After the Woods

by Kim Savage

  He takes my arm and gently moves me toward the car. “Dumb and Dumber haven’t figured out who we are. Let’s not push our luck.”

  Ahead, Liv slams the car door shut.

  I pull away and face him. “Come with me.” My voice sounds breathy and passionate, and I startle myself.

  “Listen, I would really like to help you. But do you know how much trouble I’d be in if any of those guys were from Shiverton? We’re lucky that detective happened to be a Parlee guy. Word still might get back to my dad,” Kellan says.

  “No offense, but if they didn’t know who Liv and I are, they’re not going to piece together who you are. See, we’re kind of famous around here,” I say as I smile, despite myself.

  “Okay, then, reality check: those cops will never let us get near the Sheepfold. If we sneak in, we get arrested for disturbing the scene of a crime.” He steals a look back at the Jeep. “Can I say something that might be completely out of line?”

  “Something along the lines of how I could get PTSD?”

  He laughs. “Here’s what I’m wondering. You’re the one who got caught by the dude. You’re the one who spent a night in the woods escaping him. So how come Liv’s the one acting like a nutjob?”

  I turn and face the trails. It’s midmorning now. A light mist rises from the forest floor. Sunbeams pierce through trees, highlighting their jigsaw edges. It seems that some trees are meant to fit with other trees. Liv, me. Donald, Ana. Parts of the same picture. What happened in the woods is a vast puzzle for me to solve, or walk away from. Solve it, or leave it.

  Sneakers in leaves. Kellan’s mouth near the back of my neck. “Julia?”

  “Liv wants to leave the woods,” I murmur, my head thrown back, tracing the jagged lines in the canopy.

  “Most people wouldn’t blame her,” Kellan says.

  From the Jeep, Liv yells at us to hurry up.

  I’m not like most people.

  I stoop to pick up an oak leaf, twirling its stem between my thumb and forefinger. Veins radiate out, starting and ending at the midrib, the leaf’s spine. I close my eyes and run my finger over the midrib, a distinct indent on the front, an unmistakable ridge on the back. Starting and ending at the same place. Imminently traceable.

  “I’m not ready to leave yet,” I say, heading to the truck.

  * * *

  Mom chews and swallows and dabs a napkin at the corners of her downturned mouth. Erik has overstepped again, welcoming my questions about the latest news on Ana Alvarez. The fact that he’s required to wear a parent filter when he’s not allowed to act like my parent would, on a normal day, be the elephant in the room. But today, the elephant is Ana Alvarez, and I’m outing her, right here in our kitchen.

  “I just wish they would stop the generalities and report exactly where they found the body,” I say.

  Erik scrapes the last bit of basmati rice from the takeout tin. “They found her near the fire watchtower.”

  “Erik! Really?” Mom refills her glass with cabernet. The frenzy at school this morning has her on edge. I had hoped the wine would relax her instead of making her sullen. Usually one glass of wine and she jokes about her colleagues’ hygiene; three and we’re besties, and does her long hair age her, and should she cut it?

  “She needs information to process, Gwen. It’s healthy,” Erik says.

  “That rice is healthy too. I didn’t want more or anything,” I say.

  Erik scoot-bumps me across the bench. I scoot-bump him back.

  Even over Indian takeout, Erik smells good, like grapefruit and glass. I wonder if he rode his bike here from Cambridge.

  “Where near the watchtower?” I continue.

  “They didn’t say.” Erik steals a look at my mother, who frowns. “But I doubt they’ll get that specific. At least not on the news. Certainly not on public radio.”

  Mom sets down her fork. “Can we speak in the dining room?” she asks him.

  Erik drags his napkin over his mouth and unfolds his long body from the bench. I shrug at him, and he winks. Once his back disappears, I tiptoe after them to eavesdrop.

  “You crossed a line. You shouldn’t have told her about the forensics. Sometimes I think you forget she’s a child, let alone that she was attacked less than a year ago,” Mom whispers.

  “Repeating what I heard on the news is hardly telling her forensics,” he says.

  “She’s still at risk of retraumatization. Elaine Ricker says she presents as classic post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “You know Julia. She needs information. You told me she spent months researching like mad: kidnapping statistics, sociopathic tendencies, martyr complexes. Trying to apply game theory to her own abduction, for God’s sake. The girl is starving for information to make sense of what happened to her. If knowing more about the psychopath who stole her sense of security helps her in some way, I say go for it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we decided a long time ago that you don’t have a say. Or have you forgotten?”

  Ding-dong!

  Damn it, doorbell! The conversation pauses. Mom calls out, “Julia, do not get that!” She shifts to a rapid-fire whisper: “Parents from Brazil … decomposition hastened by so much rain … veterinary student, very promising … tasteless gossip about leading a double life … important to determine there isn’t another criminal wandering the woods.”

  The doorbell rings again.

  Erik must be making to answer, because Mom shouts, “No! I’m calling Elaine Ricker.”

  Ding-dong!

  I run for the door, swinging it open. A blast of air rushes in. The streetlights are out and the night is starless. Against a lacy backdrop of trees, a figure is making for a truck at the curb.

  “Julia! Did you just open the door?” Mom calls.

  Kellan turns and grins, warm and wide. As he lopes back toward me, I spy something in his hand. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by without calling. I found this under the backseat of my car,” he says.

  Even in the dark I recognize the squiggly black design on the cover of my notebook. Cold horror falls over me. Another half hour and I would’ve tried to download Erik’s intel onto its pages and found it missing.

  “Julia?” Mom calls, urgently now.

  I snatch the notebook from his hand and smile tightly. “My French. Thanks. Test tomorrow. I would’ve been screwed.”

  “Tomorrow’s a teachers’ professional day. No school, remember?” he says.

  I laugh, but it goes on way too long until it dwindles to a pitchy sigh. “You’re correct!” I shake my finger at him, like he’s a rascal. “Friday. I meant Friday.”

  “Right. Glad I caught you at home.” Kellan turns and strolls down the walk. The door is halfway shut when he stops and turns.

  “You’re some overachiever,” he calls.

  I ease the door open. “Sorry?”

  “Taking French, too. Because we’re in Spanish together.”

  “Did I say French?” I bring the notebook to my nose, examining it as if I’ve uncovered some important missed detail. “This is my stats notebook.”

  He half smiles, coming up the walk. “I take stats. Most of the coursework’s online. But you use a comp notebook. Old school. Nice.”

  “I like to figure things out on the page, you know?”

  “I do know.”

  I frown.

  “Julia!” Mom comes running into the front hall. Not being athletic and maybe because of the wine, she flails and skids. Erik races behind, his arms outstretched, like he’s trying to contain her. It’s a scene.

  “Oh, wow. Okay. Mom, Erik, this is Kellan.”

  “Hello.” Mom stuffs her hair behind her ears, composing herself. “Gwen Spunk. Nice to meet you.”

  “I left my notebook in his car today. He came by to give it to me. In case I needed it tomorrow—I mean Friday—for school.”

  Mom cocks her head. “In his car?”

  “When the reporters came. He let me wait in his car until the cr
azy died down.”

  Erik jabs his hand in front of Mom. “Erik Meijer. I work with Julia’s mom. It was exceptional of you to save Julia like that.”

  “Yes, thank you, Kieran,” Mom says.

  “It’s Kellan,” I say, turning to Kellan. “When you rang the doorbell Mom thought you were a reporter. She was about to rip you a new one.”

  “Julia!” Mom says.

  “I can understand, after this morning,” Kellan says. “I’m not a fan of reporters either.”

  “Kellan’s dad is Detective Joe MacDougall.”

  Mom’s face turns positively purple, like she doesn’t know whether to hug him or slam the door in his face. Joe MacDougall may have put Donald Jessup in jail, but according to Paula Papademetriou, he’s high up in the same police department that blew off babysitting Jessup. Also, his rough bedside manner when they first brought me into the hospital has to be on her mind. He came inside the exam room when the nurse was helping tie my johnny, asking for my version of what happened. The nurse blocked him with her body while she swabbed the cuts on my back with bacitracin. He took my clothes in a bag. They argued. Mom stood by, silent and straining against the awfulness of it all, squeezing my hand.

  Erik cups Mom’s shoulders. “Would you like to come in, Kellan?”

  “I should just go,” Kellan says.

  “Wait!” Mom shouts, roused from her trance. “We have Indian. Do you like Indian?”

  “There’s plenty to go around,” Erik says as he smiles approvingly at Mom.

  “Just not rice,” I say. Because it’s important to make that clear. Seriously, what’s wrong with me? Maybe I need an Erik to finesse my social gaffes too.

  Erik moves past me gently and takes Kellan by the upper arm. “Do you like naan?”

  “I love naan,” Kellan says.

  “We have naan!” Erik slaps Kellan on the back. Kellan was ready to bail, twice. Now they’re forcing him to come in. Suddenly I feel like the friendless kid whose parents socially engineer her life so she’s not lonely. My ears begin to burn. Kellan looks back at me and smiles mischievously, like he just got away with something. I decide his staying means nothing, since most guys like to get fed.

  The food is cold, but Mom and Erik are warm with wine, more than I realized, and Kellan keeps commenting on how great the food is, and how he’s embarrassed because he’s acting like he hasn’t seen food in days. It feels like a downer to point out that I have experience in that area. Erik peppers Kellan with questions about hockey, which Kellan answers behind a balled-up fist, because he’s shoveling in tikka masala piled on torn corners of naan. Mom can’t follow the hockey talk, but she makes a lot of affirmative noises, too many, and refills her wine glass twice.

  I ponder what Liv would make of Kellan MacDougall in my breakfast nook.

  Mom folds an arm over her chest and sits back. “So Julia and I were remembering all the good times she had with Alice Mincus last night over dinner. Do you remember Alice, Erik?”

  “Of course I remember Alice.” Erik looks to Kellan, as if he needs to explain remembering Alice, and says, “I’ve been around these ladies for a while.”

  “What Erik means is, I haven’t hung around with Alice since I was ten,” I say, turning to Mom. “Your parental machinations aren’t really interesting to Kellan. Or Erik, for that matter.”

  Erik tosses back his wine. “Anyone ready for dessert? The kheer’s not ready yet, but I brought ice cream.”

  “How does the song go? Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, and the other gold,” Mom sings off pitch.

  Kellan’s eyebrows climb. Erik stands at the freezer, wedging displaced Boca Burgers back into their packed towers. “How is your father these days?” he calls to Kellan.

  Kellan puts down his Coke. “He’s good. Had to stop coaching this year. Things got busy at work,” he says.

  If I were him, I’d be wondering if in this household, I’m considered guilty by association. But he’s either stupid or really good at acting blasé.

  Mom drags her glass in a circle. “Tell me, does the press pester him?”

  “I’d use a different word,” he says.

  “Piss him off?” I say.

  Mom wrinkles her nose at me. “Julia.”

  “The press isn’t exactly making the police look good these days,” I say.

  “It’s really just one station.” Kellan swigs his Coke. “Paula Papademetriou is trying to say the police were at fault for what happened to you.” He turns to me. “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m still sorting things out,” I answer. Understatement of the Year.

  “That’s what I figured,” Kellan says.

  “That’s what you figured?”

  “You just seem to be someone who thinks through stuff a lot,” Kellan explains.

  “As opposed to someone who thinks through things a little? Someone who doesn’t think at all?” I say, when what I really want to say is, As opposed to someone who works things out in the pages of a comp notebook?

  “As opposed to someone who just wants to forget,” Kellan says.

  Did he read my notebook or not? I fidget in my chair as the black in my gut burrows down.

  “No one wants ice cream, really? Just me?” Erik says, head in the freezer.

  I stand abruptly. “Can we talk in the dining room?” I ask Kellan.

  Mom coughs.

  Erik returns with four bowls and an undersized tub of Karamel Sutra.

  “I’d like some ice cream,” Kellan says.

  “They’ll save you some,” I say.

  Erik looks at the tiny tub sadly.

  I charge out of the room and position myself behind the back of a dining room chair. Kellan appears in the doorway.

  “You have a lot of opinions about me for someone who barely knows me,” I say.

  “I said that you seem like a person who thinks.”

  “I’m going to ask you straight out: Did you read my notebook?”

  “Because when I’m looking for a good read, I think: stats?”

  I squint at him.

  “You’re hostile considering I recovered said notebook,” Kellan says.

  “Maybe I do have a problem with your father for letting Donald Jessup out on the streets.”

  “If that was true, I’d say you have a right to be pissed. But it’s obvious that reporter is trying to revive her career. The story might be hot today, but tomorrow, no one will care, and she’ll be on to her next conquest.”

  “Kind of like hooking up at a woods party and blowing someone off the next day?” I spit.

  Silence.

  “You’re talking about Liv Lapin,” he says.

  “I am indeed.”

  “Liv was basically using me, because I was there,” Kellan says.

  “Oh, that’s rich. The classic story: girl uses guy.”

  “Did Liv say she was pissed that I never called her?”

  “Well, no,” I answer.

  “Then why do you care?”

  “She’s my friend.”

  He smiles slyly. “Sounds like your mom would prefer you hang with Alice.”

  I hold the sides of my head. “Oh my God. I was friends with Alice in fifth grade! Liv is my best friend!”

  “You sound like you’re trying to convince me. But I don’t need convincing: you risked your life to save her. Maybe you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  “Where do you get off saying that?” I ask him.

  “All I know is that there’s a pattern. I blow off Liv. Liv couldn’t care less, but you want to raise an army against me. Some chick gets killed in the woods, the same way you could’ve got killed in the woods, which should freak you out. Yet it’s Liv who hides while you want to go examine the body.”

  “You’re saying I have a pattern of overreacting while Liv underreacts?”

  “I’m saying you and Liv together are a hot mess.”

  “You think I’m a mess?”

  “Together you’
re a mess. Alone, I think you’re fascinating. And a little bit of a mess. But mostly fascinating,” Kellan says.

  I shoot him my best dirty look from under my eyelashes, which I hope is at once meaningful and alluring. He smiles wider. But I’m just getting started.

  “You mean morbidly fascinating. I get it. You can’t look away. I’m the girl who had interactions with a sociopath. Extended, day-long, night-long interactions. We hung out together. He fed me. Offered me hits off his joint. And everyone wonders: Did he touch her?”

  Kellan drags a knuckle across his forehead. Didn’t think I was going there so soon, did ya, buddy?

  “The supposition makes me automatically creepy,” I continue. “And there’s the automatic next question: What did I have to give away to escape?”

  “You don’t have to go there…” Kellan says, trailing off.

  I circle the table. “Donald Jessup was a paroled assailant of women. He played a soft-porn video game that involved hunting women in the woods. He lived with his shut-in mother and barely left the house, except for that one day, when he happened to get some kind of stirring that involved dressing in camo and packing a hunting knife. So how could I possibly have escaped untouched in that most carnal of ways?”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.” I sit on the table’s edge and slap my thighs. “And now, no one really knows what to do with me. Every time I ask too many questions, they shut me down, or redirect me, or tell me to move on. It’s like I’m this oddity. In 88.5% of all abductions, the girl is killed within the first two hours. What do you do with the girl who comes back?”

  He sits near me. “What happened in the woods?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I’ve always wanted to know.”

  I pull back. “What do you mean, always?”

  “I’ve lived with your story for the last year. It’s where my dad was, in his head, all the time. With you, I mean.”

  “Your father found and arrested Donald Jessup within forty-eight hours. What was he preoccupied with for the last year?”

  He looks down for a moment. “Maybe I’m not supposed to talk about this.”