The Overnight Guest(21)

Her mother would try and please her father. Would take a few sips and then vomit into the bucket she kept by the bed.

“Come on,” her father would snap in frustration. “Keep trying.” Her mother would push the drink away and curl up into a little ball as if trying to disappear.

One day, after her mother refused to drink what he had brought her, her father went into a rage. “You’re worthless,” he said, grabbing the girl’s mother by the arm and wrenching her from the bed. “Don’t you care about her?” he asked, flicking a hand toward the girl. “Don’t you care about the baby?”

He dragged her mother to the table and forced her into a chair.

The girl pulled a book from the shelf, went to her spot beneath the window, and faced the wall.

Her father pulled a spoon from a drawer and dipped it into the cup. “Eat,” he ordered. Her mother tried to turn her head, but he held her chin and poked the spoon into her mouth. She gagged wetly and her breath came in hitches.

The girl turned the page of her book and recited the story to herself. It was the one about the princess and the pea. Though she knew how to sound out some of the words, she had the story memorized.

After a while, the retching stopped, the crying faded. Her father spoke in low, soothing tones. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? You ate almost all of it.”

The girl looked up from the pages of her book and watched as he gently wiped her mother’s mouth with a washcloth and led her back to the bed. Soon she heard her mother’s soft, rhythmic breathing. She had fallen asleep.

Her father tugged on the girl’s ponytail before he opened the door to leave. “She’s okay. Just let her rest.”

Once the girl heard the click of the door and the rasp of the lock falling into place, she returned the book to its spot on the shelf and walked over to the kitchen table. She lifted the cup that held the ice cream. She could smell the chocolate and her stomach rumbled. There were still a few spoonfuls left. Her mother wouldn’t mind.

The girl brought the cup to her lips and drank. The sweet creaminess filled her mouth and slid down her throat. She scraped out the last drops with a spoon and licked it clean.

The girl turned on the television but set the volume to low. Hours passed. Her mother slept. The pain in her stomach came fast and hard. The girl doubled over and barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick. Her intestines twisted and her stomach heaved.

She lay on the bathroom floor—the cracked tile was cool against her skin. Night eased into the room until there was only the soft blue light from the television. The cramps eased, her muscles relaxed. The girl felt wrung out and empty. She fell into an uneasy sleep until her mother gently shook her awake and led her back to the bed.



11


Present Day

The sharp wind was gaining momentum, sending showers of grainy snow pummeling against Wylie with each gust. She needed to hurry to the barn to retrieve the wire cutters.

She figured she had no more than twenty-five minutes to get to the barn and back to the accident site before the woman was seriously in danger of hyperthermia. Even then, it might be too late. Once Wylie freed the woman, she still had to get her back to the house.

Agitated, Wylie looked to the dark sky and the snow pelted her face. She needed to get back to the woman before the weather got worse. Her face and ears, now exposed to the cold, burned painfully. She couldn’t imagine how the woman had survived this long lying in the snow.

Once at the top of the lane, Wylie paused to catch her breath, but the wind was whipping itself into a frenzy, creating cyclones of snow that twisted and convulsed about her. She had to keep moving. She pointed her flashlight toward the barn and the silos disappeared behind a veil of white. The soft light coming from the house urged Wylie forward. The hiking sticks helped keep Wylie upright, but her legs felt heavy and ached with the effort of stepping through the high snow.

As she approached the house, the ice-laden trees were further weighed down by the new snowfall and threatened to snap with each blast of wind.

She had been gone too long. The fire may have gone out, the boy’s injuries may have been worse than she thought, and she still needed to get back to the woman. Wylie’s chest tightened, and she picked up her pace as she powered through the final fifty yards to the front door.

She pushed through the door bringing a flurry of snow inside with her. Wylie shut the door behind her and dropped the hiking sticks with a clatter to the floor. Ignoring the gouges her ice cleats were making in the hardwood floor, Wylie went straight to the sofa where she had left the boy. He was there, still asleep, with Tas curled up next to him.

Next, Wylie checked the phone, knowing that the chances of making a call were slim. She was right; no maintenance workers would be sent out in weather like this.

Wylie added another piece of wood to the fire and fought the urge to stay and warm herself next to the flames. Her ears and nose burned painfully. She had to keep moving. Wylie went to the closet and grabbed another coat and scarf. She had given the woman her stocking cap, so she pulled the fur-lined hood attached to the coat over her head and tied it into place.

Wylie dreaded stepping back into the storm, but the clock was ticking.

With renewed determination, Wylie left behind the warm house. The storm continued to rage. It felt as if the wind was coming at her from all directions.

Wylie passed the rickety henhouse and the toolshed that had been reclaimed by earlier renters as a dumping spot for their unwanted furniture and household items. Once inside the barn, Wylie shook the snow from her coat and checked her watch. It had already been about twenty-five minutes since she left the woman. She scanned the rough walls in search of what she needed.