The Winter People(16)
“Huh?” Fawn said. Her eyes looked funny—all glassy and far away, like they looked when she was sick.
“Forget it,” Ruthie said, staring at her odd little sister.
Fawn had been born at home and delivered by a midwife, just like Ruthie.
Ruthie had been homeschooled until third grade, when her parents finally gave in and agreed to send her to West Hall Union School after she wore them down with her pleading. As much as she wanted to be there, the transition was difficult and painful—she was behind academically, and the kids teased her for the garish hand-knit clothing she wore, for not knowing any multiplication. Ruthie had worked hard to catch up and blend in, and soon excelled at school, getting top marks in the class year after year.
When Fawn turned five, Ruthie insisted on having her enrolled in kindergarten.
“There’s no way Fawn’s going to be a complete social misfit, Mom. She’s going to school. It’s the normal thing to do.”
Her mom had looked at her for a long time, then asked, “And what’s so great about normal?”
In the end, Mom had given in and enrolled Fawn in school. Ruthie watched Fawn worriedly last year, peeking out through the senior-class windows to the kindergarten playground, where Fawn always sat alone, drawing in the dirt, talking animatedly to herself. She didn’t seem to have any friends. When Ruthie gently brought this up with Fawn, her little sister said other kids asked her to play all the time.
“So why don’t you ever join them?” Ruthie had asked.
“Because I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Playing with the friends I already have,” Fawn had said, running off before Ruthie could ask what friends she meant—ants? pebbles?
Fawn stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her red overalls, and stared vacantly into the fire.
“So when’s the last time you saw Mom?” Ruthie asked, collapsing onto the couch and rubbing at her temples in a pathetic attempt to stop the pounding headache.
“We ate supper together. Lentil soup. Then Mom came up and tucked me in. She read me a story.” Fawn sounded like a robot running low on batteries. “ ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’ ”
Ruthie nodded. Maybe that explained Fawn’s choice of clothing. She took stories very seriously. She got on these kicks where only one story would do, and you’d have to read it to her over and over until she had every word memorized. And then, when she wasn’t being read to, it was like a part of her stayed stuck inside the story. She’d leave trails of breadcrumbs around the house; build little houses out of mud, sticks, and bricks; and she would constantly be whispering to herself and her old rag doll, Mimi, about which way the wolf had gone, or if the frog really could be a handsome prince.
“What are we going to do?” Fawn’s voice was faint.
“I’ll go check outside. See if the truck’s there. Then I’ll check the barn.”
“Mimi says we won’t find her.”
Ruthie took in a deep breath, then let the air come hissing out. “I don’t really care what your doll thinks right now, okay, Fawn?”
Fawn’s head slumped down, and Ruthie realized now wasn’t the time to be a complete shit, killer hangover and missing mother or not. Fawn was only six. She deserved better.
“Hey,” Ruthie said, crouching down and lifting Fawn’s chin. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I’m just really tired and a wee bit overwhelmed. Why don’t you go upstairs and get Mimi. Bring her down, and when I come back inside I’ll make us a big breakfast. Bacon and eggs and hot chocolate. How does that sound?”
Fawn didn’t answer. She looked small and pale. Her skin felt feverish.
“Hey, Little Deer,” Ruthie said, using Mom’s pet name for Fawn. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her. I promise.”
Fawn nodded and backed away, heading up the stairs.
Then, absurdly, Ruthie thought of Willa Luce. Of how search teams had scoured the entire town—the whole state of Vermont, even—and not found a single trace.
How was it possible to disappear so completely, to be here one minute, gone the next?
Sometimes it just happens, Fawn had said.
Ruthie shook her head. She didn’t buy it. People didn’t just disappear without a trace. Not Willa Luce, and most certainly not boring old Alice Washburne, who had two girls at home, chickens to feed, and only ventured to town two days each week: to sell eggs and knitting at the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings, and to go grocery shopping each Wednesday, when the Shop and Save had double-coupon day.
This was all, obviously, a big mistake. Their mother would turn up at any moment, and they’d all have a good belly laugh about the idea that she, of all people, would go missing.
Ruthie
Ruthie spent nearly an hour searching the house, yard, and barn, but found no sign of her mother. Though her boots and coat were missing, the truck was still in the barn, keys tucked in the visor. There were no footsteps in the snow (of course, it was entirely possible that there had been and they were now buried).
Ruthie stood in the barn, gazing helplessly around at the broken-down lawn tractor, stack of summer tires, screen doors and windows, sacks of chicken feed. Nothing was out of place. Everything seemed normal.
She closed her eyes, pictured her mother looking at her over the tops of her drugstore reading glasses, her gray hair pulled back in a braid, one of her chunky hand-knit sweaters on. “Part of the trick to finding a lost thing,” her mother once told her, “is discovering all the places it’s not.”