by Sonja Yoerg
Baby mice for Reid’s snake. A task he couldn’t give Suzanne because her rodent allergy meant she couldn’t tolerate the pet shop. “Oh, crap. Sorry, champ. I was slammed today.”
Immediately he regretted the “champ,” a tag he’d used years ago when Reid still admired him and took up whatever sport Whit selected. Now the word made Reid hang his head, either to control his resentment or to hide the shame of not being the right sort of son. The posture made the boy seem six years old again. Whit winced at the loss of that promise.
“Hi, Daddy!” Brynn shuffled across the entry from the living room in sweats and monkey slippers and threw her arms around him.
“How’s my girl?”
She stepped back but held on to his hand, swinging it back and forth. “Great. Did you have a good day looking for money in the bushes?” It was their joke from when she was too little to understand what he did for a living. Fifteen years old and still just a big puppy.
“I did, actually.”
Reid leaned against the wall and sighed. “Dad, the pinkies?”
Brynn tipped her head and scowled at her brother. “If that disgusting snake needs food, you should get it yourself. You’ve got a car.”
Reid ignored her.
“Oh, that’s right. You have a car, a brand-new Mustang, but it’s against your religion to drive.”
“It’s not against my religion. It’s a moral position independent of Buddhism.” He turned to his father. “If you can’t do it, I can get to the pet shop on the bus. It’s just a pain.”
Whit rejected Reid’s views on the evil of cars, but Suzanne argued that having a strong moral position, no matter how inconvenient or ridiculous, was a sign of good character. Whit thought it was weird, and weird made life difficult for everyone. But he wasn’t going to get into it, not now. “Putting it at the top of my agenda.”
“Thanks.” Reid made his way past his father en route to the kitchen and disappeared into the pantry. Always hungry. Reid called out, “Some dinner in here, Dad, if you want it.”
“In a sec.”
Brynn said, “Come hang out with me in the living room.”
“Maybe later, sweetheart. Your mom upstairs?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
Whit found Suzanne stretched out on the chaise in their bedroom, laptop perched on her thighs. She had changed into her end-of-the-day outfit: yoga pants and one of his T-shirts, an ancient Bucknell one today. Whit, normally possessive, made an exception for her appropriation of his clothing; it was an intimacy that felt easy and right.
“Hi, Suze.”
She smiled. The bedside lamp cast a soft light on her tawny hair and pale skin, freckles splashed across her cheekbones. His gorgeous wife.
“What’re you working on?”
“The spreadsheet for the auction. Three days of emails.” She closed the laptop. “How did the meeting with Robert go?”
Suzanne never lost track of his day’s highlights. Considering what she had to juggle herself, it was remarkable. He sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes, and gave her a quick recap of the meeting, which, if all proceeded as planned, would result in the biggest residential development deal he had ever landed, big enough to virtually guarantee more, much more, would head his way. More was his favorite word.
“Sounds really promising, Whit.”
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He retrieved it and checked the screen. “Robert,” he said to Suzanne, and ducked into the dressing room, leaving the door ajar. Robert Shipstead filled him in on his post-meeting discussion with the head of his board, who’d happened to be arriving at the club for dinner as Whit and Robert had left. The tenor of their discussion about the development of Hampstead Farms was positive. Whit’s mind buzzed at the possibilities. “Wonderful, Robert. That’s wonderful. I’ll be in touch about next steps.”
Giddy, he rejoined Suzanne. “I’m starved. Have you eaten?”
“With the kids.”
“Join me for some wine?”
She smiled and nodded. As she bent to stash her laptop and papers in the bag leaning against the chaise, Whit tapped his stockinged foot on the rug. The memory of an earlier phone call interrupted the bubbling thrill he was enjoying over the deal.
“Suze, so what’s this I hear about you picking up a homeless person this morning?”
Suzanne straightened and stared at him, her expression quickly morphing from confused to incredulous. “My mother called you?”
His wife was always getting her back up about his positive relationship with her parents. It was irritating as hell. He happened to have a lot in common with his in-laws and thought Suzanne ought to let go of ancient history and move on. “Tinsley needed some info about the company acting as sponsors for her fund-raiser, and she mentioned you’d rescued someone on the parkway.”
“She wasn’t homeless.”
“Okay . . .”
“You should’ve seen her, Whit. She was maybe twelve years old and couldn’t have weighed more than sixty pounds.”
“You carried her?”
“She collapsed. I couldn’t leave her.” Her voice dropped. “There was no one else around.”
Oh, God. The panic thing. He crossed the room and took her hand. “You were alone. On the parkway. It’s remote.”
“Well, I wasn’t really alone. And I didn’t panic. I was fine, Whit.”
He looked into her eyes, brown and honest as always. “Did you find out who she is?”
She shook her head. “At the hospital, she was too frightened to talk. The police came. They’ll follow up with me as soon as they know anything.”
“But she can talk, right?”
“Yes, she can talk.”
Whit nodded. “Let’s go downstairs and you can tell me the whole story.” He led her into the hall and paused at the top of the stairs. “What were you doing on the parkway anyway?”
She shrugged. “Just driving.”
He continued down the stairs, hunger pushing away any curiosity around his wife’s motivations. He trusted her implicitly; it wasn’t that. And digging around for deeper reasons had never been his strong suit.
Suzanne lagged behind, her voice floating down to him, but the words were not meant for him in particular.
“Don’t you ever just want to drive?”
Nope.
CHAPTER 6
A cardinal whistled outside the window: chew chew chew chew chew . It was a good distance away, but the girl could picture it on a bare branch, throat puffed out, the whole of its body quivering with the effort of sounding purely itself. But she did not move. From her bed she could see the treetops and the blue mountains stretched flat against the sky. Structures poked out of the nearby forest—buildings, towers, she really didn’t know—and she was higher than they were. This morning Nurse Amy had attached the bag filled with liquid to a pole and led her to the window. She’d looked straight down and her head spun. She lost her balance, landing sideways on a small low bed covered in green cloth. She had figured out the healing place was a tower, and she didn’t trust it. There was little here she could trust, and without Ash beside her, she felt the undiluted misery of her situation. Like her mother, she’d fallen through the skin of the damp, sweet earth.
She startled when a man appeared in the doorway. He had thick black hair and glasses halfway between clear and dark. She wondered what they were for. He’d been here before, asking questions, but she didn’t think she’d said anything to him. Since she had arrived here, her memories had been blurry and chopped up. His name was Officer, she remembered that much. A woman with short gray hair and a board with paper on it followed him in, and a nurse who wasn’t Amy. The nurse handed her a glass filled with brown liquid. She sniffed it. Her mouth watered.
“Chocolate,” the nurse said. “Thought you might like it.”
She tasted it and gagged. Too sweet. She put it down on the little table attached to the bed.
Officer pulled up a chair for himself and another for
the woman. “I’m Officer Rodriguez. You probably remember me from a couple days ago.” He pointed to the woman. “This is Ms. Rappoport from Child Protective Services. We’re both here to help you. I asked you a few things, but you weren’t in much shape to answer. Feeling better now?”
She nodded warily.
“Mind telling us your name?”
“Iris.”
“That’s pretty,” the nurse said, handing her the drink again.
Iris’s stomach gurgled in hunger. She sipped the drink and tried not to taste it.
Officer said, “Last name?”
“Smith.”
Officer and Rappoport exchanged a look like they didn’t believe her.
“How old are you, Iris?”
“Sixteen last fall.”
Officer’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at the nurse, who nodded.
As if she wouldn’t know her own age.
“What day?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your birthday,” Rappoport said, smiling.
“October usually. First day with good weather.”
Officer, Rappoport, and the nurse all frowned.
Iris didn’t see what was so hard to understand but decided to be helpful. “There’s not much point in having your birthday on a day with bad weather.”
Rappoport nodded. “But you know the real day, right?”
“No.”
Officer sighed and went on. “Now, what about your parents? What are their names?”
“Mary and Jim.”
“Okay. Your mother’s maiden name?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Her name before she married your father.”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Mama’s dead. She fell down a hole into a cave. I tried to get her out but I couldn’t, so she died down there.”
Officer straightened his back.
Rappoport said, “I’m so sorry, Iris. When did this happen?”
“Almost three years ago.”
“And you’ve been living with your father since?”
“Oh, no. Daddy left a long time before that.”
“How long?”
“I was ten.”
“So who’s been taking care of you, Iris?”
“No one. Because, like I said, Daddy’s gone and Mama’s dead.”
Officer leaned forward, touching the tips of his fingers together. His eyes said he didn’t believe her and it was making him a little angry. “Where was this, Iris? Where were you living before you ended up in the woods?”
“I’ve always lived in the woods.”
The three of them all looked at each other, then stared at her. Iris closed her eyes to shut them out.
Finally Officer spoke. “You’re saying you’ve been living in the woods by yourself for three years.”
Iris thought to mention Ash but decided to keep him to herself. Ash had been with her, but she didn’t feel like explaining how even if she could manage to find the words. She didn’t trust these people, and it sure seemed like they didn’t trust her. Annoyance prickled in her chest. “Yes, I have. And I want to go back. Mama and Daddy were right.” She swept her arm wide. “Everything here is loud and crazy and corrupted. And it smells awful. I want to go back to my woods.”
“Now, Iris.” The nurse tried to pat her hand, but she pulled away. She’d had enough of all of them.
Officer and Rappoport asked her a few more questions, but she was tired and stopped answering. The nurse herded them out and brought Iris soup, which she ate without setting her spoon down.
“You sleep now.” The nurse left but some lights were still on. How was she supposed to sleep?
Alone now, Iris thought about Ash, missing him more than ever, wondering where he had gone. She couldn’t remember exactly the last time he’d been around. Not having Ash here made her frantic, like mice were running through her insides. She hadn’t always had her parents; she had always had Ash. Daddy had gone, just left one day and never came back, she couldn’t remember why. Something to do with Ash maybe, but that didn’t make any sense. Daddy was gone, that was the meat of it. His laugh was the best sound in the world and Mama wasn’t the same after he’d gone. She’d never been a talker and never surprised you with a hug the way Daddy did. That wasn’t Mama. And then she’d fallen into the cave and there wasn’t a thing Iris could do to help. Ash had been there. She’d helped him through it. Being a year and a half older wasn’t much, but she took it seriously. She had to look out for Ash. For nearly three years, each other was all they’d had.
And now he was gone, too.
She couldn’t work out where he might be, how he might find her or she him. The healing place was terrible. Sure, her jaw was better, and the dense fog of pain that had smothered her senses had lifted, leaving only a misty ache and a hole in her gum she could worry with her tongue. She had to be grateful for that. But she didn’t understand this hard place. Too many people, too many names, too many noises and bright lights and grinding, whirring, shrieking, booming noises. She could not contemplate—that’s what Daddy had called it—and she missed it as much as she missed Ash. Without the space and the quiet for contemplating, she could not know her own mind, trust her own perceptions, and she was lost.
Nurse Amy came at midday. She had a soft voice and only talked when she had something to say.
“If you want, I could help you take a shower.” She pointed at the small room where the toilet and sink were. Iris had learned how those worked last night.
“A shower? Like rain?”
“Yes, or a bath.” She thought a moment. “Like swimming.”
Iris smiled. “Mama always wanted us to be clean. We washed in the river every single day.” She saw the nurse glance at Iris’s arm. Someone had cleaned a spot around where the needle went in, but the rest of her arm—her whole body—was filthy. Thinking of her mother, she felt ashamed. “I was sick. And hungry. Too hungry to bother—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Nurse Amy fiddled with the tubes and bags and machines, then went into the small room and reached behind a white tarp hanging from a pole. Iris heard water falling. Where did it come from? How did it get up into the tower? She and Ash would divert the stream to irrigate something they were growing, or just for fun, but they never beat gravity.
Iris stood, the floor cold as stone. She felt weak and limp, and wondered if she’d ever get her strength back. Without it she’d have no hope of getting away from here, returning to the mountains.
She pulled off the dress they’d given her.
The nurse turned and saw her. “Oh. I’d have given you privacy.”
“What’s that?”
She smiled. “Never mind. Come on into the rain.”
After Iris was clean, she dried herself with a towel that seemed like it had never been used. Nurse Amy was in the main room, changing the cloth on the bed. Iris put on the fresh dress Nurse Amy had left for her and noticed the rectangle above the sink. Last night when Nurse Amy showed her the small room, she had kept the lights low, the way Iris liked them. Iris had seen movement in the rectangle then, but thought it was some sort of machine. Now she wiped the mist from it with her towel. She twisted her head first one way then the other. She’d seen her reflection before in still pools of water, but never so clearly. She was filled with a drowning sadness because the girl she saw contained her family: her mother’s small, straight nose and heart-shaped face, her father’s eyes and eyebrows, though his irises were summer-sky blue, not leaning toward the color of violets, as he’d always said of hers. She had her father’s square shoulders and straight hickory-brown hair, too. She could see that even though it was wet. Most of all, though, she could see Ash, because he’d borrowed pieces of their parents like she had, in different amounts, but it somehow made them more similar anyway.
Iris put her fingertips to her image.
“Ash? Are you there?”
She’d been in the healing place five days when another man, very tall and fat, came with more questions. He handed her a card that said “Detective DeCelle” and said he wanted to help her. First, he wanted to know where she’d lived. She said she didn’t know, and he puffed out his cheeks.
“Mrs. Blakemore—Suzanne—found you at the Yankee Horse Ridge parking area. How far was that from where you lived?”
“Lived when?”
“With your mother. Before she died.”
“A long way.”
“Did you live in a house with her?”
“Yes.”
“What town was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know the town? Was it in Virginia?”
“I think so.”
“How about a street or a road?”
“There weren’t any.”
He tapped his pen on his chin. “Did you have electricity or running water?”
“Water ran in the stream.”
“But no electricity?” He swept his hand at the ceiling and the walls, and she guessed he meant the lights and machines.
“No.”
“Okay, so you lived there with your mother after your father left for how long?”
“About three years.”
“Just you and your mother? No one else?”
“Yes.”
“And how long did you stay in the house after your mother died?”
“A year and a bit.”
He made some notes on a small pad. “I’m going to have an artist come in, someone who will draw your mother and father based on what you tell them.”
Iris imagined someone who had never met her parents drawing their faces. She could barely remember Daddy’s face. His hands she remembered clearly, thick fingered and broad as dinner plates. His hands could do anything: hang on to a swinging ax, tie knots in a fishing net, carve chunks of wood into legs for chairs and tables, and pluck her from the ground and into his arms as if she were a flower too pretty to leave behind.
Iris rubbed her nose and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Detective looked up from his notes. “Why’d you leave the house, Iris?”
