“They’re sending me to sleepaway camp,” she cried, “in Maine,” wailing as another round of tears overtook her. She wasn’t crying about Indo after all.
“Why?”
“Because of Owen,” she said, as though it were obvious.
“Start at the beginning.”
She wiped her nose on the back of her arm like a toddler. “Owen and Arlo and Jeffrey took some stuff out to sell in the rowboat that night after we all went skinny-dipping. It wasn’t a big deal—they were just doing it for kind of a joke. And okay, sure, they made some money. So they decided to do it again the next night, just mostly because they were bored. But then Daddy caught them or one of the Canadians complained or something and then Arlo and Jeffrey totally sold Owen out and said it was all his idea, and then Daddy lectured him about how bad it was to sell—”
“Why is it bad?”
“I don’t know, May,” she said, frustrated, “he just didn’t want them to do it anymore—it was demeaning or something. And then he told Owen he had to go home.”
“Demeaning to whom?”
“The Winslows.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because Winslows aren’t in sales?”
“Can you just listen?”
“Sure,” I sighed, equally exasperated. “Why are they sending you to camp?”
“Owen was supposed to go home yesterday. But he didn’t. He stayed. He was just going to stay a few more nights, we found a place for him to hide out, but then you were freaking out about Indo”—she sounded accusatory, as though in calling for help I’d plotted against them—“and we were down on the rocks together but Owen heard you calling for help.” She shook her head. “We shouldn’t have come. They saw us together.” She crumbled.
I felt the worst for Owen; the rest of the parties involved, Lu included, seemed to have forgotten that Indo had collapsed, and that the boy was the one who’d called the ambulance. I thought of his sweetness that day at Turtle Point, wondered if Lu understood that he loved her, if she believed she loved him back. “When are they sending you away?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” she said, pouting. “Mum called. It’s all done.”
It was already late July. She’d survive.
She sat up straighter then, and did a frighteningly dead-on impression of Tilde: “Off to camp, Luvinia. It’s time to learn a lesson about consorting with the wrong sort of people.” She slumped back into her normal self. “Unless.” I could feel her eyes on me. “Maybe you could say something?”
“To whom?”
“Daddy’s always talking about what a great example you are. Please, May? Just tell them you think Owen’s a good person. That you’d trust your own daughter with him. Or whatever—you know what to say.”
I thought about it. Lu was a good kid, and I could tell Owen had the purest of intentions. Still, was it wise to butt into Tilde’s affairs? Lu was only fourteen. If her mother wanted to send her to camp, that was her prerogative. But no, I thought, recalling the admiring way Owen had looked at Lu on Turtle Point, I should do what I can for love.
“I don’t know why they care about his family anyway—it’s not like I’m going to marry him,” she added derisively, swiping her arm across her nose again.
“You never know.”
“He’s from the Bronx,” she scoffed. “You think I’d marry someone from the Bronx?” The place name rolled off her tongue with a disdain that didn’t seem the least bit manufactured. As though the word was falling from her mother’s mouth.
Dear Mom—Now I’m lonely again. All these weeks I thought I’d found someone like me, or at least what I would be if I’d been born to the Winslows. But she is of them. Worse, she is like them. Willing to throw anyone under the bus, even her boyfriend, in favor of maintaining her position. I’ll be doing Owen a favor by sending her as far away from the Bronx as I can.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t.”
“Please.” Lu pleaded with her puppy dog eyes.
“They’re your parents,” I insisted.
She pulled away from me. “Fine.”
“I’ve got myself to consider.”
“Right, I get it.” She stomped to the door, then turned and looked at me over her shoulder. “Like what the hell you’re going to do once I tell them Ev’s gone?”
“Do you know where she is?” I asked, my voice shaking involuntarily.
She had the upper hand. She stood over me, looking just like Tilde. “How long do you think they’ll let you stay if she’s not here to look after?”
I watched Lu run around the bend toward Trillium. I bolted the door. I didn’t need some privileged child marching back into my home and threatening me for doing what was right. If she was going to tell, she was going to tell—there was nothing I could do about it.
I knew I should turn to Kitty’s journal—Indo had been vehement, hadn’t she?—but already I doubted my memory, and Indo’s sanity. Blood money. That was what I was supposed to be looking for. But the last forty-eight hours seemed ridiculous enough without bringing some overwrought family secret into the mix. What I needed was a conversation with Galway. He would set me straight. I’d quell the butterflies in my stomach with a walk to the Dining Hall and telephone him, girl on the other end of the line be damned.
I grabbed an apple and water bottle from the kitchen, Paradise Lost and a sweatshirt from my bedroom, and put them into a canvas bag I plucked from the peg on the porch. I placed my hand on the front door but held back, deciding, at the last minute, to take Kitty’s journal from its spot under the bathroom sink. I unearthed the journal from its hiding place and wrapped it inside my sweatshirt, shoving the bundle into the bottom of the bag. I remembered the pilfered family tree and added it, then a beach towel, filling the stained tote that had once carried Antonia’s library books and potato chips to happier picnics on happier days. Perhaps I’d find a peaceful spot in the world and have a moment of clarity.
Just then, there was a banging. Loud and insistent. I emerged from the bathroom to discover Birch’s face against the screen, his fist pounding at the door that separated us.
I made an effort to say something welcoming, but I was drowned out by the sound of his fist and a growl rising out of Birch’s lips. “Open this goddamn door right fucking now, you—”
“Birch!”
He stopped short at the sound of his name, called from behind. Over his shoulder I saw Tilde and Lu. They were panting, as though they had run to catch up. Tilde’s hand was clamped tightly around Lu’s wrist. The girl was crying.
“Birch, dear,” Tilde commanded again, as she might one of her dogs. The effect of her voice on the man was profound. He moved away from the door, down the steps. I was frozen, not allowing myself to think what might have happened had the bolt been unlatched, or Tilde not been on his tail.
“That’s right,” Tilde said calmly, keeping a firm grasp on Lu, “that’s right, let the anger go. It’s of no use to you. And look, here’s your beautiful daughter, right here; you wouldn’t want to lose your temper in front of her, would you?” Birch cast his eyes over Lu, who had finally managed to break free of her mother’s grasp. He ran his fingers through his hair, appearing elderly for the first time in my memory.
Tilde looked up at me, peering at them from the porch. “How about you invite us in?”
Inviting them in was the last thing I wanted to do. But was I really going to stand here in a locked house when my hosts had demanded entry? And what did I think Birch was going to do to me? Still, my hand shook as I undid the bolt.
We sat in the living room and pretended everything was fine, even as Fritz cowered in the kitchen. “Have you heard anything about Indo?” I asked, trying to make conversation, watching Lu rub her wrist as she pouted from the porch sofa.
“Why don’t you apologize to May and she can tell us what she knows?” Tilde asked as she placed her fingers on the back of Birch’s hand. He still looked distracted, not quite himself, but he nodded. It was hard to align this
new version of him with the powerful man who had hosted me on his porch only a week or so before, or even with the man who’d just pounded on the door.
“What Birch wants to say,” Tilde told me instructively, “is that Luvinia shared the news that Genevra seems to have flown the coop. Naturally, we were both concerned to discover this absence. But he forgot himself.”
“I understand completely.” I tried to sound convincing and not to glare at Lu for being a tattletale. I wondered if she’d known how angry the news would make her father.
“How long has she been gone?” Birch spoke, his voice shaky.
I replied carefully, wondering what my escape plan would be if he were to anger again. “I discovered her missing this morning. I was on my way to tell you when I found Indo in her room.”
Birch swallowed. Tilde smiled her cool smile. “See?” she said to her husband, adding to me, “I knew you wouldn’t keep such important news a secret.”
Birch was coming out of his foggy state. With every second, he seemed to become more aware of the world around him, to inhabit his body anew, to reinvigorate. “Do you know where John took her?”
So he knew about them. I guessed they hadn’t been too discreet. I shook my head.
“We’ll find her,” Tilde said in a soothing tone. “We’ll make sure she comes right back home, now, won’t we, dear?” To me, she added, “It’s so hard to love one’s children as we love ours. It’s easy to get … passionate.”
As Tilde rose to leave, the strangeness seemed to dissipate. Birch teased Lu that, if she kept sticking out her bottom lip, a bird would come perch on it, and tapped Tilde on the butt as though they’d been flirting all morning. I could sense relief in both Tilde and Lu, relief I recognized from my own childhood and, in truth, was feeling too. We were no longer under siege.
“Well then,” Tilde said, opening the screen door, “we’ll leave you to your day.”
I realized I was gripping my bag, which had held Kitty’s journal the whole time.
Nearly at the door, Birch turned to me. “As for Indo, we’ll find it’s another symptom of her downturn, I’m afraid.”
“Downturn?”
“Of the cancer.”
“Cancer?” The thought of Indo sick was a punch to the gut. “She has cancer?”
“Oh, my dear,” he said, stepping toward me, pulling me into a hug I didn’t want, “I thought for certain she would have told you. It’s spread to her brain.” I could hear the thud of his heart inside his chest. He smelled of mothballs. His sweater scratched. “She has a month at the most.”
“I had no idea.” I tried to pull out of the embrace. But his arms resisted the distance, as though they were programmed to clasp me close. They only unclamped when I tugged hard against them. My feet launched backwards. I skinned my heel on the table beside the porch couch.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” Birch watched me as I rubbed the new scrape. “I’m sure she’s mentioned some batty ideas. Make no mistake, she is eccentric, but she’s also, literally, losing her mind. I wouldn’t take anything she’s told you, or promised, to heart.”
Kitty’s journal burned under my arm.
From out on the driveway, Tilde called to Birch, and he descended the porch steps toward her; Lu was already out of sight. Satisfied he was coming, Tilde walked on, out of earshot.
“Oh, and Mabel,” Birch said, turning just as he reached the driveway, “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Have you called Daniel lately?”
My mouth turned to cotton.
“Your mother says the care he’s getting at Mountainside is fantastic.”
I couldn’t move, or speak, or think.
“I know your father works hard to keep him there. Let’s remember your promise to keep me informed.” With that, he left me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Woods
I shook as I made my retreat from Bittersweet. The words Birch had used were innocuous enough, but they had shaken me. He’d been speaking to my mother? How much did he know about Daniel?
I cut into the pine forest behind the Dining Hall. I’d never wandered there before, and I welcomed the soft carpet of needles under my feet, the occasional pull of brambles across my bare legs. But in the shadowed woods, doubt pulled hard—if Ev was truly gone, if Lu was leaving, if Birch was threatening me and Indo was dying, and Galway coming only on the weekends, what was the point of staying here? But I had no money. And no place to go except horrible Maryland with my horrible aunt.
A rapid pounding echoed through the woods. With the day’s sounds in play—the distant roar of a mower, the buzz of a motorboat—I couldn’t distinguish whether the steady hammering was coming from a woodpecker or maintenance men. As I made my way deeper, downed, mossy trunks occasionally blocked my path. Above, the treetops rubbed against each other, a creepy, private sound, as though they were telling secrets about me.
Without warning, a great, primordial beast alighted on a dead tree only a few yards away. I froze. The creature’s wingspan was massive, pterodactyl. I watched as it folded its wings, drew its red crest back, and proceeded to pound its beak hard into the rotting wood high above the forest floor. The sound was crisp and loud. The tree swayed.
I stood, enthralled, at the sight of the pileated woodpecker Lu had promised me, until he was done with his grubby snack and took off again. I could hear the rush of air through feather. I closed my eyes. I was being ridiculous.
Birch Winslow had been worried about Ev. A father should worry about his daughter; it was only because mine didn’t that I’d thought his behavior odd. If he had threatened me—and I was starting to convince myself he hadn’t—it was only to ensure I kept my promise to tell him of his daughter’s whereabouts. Hadn’t I been the one to break his trust by keeping mum on the matter? And anyway, wouldn’t I want someone like Birch Winslow on Daniel’s side? Hadn’t that been part of the point of going to college, of all of this—to make connections that could better my, his, our life?
I almost tossed Kitty’s journal into the forest. Whatever secrets it held, they weren’t mine. It was the conceit of a dying woman, “literally losing her mind,” that the journal even held anything of note. That’s what Indo was saying, I told myself, when she talked about the tumor. Not about her family being infected. But about her body filling with cancer. Who knew what she meant by “blood money,” but really, was it worth caring?
I hiked into the heart of the Winloch forest, slapping myself like a madwoman to kill the mosquitoes who’d found me. A couple of horseflies joined the swarm, and I draped the towel over my head to protect myself. Ev’s flip-flops slipped on the forest floor, but I trod on. I’d run into a road someday, although whether I’d follow it was a question I had not yet answered. The crunch of pine needles gave way to rocky forest floor as, above, the canopy changed to maples and birch. I gave myself over to the chastising chatter of the brown squirrels, the far-off squawks of crows at play. I guessed I was walking in the direction of Mrs. LaChance’s house, so I cut back to my right. I didn’t think I could bear her.
I wandered into a clearing, rustling a white-tailed deer out of a peaceful lunch. I froze. She held my gaze from the other side of the patch of grass, head lifted, smelling my human stink, until some indeterminate revelation about me sent her into the forest, her tail flagging long after the rest of her body was invisible. It was a sensible moment, a reminder that I was not a survivalist and could not stay in these woods forever. I looked up at the clouds breezing by, killed three more mosquitoes, and decided to follow the deer’s trail.
Not that I had any idea how to follow a trail; I simply walked in her direction, cutting into my apple with an appetite it wouldn’t long satiate. I thought of Eve and her apple, wandering in Eden. I walked on and on, until I started to feel tired and, frankly, bored. I nearly laughed at the memory of my former self, running from Bittersweet into the woods for cover. Ev would come home. Galway was my lover, not my boyfriend. And Birch was just a father
looking out for his brood. Besides, my stomach was growling. I was about to turn back when I caught a phrase of music on the breeze. Motown. I followed the strains until I found myself in a clearing. There, before me, stood a cottage. A hand-carved sign over the door, straight out of the Brothers Grimm, read JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. Deep inside, a radio played.
The cottage was standard issue, but it resembled Mrs. LaChance’s more than Indo’s. Perhaps the buildings on this side of the bay, deep in the woods as they were, where the damp clung, were simply more prone to rot. “Hello?” I heard myself call out, my mouth watering at the thought of the lunch that might be inside.
The radio switched off. If a wolf leapt out, or a raccoon, a vampire, anything, I would turn tail and sprint into the forest. Or maybe the creature would just kill me quickly, draining me of my blood, before I knew what hit me.
“Hello?” came the woman’s voice as she stepped from the screen door, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.
“CeCe!” I rejoiced with inappropriate familiarity. It was meant to be, I told myself. “I’m Mabel,” I chatterboxed, removing the shroud from my head, “Ev’s friend? We met on Winloch Day. I guess I got lost! I was trying to find a good swimming spot.”
“There’s not much swimming over on this side. You’d do better at Bittersweet.”
“Oh.” I tried not to show my disappointment. “I guess if you could just point me to the road …?”
She gestured down a pockmarked driveway I hadn’t noticed. I nodded. Started walking in that direction.
“You hungry?” she asked after me.
I turned. “Do you mind?”
“Just got supplies in town.”
Bittersweet Page 21
