by Nicole Baart
“My tree house! It’s my tree house! Mine!” Hailey yelled, her voice cracking in a contortion of rage.
Abby’s rage rose to match her sister’s, and she threw herself back on top of Hailey, this time straddling her narrow waist and trapping those fragile, skinny arms beneath her own suddenly strong hands.
“Hailey. Anne. Bennett.” Abby clipped every word as if the straight angles of sound could snap Hailey out of whatever wild world she was in. “Stop. It.”
Nothing happened.
Abby growled, “Stop it!”
“Mine!” Hailey shouted back. “It’s mine! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
“You said we could!”
“No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No! No!”
Abby interrupted the fusillade of verbal bullets by clamping her hand down on the twisted, lovely mouth. “Stop!”
For a second, Abby felt the slight body slacken. And just as quickly as she comprehended what Hailey was going to do, she felt her sister’s lips pull back in a reversal of the kiss that she had bestowed only hours before. Hailey exposed the hard rim of her flawless, pearly teeth against Abby’s palm. Then those teeth sank into her palm, and Abby’s screams were rivaling Hailey’s.
The child didn’t let go, her teeth ground into the flesh of Abby’s hand and coaxed blood to form a masquerade of clown makeup around her mouth. Worst of all, she stopped her mindless flailing; she became perfectly still but for the slow and deliberate closure of her jaw. Instead, Abby moved. She squirmed and writhed, and before she could think to try to stop them, hot tears dripped off her chin to match the hot blood dripping off her palm.
Though it felt like an eternity, only moments later Abby saw her father throw open the back door and race across the lawn toward her. She nearly folded in relief. “Daddy!” she called, her voice breaking on a sob.
Hailey let go in an instant and cried out the very same thing: “Daddy!”
When Lou’s hands found Abby, they didn’t curl her into his arms. He heaved her off Hailey and went to his knees beside his baby girl. Hailey looked pitiful lying there in the grass. Threads of tangled hair had pulled loose from her ponytails and formed a haphazard halo around her head. There were tracks of tears cutting a path through the thin layer of dust and grime on her cheeks. Abby was nauseated by the sight of the blood at her mouth, glossy and sickening and dark in the spaces between her teeth.
“What were you doing?” Lou demanded. His indignation should have been directed at the pair of girls, but he glared at Abby alone. Even as he glowered at her, his fingers found Hailey and he lifted her tenderly into his lap. “What in the world were you doing?”
“Dad . . . ,” Abby began, but she couldn’t begin to explain what had happened. Rather than try, she lifted her hand as evidence and let the eight perfect points of broken skin speak for themselves.
Lou was unconvinced. “What did you expect her to do? I saw you sitting on her! She’s half your size, Abby!”
Abby’s mouth opened and closed. She pressed her lips together and shut them tight.
And Hailey, held snug against her father’s chest and encircled by the protection of his arms, raised her eyes to Abby in wordless accusation.
The whole thing turned on its head, and Abby understood that it wasn’t Hailey’s fault.
It would never be Hailey’s fault.
I don’t remember making the call, but I must have done it because suddenly the phone was pressed against my cheek.
A woman’s voice was tinny and insistent, faraway sounding and followed by a small, hollow echo. “The authorities have been dispatched,” she assured me. “They’ll be there soon. Stay with me, okay? Stay on the line. Are you all right? Are you going to be okay?”
It was the stupidest question I had ever heard. I clicked the phone off and dropped it on the floor because it felt heavy in my hand. It was charcoal colored and sleek, and it shone in dark harmony against the muted carpet. I left it there.
Now that the door was shut between us, I didn’t know where to go. Hadn’t I already done everything I could? I consecrated. I cleaned. I called. I ticked off each imperative on my numb fingers and realized that I had become superfluous. This was her tragedy, and I was little more than a prop or at best the makeup artist who prepared her to look the part.
I couldn’t just go and sit on the couch while I waited for the apartment to explode with people, so I stumbled down the hallway to her bedroom. It was hard to keep my body upright between the two narrow walls—they seemed to angle together as the bedroom door approached. My right shoulder slid against the taupe paint. My left knuckles rapped it on the other side. When I finally reached the doorjamb, I leaned heavily against the pressed particleboard. I breathed. And breathed.
Shock? I wondered. Can shock be delayed? Is it possible to limp along like a normal, sane person before crumbling to pieces? But the idea was insubstantial and formless; it evaporated the moment my eyes found the photo on her bedside stand.
Her bed was unmade, and I lowered myself to her mattress, aware for a second that her body had warmed the white cotton sheets only hours before she made the bathtub hot with her blood. My mind skittered away from the thought. I simply couldn’t think, not anymore, and I wasn’t surprised to see my hand tremble when I reached for the small, black frame. Everything was shaking—my mind, my body, my spirit—as if I could dislodge all I had seen and all that I felt if only I shuddered violently enough.
I grasped the photo in two hands and tried to stare beyond the quivering glass.
My eyes felt heavy and refused to focus, but I knew the picture well. It wasn’t a recent photo by any means; she was entering young womanhood and I was just leaving it. She was behind me, her arms thrown over my shoulders in casual intimacy and her cheek pressed against my temple. Her rich skin was flawless and almost exotic next to my own pale complexion. Her eyes were a piercing and cloudless blue in contrast to my muddy brown ones. We smiled up at the photographer with mismatched grins; hers was radiant and white, mine a thin-lipped and slightly crooked smirk. We exhibited more than enough differences to prove that we were the perfect contradiction. Night and day. Light and dark. Yin and yang.
And against all odds, paired by blood. Sisters.
V
Abigail finally left the protective fortress of the mountains when the moon was a thin crescent of pale yellow dangling from the apex of the sky. The heavens had slowly unwrapped themselves, an impromptu gift, as Abigail descended from first thousands and then hundreds of feet. As each corner revealed more of the sparkling, velvety black, Abigail was struck by the sheer beauty of this new world as it spread itself before her.
It had been years since she had experienced the deep dark of such a night. Buildings, cities, and the never-ending simulated day of south Florida life had masked the splendor of nighttime shadows. But here, the air was stark and clear, so achingly pure that she found herself convinced that she could have slipped a hand out of the window to pluck a dazzling sequin from the glorious fabric of the darkness. She could almost imagine the icy-hot burn of a tiny, glittering star in her hand. Such a thought made Abigail feel small and young, and something shifted inside her to expose a still and hidden place that she had forgotten about. The night was something mysterious and magical when Abigail was a child; it took growing up for her to realize that it was prudent to be afraid of the dark.
She purged the vulnerable feeling by turning her attention away from the sky and back to the road before her. It continued to change with the landscape, undergoing such dramatic conversions that Abigail had the strange feeling of timelessness, of having been on the road for days or even weeks, not hours.
Just when Abigail was convinced that she could descend no farther, that she had taken a wrong turn and was nowhere near Revell, the road curved down one last switchback, and she was on the edge of a high cliff. The lights in the distance glowed golden and warm, as inviting as the white blue stars above were aloof. Beyond
the softl
y curving clusters of streetlamps and neon, Abigail could see a fat and flowing ribbon of water. The surface shone like smoky glass, mirroring the evidence of the dim but luminous night. In smooth arcs and coils, the lake sidled up to the town and then wandered off above and below it, disappearing into the miles beyond more bluffs.
Revell was utterly foreign and strangely beautiful, cloaked in night and hidden from view. But it was also somewhat jarring, exploding out of the darkness as if the town took pleasure in surprising visitors. The effect muddied the waters for Abigail, rendering the tenuous calm of her bittersweet and solitary nighttime road as a mere illusion of a short-lived peace and nothing more.
The Sunny Grove Inn and RV Park was the first motel on the outskirts of town. The vacancy sign was burned out and the packed parking lot didn’t look promising, but Abigail pulled in anyway. Inside the cramped office a television set was humming softly, and behind a large counter Abigail could just make out the top of a silver head, parted into disorganized rectangles and curlicued with foam curlers.
The gray head bobbed when the door shut, and Abigail felt a stab of guilt knowing that she had disturbed the woman’s upright doze.
But her remorse subsided as the motel proprietor perked up almost instantly when she realized a customer had darkened her doorstep. An easy, albeit sleepy, smile spread across her face as it peeked over the tall laminate desk. “You must be Mrs. Conner! We thought you weren’t going to show.”
“N-no,” Abigail stammered, confused. “I don’t think you could possibly be expecting me.”
The woman fluttered some papers on her desk before lifting her eyes to the oversize clock on the wall. “They should have been here hours ago,” she murmured almost to herself. She looked disappointed for a second, and then her expression was replaced by a carefree grin. “Well, they forfeited the room at eleven, so I guess you’re in luck. You do want a room, right?” She glanced behind Abigail, presumably through the dark windows that opened onto the parking lot. “Just one guest?”
“Yes,” Abigail confirmed, stepping forward and dropping her purse on the counter. “I’m exhausted.”
“Me too, honey, me too. You are also extremely lucky. Rooms in Revell book up almost a year in advance. Without a reservation you should be sleeping in your car tonight.”
Abigail hadn’t considered the popularity of the Summerlands or the fact that it was newly summer when she took off down the highway on a whim. Her plan suddenly seemed sloppy and feeble. It made her tired just thinking about the possibility of being stranded in the middle of Canada with nowhere to stay. “But you do have a room for tonight?”
“Tonight.” The woman wrinkled her nose and consulted a wide logbook with dozens of penciled notations and scribbled lines.
Abigail almost laughed wryly. Nothing was computerized.
As if she could feel Abigail’s amusement, the proprietor looked up and pursed her lips. “But if the Conners show up tomorrow, you’re out. We’re booked solid. If they don’t, well, I guess you may have their room. They’re scheduled for the whole week.”
Abigail didn’t quite know what to say. Did she want the room for an entire week? Did she plan to stay that long? What if she decided she wanted to stay longer?
Obviously Abigail wasn’t the only one wondering about timing. “How long are you—” the woman studied Abigail and seemed to come up at a loss—”vacationing in Revell?”
Abigail knew she didn’t look anything like the typical laid-back tourist with a car full of excited kids and a gently snoring husband. But was there industry in Revell? Could she chalk her trip up to business? Probably not. Abigail decided to say nothing at all in explanation. “I’m not sure,” she finally offered.
The woman shrugged. “Tonight then.”
Within minutes the necessary papers were signed and Abigail clutched a rusty key on a plastic key chain inscribed with the Sunny Grove name.
“Room 117 across from the pool,” the woman instructed. “Your parking spot is directly in front of the room and marked with the same number. Oh, and we’d appreciate it if you’d leave your dirty towels in the bathtub.”
“Of course,” Abigail said, tired and very thankful that she had a place to lay her head. She turned to leave and heard the woman click the television off and flip a few switches. Apparently she was allowed to retire for the night now that all the beds in her motel were filled. “Good night,” Abigail called weakly.
Although the woman was already half-gone, she shouted a cheerful “good night” in reply.
†
Abigail woke at dawn, jolted from sleep by a rectangle of light that sprang through a gap in the cheap hotel curtains. It pounced upon her face the moment the sun burst the edge of the horizon, and though she squinted and mumbled halfhearted curses, the day refused to wind back even a second. Clinging to sleep was no use. The sun was up on the little desert town, and Abigail hadn’t come all this way for a holiday. Sleeping in posed no other purpose than to postpone the inevitable.
The inevitable was what she had come for.
The roadside motel that Abigail had lucked into finding was out-of-date and shabby, but it boasted a large, sparkling pool surrounded by a lush, desert oasis. From what Abigail could see from her room window, the Sunny Grove Inn and RV Park was indicative of the rest of Revell. It was a quaint tourist town, maybe aging and kind of dusty, but much loved and homey all the same. Many of the buildings were old, but they were well kept and tidy, and from the profusion of flowers in whiskey barrels, pots, and hanging baskets, it was obvious that the residents had an eye for aesthetics. Or at least a love for flora. The overall effect was one of down-home comfort and hospitality, a feeling that was granted further credibility by the somewhat-warm welcome Abigail had received when she arrived in the middle of the night.
Abigail showered and got ready quickly, using the single-cup coffeepot on the bathroom counter to brew a mug of flat coffee. She pulled a pair of sandals out of her suitcase and slipped on her sunglasses, then let herself out of room 117, planning to finish her coffee poolside. Something about the four walls of another rented room felt stifling and oppressive to her.
The pool area was deserted at such an early hour, even though the day was already pleasantly warm and dry, bursting with the promise of a hot and sunny afternoon. It was so strikingly different from the climate of the coast that Abigail almost lowered herself to the side of the pool so she could dangle her feet in the inviting azure water. But unlacing the stranglehold of tension that had slowly tightened around her over the years would take more than the refreshing lure of a glassy pool. She thought of her pale skin and the blistering sun and sat on a lounge chair in the shade instead.
“Did you sleep well?”
Abigail glanced up from her mug to see the woman from last night unhook the gate latch and let herself into the pool area. She still had the curlers in her hair, and she was wearing a zippered housecoat. It was the sort of square-shaped, floral and lace pajama that Abigail remembered her mother wearing when Abigail was a child.
“Yes, thank you. I slept very well,” Abigail said.
“You still look tired,” the woman observed, her statement shrewd but not unkind.
All the same, Abigail was taken aback. “Still unwinding, I suppose.”
“I’m Jane.” The elderly woman walked over and extended her hand to Abigail. “Sorry. I should keep my prying comments to myself. Or at least let you know who I am before I start to make such personal remarks.”
Abigail took the wrinkled hand. “Nice to meet you, Jane. I’m Abigail. And don’t worry about it. I like people who aren’t afraid to speak their mind.”
“Good.” Jane moved away and took a long pole with a net affixed to the end from the pool house wall. She began to skim the surface of the water, trapping the little leaves that were floating there.
The women were silent while Jane cleaned the pool and Abigail worked up the courage to ask the question that plucked insistently at her mind.
She opened and closed her mouth a few times before managing casually, “Do you know where Thompson Hills Winery is?”
Jane didn’t turn from her task. “Sure I do. But it’s not the best winery around. Getting better every year, but it’s a pretty small operation compared to lots of the wineries around here.”
“I guess my interest is personal,” Abigail improvised.
“You know Elijah Dixon?”
“No.”
Jane peeked at Abigail, seemingly relieved. “He’s a miserable old bear.” She turned back to her work. “Thompson is about five kilometers north of here. It’s past Mack’s Sweets and up on the bluff opposite the lake. The buildings are canary yellow, but you won’t see them until you’ve turned off the main road.”
“Thanks.”
Jane looked up suddenly. “What day is it?”
“Saturday.”
“Then you’re in luck again. Thompson wine might be mediocre, but they offer an amazing brunch menu on Saturdays from nine to eleven. Look at you.” Jane hummed with an amused smile. “Not only do you manage to get a room in Revell, but you have an incredible breakfast to look forward to on top of it. Lucky twice in the same day. Does everything else go your way, too?”
Abigail forced a reluctant smile to mirror the one on Jane’s friendly face, but she didn’t feel like smiling and she certainly didn’t feel lucky. Instead of struggling through more small talk, she quickly finished her coffee and rested her head against the high back of the comfortable lounge chair. Though she didn’t mean to close her eyes, she couldn’t help it. The air was still and warm, and her body was heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. Abigail drew inside herself and lay quietly behind the barrier of her eyelids. She didn’t think. She didn’t move. She didn’t plan.
Before she knew it, the sun had slanted across her face and Jane was long gone.
†
With Jane’s straightforward directions, Thompson Hills Winery was easy to find. There was one main road heading north and south beside the lake, and once Abigail had traveled through one small corner of Revell, she found the land mostly agricultural. She drove on long, flat stretches, gently curving tracks that wound with the progress of the lake. The hills along the west side of the road were brown and sandy, the soil apparently as shallow and dry as any desert. And yet the ground must have harbored much more than Abigail could perceive because the landscape was lush with trees and grapevines and fields—verdant, thriving, and every shade of green imaginable.
