The Lost Village(43)

“Alice, we need to talk,” she says, then sits down cross-legged on the cobblestones. She does it smoothly, in a single movement. She never used to be so agile. She used to be stiff and a little lazy, slow in the mornings and energized by night; used to yawn like a cat, wide-mouthed and red-tongued.

How many times have we eaten breakfast together? One hundred? One thousand? Her with hair wet post-shower, like now, me with yesterday’s makeup still clinging to my eyelashes. But this time my face is bare, and hers is closed.

The alcohol stove stands like a wall between us.

I light it.

“What is it?” I ask as the little blue flames appear, then wave the match to put it out. I try to keep my voice cool and professional. I’m her producer, after all. Her project manager. Her boss.

Emmy drops her forearms to her knees. There are grass stains on her jeans.

“I know you can see Tone’s sick,” she says bluntly. “And I can get why you wouldn’t want to call off this trip, but this isn’t sustainable. She needs to get to a hospital, now.”

Her words aren’t aggressive, just direct. Like a hand thrusting into my stomach and squeezing my organs.

“She says she doesn’t want to,” I say, then reach for the coffeepot and put it on the little stove. “She’s an adult, she knows what’s best for her.”

Emmy rolls her eyes.

“Come on, Alice,” she says, her voice somehow both irritated and unfeeling. “Don’t try that shit with me, you can see she’s not well. We both saw her in Gitta’s house—she was raving, for fuck’s sake! She’s probably delirious. She needs to see a doctor—now.”

“But she doesn’t feel like she has a fever,” I say, clenching my jaw so hard I can feel my muscles strain. Strangely enough, Emmy’s words make my own anxiety start to ebb away. I mean, I practically carried Tone back to camp, and she didn’t feel so hot to me. “She says herself it’s just a sprain.”

“Sprains don’t look like that, Alice.”

By now I can’t bite my tongue any longer. I snap:

“What are you, a doctor?”

“You don’t need to be a doctor to see she can hardly walk, and it’s only getting worse!” Emmy replies. Her hands are now clenched into small, hard fists.

“It’s not like I’m her mom!” I say. “Do you think I haven’t talked to her? Do you think I haven’t asked? I’ve asked her time and time again, but she’s insisting she wants to stay. So what am I supposed to do? Throw her into the back of the van, lock her up, and drive away? She’s a grown woman—we have to respect her wishes.”

“If you say so,” says Emmy. In the space between her words I hear everything she isn’t saying. The curse of knowing someone’s rhythms. Of being able to intuit her meaning, rather than her words.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask. I can hear I’m overarticulating, letting the syllables draw the lines I can’t.

Emmy stands up and brushes off her legs. I can’t take having her look down at me, so I scramble to my feet, too.

“Nothing, Alice,” she says, a rusty edge to her words. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying it’s weird that Tone’s fucking sick and that you, as her friend, don’t seem especially concerned.”

Her accusation knocks the wind out of me. I’m so angry that my teeth ache.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” I bite. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m not worried about Tone. And don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

Emmy raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can speak. I’m feeling that delicious sting of being able to say what’s been hanging over me since I first saw her at our recruitment meeting, since I first noticed those delicate little laughter lines that had started to form around her eyes, the new highlights the henna had brought out in her hair, the strangely familiar lines of her ears. The shock and rage and sadness I felt at all of them.

“It’s great that you’re so worried about Tone,” I say, “you’ve never struck me as someone to worry about someone else’s well-being before. But I’m guessing it’s not Tone that’s the issue here, is it? It’s more about you getting the chance to tell me how self-obsessed and demanding I am. It’s like gold dust to you, any excuse to say that.”

I’ve heard the expression of someone’s eyes turning black with anger before, but never before have I seen it. Emmy’s pupils dilate, and I take a small step backward.

She says nothing, and suddenly I’m very aware of how alone the two of us are. Tone’s asleep in the tent, which leaves just Emmy and me; Emmy lithe and muscular, her eyes black with rage, her fists clenched.

My breath catches in my throat. I try to swallow, only to find that I can’t. Time seems to have stopped still.

“Hey, how’s it going?” The unexpected break of the silence almost throws me off-balance. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to hear Max’s voice.

“Fine!” I shout, my voice rough, as I throw a final glance Emmy’s way. She has run her fingers through her hair, all trace of her furious mask gone—all but a lingering streak of stiffness in her face.

“How was the water?”