The Bargaining (34 page)

Danny.

The little shack with the green door is on my right by the time the hands release their hold on my ankles.

I struggle to my feet and quickly buckle in pain, the branches and the ground having gashed my skin so thoroughly I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to move again.

“April!” I try, pleading with the woods to pass my message along. But I know they won't.

Terror takes hold as I see the little girl in the white dress emerge from her shed, white eyes finding me fast in the darkness. The two little boys from the curtains crawl around the side of the shed behind her, and from my periphery, a purple hat jerks toward me on bent limbs that look too long to belong to a person.

I start to back away, and roots like tentacles twist around my ankles, but they're not pulling me deeper into the woods. They're pulling me into the ground.

I grab for the only thing I can—a gnarled tree root jutting from the mud. But it turns to a decomposing mass in my hand, maggots and worms exploding from its center and covering my skin. I claw at the earth, but the mud betrays me too, turning to soup that slips between my fingers.

“Penny!”

But I can't respond. The roots tug at my ankles so hard, I think my legs might tear from the rest of my body. The mud is up to my chest, and soon, my chin. An apologetic moon is the last thing I see before the woods take me completely.

The dark swallows me whole, and now I know I'll hear what those silent screams have wanted me to hear this entire time.

Earth fills my lungs, fast and without ceremony. I struggle to regain the breath I only just got back from the smoke, but I know that the North Woods are greedy. They'll take me if they want me.

I land in a hollow place, debris floating before me, a kind of pocket below the depths of the forest, but darker than the sludge above, the sludge that still coats my insides.

I peer into the murkiness of my grave and search. I know I'm not here alone. I can hear something breathing even above my own dying lungs.

I see the eyes first. White like the moon, but these eyes aren't apologizing. The mouth next, with its wide open gape, a scream silent but desperate to be heard. I'm not looking at either of those, though. I'm looking at its hands. I'm looking at what it holds.

My notepad. The story of Rae and me.

I look up and see for the first time the purple curls pinned above those horrific white eyes.

I see veined hands hold the pad above a blazing fire, the smoke curling into the desert sky, choking the night around us and blurring the memory of a friendship that was never what it should have been.

Curled nails like brittle, dead leaves press against the pages.

I see my own handwriting:
I don't regret you.

My throat closes around its last plea for breath, and then, just as I think my lungs will burst under their hardening shell of mud, I remember.

I thrust my hand into the pocket of my jeans, and it emerges with the matchbox I put there last night after I refused to burn my farewell to Rae.

I strike the last remaining match, thrust the flame underneath the notepad's edge, and ignite the paper.

A piercing scream rips through the murky underbelly of the North Woods, and the roots' hold on my ankles drops.

Rae's eyes fill again with color, their icy blue turning royal, the lashes around them rich and thick. Her jaw lifts slowly, raising her bottom lip to join the top, red the color of her unsmiling mouth. Her diamond labret twinkles at me in the
murky darkness of the woods' black heart. And then one eye closes over her radiant blue iris, black fringe lifting in time to see a tiny glint of light emerge from that eye. The root that held me before wraps its embrace around Rae's stomach instead, pulling her from me, but she doesn't fight it. Instead, she puts her own arms across the root and for the first time in all of her months haunting me, she smiles with her entire face.

The root carries her into the darkness, her body small and frail in its grasp.

I watch until she disappears before panic seizes me, my lungs screaming for air. I kick and claw in the cavernous space, my feet finally finding a tapestry of tangled roots that no longer try to hold me. I use my last ounce of strength to reach the surface, pushing my head above the earth, pulling a breath of air so deep it cracks the shell around my lungs. I drag my body out of the ground and pull myself to my hands and knees, vomiting the mud and leaves I'd swallowed.

There in the clearing by the shed, under the light of the helpless moon, stand four throw-away children. A girl in a white sundress, her face so much clearer now than her grainy picture at the rest stop depicted. Two anonymous boys wearing shoes with broken laces, shoes that probably never fit quite right.

One brother, different and disturbed and never the brave eldest nor the vulnerable youngest.

Their faces glow pale, but their eyes and mouths close tightly against the exposure from the moon's light. They do not watch me go. They do not scream silently into the soaked night.

They do not wake as I leave them to sleep in these lonely woods that will never truly let them rest, those woods that have taken one more unwanted soul.

Rain pounds the woods and trees, and the second I'm able to, I run. The trees whip under the fierce wind that's fanning the storm, and I can see the distant glow of the Carver House on fire. But the wind carries another sound, too.

“Penny! Please!”

I run too fast at first, stumbling and falling to the ground, but the feeling of the earth that close to my face sparks a terror that pulls me back to my feet and sets me running even faster than before. I'm far from steady, but I push the trees aside, despite their insistent reach. I see their high roots in time, leaping over them and landing on unsteady legs that carry me all the way to the edge of the woods and back to the road, where I crash into April hard enough to make us both stumble.

She holds me so tightly I think she might break me in
half, before shoving me into the passenger seat and climbing behind the wheel.

We're at the hospital before we say another word, and even then, the only sounds we utter are responses to the most basic of questions from nurses. Our only request is that we're kept in the same room. And even after April is treated and cleared, she never leaves my side. Not for a single minute.

26

M
R.
J
AKES IS LATE, BUT
I don't mind. I was hoping for a ­little more time with Linda, anyway. I washed the strap three times in the washing machine before April finally suggested I try sticking it in the dishwasher. All the mud and dirt are finally out of the cloth. There isn't much I can do about the scratches on the corners but smooth the frayed plastic down and apologize to Mr. Jakes for scarring his baby.

But that's not why I want the time with her. Holding the camera as high as my arms will reach, I turn her around and angle the lens at my face. I tilt my head up and click. Then I return Linda to my lap and advance to my picture. I still flinch a little each time. It's going to take a while before I'm not bracing myself for what I might find.

My hair has gotten a little longer, and I now have to tuck pieces behind my ear. The points of the stars are still there of course, but I can't see them as clearly anymore. Wrapped around tough neck muscles and skimming the tops of my shoulders, they're a part of me, but folded away, sheltered but not forgotten.

The light in the room casts a purplish shade over me, and I look sleepier than I used to. Or maybe that's what calm looks like on me. Either way, Linda always did make me look a little different than my mind's eye saw me. This time, I don't mind what I see.

This time, I recognize myself.

“Why does every student take the self portrait on the last day?”

I turn to see Mr. Jakes standing in the doorway, blocking some of the purple light from outside.

“I'm not your student anymore, remember?”

“So you made clear the last time you came to see me,” he says, and a smile seems to sneak up on him, taking him off guard. He clears his throat. “You've brought Linda home.” He reaches for the camera before recoiling in genuine horror. “What in God's name have you done to my child?”

I was prepared for this. “She's given me some amazing images,” I say, which is truer than I'd like it to be.

“From where did she give you these stellar images? The bottom of a bunker?”

It's true, she and I have been through a kind of war.

Mr. Jakes takes Linda gingerly from my hand. I remember learning once that you should never pick up a baby bird that's fallen from its nest, no matter how much it calls out for help. Touching the chick would make its mother abandon it, the scent of human an offense the unassuming creature could never disguise.

After he's done examining her, he pushes Linda back into my hands. “I don't even recognize her anymore. She's not mine.”

“Look, I'm sorry, okay? She still works just fine,” I start to say.

But he shakes his head before I can finish, his lips pinched against the mere thought of reclaiming her. “She's not mine.”

I hold her closer. I cradle her, the strap a little softer than it used to be after four thorough washes.

Then something in Mr. Jakes's face shifts. He doesn't look so pained. His lips loosen their hold on each other.

“I'm teaching three more sections in the fall,” he says. “One of them is 101. A lot of the same material we covered in the class you took, stuff you've already heard. But a lot of the stuff you missed, plus some history of photography, which you need.”

“You as in the general you, or you as in me?” I ask.

“You,” he says. “You'll suck without it.”

“I see,” I say. “So does that mean I don't actually suck now?”

He doesn't answer. I'm not even sure he heard me. “It's a transferable credit,” he says. “It'd count toward a major. If you wanted it to.”

I wasn't planning on telling him that my proposal for an independent study of photography was accepted by my guidance counselor on a probationary agreement. It's awkward to explain that I'm a sort-of independent senior, so long as I can keep my GPA above a 3.0. I feel like he might be disappointed in me for cutting it so close grade-wise. I still don't think I'll tell him that part, but I can at least answer him about the class.

“Okay,” I say, and I make sure he sees me nod before I look down at Linda. I know I owe it to the reluctant mentor looking completely uncomfortable in front of me right now. And when my heart jumps a little at the thought of pointing the camera in plenty of new directions, I let myself enjoy the feeling.

“I will,” I say. And I mean it.

Outside, I feel my phone vibrate in my purse and find my mom's face on the screen, her weird downturned smile looking ready as ever to mock me.

“Your father wants me to tell you he's going to be in Boise until Thursday now.”

“Why couldn't he just call me and tell me that?” I ask. “And wait, you and Dad talked?”

I think back on their conversation from March. The amicability of their relationship has been low on my list of things to care about since the summer, but now the thought of them chatting casts enough of a shadow for me to feel the chill of confusion.

“Yes, Penny. We do that on occasion, considering we share a daughter and all. That is, unless you've decided on a more suitable replacement for me.”

It has been almost a full week since Mom has not-so-subtly suggested I have swapped her out for April. She's improving as far as I can tell, so I give her a pass.

“So what was on the agenda for this conversation?” I ask.

“Many topics that are none of your business, aside from that one detail,” she says. “He'll be on project sites from today until he gets home. I assume he's told his own wife, but you might consider mentioning it to her when you see her.”

She's having a bad day. Two April mentions in one phone call means a worse than normal day. And though I pull in the deepest breath I can, I refrain from sighing loudly enough for her to hear me.

“Did he say anything else?” I ask. “For me to know, I mean.”

“No. Just that he loves you, blah blah. The usual,” Mom
says, which makes me glad I've managed to keep my cool for as long as I have. I guess I'm improving a little too.

“Well, if you talk to him again,” I say, “tell him I love him too.”

“Sure. Glad to be the bearer of so much warmth,” she says.

“Hey,” I say. “I got into that program for seniors. The independent study. On probation. My grades aren't high enough yet. But if I do really well, you know . . . ,” I say, deciding to add, “I haven't told anyone else yet.”

There's a long pause, and I pull my phone away to make sure the call hasn't dropped. Her face on the screen is still there, her hair looking a little grayer than I think it did a second ago, which is of course impossible. Mostly.

“Well, hon, you'll get them up. You're smart.”

Now it's me who doesn't know what to say. It's the best she can do, so I try to feel like it's enough.

“This call is costing me a fortune,” she says. “You went over your data allowance again this month. Seriously, Penny, what are you doing, watching documentaries over the wireless?”

“Bye, Mom,” I say.

“Good-bye, Penny.”

Before I turn the corner onto my dad's street, I pass the house with the garden gnome mooning passersby. I uncap Linda and take a picture of him.

“That's some sage advice, my friend” I tell him.

Back at home, Rob is pulling something out of the oven that was likely meant to be cookies. Burnt sugar has the kind of cloying odor I've smelled in those really cheap candle jars they sell at the ninety-nine-cent store.

“It's only been eight minutes. The recipe says ten. What the hell?”