder zooms in slowly and scans the tree line again. Dark, thick branches reach in all directions like outstretched hands. Footsteps pound in the distance, growing louder. The camcorder swivels quickly to the right, going in and out of focus. All of a sudden, Dad's face fills the screen. He's panicked and gasping for air.

"Jesus, Brian! You scared the hell out of me," Mom huffs. The lens zooms out again, so Dad is in the frame from his waist up.

His hand grips a flashlight and, like the video camera, it's also shaky. He's large and burly with a full beard. Red is smeared across his white T-shirt, right around his barrel-sized chest. His eyes are wide and the whites of them glow in the moonlight. I've never seen him look so scared before.

"Laura, I need your help now," he says, out of breath.

"What? What is it?" Mom's voice matches his panic.

"Shut that off," he yells as he turns and heads in the direction he just came from.

Several buttons click as Mom removes the camcorder from her shoulder. It's still recording though. The picture onscreen is a shaky blur of trees, grass, and shadows. The camera is pointed at Mom's white sneakers as they travel down the concrete steps that cut through the valley. They pass the cabin and the fire pit, through the green pasture, and the wooded area at the bottom of the property. She follows Dad along the bank of the creek. There's a splash, and Mom stops abruptly. The camcorder swivels toward the direction of the sound. A fish leaps in the air from the creek and splashes back into the water. She lets out a sigh.

"Laura, this way," Dad says.

He's in frame again, ten yards ahead. Mom follows the path of the creek and stops a few feet behind Dad under the bridge of Highway X. He scans his flashlight along the ground. The camcorder's focus goes in and out as it tries to pick up on something. Then, all of a sudden, the picture becomes clear. A body. Head cocked to the right. Lips blue and bloated. Skin pale as freshly fallen snow. Damp blond hair streaked with mud and blood. Wet clothes, a pair of blue jean shorts and a Britney Spears T-shirt, hug her small body.

Mom screams. The light disappears. The screen is black again, like a nightmare you can't wake yourself up from and all you can see is the back of your eyelids.

Dad shushes her, telling her to stay calm, but even he isn't calm.

"Oh my God!" Mom cries out. The camcorder hits the ground. The image of the young girl is sideways, taking her in from a new angle. Her blue eyes are clouded like they've been submerged in milk, two Hope Diamonds, fluttering to the bottom of the sea, lost forever. They stare into the lens of the camera and it's as though she's looking directly at me, calling out for help, twenty-three years too late—like the light of a star that's already exploded, finally reaching our eyes.

"What happened?" Mom's voice is a mix of fear, anger, and sadness.

"It was an accident," Dad explains, but he doesn't sound convinced.

"We need to call the police," she cries.

Every muscle in my body is taught, tightened as much as the membrane pulled over a drum. My breaths are shallow, almost nonexistent. I'm sure they're barely registering with my lungs.

"No, we can't," Dad says firmly.

"What? Why? You said it was an accident, Brian."

"They won't see it that way."

There's a long pause between the two of them. And the only sound is the buzzing cicadas, the squeaking bats, and water moving through the twisted creek.

"Tell me what happened," Mom says. Although she's normally calm, the way her tone rises and falls tells a different story.

"The less you know, the better."

There's shuffling offscreen. Shoes trudging through mud. The camcorder is suspended, aimed up at the night sky. The little dead girl disappears and a moment later Dad is onscreen. It's a close-up of him, as he's holding the video camera.

"Jesus, Laura. This thing is still on. How do you erase it?"

"Hit the Rewind button. I'll have to record over it," Mom says in a panic.

Tears cling to his eyes, but they don't escape. There's a look of confusion on his face as he fiddles with the device, and then the screen goes black.

June 15, 1999, is in the past again.

But I know it won't stay there.