She could see a glow under the bedroom door; Rose had left the hall light on. Mary Ellen got up to turn it off, then noticed that the girl had left her bedroom door ajar. Was she scared of the dark? She acted tough, but Mary Ellen sensed a certain vulnerability under the surface. She peeked into the room, the way she’d always done when her girls were young, before they hung a DO NOT ENTER sign on their door. Rose turned her head sleepily toward the light and half opened her eyes.
“Sorry… I was going to turn off the light,” Mary Ellen whispered. “Unless you want me to leave it on?”
“Okay.”
Mary Ellen crept back into the hall, flicked off the light, and returned to her room. A few moments later, she heard Rose’s footsteps, and another click of the light switch. The glow of the hall light leaked, once again, under Mary Ellen’s door.
• • •
Mary Ellen began with a healthy breakfast, a couple of Numbitol, and lots of water. After eating, she lay down on one of the sofas for a while, letting the food settle, finishing one of Justine’s books on postmodernism. Then she unrolled her mat and ran through a few slow, easy yoga sequences, breathing deeply through her nose, trying to ease the pressure under her skull. The downward dog caused all of the blood to rush to her head, which was painful, so she moved quickly into the warrior pose, which always made her feel like a soldier on the side of a Greek vase. Arms as straight as spears, neck long, legs powerfully planted, she felt a surge of courageous resolve. Things were going to be okay. Today was going to be different.
Rose was still asleep, so Mary Ellen left a note telling her what was available for breakfast. She cleaned up her own breakfast dishes and wiped down the counters, scrubbing the sink and drying it with paper towels. Finally, she put on her coat, hat, boots, and gloves, only then realizing she had to go to the bathroom, requiring her to take it all back off. She spent a long time washing her hands, gazing into the mirror as if in a trance, enjoying the feeling of warm water on her cold fingers. Finally, after applying hand lotion and giving it some time to absorb, she put her coat back on, shouldered her camera, and headed out into the overcast chill.
Mary Ellen stood on the back deck for a few moments, staring into the splintery, sickly forest. She couldn’t imagine a less photogenic place. What did Justine love about it, besides its isolation and lack of amenities? Was Mary Ellen too unsophisticated to see it? Or was she not enough of a masochist?
She stepped off the deck and walked through the trees, scanning the broken branches that littered the ground and pondering her creative paralysis. Of course, the problem wasn’t that there was nothing to photograph—anything could become interesting subject matter with the right perspective. The problem was that the number of possible pictures was infinite, and each picture required an infinite number of decisions about composition, framing, depth of field, focus… In making even a single decision, she would be imposing her Mary Ellen–ness on the shot, and that prospect was even more frightening than the vertigo of infinity.
It was turning out to be easier to impose Justine-ness on her circumstances. A harmless game, really, but one that was helping her inhabit the resolutely spare house and its strange, half-rotten surroundings. She was actually kind of enjoying it—submitting to the possession, taking a much-needed vacation from herself and her dark, self-pitying thoughts. Even the way she dealt with Rose was different from how she spoke to her girls. She was more authoritative, more sure of herself. It wasn’t hard; it just happened, like one of those flying dreams. Suddenly, you’re just doing it, and you realize you always knew how, you just never bothered to try.
Something red caught her eye. She’d seen a few shell casings lying here and there in the snow, bright bits of red-and-yellow plastic, but as she drew nearer, she realized that this wasn’t an object; it was a stain, dark red and glistening. A few feet away she found another one, then another, and then she recognized the twin teardrops of deer hooves pressed into the ground along the way.
She followed the stains for a while, trying to read their story in the chaotic way they increased and decreased, sometimes gathering into a larger splotch, sometimes spattering like fireworks, the footprints punched through the crust of the snow for what seemed like half a mile or more. She couldn’t tell, but she knew it was a long way to walk for an animal losing so much blood.
She began to wonder if she really wanted to catch up to the deer—it would probably be an awful thing to see. But there was something so urgent and full of life about these scarlet spots, here among the black, dried-up branches and the white, impassive snow. The color of life was impossible to ignore.
When she found it, the deer was lying on the ground. Mary Ellen approached slowly, knowing what she looked like—a predator ready to take its advantage. “Shh,” she said, crouching down. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” The animal lifted its head and stared, its belly rising and falling rapidly. Mary Ellen could see the shotgun wound in its side, a messy gash with a stream of syrupy blood running down and accumulating on the snow. The deer thrashed and struggled to its feet, stumbled a few steps, and then fell onto its front knees, where it stayed for a few moments, probably trying to locate the strength it needed to get back up.
Mary Ellen stood up and looked around. “Hey!” she cried out. “Your deer is here! It’s still alive!” Her voice sounded pinched and weak in the vast silence of the mountain. “You have to do something!” The deer’s head was nodding. It tried once again to raise itself but slumped forward with a crash. Mary Ellen cried out, turning away from the sight, pressing her glove to her mouth. She pulled the lens cap from her camera and put her eye to the viewfinder and turned slowly, the camera like a shield, stepping closer to the deer. She twisted the lens, the animal’s black eye zooming into focus. It was so dark and bottomless, she felt like she could fall into it and never find her way out. She put her finger on the shutter and held her breath, but before she could press the button, the eye rolled back, flashing white, and the deer arched her head back and bawled, “Bwehhh-oh.”
Sharp, nasal, pleading, the two syllables vibrated deep in Mary Ellen’s chest. “Bwehhh-oh,” the deer screamed again. Help me!
Mary Ellen gasped and stepped backward. Clutching her camera to her chest, she turned and started running, back the way she’d come, her feet crashing through the undergrowth in clumsy, terrifying slow motion. She stumbled, almost dropping her camera, then righted herself and looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fluorescent-orange vest, a camouflage cap, something. “Hello?” she cried. “Your deer!” The only response was the creaking of the trees.
She started running again, her hat sliding down over one eye, her camera’s lens cap bouncing crazily on the end of its tether. She followed the blood trail, hoping to find its origin and, nearby, its creator. But when she drew close to the ravine, she saw the trail veer off the right, in the opposite direction from Justine’s house. Mary Ellen stopped, slung the camera around her neck, and bent over, hands on her knees, great gasps of air billowing out of her. She straightened and looked around, listening for footsteps, trying to think what to do. Maybe the hunter would find the deer on his own and put her out of her misery. But what if he didn’t?
Some passing crows barked hoarsely in the sky, and the sound filled Mary Ellen with loneliness. She turned to the left and hurried back toward the house. When she got inside, she found Rose upstairs in the kitchen. Mary Ellen stripped off her hat and gloves, still out of breath, and threw her camera down on the counter.
“What’s—” Rose pulled her head back, narrowing her eyes.
“A deer,” Mary Ellen panted. “She’s been shot. She’s still alive, she’s in terrible pain, we have to do something.”
“Like what? I don’t—”
“I don’t know. I think we have to put her out of her misery.”
Rose stared at Mary Ellen for a moment, then screwed the lid back on the peanut butter
jar she’d been eating from. “No thanks.”
“We have to, Rose. We can’t just leave her like that. Can you imagine? It could take her hours to die. She needs our help.”
“The hunter will find it.”
“But what if he doesn’t? She’s been walking around like that for a long time.” Mary Ellen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was shaking. “She asked me to help her.”
“The deer.”
“Seriously, Rose, she cried out; she was begging. I wish you could’ve heard it. It was—” Mary Ellen shook her head, the memory of the sound as deep and painful as a bullet hole. “It was awful.”
“And you want to kill it how?”
Mary Ellen looked around.
“There’s no gun in the house,” Rose said.
“I know that.”
“Well, whatever you have in mind, I can’t.” Rose swiped the air with her hand.
Mary Ellen yanked open a drawer and pulled out a chef’s knife. Then she thought better of it and chose a boning knife instead. She turned to Rose, who took a step back, her eyes wide. “I’ll just have to cut her throat,” Mary Ellen said, tears rising in her eyes. “It’ll be quick. Quicker than what she’s going through now.” Her breath caught up in her throat. “Will you at least come with me? I don’t want to do it alone.”
The girl watched as Mary Ellen pulled on her gloves; then, she sighed heavily and retrieved the rain boots from beside the front door, and pulled on her jean jacket. She followed Mary Ellen outside and into the woods.
Mary Ellen traced her own footprints back to the blood trail, feeling bolstered by Rose’s presence. “She’s a little ways on from here,” she said over her shoulder. “She walked pretty far, considering how bad she was hurt. She’s not a big deer, but strong. Animals are amazing. They have that, I don’t know, life force. Survival instinct. They don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves; they just get on with it.”
“Yeah.”
“There.” Mary Ellen stopped and pointed at the brown heap a few yards away. “See her?” She took a deep breath. She couldn’t back out now; Rose was watching.
Mary Ellen drew closer to the deer, calling softly, “I’m here. Everything’s going to be all right.” The deer didn’t move. “I came back to help you.” Mary Ellen crouched next to the deer and gently placed a hand on her flank.
“Oh,” she said.
“What?” Rose asked.
Mary Ellen set the knife down on the snow and put a hand over her mouth. She leaned forward and looked more closely at the deer’s face. “She’s gone,” she said. “We were too late.”
“Oh, thank Jesus.”
Mary Ellen shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed. She couldn’t speak.
“That’s good, right?” the girl asked. “You don’t have to kill it.”
Mary Ellen tried to swallow whatever was crowding her throat, but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes, trying to remove herself from the moment, but the images couldn’t be stopped. They came barreling straight out of her imagination—not her memory, because she’d never looked at the police report, she’d never seen the photos. She had to assemble the image herself: her father’s naked body lying in the bathtub. The bluish tint of his skin. “He was all alone,” she said through the swell of tears.
“It’s just a deer.” The girl patted Mary Ellen’s shoulder. Mary Ellen opened her eyes and stood up quickly, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.
“I know.” She sniffed, the cold air clearing her head. “Sorry. I don’t know…” She swallowed. “I guess this is nature, right? Predator, prey. Although in this case…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with people. Wounding an animal like that and letting her wander off.”
“Well, if the hunter doesn’t come get it, something else will,” Rose said, looking around. “Like, a bear or something.”
“Oh, I don’t think there are bears around here,” Mary Ellen said. “Are you scared?”
“No.”
Mary Ellen watched Rose’s pale face take on a look she was coming to recognize: bravado laid like a thin sheet over uncertainty.
“It’s getting dark,” Mary Ellen said. “I know you don’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, nobody likes being in the woods after dark. It’s…creepy.”
“Yeah.” Rose looked embarrassed. “I’m not a big fan of the dark. I know it’s dumb, but it’s just how I am.”
She was so young. Mary Ellen felt herself being drawn in by her youthfulness, by the beauty and mystery of it, by the hazy memories it provoked and the ugliness it outshone. She’d made so many mistakes. Was she being offered something now? A chance to do better?
“Come on,” she said, starting to reach for a strand of hair hanging in Rose’s face, then stopping herself. “I know a place with lots of lights. And food. Do you like chicken?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re in luck. Let’s go.”
13
Mary Ellen started the dinner routine as soon as they got back, pouring herself a glass of booze and spreading a bunch of groceries out on the counter, getting out all of her bowls and pans, arranging them just so. The whole time she had a kind of pinched look on her face, a look that reminded Ivy of people back home. The look that meant someone was hurting and not talking about it.
“Need some help?” Ivy asked.
“Do you like to cook?”
“I don’t really know how. I should probably learn sometime, huh.”
The lady seemed to like that—she liked anything that gave her a chance to talk about stuff she knew. She showed Ivy how to cook the chicken in a pan, using the brown bits stuck on the bottom to make a sauce. She taught her how to cook mushrooms with garlic and butter, which smelled like Christmas. And she explained how to make salad dressing, which Ivy had never heard of before. She thought everyone just got it out of a bottle.
Ivy was playing up her interest, but the cooking lesson actually turned out to be kind of useful. She could see herself making a meal like that when she was finally living on her own, maybe even inviting some friends over to her place, having a little party. She’d learn to make hamburgers and chili too. Put some music on, maybe show a movie on her TV, everyone hanging out on her sectional. She was planning to have a pretty sweet setup in her apartment, once she started smoke-jumping. Comfortable, not like this place.
“Sure, I know how to make chili,” Mary Ellen said when Ivy asked. “I used to make it all the time when I first moved to Philadelphia.”
“Can you teach me?” Ivy asked. “So I can make it, like, at college?”
“Of course,” Mary Ellen said, bringing their plates over to the table. “It’s good student food. Not as cheap as ramen, but close.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll be eating a lot of day-old bread and peanut butter.” Ivy tried saying this like it was a romantic dream of hers. “It’ll be worth it, though.”
“Definitely.”
“It was for you, right? Paying all that money so you could get a college degree?”
“Well, sure—”
“I mean, that’s how you got to be a painter and all. It seems like it worked out really well for you.”
“It did. Yes.” Mary Ellen chewed her chicken for a moment, then crinkled her forehead and looked out the window. “Did we talk about me being a painter?”
“I just hope I can figure out the whole money thing. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how expensive college is. It’s a little scary.”
“It is, but you’ll figure it out.”
“Did you have any help? Like, did anyone take you under their wing? Make sure you had everything you needed?”
The lady picked at her salad. “No. Not really. I mean, my parents paid for college. But they weren’t very supportive of me bei
ng an artist. I could’ve used a mentor or a role model.”
“Huh.” It seemed to Ivy that paying for college was pretty damn supportive, but what did she know. “That’s hard, when your parents don’t want to let you to do your own thing.”
The lady drew herself up and started cutting her chicken into a million tiny pieces, silently nodding her head.
“My parents used to tell me all the time what a waste it was to go to college, how dumb I was for thinking I could ever make it as a writer. I’ll tell you what, though.” Ivy stabbed some mushrooms with her fork. “When I make it—when I’m a successful writer—what I’m gonna do is help some other kid. Give a chance to someone else who was in my shoes. As a mentor or whatever, but with money too. So they don’t have to worry.” She ate the mushrooms, a smile breaking out around her fork.
“Ah.” Mary Ellen put her chin in her hand, smiling back at her. “How generous of you.”
“We artists have to stick together, right?” Ivy licked her fork.
“Mmm.” Mary Ellen began gathering their plates and silverware. “By the way, have you ever seen any hunters out there? In the woods?”
“No. I’ve only seen their stuff. In their, like, hideouts.”
“But you haven’t run into one?”
“They’re not supposed to hunt around here, around the house,” Ivy said. “There are signs.”
“I guess. But that deer today. It made me think,” Mary Ellen said, turning her head toward the expanse of windows. “We’re so exposed here. At night? When the lights are on? It’s like we’re on TV.”
“You think they’re watching us?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t know. How would we ever know? It’s so dark out there.” Mary Ellen pressed her knuckles against her lips, eyes wide.
The Runaways Page 14