Don't Look for Me(26)

The fence is wire. It is woven in small squares and is about eight feet high. At the top is coiled barbed wire. But that is the least of my concerns. The wire at the top is thin and I think I could cut through it. I can cut the barbed wire at the top, and I can jump to the other side. What I cannot do is climb to the top.

The holes are too small for the boots to fit, and every inch of the wire has barbs. They are smaller, almost invisible. But when I run my finger across a piece of it, my skins catches and starts to bleed. Little, tiny metal barbs embedded in every inch of this fence that goes on for miles it seems. Surrounding this property. This fortress.

Why?

The question has no answer that does not terrify me.

Alice said her first mommy died in these woods.

But now I think her first mommy died trying to escape. I wonder if the same words were in her head. Just walk away. I wonder if they led her to her death. And now I wonder where they’ve led me.

No. I can’t wonder. Not about anything. I have work to do.

I can cut the wire, or saw through it. But it is thicker than at the top and will take time. As I walk along, pushing aside the branches of small trees, climbing over the roots of larger ones, my face stings from the ones I miss that snap back and scratch my skin. I think about the least number of cuts I will need to make in the wire to create an opening. Four up, four across. Then I can fold it along the midline, making a triangle flap large enough to slide through. I will put the boots on my hands and use them to push against the wire, to protect myself from the barbs.

Where do I stop? Where do I begin to cut this fence?

My legs want to keep moving. My mind tells me to run. It is instinct but instinct is not always smart. I could run and run and end up right back at the gate, having made a circle and gone nowhere. I fight against the instinct. I will only walk until I see something on the other side of the fence that will help me once I cut my way through.



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I don’t know how much time passes. I feel tired. My legs ache from pulling the boots that want to fall from my feet. I am cold from air that is damp in the woods. The leaves and bushes are wet from the rain, and they rub against me and soak through these clothes I wear. My cheeks burn from the cold.

As I walk, my mind wanders. I think about John. I think about us years ago when we’d only just met. When we were two young lovers with all of life in front of us. And that’s what we were—lovers in every possible way. I loved him like I had never loved any man. I loved the things about him that drove other people crazy. He could be far too serious, too honest, too earnest. He was desperate to be a good man. I loved his desperation. I loved that I could ease it just by lying beside him.

We met at a deli on the campus where we both went to graduate school. He was studying business. I was getting my master’s degree. He was a customer. I worked behind the counter. I wore a bright blue apron and he told me it was the color of my eyes, which made me blush. He had ordered chicken salad, but I was so flustered by him, the way he’d noticed my eyes, that I gave him tuna. He came back later that day to tell me. But he didn’t want a new sandwich. He wanted to take me hiking.

We liked to walk in the woods, just like this. We would hike from March until November, cold, hot—it didn’t matter. We would drive up to the mountains. And we would hike until we felt our legs ache and our heads grow dizzy with endorphins. And then we would return to our little room at the bed and breakfast and make love, furiously. Passionately.

I loved him. But that was before.

Now there’s a line that divides the before from the after. Before our child died. After our child died. The love doesn’t dare try to cross, to try to navigate the new people we have become. Not much of me is left. I wonder how much of John is still there. The earnestness I always adored, the man who always wanted to do good and be good, now feels rigid. A man who must live by the strictest rules of behavior. Maybe it keeps him from having to think or feel. He still says I love you but that’s a lie. Lying is against the rules, isn’t it? And what about the other woman he now loves?

Maybe I don’t know the new rules. Maybe I don’t know John anymore.

The love won’t cross the line to find out.

I think about the man in this house with his dead wife and his child. I think about the odd rules they keep. The secrets.

The wondering returns as I walk.

How do they know about me? About my family? That I would be driving on Route 7 last night, in the storm? Or did they? Alice never leaves the house. She plays out her fantasies with her dolls. Maybe that’s all this is. A fantasy.

I told her about my family before she said she knew. Maybe she was lying.

She said she was nine. Did I tell her how old Annie was? God, I can’t remember!

I walk and walk until I see something on the other side of the fence. It makes me stop. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Fire. Smoke. Burning wood. I open my eyes and see it again—the white plumes rising in the sky. A house or factory, maybe. Someplace with a furnace. Or someone burning brush in the yard, although it seems too wet for that. More likely a furnace or fireplace.

It is, at the very least, a sign of life. A sign of people. People who might help me. A place to run. A place to hide.

I tell myself to stop. I kneel down into the wet debris and take out the scissors. I take out the knife. And I go to work.



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