Mucous crusted around my eyes, the rim of my nose. Like infection was oozing out every place it could find. Mom cleaned me with a warm washcloth, and every time she worked on my face I thought of the moment, in the basement, when I had longed so desperately to wash myself like this and clean off the sage and paste.
Tippy looked like her old self. Her coat, patchy but growing back, gleamed again. Her eye was full of confidence. How much time had passed since we were separated? Enough that she no longer hovered on the brink of death.
But we both knew that I was far from out of the woods. We just never discussed it.
Tippy couldn’t have cared less about God. She didn’t ask me about Him, about the mysterious meatloaf meal, or how He had unlocked the door for me. We didn’t even have to conspire about drinking water or what to do with our waste anymore, and Tippy barely acknowledged that we had shared this time in our lives. I clung to her unabashedly, but was strangely alienated from her at the same time.
As my strength increased, so did my alertness. I noticed oddities. Like how Mom never went to work. I tried to keep track of days, to investigate this phenomenon without ever leaving my bed. But my thoughts were hard to master. From what I could tell, she never left the house anymore.
Neither of us did.
And then there were, of course, the hens. I was flabbergasted when the first one ventured into my bedroom without so much as an invitation. The bird was quiet, curious, but certainly not threatened by me or Tippy. I could understand finding me a pretty worthless opponent, but even with gentle prodding Tippy had no interest in chasing the chicken and allowed her to take over the room like it was her own.
Later, when I awoke, that same hen was having a heyday in the corner, six or seven of her friends bobbing their heads back and forth in rapid conversation. Mom dozed in her chair, her hand lying limply beside her, two of the chickens rubbing their feathers against her.
When I tried to ask Mom about them, she told me I had been dreaming. But I could hear them clucking from the hallway, so loudly it sounded like Mom had dozens of them walking our floors.
I dropped it when she started getting edgy. “Why does everyone always accuse me of keeping chickens in the house?”
Like she never saw the drawings on her way to the bathroom. Or the pile of heads accumulating by the top of the stairs. Maybe it just took me so long to navigate my path to the toilet that I let these sights distract me.
Of course, the greater question was who else had asked her about the chickens? No one had set foot in our house since before Easter, when one of the women from church dropped off some fresh eggs for us to prepare for the hunt we did every year on the rectory lawn.
I mostly talked to Tippy, priding myself on the fact that I had finally escaped something, even if it was only the coal room.
“You did great, kiddo,” she told me before slathering me with kisses. “I was rooting for you the whole time.”
“Do you think she’ll let me go back to school soon?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Don’t push your luck. Take things one day at a time. You’re out of the fire right now, but the frying pan’s still pretty hot to the touch.”
Tippy.
Rippy. Zippy. Jippy. Shippy.
* * *
We left the movies, the laughter from the flick we had seen lingering between us as we headed down the street.
The world was remarkably quiet. The just-warm-enough air of a late spring night blew around us softly, giving Mike an easy reason to put his arm over my shoulder and pull me tight against him while we walked downtown.
Now and then a car drove past, the water on the road carried on its tires, but barely discernible over the story Mike was telling me about Joe Buxley, a kid on his wrestling team who fell asleep on the bus and started kicking his leg like a dog. A couple stood smoking in front of a coffee shop on the next block, but as we neared they went back inside to enjoy the atmosphere and get a shot of caffeine.
Brandy and I had splurged for hot chocolate there once, and the taste filled my mouth as we passed the front door. I almost suggested to Mike that it would be a great treat, the whipped cream piled with chocolate ribbons, but I didn’t want to do anything that might interrupt this time we had together.
Alone.
He held my hand and my blood surged through my veins, making my entire body alert and so excited I thought for sure I might explode.
We went to the park. The trees were just starting to leaf, but the crocuses were out en masse and watching us from under the street lights. Mike put his mouth to my ear, whispering things I’d only heard in dreams, the proximity of his lips and breath causing me to shiver.
Brandy said it could be this way. When you were with a boy. She had shared all of her kisses with me, but when I look back on it, I think she left a lot out, as well. One time, in the locker room, the older girls had joked about some of the things my sister had done behind the gymnasium during her lunch hour. I was appalled at the words they used, really didn’t understand what they were telling me. When I asked Brandy later that night, when Mom was far out of earshot, Brandy’s face had lit up and she told me that some things were too personal to share.
Now I think I might be having one of those moments. Mike told me he wanted to kiss me, and he did. He was so much taller than me that he had to bend over while I curled up on my tippy toes and met him part way. I had waited for this for years and didn’t want to approach it like a coward.
Our lips met and what was left of the world melted away. The cars were gone, the trees and grass and even the small threat of being caught after dark in the park, which wasn’t allowed. I cherished the taste of his breath and chased it with my tongue. Loved the feel of his fingers, pressed into my back, pulling me into him.
We strolled to the swings and shared one for a while, Mike sitting on the hard plastic while I faced him and slid onto his lap. For just a second guilt sliced through me. If Mother had any idea what I was doing, she would kill me.
But I liked it too much. Way too much to stop.
Night came in full force, cloaking us, allowing us a bit more privacy. Mike wrapped his jacket around me, then put his arms inside my shirt to keep them warm.
My body was on such a high I thought I might pass out. His fingers feathered over my belly and lower back, causing me to jump up.
“Ticklish?” He asked, grinning.
Before he could touch me again, I took off, giggling. The grass was slick, and I tripped just as Mike grabbed me from behind. We did a backward dance toward the covered slide while kissing and laughing. I tried to tickle him back, but his hands were strong and gripped mine fiercely. He pulled me onto the cold metal, and we scooted until our legs were well hidden inside.
The time for conversation was over. Mike snuggled into me, his hands freezing, his breath hot but steamy just the same. I tried to crawl on top of him, but he moved me back to the bottom, insisting it was only fair since I had the coat.
“Let me warm you up,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own, opening the jacket as Mike pressed himself completely against me.
We were a twist of hands and mouths. A symphony of lips and tongues. Cold, but boiling underneath the wet wind.
I ran a mental checklist while my limbs melted: my armpits were freshly shaven, we had no monthly visitations to worry about, and, like a good girl, I had on my nicest, cleanest pair of underwear. My body had no intention of stopping and I didn’t think my heart did, either.
Mike touched me in places I didn’t know existed. Put my hands on parts I found disgusting but pertinent all the same. Concentrated on my bra and the contents within.
We were probably visible at the bottom of the slide when I moved my head to the side, his mouth glued to my neck, Mike’s rhythm the baseline that propelled me along. I throbbed. My entire being, head to toe, caressed, loved, totally on fire, so stunning I could hardly breathe, let alone open my eyes, was so wrapped up in my moment that I barely noticed
when the man above me changed.
Or did he?
When I turned to face him, to open my eyes and savor his handsome beauty, he was on me, laughing.
My Father. The man with the backlit head. The one who had stood in front of the door and opened it, magically, pulling me up from the floor when I wasn’t able to help myself.
“Wow! Someone is certainly feeling better!”
Chapter 23
Tippy
I hated our separation. My job was to protect you, keep you herded onto the right path, give you my heart so that you would grow and be able to give others the same. This was very hard to do when I couldn’t get to you.
I could smell you, yes. Not that I wanted to. Your odor had gone from my girl to my girl with that sickness in her eye to a stench that invaded the whole house, like that rotting skunk that reeked in the backyard last summer. Enchantingly mysterious, yes, but frightening at the same time.
At times I trembled. Didn’t know what to do, really. My mom taught me about living with humans, following their rules, pooping outside. She was well rehearsed. Knew all the lines. Told me that you played, you entertained, you guarded, but most of all you steered your master with a pure heart. Let her think she’s in charge, when all along you are leading her on a strong path.
Dolly was her name. Her scent always made me think of breakfast foods. Many times when you and your sister ate before going to school I’d be under the table, sharing a memory, knowing that I would never see her again.
My mother was wise. A flower, really. Beautiful. And the magnet that pulled all other creatures to her. Always unfolding, alive with information.
When Mom fed us, she would rest on her side and tell us stories of the world while we suckled. Some of my siblings pushed and shoved and didn’t much listen. But I did. I wanted to know. To understand how I would navigate my life was more profound to me than getting three extra drops of milk.
She told of dogs and a life, like hers, spent cherished in the warmth of nighttime cuddling and slices of bacon thrown directly from the pan. Or those sad cousins who were outside, fenced or chained or even humanless, their hearts heavy. Times change, she warned. You can have glory and the next moment shame, a home and then isolation, food and then terror. But above all, she urged me never to reduce myself to the circumstance. If my master was mean, then he was mean to me and I accepted that and gave him nothing but love.
This, however, was different.
For this I had no lesson.
One master, hurting the other. My girl, dying. My girl, hurting in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. Locked away. Kept from me. Close enough I could discern your presence, far enough I couldn’t find you.
I followed my mother’s words to the best of my ability. Sent you my love. Could you feel it? Standing in the kitchen, knowing you were somewhere underneath, smelling the suffering on you, I would close my good eye and will you my affection. Picture you in my head. Picture myself back in my superhero cape. Put us together.
Dolly. My mother. Obsessed with integrity, her value system unrivaled. When I needed her the most, all I could find were snippets of our past conversations.
Joan. Your mother. She gives me hot dogs. Speaks to me as though we are chasing the same dream. And that dream is to not find you.
I eat. At first I could not, not with you gone. Then she appeared before me, my own mother, her scent flooding the room. Showed me how thin you were. How sick.
“Who will help her, Tippy?” Mom asked me. “This is your girl. She has no one else but you.”
Which was exactly why I had stopped eating. How could I keep emptying the kibble bowl when you were so wretched? When you had nothing?
“Tippy, who will help her if she can’t help herself? If you are too weak to move, if you don’t keep up your strength, who will save this poor child?”
Her point so valid.
A dog’s role, a good dog’s role, is to always protect the young ones.
So I eat. Cuddle with the enemy, get to know her weaknesses. Pass time waiting for my moment to shine.
Yet things still change. The air in the house keeps my hair on edge. I find myself unfocused, concentrating on the corners, not quite able to put my paw on things that creep past. Both you and your mother talk to people who aren’t here, see things that I can’t see, lie to each other while telling the truth. I don’t know what to think anymore.
But the outside is more disturbing.
I remember my house before yours. The boy who took my eye. His toys, soldiers, army men, big fighting cars that he rolled all over the living room. He would line them up for battle. A wall of weapons. A procession down the center of the room. A stronghold.
I see that here. In the mornings, when she lets me into the yard, your mother doesn’t even notice. Past the metal building, past the car and the trash cans. So far out I can barely see them.
But who couldn’t smell them?
It hits me, their unity, the mass of them, when the wind blows against my face. Like I’ve barreled into a closed door. How can she not notice?
They are lining up where there once was corn. So much stronger than me. So much larger.
But mine, just the same. Someone had to take charge. Merge the inner team with the one outside. I like that I am not alone, but I want to be their friend long before they spy me with her and think I am on the wrong side.
I called to them. Hiding behind the shed, where your mother couldn’t see me, I put on my most professional voice and howled as desperately as I could. When I focused, I was shocked to see one of them already so close we could almost touch noses. Then my eye hunkered down and another, well blended with the trees, moved her head. Let me know she understood. And her friend moved as well. Tiny nods, hidden from humans, and I caught the flicker of dozens more.
We acknowledged our singular role. Worked our separate languages into one.
Set our goals. Our boundaries. Shared information.
We meet every morning, in the cold, in the dark. Swap updates. Prepare ourselves.
They are gathering, Lucy.
I may eat when you do not, but that is because I must. I am your eyes and ears, and cannot succumb to sickness. I must always be at the very top of my game. Because you won’t be. She forces you to wither. Even though right now, today, she lets you eat, who knows what tomorrow will bring?
But I promise you this, my girl. I will be the strong one. When you are too weak, I shall carry you. Get you to safety. Defend you.
When the time comes, I have an army.
We will win this war.
I have a plan.
Chapter 24
Joan
Was it possible that I’d always loved you?
Flesh of my flesh.
What kind of sign was it that God Himself let you out of the basement? And Evelyn had left?
Surely that meant I didn’t have to kill you.
I prayed. Called out to my mother. If she were in Heaven, wouldn’t she already know? Was that why I hesitated to use the ax?
If God loved you so much that He took the time out of His busy day to open the door and send you to me with messages of peace, did that mean it was all over?
How would I ever know what to do? Maybe He was tempting you. Like Eve. You could either be good or sacrifice the future of humanity while you put on your devil suit and seared us all with your hatred. I couldn’t figure it out.
The damned dog never left your side anymore. Wasn’t that also an indication? Would she be so loyal to someone inherently evil?
I moved the ax back into my bedroom closet. Fool! It chided me in Aunt Evelyn’s voice. Coward!
But when I stood my great-aunt next to God, He won hands down every time. Your basement visitor had changed the entire game.
What a relief for me. So much so that I couldn’t help but worry about Brandy. Could she come home now? How would I find her? What would I say? Hey, pumpkin, I kicked you out because I was doomed to destroy this other one
, but now that’s no longer important?
I didn’t know how to continue. We had walked to the edge, you and me, leaving all behind, and now here we were, a team again. Or, really, for the first time. The two of us. Amazing. I’d never not been wary of you. Never not despised you.
Never allowed myself to let down my guard and love you. Like a mother should.
Despite your brutal beginnings.
I did the only thing I could think of.
Braved the basement. Turned off the heating system blazing through the coal room. Fetched the Christmas tree and all of our ornaments.
A family, devoted to the same God, celebrated the birth of His son. We would, too.
Chapter 25
Lucy
Time meant nothing to me anymore. I slept like Mom had slipped me cold medicine, which I wouldn’t put past her. Sometimes my mini-comas seemed to last days, but my internal clock was so tangled they might have only been minutes.
When I snuck a peek outside, I guessed we were still in December. The Hanley’s farmhouse was edged in colored lights that I could barely make out from so far away, but I remembered their family always being diligent about removing them on time.
The world hadn’t yet taken on the pale frigidness that spoke of January days, either. The cold that gripped Iowa and froze the ground solid had not yet arrived. In December, the snow was wetter, the soil more malleable. Once the New Year turned, that quickly went to the wayside. Even with the curtain blocking my view, the yard looked like it was still 1999.
Mom did nothing anymore but surprise me. She helped me dress, propped me up and fed me real meals that she had cooked herself, brought me books from the library.
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