by Julia Fine
I turned to look for Matthew, and found him standing beside me.
“Why, hello,” he said.
I sat down in the clearing and cried.
My tears were thick and heavy, hot and salted. They splashed against my wrist, down onto the grass below, dry grass, littered with crinkling autumn leaves. I rubbed a blade between my fingers. I reached out to touch a thorn. Nothing changed.
What world was this, I wondered, that looked so like the one I’d known as real, yet proved itself so foreign? My tears came faster, wetter. When Matthew came to me, I could not stop my bawling. I reached down and picked up a leaf, papery and yellow. As I held it, it remained stagnant in form.
Matthew understood at once. He smiled, his own eyes bright with tears. He sat down beside me and held out his hand. I grasped it and squeezed.
WE LEFT THE wood, Matthew and I, carefully, together. Where Urizon had been, we found only two broken brick pillars, what had served as the entrance to the Blakely estate. No sign of Lucy, Imogen, or Mary. No naked newborn. Nothing of Alys or Marlowe. Nothing of Peter. The barricades of branches were gone from the main road, and a car rushed past at great speed, clouding us with its exhaust. I coughed, lifting my left arm to block it. My bandage was blood-soaked and dirty, but for a bit of white at my elbow, and I tugged, hoping to match the clean spot to the sorest part of my wound, however pointless it might be.
“Here,” said Matthew, holding out his hands. I gave him my arm, and leaned against a pillar while he undid the bandage, gasping at the feeling of his fingers on my skin. Just a calloused thumb upon my dirty elbow. Such a small physical softness. So simple, so unremarkable. To me, it was everything.
Once the bandage was unraveled, Matthew wiped the dirt and dried blood from my arm. I cried, but not in pain: under the residue, we found my wound healed. In place of the raw muscle was a shining square scar, each side the length and width of two closed fingers.
Matthew raised my arm up tenderly, and kissed it.
When he was done, I looked him in the eyes and kissed his lips.
To Be Whole Again
The world works in circles. Stories repeat. There comes a tightening, a release; a gathering in, an exhalation. A ripening—wheat lengthening, wool thickening, a woman’s body growing heavy—then a reaping.
Without its shadow, the forest feels the profound calm of abundance relieved: shorn fields, quiet skies, all set right and clean as a child’s first breath. The daylilies return to the meadows. An elder tree stands tall, the rings on its bark forming two even eyeglass circles, a knot like a pair of lips ready to speak. Somewhere in the soil lies a shinbone. Somewhere in the forest hides a book.
Passersby wonder at the wildness of the landscape, when the trees will be cleared to make co-ops, the dirt roads turned to highway, the ore claimed from the earth. The locals shake their heads and smile.
And in the village of Coeurs Crossing a woman eases her old bones into a rocking chair: Once there was a curious little girl, born from death with marvelous powers. Children gather around her, listen rapt. Outside, a wood grows wild.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the many wonderful people who helped bring this book into the world:
Stephanie Delman, agent extraordinaire, whose faith in this novel is unparalleled. Erin Wicks, the hardest worker I know, who poured heart and soul into every aspect of this project. All the folks at Harper and Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, who offered wisdom and support along the way.
Daniel Camponovo, Howard Simmons, Todd Summar, and Ken Gerleve, whose early feedback guided me. Brian Zimmerman, who convinced me that Maisie needed her own novel and then stuck with us. Sophie Brochu, whose late-night texts, editorial eye, and willingness to meet for pancakes at all hours have been vital to my writing process.
Jason Kalajainen, Mitch Kohl, and the rest of the team at the Luminarts Cultural Foundation and the Union League Club of Chicago Library.
My CCC mentors, Audrey Niffenegger, Joe Meno, Sam Park, and Nami Mun, for their wisdom and patience and care with my work.
Dick and Denise Berdelle, for love, support, and last-minute babysitting. Nora, Chrissy, Tom, and Pat—the best cheerleaders.
Phil and Barbara Fine, who taught me to love language. My brothers, Aaron and David, who show up every time. My parents, Michael and Susan Fine—all of my successes are due to your love and support.
To Rick, my rock, and Elliott, who grew alongside this book. I love you dearly.
About the Author
JULIA FINE teaches writing at DePaul University and is a recent graduate of Columbia College Chicago’s MFA program. She lives in Chicago with her husband and their son.
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Copyright
WHAT SHOULD BE WILD. Copyright © 2018 by Julia Fine. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Cover design by Sarah Brody
Cover illustration © Magdalena Wasiczek / Trevillion Images
Digital Edition MAY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-268415-8
Version 04242018
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-268413-4
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