The Wildlands

by Abby Geni

  “I know. But you’re safe now.”

  Their breath rose and fell in tandem. Even their heartbeats seemed to be sliding into a shared rhythm.

  “I’m safe with you,” Cora said.

  HOURS LATER, DARLENE WOKE TO a sound in the hall. There was darkness, sweat on her cheek, heat against her belly. She was still in bed beside Cora, crushed against the iron railing. Her sister was limp in her arms, breathing more easily than she had before. Her fever seemed to be gone.

  Darlene realized that Tucker would never have a moment like this. There were so many things her brother would never experience—first love, marriage, fatherhood—but Darlene cared less about the benchmarks and more about the incremental beats of human existence, the thousands of moments that made up a life. She did not mind that Tucker would never buy a house or turn thirty; she minded that he would never again feel the pleasure of hearing his favorite song on the radio, never eat ice cream on a hot summer day, never watch his little sister sleeping serenely in his arms.

  The milestones were less marvelous than the minutiae. Darlene knew this better than anyone. For a long while, she had endured an extraordinary existence. She was tired of events and turning points. Now she craved the fine print between the headlines, the empty space between the pillars. More than anything, she wished for undifferentiated and undistinguished time—an ordinary life.

  There was a cry, and Cora kicked out beneath the covers. She sat up in bed, panting for breath, and gazed around the room as though she had never seen it before.

  “I’m right here,” Darlene said. “You’re okay.”

  Her sister mumbled something she did not catch. Something about a celebration.

  “It was just a dream,” Darlene said. “You’re safe, Cora. Remember?”

  “That’s not my . . .” She trailed off, her mouth pooling open. She stayed like that, gaping at nothing, until Darlene touched her cheek.

  “That’s me,” Cora said, in a tone of wonder. “That’s my name.”

  Then she smiled. It was the first time Darlene had seen her smile since she arrived at the hospital.

  The sun was rising outside. Azure light traced each slat in the blinds. A bird fluted in the distance. Cora shuffled her hands urgently through her hair, stirring it into tussocks. She lay back down and met Darlene’s gaze.

  “Tell me a story,” she said.

  “Hm?”

  “Please. I want to hear a story.”

  “I don’t remember any of those fairy tales we used to read,” Darlene said.

  “No. Don’t make anything up. Tell me the story of us.”

  Cora’s expression was earnest and pleading. It seemed important to her. Darlene bit her lip, trying to decide how to begin.

  “Once upon a time,” her sister prompted.

  “Okay. Once upon a time, there was a family.”

  Cora closed her eyes and shivered. Darlene felt that she was engaging in a ceremony she did not wholly understand—something Tucker began, maybe. Cora was obviously in the grip of intense emotion. It might have been pleasure at the ritual or grief for their brother, or some combination of the two.

  “There were four orphans,” Darlene said. “They were Okies. Tough and scrappy. They lost their parents young, but they carried on as best they could.”

  She paused, unsure how to proceed.

  “Darlene was the oldest,” Cora said softly.

  “Right. Darlene took care of them all. Jane was the middle sister. She played soccer. And Cora was the youngest. They lived together in a trailer in a small town.”

  A breeze swirled through the window, as crisp and sweet as an apple. Cora was starry-eyed now, waiting to hear what came next.

  “Then there was Tucker,” Darlene said, choosing her words with care. “He ran away and did some bad things. He came home and took Cora away.” She sighed. “It was a tough time for everyone. But they got through it. They survived. Cora made it home safe and sound. Darlene was glad.”

  There was a clatter in the hallway, muffled voices, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. The hospital was waking up around them.

  “Did they live happily ever after?” Cora asked.

  “I don’t know,” Darlene said. “The story isn’t over yet.”

  Her sister nodded solemnly. The window was brighter now, each slat in the blinds glowing like a bar of neon.

  “This is all true, you know,” Cora said. “This really happened.”

  48

  On her last day in California, Darlene went to the beach alone. She had never seen the ocean, and this might be her only chance. Roy went to the hotel to check out and pack up their belongings. Their flight was scheduled for the evening. Jane and Cora lay in bed together in the hospital room, arguing without malice. Cora was acting more like her old self, whining that it was her turn for the remote control or swiping Jane’s phone so she could watch videos and play games. Darlene bent down to kiss her temple as she left.

  An hour later, she was ankle-deep in the ocean. This part of the California coast was composed of craggy cliffs, thirty or forty feet high, with tiny ribbons of beach tucked beneath. Darlene let the surf surge around her bare toes. The silken sprawl of the sea was broken up by distant boats, bright triangles that looked too flimsy to hold their own against the whitecaps. The shallows were cold, pungent, and clouded with seaweed. Her beach was barely a beach at all—a scrim of sand so narrow that each new wave crossed its midline. Darlene bent down and lifted a handful of seawater, watching it gleam and trickle away between her cupped palms.

  Apart from the boats in the distance, there were no signs of human life. The cliff blotted out the view of the city completely. Darlene had passed a dozen beachgoers earlier, but she left them far behind, climbing over algae-slick boulders and soaking her jeans to reach this place: a promontory that looked like the end of the world, jutting out from the coast, shielded by a wall of amber stone, pocked with gnarled plant life and bronzed by the wind.

  As she stepped deeper into the sea, Darlene thought of Roy, and of her sisters. The weight of Cora in her arms. Falling asleep in unison. Awakening to find that they were still entwined. Darlene felt the bloom of an emotion she did not recognize. An airy lightness, an interior glow. Maybe it was hope.

  She did not believe in happy endings—not after the loss of her parents or the tornado—not after the past summer—not anymore. There were no endings in life except death. There was only the present moment, the passage of breath into breath, action and reaction, word after word, a story that was still being told.

  At that moment, she heard a scuffle beyond the curve of the cliff face. It seemed that someone else was making their way to her private sanctum. Feeling shy, Darlene walked farther up the sand, carrying her purse and shoes. She settled on a boulder in the cold shade of the plateau and waited.

  Something came into view, silhouetted against the ocean. For a minute, Darlene could not make sense of what she was seeing: a tree branch, a flutter of feathers, a bizarre concoction of shapes that did not seem to add up to a human figure. It walked on two legs, but its body was all wrong—incredibly tall, plump in the middle, bulbous and distended.

  Nine feet tall. Garbed in black and white. An ostrich.

  Darlene’s hands closed together in an ecstatic, frightened convulsion. She had only ever seen these creatures in documentaries. The bird’s torso was an inky cushion trimmed with frilled lace. Its neck was a lithe gray column. By contrast, its legs seemed to be naked—a blushing, indecent pink.

  Darlene held still. She hoped that she was sufficiently camouflaged against the cliff; perhaps the bird would not notice her if she did not move. It took a step along the beach. A wave washed up, submerging its feet, and it paused, tilting its head this way and that, plainly considering the situation. Its beak seemed to be sculpted in a permanent frown. Its eyes were too large for its tiny head. The surf receded again, revealing the sheen of wet sand, which the ostrich examined minut
ely. It took another cautious step, its claws etching prehistoric footprints on the beach.

  Darlene wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, but she was frozen in amazement. The ostrich moved with intense precision, each stride as perfect as a ballerina’s plié. It dipped its toes into an oncoming wave. One leg was planted, the other scraping delicate ripples across the surface of the sea. Its head swiveled low on that long, muscular neck, taking a closer look, captivated by the design of the light on the water. Probably it had never seen waves before. Like Darlene, it was a traveler in an unfamiliar realm.

  She did not believe in the afterlife. But if there was one, and her brother had found his way there, then perhaps the ostrich was a sign. But she did not believe in signs either. She shook herself; there was no need to reach for the supernatural here. The ostrich on the beach was a direct result of Tucker’s actions. Darlene, too, had been summoned to this place by his choices. This encounter felt like a gift from her brother—his final one, perhaps. His gifts had always come with a measure of danger.

  Without warning, the ostrich ran. It crashed away through the shallows, splintering the sea into sparkles. An onrushing wave crested against its knees, and it spread its rumpled, stubby wings for balance, the waxen feathers along the edges illuminated by the sun. The creature gave vent to an otherworldly shout, inflating its throat and booming like a foghorn. Almost a laugh.

  Then it began to twirl. The ostrich pivoted in a circle, its legs ringed by a tsunami of spray. Around and around again. Darlene had never imagined that a bird could move like that. With each spiral, it wrapped its ankles in a whirlpool, disrupting the orderly flow of waves. It bellowed again, an octave higher this time. Its neck seemed nearly boneless, the head swinging perilously with each revolution. It spun like a child overcome on the playground by a surge of excited energy. There was unmistakable joy in each noisy orbit. It stumbled dizzily but did not stop.

  Darlene rose to her feet without meaning to, drawn upright like an audience member in a standing ovation. The ostrich kept on whirling, slamming its broad feet down, splashing along a path parallel to the beach, a mélange of clumsiness and grace. It churned a frothy track through the shallows. As it rotated, the bird held one wing at its side while the other flared open to its fullest extent, a billowing swath of black, the white feathers at the brim as stiff and bright as icicles.

  The animal was not performing for anyone. There was no purpose in its madcap twirling, no fight-or-flight response, no biological need. Darlene understood intuitively that something more primal was at work. This was a wild bird, a living thing without language, incapable of laughter or self-reflection, poised at the nexus of land, sea, and sky. This was a creature out of place, out of sync, its life spent in a cage, its instincts drawn from the stark, landlocked plains of Africa, on its own for the first time, miles from everything it had ever experienced, surrounded by an inconceivable wealth of strangeness and beauty. There was no possible response but to dance.

  And then the ostrich whirled beyond the cliff wall, following the line of the beach, removing itself from view. Darlene heard it caroming chaotically away. Gradually the sea reclaimed its rhythm. A gull cried somewhere. She could no longer discern the clamor of the surf from the ostrich’s splashing.

  Darlene hurried barefoot across the sand, rounding the curve of the promontory. As she emerged from the shadow of the cliff, the sun struck her cheek like a slap. She could see the rest of the world now. A broad scythe of beach swung away from her, dotted with sunbathers and rainbow umbrellas.

  She shaded her eyes with a hand. The ostrich had traveled farther than she believed possible. It had left the water and taken to the shore, pelting toward the horizon. The bird was moving as fast as a car—maybe faster. Darlene saw people backing away as it approached. She could not hear their cries over the thunder of the surf, but she watched them clutch each other and point. One man lifted his hand to his ear. Probably calling 911, Darlene thought. With a surge of vicarious pride, she realized that the cops didn’t stand a chance; the ostrich was already twenty yards past the man. It showed no signs of stopping, dipping into shadows, racing out of sight.

  Bells began to ring. All at once, the air was filled with a raucous, metallic clanging, far off but clearly audible over the boom of the sea. For a moment Darlene imagined it had something to do with the ostrich. But no—these were church bells tolling out the hour. It was nearly time to head back.

  With a sigh, she felt the reality of her circumstances flood over her once more. She thought of Cora, as confused and innocent as an ostrich spinning in the sea. Darlene could not conceive of what the future might hold for her sister. She did not know what had happened under Tucker’s care, how much Cora endured, and how much of the girl Darlene remembered—the girl she had helped to raise—was left inside that strange, boyish figure in the hospital bed. She did not know yet how to help her sister move forward, reintegrate back into the human world. Some of the changes were sure to be permanent. In her flesh, in her spirit, in her dreams and her waking life, in her bones, in her very essence, Cora was going to be left with scars.

  And then something else will happen.

  Darlene heard her father’s voice echoing through her head—or perhaps it was Roy, repeating the phrase to console her—or maybe it was her mother, so many years ago. Tucker’s voice was there too, and Jane’s, and all the people Darlene had loved in her life, some missing, some dead, and some, like Cora, finally reclaimed.

  And then something else will happen.

  Like an ostrich on a beach.

  Maybe this was what her father had been trying to tell her. In his plainspoken way, he was reminding her that change was both inevitable and unstoppable. That little ripples could cause greater waves, unfurl into unexpected patterns. He was telling her not to dwell on the past or fret about the future, since every moment was followed by another, some wonderful, some terrible, all unpredictable and unknowable beforehand, all essential components of the complexity of a vast and marvelous world.

  EPILOGUE

  The lions are hungry. As I walk through the long grass with a bag of raw meat slung over my shoulder, I can hear their hoarse, indignant yowls. There are nearly twenty of them in the paddock. When they see me coming—my lean, upright figure wading through a lake of shimmering prairie—they nuzzle against the fence in greeting, marking the wire with their scent. Years of this behavior have bowed the lattice outward at the bottom, creating a permanent bulge in the chain-link.

  All my lions are rescues. Most of them are of advanced age, dumped here by circuses or zoos that no longer wanted them. A few came from private owners who were interested in an exotic pet and had no clue what they were taking on. The cats have a good life now. They luxuriate in the grass, sleeping twenty hours a day. They wrestle like cubs when the mood strikes them. At night, they prowl the fence, driven by instinct, though there is nothing to hunt and they are well-fed. Sometimes their battle song wakes me.

  Now I toss the meat through the aperture in the gate. Charlie, a shaggy male, lingers by the fence, hoping to be petted. He is ancient in leonine terms, almost twenty, blind in one eye, and his mane has taken on the character of a dandelion gone to seed. I thread my fingers through the chain-link and scratch behind his ears. He purrs louder than an engine.

  This is the Wildlands.

  I founded the Wildlands Animal Sanctuary—its official name—over twenty-five years ago. Back then, I had two horses, three dogs, and an acre of land. Now I oversee a dozen employees and my grounds sprawl over several hundred acres. I am the caretaker of eighteen lions, thirty-six cows, two tigers, a snow leopard, five cheetahs, seventeen bears, six pigs, twelve horses, fifty-two dogs, three donkeys, countless feral cats who come and go, and a goat named Sweetie. The Wildlands are a haven for forsaken animals. They come to me from farms, zoos, pet shops, shelters, poachers, the pound, and dogfighting rings. All strays and runaways. All, as I learned so long ago, outliers.

  Throu
ghout the morning, I circle the grounds, following my usual route. A spurt of motion in the corner of my eye turns out to be a cheetah chasing its favorite ball. In the distance, I hear an agitated whinny. One of the horses is in a snit about something. Not an emergency. Like an experienced parent, I listen and can grade the intensity of faraway vocalizations, determining which may require my attention. The cows are on the move, ambling down a hillside, lowing contentedly, chewing continually. Most of the herd is related by blood. If given the choice, cows will spend their whole lives in family groupings. When calves are removed from their mothers—a common practice on farms—it causes heartache. I stroll through their paddock, checking the size of the salt lick and the water level in the trough.

  I look in on each of my animals on a daily basis. I am in charge of their food, their medical care, their emotional health, their living and dying. I know all their names, though the animals themselves don’t. Names are a human concept.

  I tend to them with the help of my employees, who are also in charge of fundraising and ticket sales. They help with the animals, but the bulk of their work is grant-writing and tourist-wrangling. They manage our social media, since both “social” and “media” are somewhat outside my purview, and they handle all the interactions with the press, which I will not do, for obvious reasons. The sanctuary is sustained by donations and paying customers. People come for miles to see my animals. A network of metal walkways wends through the park, twenty feet off the ground, supported by intricate scaffolding. I am used to going about my work while hearing voices high above me, the click of camera shutters, and the clang of footsteps. This innovation was my idea. Animals rarely look up. In zoos, the constant presence of humans at eye level causes immense distress, triggering the hunting instinct in predators and fight-or-flight in the rest. Animals in zoos are overstimulated and flustered, always aware that they’re being watched. At the Wildlands, however, my charges pay no attention to the throngs who ramble through every afternoon. The walkways lift the visitors out of the animals’ field of vision.