If You Find Me(66)

“Here,” she says to my father. “I thought you’d need this.”

[page]It’s his heavy work coat, the one he wears in the barn when he’s tending to the animals at night. It’s perfect, actually, for where we’re going.

Melissa pulls my father’s scarf and hat from inside her coat and hands them to me. They’re both warm and smell like her, like Beautiful, the perfume she wears and had bought for me, too, that day at the mall.

Once my father’s coat is on, I hand him the scarf and hat. Melissa takes the bloodstained coat, the smears dried into rust.

“Where are you two off to?”

I can’t believe the words leave my lips so easily.

“Back to the woods. I left something important behind. We’re going back to get it.”

She looks at my father and he smiles at her, a special smile she sails back to him. It’s a language that reminds me of sisterly braille, or the unspoken bond between Jenessa and Shorty.

“We’ll be back after supper,” he assures her.

Jenessa slides from my father’s lap and shuffles over, her eyes full of question marks.

“Are you sure, Carey? I’d never tell.”

She whispers her words, dry as the rattle of winter leaves, and I ache at the sound of her retreat.

“I’m sure. It’s time,” I reassure her, managing to keep my voice steady. “You stay with Melissa and wait for Shorty. Make sure he stays warm on the drive home.”

Nessa takes my hand in both of hers.

“Are you coming back?”

My heart breaks into new pieces, and her clasp tightens.

“I hope so. I mean, I plan to.”

“Will you play me Brahms’s Lullaby tonight? Instead of Pooh?”

I think of the violin shoved to the back of the closet shelf, how the parting scooped out a piece of my heart, like Melissa’s melon-ball scooper. I’d shunned the violin because music is its own truth; there’s no lying in the playing. Mama is woven into the notes, as are the woods. But I’d overlooked the bigger picture: It’s the best part of Mama. The best part of the woods. The music transcended the dreariness, the hunger, the cold. Just like the truth transcends.

I look into those eyes I know as well as my own—better, even— and once again, I’m tearing up.

“I swear to Saint Joseph—”

“On a hill of beans,” Jenessa says, finishing for me.

“Will you sing if I play?”

My voice breaks, and I “smile through diamonds,” as Jenessa calls it. I think of how, in one day, because of one dog, our whole world has changed. It’s been years since she’s sung for me. I’m not even sure she remembers.

“I remember,” she assures me, her eyes solemn. “I will.”

I walk her over to Melissa, and they stand side by side, watching us leave. My father holds the door open, and with one last look at Jenessa, I walk through it. The leather strip of sleigh bells rings from the door handle, quite merry for the moment at hand.

Ness leans against Melissa’s body, encircled by her arms.

I wave at them through the glass and Ness waves back tentatively, but like I told her, and more sure than I’ve ever been about anything, it’s time.

We walk past the SUV. My father sees Delaney and pantomimes writing, mouthing the words lit test to her. She scowls at him. I catch and hold her gaze through the window glass. Her eyes are still worried, and not just for Shorty.

But I gave my word. Pinkie promise. Anyway, I don’t want to be the kind of person associated with fear. I know fear too well, and I know its power. I don’t want that kind of power. Not over Delaney or anyone else.

As I pass, I make a motion of locking my lips and throwing away the key—throwing her the key. We’re sisters, whether she likes it or not.

I climb into the truck, with her eyes still on me. She flicks me a smile—the same smile from last night as she admired the photograph Ryan took of me.

I can only imagine those same eyes tonight, once she, like everyone else, knows the truth.





[page]Part III


THE BEGINNING

You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them, sometimes.

—PIGLET, FROM POOHS LITTLE INSTRUCTION BOOK





15


It’s been close to three months, and yet it seems like only yesterday that my father showed up in the Hundred Acre Wood. I never thought about going back to the woods together. I mean, during the tougher days at school I’d think of going back myself—running away is the term for it, I know now—and although I might not have known what to call it, that’s exactly what it felt like: running away from everything in the civilized world that’s oh-so-unbearably emotional.

I sneak a glance at my father, at the dead-ringer profile that looks like mine, and marvel how I used to worry that I was all Mama, in the ways that do and don’t count. We couldn’t be more different, it seems, and yet I belong to him. All those years in the woods and I belonged to him, too.

My stomach slips sideways like skeeters across the creek, and it’s more than the truth coming out. The woods may as well be Mars now, despite my longing for them. I’m afraid to see what it used to be like—the way we used to live, what we’d accepted and settled for—from this civilized perspective. Just thinking of the cat-pee coat causes my ears to burn.