Some Kind of Animal

by Maria Romasco-Moore

  She’s here. In the daylight. Her blue dress the same color as the sky. She is perfectly still for a moment, watching.

  The church door swings open behind me. My sister drops the rock and runs.

  I start to follow but there’s a hand on my arm.

  “Where are you going?” the pastor demands.

  “It was her,” I say, trying to pull away. “My sister. She ran that way.”

  The pastor stares down at me, brow furrowed.

  “It was her,” I say again. “She was throwing rocks. She must have been the one who broke my window.”

  I can hardly believe it, but it seems clear now. She was here, in the daylight. She is breaking all her own rules. She is going to finish what she started. She is going to destroy my whole life. I try to jerk my arm away, but the pastor doesn’t let go. He’s just staring at me, like he doesn’t believe me after all.

  “I thought you were on my side,” I say, and I intend it to sound angry, but instead my voice hitches like I’m going to cry.

  A flicker of something crosses the pastor’s face. And then he lets go of my arm—so suddenly I almost fall—and before I can react, he’s off running, scrambling up the mound, disappearing beyond it.

  “What’s going on?” somebody asks from behind me. “Was it teenagers?”

  I run.

  On the other side of the mound there’s a small gulley before the ground swells upward and the forest begins. The pastor has stopped just beyond the tree line. I slide down into the gulley, run up the other side.

  “Did you see her?” I ask when I reach him.

  “I saw someone,” he says. He’s scanning the trees, but there’s no sign of her. The forest is still and quiet. I can hear the pastor’s wheezing breaths. He’s out of breath already from his short sprint.

  “There,” he whispers, and I look and she’s stepping out from behind a thick oak. She meets my eyes. She was waiting. Waiting for me.

  The pastor races toward her. She turns and runs. He’ll never catch her. I overtake him easily, follow the flashes of blue.

  I’m not used to doing this in the daytime. The sun knifes in at sharp angles, cutting stripes across the trees, shooting through the undergrowth. Everything is so bright it almost seems fake.

  I circle around a huge fallen tree to cut my sister off, but she darts the other way, and I stumble over a jutting root. The pastor goes scrabbling past me, sending dead leaves flying in his wake. I try to follow, but the sun gets in my eyes and in a moment I lose sight of both of them.

  Up ahead, the pastor shouts. A quick sharp cry of surprise. I push myself forward, muscles burning, small branches whipping against my chest, my face. My head pounds. My wrist throbs so hard I can practically hear it.

  I skid to a stop just in time to avoid careering over the edge of a small drop-off, where the ground falls away suddenly before continuing about five feet lower.

  The pastor is lying on his side down there, clutching his leg and groaning. My sister is standing a few feet from him. Not running away. Just standing there, watching him.

  I crouch at the edge of the drop-off and jump down. Lee turns to face me. Her ribs heave, straining against the fabric of her dress. It looks worse in the daylight, ripped, stained, and faded. Everything looks worse. Her matted hair. Her dirty nails. Fresh scratches on her legs stand out bright red. She’s left her plastic heart purse somewhere, stowed in a hollow tree or under a rock.

  “What are you doing?” I shout at her. “This is crazy.”

  “Run away,” she says.

  “I think I broke my damn ankle,” says the pastor.

  “Get up,” I tell him.

  “No,” says Lee. She crouches, digs around in the dead leaves. When she stands she’s holding a fist-sized rock, jagged, with clods of dirt and dead grass still clinging to it.

  “We just want to help you,” gasps the pastor, his voice tight with pain as he struggles to stand. He’s leaning against the rocky face of the drop-off, trying to pull himself up without putting any weight on the injured foot. He wobbles, puts his foot down to catch himself, grunts, drops back down to his knees.

  My sister takes a step forward.

  “Wait,” I say. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “You,” she says. She’s looking at me, not at the pastor. She’s coming toward me. I back up a step, but the little cliff is at my back. She broke my window. Last night. Was she coming to break me out? Or to break me?

  “Lee,” I say, trying to sound calm, “just wait a second, let’s talk, okay? Forget about him. Let’s just talk. You and me.”

  “You and him,” she says.

  “No,” I say. I take a few sideways steps, away from the pastor. “No. Just you and me.”

  “You and him!” she shouts, her voice cracking. I’m not sure whether she means the pastor or Henry.

  She marches right up to me until we’re face to face. The cut on her cheek has scabbed over. Her eyes are so much like mine, her nose, her mouth. And yet everything about her face is absolutely different. She is the most important person in my life and I have done everything for her. Protected her. Kept her secret. Why can’t she see that?

  “You and me,” I say again, staring back. “I don’t even care about him. I swear.”

  There’s a shuffling sound. We both turn to look at the pastor. He’s dragged himself away a little. He’s got something in his hands, which are shaking. His phone.

  My sister lunges at him with the rock.

  “Wait!” I shout. The pastor throws an arm up to protect himself, hand blocking his face. My sister swings the rock, but she’s not aiming for his head. The rock connects with his other hand, knocks the phone out of it. The pastor howls. The phone skitters away in the leaves. Lee scrambles after it, raises the rock in the air, and smashes it down right in the center of the screen. She bashes the phone again and again with the rock, shattering the glass.

  The pastor crawls toward her in the dirt. My heart thuds along with the rock. This is happening too fast. I feel light-headed.

  Lee doesn’t notice the pastor until it’s too late. He grabs her arm. She tries to pull away, but he’s strong. He’s a grown man. Next to him, my sister looks so small.

  “Don’t be scared,” says the pastor. “I just want to help you.”

  She tries to kick him, but he just grabs her ankle with his free hand. She bucks and squirms. I can see her panic in the way she moves. Frantic. Uncoordinated. She’s not thinking. She’s flopping like a hooked fish. Her dress bunches up from the friction of her squirming, rides up over her ass, over her crotch.

  “Jesus Christ,” says the pastor. “Help me hold her, Jo.”

  I take a few steps forward, but I don’t know what to do. My sister’s panic is contagious. The sunlight is too bright. I’m not used to seeing her this way. Exposed. Weak.

  I’m mad at her. I should be mad at her.

  My sister tries to bite the pastor, but he pushes her back, twists her around so she’s facing away from him. He wraps his arms around her chest, pinning her arms firmly at her sides. She kicks uselessly at the dirt and leaves in front of her. She shrieks. A flock of birds startle from the brush. The pastor kneels behind her, trying to keep her still.

  “Jo,” he says, “can you get her to calm down somehow?”

  “Stop struggling,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds far away, disconnected.

  My sister just kicks harder.

  “Stop kicking,” I say. “It’s not helping. He’s stronger than you.”

  My sister stops kicking. She wriggles a few times, then goes still, lets her hands drop.

  “I’m trying to help you,” says the pastor. “Don’t be scared. I’m a friend of Jolene’s and I want to help both of you. Tell her, Jo.”

  “Don’t be scared,” I say. I’m frozen, just standing
there uselessly. I should move. I should help one of them. But which one?

  “What’s your name?” the pastor asks. “What did you call her, Jo?”

  My sister has gone limp. She’s slumped in the pastor’s arms, head dangling down toward her chest, legs in the dirt, and I’m worried he’s hurt her, squeezed her too hard, forced the breath out of her or snapped a rib. She looks so much smaller than usual.

  “Lee?” I say.

  My sister’s hands move, clutching at the dirt. She ducks her head down and in one swift move, snaps her arms up, sending two handfuls of dirt flying backward, right into the pastor’s face. He yells, lets go, and clutches his face.

  She wrenches free, jumps to her feet, but the pastor grabs blindly at her dress, manages to get a fistful of skirt. My sister lunges forward, but she’s caught again. The pastor wipes his eyes, then grabs her skirt with his other hand. She strains to break away, pulling like an animal caught in a trap. The kind of frantic struggling that only gets them tangled.

  “Don’t be scared!” I shout.

  My sister freezes in place. She puts her hands up in the air, like she’s surrendering.

  Then she falls, suddenly—just collapses to the ground like a dropped doll. There’s the sound of ripping fabric and she’s up again and running, butt-naked, the dress discarded in the dirt, the pastor grasping at nothing.

  He stares down at the dress, head bowed. Touches it with one hand, as if to reassure himself. He looks up to where my sister has disappeared already over the crest of a small ridge. Finally, he turns back to me. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are red and watery, his face streaked with dirt, collar askew.

  “Jesus,” he says. “Lord and savior. She’s real. You weren’t lying.”

  “No shit,” I say. I wish it were Aggie or Savannah here with me. Wish, almost, that I could go back to before, when nobody believed me. It feels so strange now, to have the secret out in the open. Feels dangerous.

  “Look what she did to my hand.” He holds it out. I take another step forward. The jagged rock sliced the base of his thumb a little. There’s a bit of blood smeared on his palm.

  “At least she didn’t bite you,” I say. My wrist still throbs dully. A steady pain.

  I crouch beside the torn remnants of my sister’s blue dress, brush my fingers over the fabric. She’s worn it for five years, stubborn as anything. The fabric’s so thin, it’s a small miracle it didn’t fall apart before now. It had been a gift from Grandma Margaret for my tenth birthday. I don’t even like dresses. But my sister’s eyes lit up when I brought it to her that night. She tore off her old dress immediately and put it on, stroked the shiny fabric, admired the lace, spun in giddy circles.

  The pastor pushes himself slowly to his feet, groaning, takes a few stumbling steps to the nearest tree, and leans against it

  “You’ve got to help me,” he says. “I think my ankle’s just sprained, but it hurts to put weight on it. You help me back, then we’ll put a search party together.”

  “Search party?” I straighten up. “No.”

  “God. I can’t believe she’s even alive.”

  “You can’t tell the police,” I say. Here it is. All my fears, all Lee’s fears, coming true all at once. It’s her fault this is happening, but it’s mine too. I told the pastor and now I’ll lose her. This is happening too fast. “They’ll lock her up. Promise me you won’t tell them.”

  “Jo,” he says softly. “She’s obviously…she needs help.”

  He tries to take a step toward me, winces.

  “She’s fine,” I say. I stand up too quickly and my head spins. He doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t know her.

  “Fine?” The pastor looks aghast. “Jesus, Jo. Did you see her? She’s a mess. She’s probably sick. I mean, what does she even eat? She’s so skinny. She’s got to be half starved.”

  “She’s a good hunter.”

  “She’s a child.” He takes a lurching step over to a skinny tree, leans heavily against it. “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for her out here, all alone.”

  “She’s wasn’t alone.” I take a step backward, away from him. “She had me.”

  “I’m sorry, Jo,” he says, “I know this must be tough for you. But you did the right thing telling me about her.”

  I’m not sure if I did.

  “The Lord brought me here for a reason,” says the pastor. “Your mother…I couldn’t save her. But now—” He gives me a lopsided smile, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “Now I’ve got a second chance. It’s why I came back, Jo.”

  “What?” I take another step backward.

  “After I left Lester,” says the pastor, still with that funny smile, “I never wanted to see it again. But when I heard Pastor Nelson had died, that they were looking for someone to take over his church, I knew it was a sign. I knew I had to come back for you.”

  For me? What the hell is he talking about?

  “I can save you,” he says. “I can save both of you.”

  Something boils up inside me. My sister’s bare legs kicking at the dirt. That dark valley between them. The pastor’s hands on her shoulders. The pastor’s arms around her, holding her, pinning her, squeezing her. How small she looked.

  He wants to trap her. Wants to make her that small forever.

  “No,” I say, backing up.

  “Jo,” says the pastor, holding out his hand, still leaning against that reedy little tree, still smiling with tears in his eyes. “Help me.”

  Help him or help her. It’s one or the other.

  I have been trying to have it both ways for so long. Keeping one foot in the normal world and one in the world of my sister. Splitting myself in half. But I can’t anymore.

  I take another step backward. The pastor’s smile drops away. He lets go of the tree, tries to take a step forward, winces.

  “Jo?” he says. He looks scared now, blue eyes wide, outstretched hand quivering in the air.

  I turn and run.

  “Jo!” shouts the pastor behind me. “Jo, wait. Come back. Jolene!”

  I don’t know where I’m going. I just run, sloppily, panting, half tripping on roots, sliding on leaves, letting branches whack against me. I don’t make it very far before I have to stop, lean against a tree, catch my breath. My head is spinning.

  I hear a stick crack and I whip around and it’s her, bare as a winter branch. He’s right. She is skinny. I can see her ribs. Her hip bones jutting like roots. Her chest is flatter than mine, her breasts barely swells.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe she really isn’t getting enough to eat. I don’t know.

  She steps closer, holds out a thin dirty hand.

  I take it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We run for a long time. I don’t think. I open my chest, open my head, let the air stream through them as I run. In some places the trees are so thick that the sun doesn’t reach us, caught in the web of leaves high above. In other places the sun whips across our faces, sets the weeds on fire.

  I outrun my pain, outrun my thoughts, outrun my body. When I run long enough I forget that I even have a body. I forget who I am. I am only motion.

  I am free.

  My sister finally slows, drops down to a jog, and then stops. We must be a long way from Lester, deep into the national forest. Miles away from houses, miles away from anybody.

  I lean against a tree and try to catch my breath. I feel like I’m still running, like the wind is still whipping through me. My stomach lurches. I buckle to my knees and dry heave.

  “Don’t be stupid,” says Lee.

  But I can’t help it. Waves of nausea pulse through me, each one bigger and stronger than the last until it is too much and I puke, liquid splattering across the leaves. Afterward my throat burns with bile and my limbs feel shaky, weightless.

&nbs
p; “Gross,” says Lee. I laugh. My laugh feels hysterical, like it’s spewing out of me too.

  My sister pulls me to my feet. My wrist is throbbing. My head is throbbing. I’ve puked from running before, when I push myself too fast, too far. It’s no big deal. I just need to sit down.

  She leads me through some brambles to a shallow cave carved into the side of a rock overhang. Bare tree roots jut out above the entrance, which I have to stoop to walk through.

  I sink down along the side of the cave and lean my head against the stone. I’ve seen some of her hideouts before, but never this one. I’m almost offended that she’s never brought me here, but maybe it was just too far. At the back of the cave there’s a big green trash bag propped against the wall and beside it another trash bag, this one folded up flat and held down with a pile of rocks. Lee squats beside it.

  “You really need to put on some clothes,” I tell her. Her spine pushes out from her back like a line of stepping-stones. There’s a big yellow bruise on one hip. Scratches on her thighs. Bug bites dense as freckles. I’ve caught fleas from my sister a few dozen times, lice twice.

  She removes the rocks carefully from the flattened trash bag and pulls a thick dirt-colored book from the folds. If I hadn’t already lost my library card, this would do it for sure. I don’t even remember checking this book out. How long overdue must it be?

  Lee holds it out for me to take, grinning.

  “I don’t want to read right now,” I say. “My head hurts.” Everything hurts.

  She pushes the book into my hands. The front cover is barely attached, worn at the corners and dappled with water stains. There’s no Lester County Library sticker. The spine is black and cracked, pieces of it flaking away, but I can make out, faintly, the embossed words running along it: Holy Bible. I blink at it, confused. This copy doesn’t even have pictures. Where did she get it? Maybe I brought it to her a long time ago and then forgot?

  “Come on,” says Lee. She scoots over to sit next to me, folds her bony knees up to her chest, still naked, unashamed. The book smells moldy. I open it to the first page and something falls out, flutters into my lap.