A History of Wild Places(97)

He opens the passenger door, not forcing me to sit in the back, and we pull out of the hotel parking lot. I’m careful not to touch anything inside the car—I don’t want to see the faces of those who’ve been arrested, handcuffed, and forced into this automobile.

The clouds are low and suffocating overhead, but the day is mild, slightly humid, and smelling of car exhaust. My police escort isn’t the talkative type, thankfully, and we sit in silence as we pass a handful of fast-food restaurants, a coffee hut, two hardware stores, and a church. It’s a small town, but it feels dense, the buildings crushed closely together, houses divided by fences.

I feel like I’m not in my own skin, watching it all whiz by, but after another mile more, we arrive at the hospital at the top of a sloped hillside.

The young officer with the short haircut and bored eyes gives me a nod when I open the door. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Calla’s hospital room is on the second floor. All bleached-white surfaces and ticking machines. Her eyes lift when I enter the room, and she holds out a hand to me, tears already wetting her eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, my mouth against hers.

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not your fault.”

“I should’ve gotten the gun from him quicker. I should have told you to run.”

Again she shakes her head, smiling. “I wouldn’t have left you alone anyway. You know how stubborn I am.”

I nod and she pulls me down to kiss her again.

“I wanted to come see you last night but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Doctor says I can probably leave tomorrow. Or the next day.” Her mouth falls flat and she looks pale, weak, but she’s alive. “The bullet wasn’t deep, just between my ribs. I should heal fine.”

I squeeze her hand between both my palms. I should have been here when she woke up, should have been here to talk to the doctors; I never should have let her be alone.

“I told them it was a hunting accident,” she says. “That no one was at fault.”

We’ve told so many lies since we’ve found our way out, like we’re afraid of the truth—like we’re protecting the place we left behind.

“It’s cold here,” she says at last, and I release her hand to draw the white hospital blanket up to her chin, tucking it close. But she adds, “Not that kind of cold.”

I smile for the first time. “I know what you mean.”

She traces circles with her finger inside the palm of my hand. “Did you tell them where we came from?”

“No. Only that we were living in the woods, that’s all. I didn’t tell them about the others.”

“Maybe we should.”

“It will change everything if we do. And maybe they’re better off in that forest than out here.”

“Better living a lie?” she asks. “Living in fear with Levi?” She winces and touches her left side where the bullet was dislodged from her torso.

I touch her shoulder, wishing I could take the pain from her, stuff it down inside my own rib cage.

“I don’t know.” I don’t know what happens now, where we go from here. I’m worried about those we left behind, worried what will happen to them if we do nothing. And a small part of me is also worried I won’t be able to remember the man I used to be, the man I was out here. From the man I became. I’m worried I won’t be able to tell the difference between the two.

Calla’s expression settles. “How are Colette and the baby?”

“Colette’s real name is Ellen. She was an actress before she came to Pastoral. It was on the news in the hotel.”

“You’re staying in a hotel?” Her eyes smile a little.

“Yeah.”

“How is it?”

“It smells like damp laundry.”

She laughs then immediately cringes, grabbing for her ribs again. Her eyes begin to droop closed; whatever drugs are in her IV are making her drowsy.

“You should rest,” I say.

She swallows and forces her eyelids open again. “Maybe you’re wrong,” she says, the sleepiness heavy in her voice. “Maybe Colette’s real name isn’t Ellen. Maybe her real name is the one she had in Pastoral.” She smiles gently, touching my hand. “Maybe that’s the only one that matters.”

“Maybe,” I answer. But she’s already asleep, snoring softly, her dark hair draped across the pillow.





CALLA


My name is not Calla. I am Maggie St. James.

Seven years ago, I went into the woods and forgot how to get back out.

But now, I wake in my hospital bed, the clean hygienic scent nauseating—I can’t think of a worse smell than a sterilized room. I prefer the scent of dirt and pollen, old books and old wood.

Three days I’ve been here, but they say I can go home now. Home? Where is that?

A nurse told me that Colette—Ellen Ballister—left the hospital. Her husband and family came to collect her through a sea of reporters and cameramen anxious to get an image of the starlet, returned after all these years with a baby in her arms—a baby fathered by a man who was not the husband she left behind. A baby who, the nurse also tells me, should survive.

She also finally gave the child a name: Clover Clementine Rose.