So it was like that, death. Uninvited, thin, and dirty. Luring you into its home, a tree house made for killing. She hadn’t ever met it face-to-face, even though she would have, gladly, if someone had only told her. Mary Ellen shuddered violently and forced herself to open her eyes. The girl was tiny but looked like a teenager. Fifteen? Sixteen? Mary Ellen smoothed back the girl’s hair, and some of it came away in her fingers, long and dull. The child was turning to dust right in front of her.
“Ma?”
Mary Ellen gasped and backed against the wall of the deer blind. Then she pulled off her coat and swiftly wrapped it around the girl, over the blanket. She remembered her hat, in one of the coat pockets. She found it and pulled it over the girl’s head. The girl was shaking, her teeth knocking together. “Okay, okay,” Mary Ellen said. “You’re going to be okay.”
She scooted over to the ladder, looked down. Too far to jump. “How did you get up here?” she asked the girl, but she seemed to have died again. Mary Ellen pulled off her sweater. She lifted the girl into a sitting position and tugged the sweater over her lolling head. She laid her back down and fished for an arm through the sleeve, pulling it through, then the other arm. She put her gloves on the girl’s hands, then spread her coat open on the floor and lifted the girl onto it. Her body was lighter than a pile of laundry. As Mary Ellen was threading the girl’s arms through the coat sleeves, her eyelids fluttered and she started shaking again. “Can you wake up?” Mary Ellen asked, zipping the coat.
She remembered the time she’d tried to wake Shelby up for a feeding, when she was barely a week old, and couldn’t get her to open her eyes. “I think she’s unconscious,” she’d said to Matt, bouncing Shelby in her arms.
“She’s asleep,” Matt had said, his head under a pillow.
“Something’s wrong.” Mary Ellen blew gently on Shelby’s face, and the baby’s eyes opened briefly, startled, then sank closed again.
“Put her back in the crib. She’s not hungry yet.”
So Mary Ellen had reluctantly put Shelby back to bed, then stood there, her hands clamped around the crib rail, until she couldn’t stand it anymore and blew in the baby’s face again and again and again until Shelby finally exploded in furious sobs.
Now Mary Ellen was taking off her boots and her socks. She pulled her socks over the girl’s thin, bony feet and rubbed them vigorously. “Wake up,” she said briskly. “Let’s go.” Mary Ellen was shivering now. She pulled her boots over her bare feet, then lifted the girl into a sitting position, leaning her against the wall. The girl’s eyes rocked open like a doll’s. “What’s your name?”
“You’re not…” The girl seemed drunk.
“I’m Mary Ellen. Who are you?”
“Where—” The girl swiveled her head slowly to one side, blinking.
“We’re in a tree.” The girl’s sunken eyes were blue; freckles were just starting to rise out of her cheeks’ pallor. She had a sharp overbite that gave her a rabbity look. “We have to get down. Do you think you can hold on to me?” Mary Ellen went to the doorway, turned around, and lowered her feet onto a rung. She held on to the two rails that flanked the door. “Come over here.” The girl just stared at her. “Come on.”
Life was seeping back into the girl. She drew her knees to her chest, lowered her chin. Her eyes darted around the little tree house. “There’s no other way down,” Mary Ellen said. “You have to come here.” The girl didn’t move. Mary Ellen held out a hand to her. “I have food in my car.”
The girl crawled to the doorway. “Put your legs around here,” Mary Ellen said, patting one of her hips. “And put your arms around my neck.” The girl did as she was told, hesitantly at first, but then she clamped onto Mary Ellen’s torso with unexpected fierceness, tucking her head into the space between Mary Ellen’s shoulder and jaw. She smelled like a bad nursing home—urine and hopelessness. Mary Ellen leaned as far back as she could, pulling the girl out of the house, then slowly descended the ladder, feeling for the rungs with her feet until they finally met the snow. Staggering backward a few steps, she hooked her hands under the girl, whose grip was weakening, then turned and headed up the hill around the side of the house, toward the driveway.
“Let’s get you to a hospital,” she said. The girl moaned and shook her head. Mary Ellen paused to catch her breath, stretching her chin away from the girl’s hair, which kept sticking to her cheek and getting in her mouth. She took some sideways steps up the slope, her feet feeling their way over the rocks and branches hidden under the snow. Her hands were sliding apart, unable to stay interlaced under the girl’s weight. Her thighs were shaking. “I don’t know if I can make it to the car,” she said. “Let’s go through the house.”
Just outside the sliding glass door, Mary Ellen lowered the girl to her feet so she could use one hand to push the door open. The girl cried out as her feet touched the snow. “Sorry! Sorry,” Mary Ellen said, helping her inside and settling her into an armchair in the den. She pulled the wet socks off the girl’s white, bony feet and rubbed the cold skin between her hands, then went to the bedroom to find another pair of socks. She opened a drawer and reeled back at the smell of vomit that came from the sheets stuffed inside. She quickly shut the drawer and picked up a pair of dirty socks from the floor.
After piling some blankets on the girl and bringing her some water, Mary Ellen found a pair of rain boots and brought them to her. “You’ll have to put these on so we can go to the car. Do you think you can get up the stairs?”
The girl shook her head, her blue eyes dull and sunken. She didn’t look at Mary Ellen. “Food.”
“Food. Okay, yes, of course. You haven’t eaten in a while. Let me just… I’ll be right back.”
The girl nodded.
Mary Ellen carried the groceries in from the car and warmed some butternut squash soup on the stove. She brought it in a mug to the girl, who had fallen asleep, her head leaned back against the chair, her mouth slack. Mary Ellen nudged her, then held a spoonful of puree to the girl’s lips, her own mouth opening by reflex, the way it always had when she’d raised a spoon to her daughters’ lips. The girl’s eyelids lifted sleepily. “Eat,” Mary Ellen said.
The girl accepted some soup from the spoon, then reached for the mug. She gulped greedily from it, letting the soup ooze around the sides of the cup onto her cheeks. “Slow down,” Mary Ellen said. “You’ll vomit,” but the girl didn’t listen. She handed back the mug, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She was still wearing Mary Ellen’s leather gloves.
“Sorry,” she said, looking down at the soup-smeared glove.
“It’s okay,” Mary Ellen said, sinking to the floor by the girl’s feet. She put her head into her hands, suddenly overcome with a mixture of horror and relief. What if the girl had died out there? Mary Ellen wasn’t sure she was equipped to handle another death on her watch, even the death of a total stranger, a squatter, a runaway. She reached up and pulled the gloves off the girl’s hands. “Feeling better?”
The girl looked dazed.
“What’s your name?”
“Have you called the cops?”
Mary Ellen looked away. “No, not yet.”
“I’m sorry…” The girl coughed, cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I broke into your house.”
Mary Ellen looked back at her.
“Thank you.” The girl patted the sleeve of the coat she was still wearing.
“What’s your name?” Mary Ellen repeated.
The girl’s stare floated away, then pulled back, like a balloon on a string. “Rose.”
“Rose. I have more food, but I think you should wait a bit. Let that settle. You’ve been sick.”
“I know.”
Mary Ellen put her hand against the girl’s forehead. “You have a fever. Wait here.”
She went upstairs and found the bottle of Numbitol she always carried in her b
ag. She brought it to the girl, along with a glass of water. “This’ll bring it down,” she said, putting the pill in the girl’s hand.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Mary Ellen.”
The girl swallowed the pill, drank some water. “Very nice to meet you.”
Hearing this caused tears to rise in Mary Ellen’s eyes. What was this girl doing here, all alone, in this condition? “We have to go now,” she said. “To the hospital.”
“No thank you.”
“I found these boots. I’m going to put them on your feet.”
The girl pulled her feet up under herself in the chair, shaking her head.
Mary Ellen squatted next to her. “Listen, you’re sick and dehydrated, and I don’t know what else is going on with you. You need to see a doctor.”
“I just needed to eat something. I’m fine now. Please let me go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Listen to me, I know you might be feeling better now, but this is not something you want to mess around with. I’m taking you to the doctor—”
“No.”
“Rose—”
“I’m going to bed.” The girl pushed herself up out of the chair and shuffled into the bedroom, closing the door.
“Okay then,” Mary Ellen muttered, standing up and going upstairs. She inspected the view from all angles, walking from window to window, scanning the trees, which were thin, prickly, and still. The lack of internet was exasperating; she had a thousand questions. Was vomiting normal with seasonal flu? Where was the closest twenty-four-hour clinic? Was this the kind of thing Social Services dealt with? Should she drive to town and call Justine right away? What would Matt say? Should she go home?
She began straightening the living room, throwing away food wrappers and dirty tissues. She found a sketch pad with all its paper torn out; in the far corner of the room, a drift of paper airplanes. She collected the planes, examining the childish cartoon figures scribbled on their wings and sides, then flattened them into a recycling bin. She gathered all the towels from the kitchen and bathrooms and put them in the washer, along with the dirty sheets she’d found in the drawer. She swept the slick bamboo floors, picking up all the pine needles, clumps of dirt, and dead leaves that had been tracked throughout.
Teenagers! It was one thing to break into someone’s house; it was another to completely trash it. Mary Ellen went to the kitchen and began washing the dishes that were strewn across the counter, scrubbing vigorously at the moldy smears of food. It was supposed to be simple, this trip—just Mary Ellen and the woods. Just Mary Ellen, her Nikon, and an uninterrupted expanse of time in which to focus on her photography. Was that so much to ask?
After finishing the dishes, she wiped the windows, erasing Rose’s handprints. The house was smooth, sharp, cool to the touch. The hard sofas, the lacquered cabinets, the tiny light bulbs: Mary Ellen was beginning to understand the point of such a retreat. It was a cool hand against a feverish forehead, a sip of vodka after a rich meal. It was also a warm, well-lit shelter against the frozen forest, which was swiftly darkening outside the windows.
Mary Ellen hugged herself, wondering if it was actually safe to spend the night with this stranger in the house. She tiptoed downstairs and pushed open the door to Rose’s room. Lost among the blankets and pillows, the girl’s head was so small she could almost be five or six years old. She breathed wetly through her open mouth; her eyes moved stealthily under tissue-thin eyelids. Mary Ellen backed away, starting to close the door, then changed her mind. She left it open a crack and turned on the hall light, in case the girl woke up having to go to the bathroom, or wanting a drink of water, or feeling scared.
• • •
Mary Ellen parted her eyelashes, her pulse drumming hard at the sight of movement at the end of her bed, on the other side of the glass. Long legs, flicking tail, black nose. Mary Ellen exhaled and opened her eyes the rest of the way.
She’d never been so close to a deer, much less while she was still in bed. She was astonished by its size, by the solid, heavy fact of it right there, in the spot where, in any other house, there would be a dresser or an upholstered bench. She knew the glass separated her from the animal, but she couldn’t help feeling unsettled, lying there in her pajamas so close to its hard, nervous feet and muscular, breathing body. After a few moments, she sat up and raised her arms. The deer lifted its head and fixed her with an affronted stare, then leaped away.
Mary Ellen dressed and went upstairs to find the girl rummaging in the refrigerator, a half-eaten banana in her hand.
“Can I help you find something?”
Rose backed guiltily out of the fridge, lowering the banana and half hiding it behind her hip. “You can have the banana,” Mary Ellen said. “Why don’t I make some eggs too? Then I’ll take you into town.”
The girl nodded slowly.
“You’re feeling better?”
“Those pills,” Rose said. “They made my bones stop aching.”
“Good,” Mary Ellen said. She took some eggs out of the fridge. “Numbitol. It’s my secret weapon.” The girl laid the banana peel on the counter, and Mary Ellen picked it up and threw it away. “How long has it been since you’ve had a meal?”
“I forget. I don’t know how long I was sick.”
“Well, you seem like you’re going to be okay.” Mary Ellen agitated some eggs in a bowl, shook in some salt. “The police will probably want to take you to the hospital, though. To make sure.”
“The police?”
Mary Ellen poured the eggs into a hot pan; they tensed up almost immediately. She fumbled with the dial on the stove. “I don’t know where else to take you. I mean, you broke in here. And what about your parents? Someone needs to call them. My phone doesn’t work here.”
“So you haven’t…called anyone yet?”
“No, not yet.”
Rose backed away from the stove, then turned and hurried out of the kitchen. Mary Ellen switched off the burner and watched the girl go downstairs. “Do you want these eggs?” she called, but got no answer. She sighed, pushing the eggs around with a wooden spoon. They wouldn’t be any good cold.
A few moments later, the girl reappeared, dressed in layers topped with a jean jacket and a backpack, wearing the rain boots Mary Ellen had found the day before. Without looking at Mary Ellen, she crossed the room and went out the front door. Mary Ellen stood for a moment, a plate of eggs in her hand, wondering where Rose was going. She went to the window and saw the girl trudging up the driveway, hands shoved in her jacket pockets.
So she was leaving—just like that—with nothing but a banana in her system, and no winter coat. Mary Ellen shook her head. On the one hand, her problem had just solved itself. On the other hand…
She hurried downstairs and pulled on her coat and boots, then took her car keys and went outside. She could just see Rose, halfway up the hill, walking slowly. Mary Ellen got in the car and drove up to meet her, lowering her window as she pulled alongside.
“Where are you going?”
“Away.”
“You’ll freeze to death. You’ve been sick. Get in the car.”
Rose stopped and looked at Mary Ellen. She was breathing hard; her face was pale. “Can you take me to the bus station?”
“No.” Mary Ellen shook her head. “The hospital, maybe. Or the police station.”
The girl turned and walked off the driveway into the woods, headed uphill through the trees, stepping high over the tangles of vines and branches that poked out of the snow. She pulled a hand out of her pocket to steady herself, then shoved it back in.
“Rose!” Mary Ellen got out of the car. It wasn’t right, letting this sick girl wander into the snowy woods. Mary Ellen could drive into town to get help, but she wasn’t sure how far it was, and the girl might disappear in the meantime, lost among the dying hemlocks. “Come back!”
When she got no answer, Mary Ellen threw up her hands and stepped into the woods. It wasn’t hard to catch up with the girl, who was pausing occasionally to lean against trees and catch her breath. “Come with me,” Mary Ellen said, grasping Rose’s thin forearm. Rose pulled away. “You have to get in the car.”
“No.”
Mary Ellen reached for her again, but the girl stepped backward. Her face was frightened, and seeing this sent a jolt of regret through Mary Ellen. “Okay,” she said, holding up her hands. “Just come back to the house. Have some breakfast. Then we’ll figure out what to do. All right? You must be feeling terrible. At least have some food.”
Rose brushed some hairs from her face, squinting at Mary Ellen.
“Do you like bacon?” Mary Ellen asked. “I think I have some. I’ll make bacon and some more eggs.”
“You’re not going to call anyone?”
“I told you… My phone doesn’t work here.”
The girl looked up the hill, then back at the house. “All right,” she finally said. “Fine.” She stepped forward, stumbled a little, and Mary Ellen reached for her arm. “Don’t”—Rose straightened quickly—“touch me. Thanks.”
• • •
After breakfast, Mary Ellen cleared the dishes and sat back down across from the girl with a cup of coffee. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m not a drug addict or anything,” Rose said, stretching her arms across the table. “I’m not, like, dangerous. I just needed a place to stay for a while, and then I got sick. I’m sorry I made such a mess of your house.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“City?”
“You don’t usually come here in the winter, do you? It seems more like a summer place.” The girl propped her chin on her fist and watched Mary Ellen’s face.
The Runaways Page 11