My hands are shaking, but I do my best to pull on the rubber while Dad slices down the boot. Then he yanks it away from me and continues cutting. I’m at a loss for what to do with myself, so I sink into the armchair and pull my knees up to my chest. Stephen groans and Mother places a blanket on him, tucking it gently under his chin.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers, touching her hand to his forehead. “Everything is going to be okay.”
The boot lies in black shiny chunks on the rug, and when Dad moves back, I see what I have done. Stephen’s big toe is hanging abnormally low, and his sock is soaked with dark-red blood. My head feels strangely light and I want to cover my eyes, but I can’t help myself: I lean closer.
“Sorry, buddy,” Dad says, “but this is going to sting. We have no choice.”
And when Dad reaches in to clean the wound, the gash I so gleefully made, my ears begin to ring and my stomach flips. I find myself on my feet, running for the kitchen sink. I make it just in time.
Detachment
Stephen gets admitted quickly at emergency, and Dad and I hang out in the waiting room while Mother takes him in. We sit side by side, each flipping through a magazine, and I catch Dad looking at me every now and then with an odd look on his face. It’s too soft to be anger. It could be disappointment, but there’s something else mixed in with it. Pity maybe? The look seems to say, I’m giving up, but I don’t want to. I almost tell him that I know exactly how he feels, that I feel the same way about myself, but I think if I try to speak I will break down and cry.
We’re alone in the waiting room for the first half hour, and then an exhausted-looking woman with a crusty-nosed toddler comes in. She lowers herself onto one of the plastic chairs with a loud sigh and closes her eyes while her little boy tries to stack magazines on the top of his very black, very shiny hair. They fall off one by one, but he keeps on trying.
Dad puts his magazine down and closes his eyes. I wish he would say something, tell me everything is going to be all right. But he’s probably thinking the same thing I am: what a loser the new Jessica Grenier has turned out to be. I’ve tried pretending I can be like the old Jessie, that I am as lovable and kind and as wonderful a friend/daughter/sister, but there’s no point lying anymore.
Stephen. He’s tried telling me, in his own sweet, nerdy way, to back off and give him space. But no, my defective brain couldn’t—wouldn’t—absorb something so simple. I stand up, and the room seems to shift under my feet.
“Jess?” Dad looks up at me. “Going somewhere?”
“Got a time machine?” I say. “We could travel back to this morning.” I want to be funny, make him laugh, but I know my joke will fall flat. “Or better yet, three months ago.”
Dad reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. “Jess,” he says. “Let’s not get into all this right now. It’s late. It’s been a long day. Let’s just wait for your brother. Okay?”
The little boy is beside me then, tugging at my pant leg. “Gotta snack? Hey, lady. Gotta snack?”
“Lady?” I say. “Do I look like a lady?”
He gawks at me with huge brown eyes and nods. His mother shifts in her seat and gives us a quick look before closing her eyes again. “Excuse me,” I say, and then again, louder: “Excuse me!” She opens her eyes and looks at me blankly. “Your little boy is hungry. Do you even give a crap?” Dad grabs my arm and pulls me down into the chair. The woman rolls her eyes and leans forward to dig in her purse.
“Jessie,” he whispers. “Take it easy, please?”
I slump down. It’s killing me, absolutely killing me, to be sitting here waiting. More than anything, I wish I could erase my idiotic fishing idea, make it all go away. And now Mother and Dad know about the party too, that I lied and made a total fool of myself. But all I can do is sit here and wait and accept that I am totally worthless.
We stay that way for another hour at least, the boy munching on crackers and then crashing on his mother’s lap, before Mother comes through the doorway, her shoulders sagging. Her hair is a mess and she’s all rumpled, like it’s been days, not hours, since she’s had a chance to glance in a mirror.
Dad stands up and they embrace in a long, tight hug.
“So?” Dad says. Mother leans on him; she has not yet looked my way. She’d rather pretend she has only one child, I’m sure.
“He’s going to need surgery,” she says, “to reattach the tendon. But first they need to get the swelling down. If everything goes smoothly, he’ll be able to come home in a few days.”
“Thank God,” Dad says. A soft relief trickles through me, but it’s not enough to take away the twisted feeling in my stomach.
Mother looks at me, her expression oddly neutral. “Stephen’s asleep. Let’s go home,” she says.
We walk together in silence to the parking lot. It’s dark and cold, and there is a full moon. No one says a word during the long drive home. When we finally turn off the highway to the gravel road that leads to our house, I clear my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Mother glances back at me. “Okay,” she says.
And the only other thing said is “good night” once we walk in our front door. Mother and Dad disappear to their room, to either collapse in exhaustion or discuss what they’re going to do with their satanic daughter. I sit on my bed in the darkness. The clock reads 1:23, but I know I cannot sleep, may never sleep again.
I click the light on and step up to the mirror. The Girl sizes me up, her lips pursed and her eyes narrow.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I whisper. She doesn’t answer, but I see it in her eyes. We’re on the same page, for once.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I say. I reach out and touch the glass with my fingertips. But I don’t know why I bother. As always, I can’t reach her.
At the back of the closet I find a backpack, which I fill with some clothes, my phone and charger, and a toothbrush. I grab the sand rose from my shelf, the printout of my photo collage and, for the Girl, the shoebox. Strangely calm, I make my way downstairs. I close the back door gently and step out into the night.
I can’t be that Girl. I will always be only a second-rate version of the daughter and sister they adored. They’re better off without me.
Back to the Basics
I feel bad about it, but I chain Ginger to her doghouse so she won’t follow me. She whimpers, and I rub her ears as I whisper, “Sorry, babe. Be a good girl. Take care of Stephen for me.” I kiss the top of her head, then step away.
The trees sway in the wind, their trunks making cracking sounds, and my shoes crunch on the gravel. My body is tense, and I jerk at every strange noise, but I concentrate on following the beam of the flashlight on the ground, on breathing deeply and slowly. It won’t be long before I’m at the camper.
Once past the bison pen and near the creek, I pick up my pace. I wish I could have taken Ginger with me. Every snapping branch has me swinging the flashlight around, searching for the reflection of some creature’s eyes. The vastness of the night sky seems to swallow me up as I make my way down the path Tarin showed me. Inwardly, I beg the universe to please, please let this be the right way.
The wind whispers, telling me to hurry, to find my way before I am lost forever. Heart pounding, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. And finally the trees open into a clearing and there it is, the moonlight reflecting off its metal walls. The camper.
I break into a run now. My pack thumps against my back as I get closer, and then I am standing at the door, out of breath. My hands tremble as I reach up and tug hard on the rusty little handle. The door pops open and I step inside, into pitch-blackness.
“Tarin?” I whisper. “You asleep?”
A few seconds pass, then a faint reply that’s muffled by blankets: “Oh my god!” The camper sways a little and there are rustling sounds, and when my eyes adjust to the dark I can make out the outline of her, sitting on the upper bed. “I nearly peed my pants,” she says. “
You scared the hell out of me!”
I laugh, too loudly, with relief. I am here now, have made my choice. My pack slips off my back and onto the floor, and I let myself sink down after it. I am exhausted and exhilarated and terrified.
“That table turns into a bed, you know,” Tarin says. “No need to crash on the floor.”
I nod, which is dumb since she probably can’t see me well from up there. She clicks on a flashlight and climbs down, the camper rocking again.
“We’ll have to do a little safety check in the morning,” she says. “Make sure we aren’t going to flip this baby.” She props the flashlight on a shelf, then tugs at the tabletop, grunting, until she jerks back with it in her hands. She pulls out the metal tube it was propped on, then lays the tabletop between the two bench seats.
“Voilà,” she says.
She offers me a hand, pulling me to my feet. We stand only a few inches apart. I’m guessing she is happy that I’m here—after all, she invited me—but I feel a bit awkward suddenly, like I am crashing her pajama party. She gestures to my new bed. “You didn’t happen to bring a sleeping bag, did you?”
A simple question, but it hits me how little I’ve thought this out, that I should have actually taken the time to think about what I’ll need to make it on my own.
“Crap,” I say. It’s surprisingly cool in the middle of the bush.
“Climb up top with me.” Tarin steps onto my bed, and it creaks as she climbs back up to the bunk. “It’ll be a little squished, but we can figure something out tomorrow.” And what might that be? I nearly ask. Weaving a blanket out of some weeds? But I bite my tongue and follow her. I am determined to stay positive. We lie down in the cramped, musty-smelling space, and though she gives me half of her sleeping bag, I am still partly uncovered. I turn to face the door and close my eyes.
“Glad you’re here,” Tarin whispers.
“Me too,” I answer. The jitters in my stomach, though, tell me it’s too early to know for sure.
Survival
So much for the tranquility of nature. It feels way too early when the sun breaks through the dingy curtains and the forest creatures start frolicking. I wrap my arm over my head, attempting to block out the squirrel chatter, but it’s no use. I lie there, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looks like Kermit the frog, until finally Tarin’s groggy voice says, “Top of the morning to you.”
I half roll, half fall off the mattress and onto the bed below. “I’m thirsty,” I say.
Tarin’s feet dangle above me as she pulls her legs over the side of the upper bed. “How about I whip you up a cappuccino?” Her laugh is a tight little snort.
Usually I am the first to play along with her sarcasm, but this morning it only makes me feel more tired. “You kill me,” I say. She steps down beside me, then reaches under the table and pulls out a blue jug.
“Abracadabra.” She opens a small cupboard above our heads and hands me a plastic cup. I lift the pitcher, but my hands tremble so much that I miss the cup, and water spills onto the bed.
“Whoa,” she says. “You’re shaky. And your aura is a weird gray color. I hope that’s not from Mommy and Daddy withdrawal?”
I chug the water down. I’m a little wobbly, yes. Not exactly a prime candidate for Teenage Independent Living. She’s going to have to take it easy on me, or she’ll have a total mental case on her hands.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say.
Her face softens. “Sorry, that was nasty. Honestly, I’m pretty surprised. I didn’t expect you to show up.”
“I didn’t either,” I say. “But things change.”
Her look is boring right into my head, but I am not ready to tell her everything. I take another sip of water.
“Help me transform this bed back into the formal dining area,” she says, “and I can dig you up some breakfast.”
I am hungry. Between the spearfishing and the hospital last night, I missed dinner. We put the table back together, and then I squeeze in and get comfy. How quickly, I think, you could get to know someone living in such intimate quarters. And how well do I really know Tarin? I watch her pull out two tiny boxes of cereal from the cupboard and rip open a little door on the side of each.
“Cute,” I say as she pours canned milk into the open sides of the cereal boxes.
“Yeah.” She hands me my box, a plastic spoon sticking out of the side like she’s stabbed it. “I couldn’t resist these, even though they were out of my budget.”
We polish them off in a few minutes, and I stand up to look for a place to put the garbage. Tarin pops the camper door open, and the brisk morning air and the scent of pine filters in.
“I didn’t think of bringing any bags,” she explains. “Maybe we can find a spot to use as our garbage dump, somewhere in the bush? Maybe beside our washroom facilities?”
Now that she mentions it, my bladder is uncomfortably full. “Do we have toilet paper?”
She nods and points toward a spot in the trees where something white hangs off a branch.
I make my way to the facilities, and when I’m done I stay in the woods a minute, watching the tips of the trees sway under the sky. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help it: I wonder if they’ve noticed yet that I’m gone, if they’ve knocked on my door to get me up to head to the hospital to visit Stephen.
“Jessie!” Tarin calls. “Did you find the ladies’ room?”
I ignore her, close my eyes and take a deep, deep breath. This is the best decision. It has to be.
“Jessie! Don’t get lost out there!”
I tromp back to the clearing. When I walk up to the camper, Tarin is sitting outside on a log stump, a fuzzy orange poncho wrapped around her shoulders.
“I don’t mean to be a control freak,” she says. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, but now that I’m here, well”—she looks around, at the sky, at the trees, at me—“I’m bugging out a little.”
“Hey,” I say, “we’re in this together.” I’m surprised at the confident tone in my voice, but it seems to work. We exchange a high five, then look around, trying to think of what we should do next.
“Do we have any hunting and gathering to do?” I say.
“How about you tan the hides and I’ll make some venison?”
We take in the woods in silence.
“Is your mom looking for you?” I ask. “Won’t everyone be out scouring the area, especially when they discover I’m gone too?”
Tarin fiddles with the skull ring on her thumb. “I texted Mom that I was taking the bus back to the city to stay with an old friend for a few days. So no, she’s not looking for me yet. She’s probably happy I’m gone.”
“Did you mention me?” I ask.
“No, but they might put two and two together. Let’s make sure the location services are shut off on your phone. Then text your parents and say you’re meeting me. That way, they probably won’t look anywhere local. And by the time they do, we’ll be long gone.”
“Gone? Where are we going?”
Tarin laughs. “Hey, save something to talk about later. I’m going to tidy up our crib.” She goes back inside the camper, slamming the door behind her. I can’t imagine what there is to do, except maybe fold the sleeping bag. I take her spot on the stump, close my eyes and breathe in the cool air while she bustles about inside our home.
Starting fresh, I tell myself. A new beginning.
Intruder
Tarin and I fill the rest of the day by cracking lame jokes, peeing in the bush, eating tiny amounts of food, so as not to use up our cache, and napping, staying as close to the camper as possible. I know I should ask her again about the plan, but what’s the hurry? So much has happened already, it’s easier to live this way, moment to moment.
I get my phone out, and Tarin shuts off my tracking. I text Mother and Dad. Meeting up with Tarin. Don’t worry. Tell Stephen I’m sorry. I take a few photos of the woods, the squirrels, the sky. But my heart is not in it. I keep pic
turing Mother and Dad at the police station, clutching a photo of me; Dad driving around in his old blue pickup, looking for signs of me. It weighs on me, knowing I am putting them through another drama. Or maybe they’re so mad they don’t even care.
That night it gets so freezing cold that Tarin and I huddle together, shivering, under the thin sleeping bag. When the soft light of early morning finally comes, Tarin begins to snore. I wrap my arms around my head, but then I hear loud thumps coming from outside the camper door. I sit up quickly and whack my head on the low ceiling.
“Tarin,” I whisper. “Someone’s out there.”
She opens her eyes a slit, then shuts them again. “It’s probably a squirrel,” she mumbles.
The clunk comes again, louder, and Tarin’s eyes snap open.
“That’s some monster squirrel,” I say. She sits up beside me and clutches my arm. We hold our breath, listening. Nothing.
“Maybe it was—” Another thump, this time closer. I grab on to her too, and we stare at each other, eyes wide open, waiting helplessly for something—we don’t know what, but it will be horrible—to happen. We wait and wait like that, our faces so close I can feel her breath. Then our grips start to relax, and we pull slowly away from each other.
I let go of her hands and lower myself over the edge of the bed. Tarin sucks in her breath as I reach for the door handle and push until the door pops open.
The grass sparkles with dew. I don’t see anything, but my mind makes all kinds of crazy leaps: a creature of some kind, maybe a cougar, has climbed onto the roof and is waiting to pounce on us; a Sasquatch is throwing stones at the camper; a plane has dropped us a bag of supplies—thank God, because we’re already running low on toilet paper.
“Jess?” Tarin asks softly. “What is it?”
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