If You Find Me(6)

“This way, ma’am,” I say, poppin’ Nessa farther up my back and takin’ the lead, refusin’ to meet the man’s eyes as he steps aside so we can pass.

I focus on the endless treetops scrapin’ the sunset into gooey colors, the birds trillin’ and fussin’ at our departure. I close my eyes for a second, breathin’ in deep to make serious memories, the kind that stick forever. I’d locked up the camper on my way out, but I don’t know who has a key, since Ness and I don’t, and we’d only ever locked up when we were inside.

Mama has a key, and the least she could’ve done, if she wasn’t comin’ back, would’ve been to leave it for us. And then I remember: the old hollow hickory, the one a few hundred feet past the clearin’. I’m eight years old, watchin’ Mama slide a sweaty white string off her neck with a brass key danglin’ from it, glintin’ in the sunlight.

“This is our spare, and if you ever need it, it’ll be right here in the tree. See?”

She places it into the hollow, where it disappears like a magic trick.

I feel safer, somehow, knowin’ the key is there.

My secret.

If I ever need it, if Ness and I come back, it’ll be right there waitin’ for us.





2


My head buzzes like bees around Pooh’s honey pot, the farther we get from the camper.

I know they think we look funny. Talk funny. Mama’s right: I have to remember my g’s.

I, Carey Violet Blackburn, vow, from this second forward, no more dropped g’s. No more ain’ts or don’ts. I’m going to do Mama and Jenessa right proud.

No one talks as we crunch our way through the forest. I try to follow what trails I can for their sake, but in these woods, there aren’t enough feet to beat back the overgrowth on a continuous basis.

“Dammit!”

I turn and see the man help Mrs. Haskell to her feet, her panty hose ripped just below each knee, with one knee bloodied. She continues on, limping along as if one leg is longer than the other. I reckon she’s broken off the heel of one of those fancy shoes.

Nessa shifts her weight, her twiggy arms linked around my neck. Against my back, she shakes like a leaf. Her thumb would calm her, but she needs to hold on with both hands.

“It’s going to be okay, Ness,” I chirp softly, summoning up some cheer. “You’ll have a bed, a real bed—do you ever remember sleeping in a real bed?”

She shakes her head no against my shoulder.

“That’s right. The bed in the camper is actually a cot. It’s not the same. There are a lot of things you’ve never had—biscuits with Pooh honey, as much as you can eat. Ice cream—wait till you taste all the different kinds of ice cream—I reckon there must be two hundred different flavors, at least.”

Nessa leans her head against my shoulder, lulled by my voice.

“There’s this thing called TV—it’s like your storybooks come to life, but on a screen, in a box that sits on a stand. You’re going to love that. There are machines that keep food cold and wash clothes and do so many things that save city folk lots of time.”

Nessa’s breath is slow and even, tickling my ear. I whisper the rest, knowing sleep right now would be best for her.

“I don’t remember most things, but some things you don’t forget. And you know what else?”

Nessa shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and it’s a good sign, her playing along.

“If you don’t want to, you’ll never have to eat another bean in your life.”

The sun disappears and dusk covers the forest like the weathered tarp covering our firewood, casting the trees into unfamiliar shapes unless you’re right on top of them.

“Is it much farther?”

Mrs. Haskell is huffing now, and the man walks behind her, as if to help her along if she needs it. Short of carrying her, there’s not much he can do. I imagine him piggybacking her the rest of the way, and I crack a secret smile.

“Not much farther. Just over the hill,” I say, stretching the truth a wee bit.

Mrs. Haskell stops in her tracks, distressed, glaring at me.

“It’s not a big hill, ma’am. More like a hump, I swear.”

She shakes her head, mutters under her breath, but at least we’re back on the move.

An hour later, we reach the blacktopped turn off on the main road, a scenic overlook of the forest and the mountains beyond. It was here, years ago, that Mama clicked on the right-turn signal and pulled off the road, headlights bouncing down a dirt trail barely wide enough for the car and camper. I look back, trying to catch sight of where that dirt road used to be, but all that’s left is the faint foot trail we’ve walked up.

Mrs. Haskell breathes a sigh of relief with paved ground beneath her shoes. She drops the garbage bag and stops to catch her breath, and as she does, tucks the loose hairs back into her bun. But it only makes it look worse, if you ask me, which no one does.

I know, because I’m a master at hairstyles, having practiced on Jenessa all these years—and believe me, curly hair is harder. A hairdressing magazine showed me how to braid, roll, pin up, part hair into all different dos. If Mrs. Haskell would just sit on the car bumper, I could work my magic in a jiffy.

At least I could if there weren’t so many bats swooping after bugs.