“Was your mom good with your sister?”
I take another bite of Twinkie. Again, I don’t know how to answer. I’m not used to sharing, especially information about ourselves. After all those years sworn to secrecy, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it.
“She tried to be. She did her best by us, I reckon. But she had her own stuff to deal with.” The lie tastes bitter, tainting the moment. I wish I’d never said the words.
Ryan stares off into the distance, avoiding my eyes, like he knows I’m lying. All of a sudden, I’m feeling naked as the trees without their snow cover.
“I reckon you know something you’re not saying,” I venture. “I’m not stupid.”
He scrutinizes my face, then looks away. My leg begins to jiggle. I rest my arm on my thigh to make it stop.
“I don’t know if I should say anything.”
“Please,” I say quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Just say it.”
I watch him reach inside his coat pocket and pull out a piece of white paper folded in squares. My heart pounds as I think of Delaney and the R circle on the window glass.
He already knows. He’s trying to find a way to “let me down easy,” as they say on TV
I take the paper from him, my hands shaking, and unfold it on my lap, smoothing out the creases. But it isn’t Mama’s letter. It’s worse.
I see a picture of a little girl with a Po doll in her arms, below the words MISSING AND ENDANGERED. The words disappear as I stare at the little girl, who still looks like me. Five years old, barely. Top middle teeth missing. Wearing a stripey maroon pullover, hair still pumpkin-seed blond. Easy smile. So easy, I ache at the sight of it.
My voice comes from far, far away.
“Where did you get this?”
I’m breathing fast. I can’t stop; soon, I’m panting like Shorty after chasing tennis balls, and the trees seem to run in circles around me.
“Here, take this. Put it over your mouth and breathe in and out as deeply as you can.”
I take the lunch bag and follow his instructions. In. Out. In. Out. Until the trees slow to a stop and the ground sinks back into place. Ryan reaches out to steady me, but before I can stop myself, I push him away.
“Where did you get this?” I wave the flyer at him, my voice on the verge of hysteria.
“My mom. I was talking about you, and she remembered some old newspaper clippings. She saves newspaper clippings in a scrapbook. The flyer was in there, too.”
“How many people have seen this?”
I flinch as his eyes register surprise, then hurt.
“No one! I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that? I just thought—”
“What? That it’d be fun to humiliate me?”
“It’s not like that.” Ryan pleads with me. “CC, I didn’t mean—”
“My mother is not a kidnapper! This is Bullshit.”
I don’t know why I’m lying to him. I don’t know why I’m protecting her.
“Forget it. Let’s just—”
Ryan watches helplessly as I scramble to my feet. I’m glad to see him off balance—just like me. I shove the flyer into my knapsack before slinging it over my shoulder. I snatch up my violin case, smacking his knee with it. Reaching out, he places his hand over mine as I clutch the handle tight.
“I’m sorry, CC. I didn’t mean— I wasn’t trying to—”
“I don’t want anyone to know about Mama!”
How many other people have seen this flyer? How many people remember? Is that why they stare at us? Because they know? Do they know about the woods, too?
I wrench my hand from his and make my way back to the building, marching through the footprints we’d made on our way out, my heart as cold as my toes, but my anger colder.
This was a mistake, coming here. I’ll never be the same as these girls, no matter how many pairs of bedazzled jeans I own.
Back in the library, I hide in a different carrel, unseen by Ryan as he sags through the library, his face stormy, his eyes devoid of their usual light.
You did that. You hurt one of the only people who bothered to be kind to you.
My chest aches. I don’t know the right words for it, but it aches so hard, I can’t breathe. My innards feel tangled as a net of bluegills. I reckon I’m just so sick of the tangles.
Even though Mrs. Haskell used the word, too, I still don’t want to believe Mama stole me. Mama took me away to protect me—she wasn’t the bad guy; my father was! But then, why do none of the stories add up? Why isn’t he the man Mama made him out to be?
Without realizing I’m doing it, I reach across my left shoulder and rub the burns on my back. Like Mama’s worry beads, I think, and stop.
Can you even hear me out here, Saint Joseph? Is it too loud for you to hear me?
I think of our lives in the Hundred Acre Wood, the days painted yellow (phoebies), rusty crimson (Christopher robins; to Jenessa, all robins are “Christopher robins”), blue (with blue jays, or possibly tears), and the woods themself, a living thing, unfurling in shades of beauty, pain, misery, awe, joy, all swirled together, never running out of new and different combinations.
Mama did what she had to do. She saved us.
Then why the burns? Why the switch?
I ignore the bell when it rings, and I do know the term for what I’m doing—cutting. Cutting class. I blend into the other students in the library, pretending I have independent study hall like everyone else.
Over in the reference section, I find a book on national parks. I leaf through the pages until I find Obed Wild and Scenic River National Park. I study the pictures. The familiar tide of homesickness washes over me.
This is never going to work. Maybe for Jenessa, but not for me. I’m like Ness’s broken-legged chipmunk, which had to be shaken and poked out of the birdcage once it healed, preferring the familiar, even if the familiar was a jail. Home is home.
A tree for every word of Pooh ever spoken. The Lady of Shalott curtseying before a minuet. Lancelot bowing, his hair a ripple of sun-bleached wheat. My “puffed-up library“ as Mama called it, a scooped-out nook carved by ancient tree roots in the high bank, close enough to be by Ness, yet far enough away to be alone. Boards wedged between rocks becoming shelves that housed whatever books I was reading at the time.
In Obed, I was queen of the world. In the zone, violin wailing, all the animals stopped to listen to a bow coax music from wood.
Here, there’s always noise. Pointless sounds. Electric lights humming, keyboards clicking, phones chirping, music playing, people chattering. My head is Thanksgiving Day-full, and I hate it.
But it doesn’t matter, because I need to be where Nessa is, and Nessa needs to be with me. She sacrificed her words because of the white-star night. I’ll sacrifice my sanity, if it means keeping her here.
Back at my father’s house, with all the pomp and circumstance of an Obed red-shouldered hawk funeral, I shove my violin to the back of the highest shelf of my closet, pull some white rectangular boxes in front of it, fuss a little more, then stand back, satisfied.
I’m not that girl anymore. The fiddler in the woods is dead. I’m like a wild bear balancing on a ball in the circus: I’m no longer one or the other. I’m The New One. The One I Don’t Know Yet. And, as Delaney likes to say, it kinda sucks.
After dinner, a quiet one with Delaney at school for a late cheer practice, I sit cross-legged on my bed, my geometry book open on my lap. It doesn’t take long to work out the answers to the problems in the notebook next to me, even though my mind keeps returning to Ryan and the look on his face.
I can’t let Mama ruin one more thing.
I have to apologize. I know it. And yet I hesitate even as I imagine it, walking up to him and saying the words. No one warned me that being close to people meant hurting sometimes, both them and you. And then I think of Mama. If I’d learned anything, it should’ve been that.
A small knock and a short bark, and I can’t help but smile.
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“Come in.”
Shorty climbs onto the bed in stages, eventually stretching out next to me, using my thigh as a pillow. I pat the bed.
“Come sit for a minute, Ness.”
Jenessa climbs up and snuggles against me. Her skin smells like cake. Like Melissa’s famous butterscotch cake, and, on further inspection, I see flour on her shirt. Dried batter above her lip. I push the books and papers to the end of the bed with my feet.
“You look good, Ness. You look healthy and happy.”
What she does next surprises me.
“I am,” she says softly. Me and Shorty sway toward the sound of her voice, like flowers to the sunlight. “I love it here. Don’t you?”
Her eyes are pleading, hoping. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how perceptive she is, especially where I’m concerned. Her silence makes a person forget her quick memory, the braille way she reads people, her mind sharper than the waddle badger and the shuffle fox combined.
I remember what the speech therapist told Mama.
“If she talks, don’t make a big deal out of it. We don’t want to give her mutism any more power than it already has. The same goes for her silence.”
“It’s nice here, yes,” I tell her, forcing a smile. And it’s not a lie. It is nice here, with a warm bed, new clothes, a quiet belly, toasty toes. We can even go barefoot in winter. We even have slippers.
“I like Melissa. Isn’t she nice?”
I have to lean in close to hear her, but even so, it’s progress— whole sentences of it.
“She’s wonderful. It’s obvious she thinks you’re wonderful, too, Ness.”
I pull her closer, breathing her in. Strawberry shampoo. Baby powder. She rests her head on my chest and my heart swells. Regardless of how I feel about myself, I’m so happy for her, I could bust.
“You’re not ever gonna leave me, are you, Carey?”
I watch her hands play with Shorty’s ears, arranging them on his head as if they were a hairstyle. I’m sad that she doesn’t know I won’t.
“Wherever you are, I’ll be there. Remember?”
“Like in the Hundred Acre Wood,” she says, lifting her head to check my eyes. “You said we’d always be together.”
“And I meant it.”
But, for the first time that I can remember, she’s not sure she can believe me. It makes my chest ache all over again.
I recite one of her favorite Poohisms. “ ‘If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together. . . . there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But, the most important thing is, even if we’re apart . . . I’ll always be with you.’ ”
She looks up at me, and for a split second, I see her campfire eyes shining back at me, the ones from before the white-star night.
“But I want you here for real, “ she says, pouting. “Not in my heart, but for real.”
“I’m here, baby.” I take her hand. “See?”
“I’m never leaving, Carey. Even when I’m older than old.”
“I bet I know one of your favorite parts about being here,” I say, teasing her. “No more beans.”
“Uh-uh,” she says, correcting me with a grin. “Human beans.”
I could eat her up.
“Did you finish your homework?”
The campfire goes out, and she shakes her head no, scrambling from the bed and motioning to Shorty. The dog lowers himself slowly to the ground and proceeds to stretch, rump poking the air, front paws splayed, back leg centered beneath him. It looks like one of Melissa’s yoga positions.
“Could you close the door, please?”
They disappear with a click and it’s just me again. Backwoods, clumsy, square-peg me. Circus Bear Carey, and I reckon that’s not the worst folks could call me.
Jenessa would be fine. If they didn’t want me anymore, she’d be fine. That’s the main thing.
Ness would always be okay, if she had Melissa. Melissa would raise her as if she were her own—she already is. Even Delaney loves Nessa. We all know it, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
Another knock, and I wonder what Jenessa forgot.
“Come in.”
Only it’s Melissa, bearing a tray of butterscotch cake and a glass of chocolate milk. She sets it down on the night table, smiling at me.
“It’s strange to have daughters who do their homework without being scolded into it,” she says.
We stare at each other, the word daughters hanging in the air, dainty and unexpected, like the first snowflake of winter.
I look her in the eye, woods-brave. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“For the cake? It’s no bother.”
“Not just the cake.” Monkey arms sprout from my shoulders, but it’s important. “ She’s happy here.”
Her eyes smile at me, warming me, like the eyes of a mother from a book. Just when I think she’s about to cry, she blinks back the tears and gives a little laugh.
“I really care about your sister. About both of you, for that matter.”
She looks away, taking a moment, then finds my eyes again.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” She pauses, straightening the edge of my quilt so it hangs straight. “Can I assume your back looks something like Nessa’s?”
I look away, in answer. I know she hears it.
“You must’ve been pretty brave, fending for yourselves in the woods.”
I wish something fierce it were true. Wish I felt it.
“Your dad asked if you’d help him outside,” she says softly. “You can have your cake afterward.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I slip from the bed, feeling self-conscious as I search for my socks. She pauses in the doorway, watching me.
“Are you, Carey?” she asks.
“Am I what, ma’am?” I find my snow boots half under the bed, hidden behind the dust ruffle.
“Happy here. Perhaps just a little?”
I busy myself by pulling on boots. Ryan makes my heart soar like a kite. This here makes my heart feel gnawed on, like one of Shorty’s bones. But it’s not her fault. It’s not her fault she won’t want me once she knows about the white-star night.
“You’ve been very kind to us. I could never repay you.”
“But . . .” she says sadly, waiting.
“It’s not—it’s just—it’s just that I—”
She crosses the room in two strides and enfolds me in her arms. I hear sobs, muffled by her thick sweater, before I realize that it’s me crying. That’s me. When she kisses my hair, I close my eyes, making a memory, one I can take with me wherever I go.
“We knew it would be harder for you, sweetie. Especially for you. And that’s okay.”
But it’s not.
She sinks to the bed, pulling me with her. We sit together, not talking. I want to be the girl in the mirror glass, the lucky girl who has it easy, the girl who forgets all about the woods and the horrible things she’s done. I want to be like Delaney and go to sleepovers and listen to the cool music and dance around my room in my new jeans. But I don’t know how to be that girl.
“The day before your dad went to get you two, we spent three hours with Mrs. Haskell, asking all sorts of questions. How could we make you girls feel at home. How could we help you fit in. Things like that.”
She smoothes my hair from my face and caresses my cheek with the back of her hand.
“Mrs. Haskell gave us ideas as to what to do, what not to do, how it might go, what problems to expect. But in the end, even if we did everything right, she said it all came down to time.”
“Time?” I sniffle.
“Time. Time to get used to things, time to forge new bonds, new associations. There’s no rushing time. She said it wouldn’t always be easy, and that you girls might be homesick or angry or confused. She said that no matter what happened, the best we could do was just love you as you are.”
“She said that?”
“Yes. Your dad couldn’t understand how you girls could ever be homesick, especially after the way you were living. But I could. We make attachments to what’s familiar. We find the beauty, even in the lack. That’s human. We make the best of what we’re given.”
I think over her words. It’s true.
“And all of this”—she makes a sweeping gesture—“isn’t what you’re used to. We even thought it might be best if we homeschooled you, but Mrs. Haskell was right. Better to face your fears and make a new normal, instead of sitting around worrying about it.”
She stands up and smoothes down her apron. “It’ll be okay, sweetie. If you let it.”
Like she knows for sure. Could she?
“Your dad’s waiting for you.”
I let her tug me to my feet.
“This is yours, too, Carey. I know it’s different. But it’s yours.”
I take back my hand, like a leaf letting go. It hurts too much to hang on. So why does it hurt so much to let go?
“Thank you, ma’am.” I look at her, then look away. “I reckon Delaney’s not too happy, though.”
If they make me leave, I’m taking this new coat with me, I think as I zip up my puffer coat—that’s what Melissa called it, a “puffer coat”—and pull on my mittens. The quilted waist-long white coat sprouts a hood lined in faux ermine. Or at least in my mind it is.
Melissa stops in the doorway and turns, her face thoughtful.
“Delly was used to things being a certain way, too. Although she’d never met you, you were already a part of her life. Not an easy part, either. So, Delly needs time. We all need time. Thank goodness we have plenty of it.”
She leaves me alone. I pull on the strange cap with its interwoven threads of blue-, pink-, and yellow-speckled wool, the braided ties hanging from the earflaps. I turn and catch myself in the mirror.
I’m always unleaving.
The woods girl stares back with her grim face, eyes the color of rotting leaves. I blink, and the One I Don’t Know Yet, blinks back.
Outside, I follow the light. I can hear my father moving around in the barn as I crunch my way through the snow and slide open the door. He’s flipping down straw bedding for the four goats to sleep on, while the donkeys, one cocoa brown and the other softest gray, munch hay in their stalls with half-closed lids.