The Stillwater Girls(4)

I loved Mama too much to upset her, and I respected Mama too much to ever bring it up again.

Gathering my nightdress in my hands, I lower myself to the warm flames in the hearth beside my silent sister and stoke the dying fire. I add three more logs, which should get us through the next several hours, and then I pad across the wooden floor to my bed in the corner, slipping into my warmest pair of wool socks.

“You should wash up,” I say, climbing beneath Mama’s favorite quilt a moment later.

Sage reaches for another puzzle piece, yawning. “I’m not tired.”

“Right.” Rolling my eyes, I add, “Fine. Suit yourself.”

Sage snaps her piece into place before exhaling. “They’re not coming back, are they?”

Sitting up, I pull the covers to my waist and contemplate my answer.

“How long has it been, Wren?” she asks.

I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m the only one counting days. Sage doesn’t know what month it is half the time, and why should she? I’ve always been the keeper of the calendar. She’s only ever had to wash supper dishes and gather eggs and flash her tender grin to get out of everything else.

“It’s been . . . a while.” I don’t tell her it’s been seventy-three days as of tonight.

“Mama would’ve sent for us by now, don’t you think?” She turns to me, clutching that ridiculous rag doll against her chest like a girl half her age.

“No one’s ever been here before. Who would she send?”

Sage lifts a bony shoulder to her ear, her dark, pin-straight hair settling into her hollow clavicles. “I don’t know . . . The Man?”

“How would he know how to find us?” I’ve asked myself these same questions, silently, over the past several weeks, always coming to the same conclusions. Mama’s always made sure no one knew where we were. Every time she’d meet The Man, she’d be gone at least eight hours or more, wheeling everything back in two separate red wagons, and she’d never let us help. Sage wasn’t strong enough to make the journey, and Mama needed me to stay home to look after Evie. Besides, it wasn’t safe for young girls to be in the woods after dark.

There were too many things that could happen to us in the forest—men with guns, rabid animals, I always assumed, though I’ve never seen either of those things in my nearly twenty years on this earth.

My sister doesn’t answer as she rocks her baby doll and watches as the flames lick the inside of the hearth.

Lying back, I bring the covers to my neck and roll to my side, my heavy eyelids drifting shut.

“Do you think something happened to them?” Sage asks when I’m halfway asleep.

My brows knit, though my eyes remain closed. “Sage. Go to bed. Please. We’ll talk in the morning.”

The creak of the rocking chair fills the small cabin, and the soft crumpled sound of the rag doll hitting the floor follows.

“I need to use the outhouse,” she announces, voice small because she knows she waited too long.

It takes all the energy I have to roll over, and when I open my eyes, I discover my sister standing in front of my bed with wincing, desperate eyes.

“I’ve already locked up for the night. You couldn’t have gone earlier?” I ask.

“I really have to go.” She bites her lower lip, bouncing in place as her hands cup her privates through her dress. “I’m going to wet myself.”

Flinging the covers off my legs, I step out of bed. For as long as I can remember, Sage has had issues with her bladder. When she was a young girl, she used to ignore her urges too long and then cry every time she peed, saying it burned, which would only make her hold it in even longer. Mama started ordering antibiotic tablets from The Man after that.

We ran out last month.

Slipping my hand around hers, I grab our jackets off the hooks by the door and light the kerosene lamp before checking the window and working the latch. Under the shade of night and a moonless sky, we dash across the sod, past the goat enclosure, between the henhouse and the garden shed, and at last, to the leaning outhouse on the perimeter of the homestead.

“Be quick,” I tell her, catching the door as she flings it open. Wrapping my arms around my body, I struggle to get warm as the chilly air bites through my coat and works its way into the thin fabric of my nightdress. With chattering teeth, I ask if she’s finished yet.

“Almost,” she calls.

Stepping to the south side of the outhouse in hopes to avoid the cruel north wind, I peer toward the darkened Stillwater Forest, toward the same little clearing Mama and Evie disappeared into seventy-three nights ago.

Had I known it would be the last time I’d ever see them, I might have told them I loved them one more time. I might have kissed Evie’s chubby little fingers and hugged Mama so tight she’d have had to pry me off her just to breathe again.

I’d have thanked Mama for everything. For her protection from the evils of the world. For the hot meals, warm clothes, and shelter from the cold. For the joyful songs and heartfelt lullabies. For the books that fed my mind and allowed me to escape to other worlds on those endless summer days. For the stories of her beautiful childhood, when the world was a kinder, sweeter place, and the tales of all the family members we were never able to meet before the outside world had turned greedy and cold.