If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  Before I can fully give in to sleep, I’m tugged up, Vicky under one arm and Jenna under my other. “Leave me here. I’m done with life anyway.”

  “Good try,” Vicky mumbles. “It’s not up to you. There will be no giving up.”

  VICKY

  When we reach the building, it becomes clear that this is not a house, at least not for people. I think it’s the stench that brings it home to me first. Sickly sweet and pungent, even from outside I expect the smell to have a color—green. Not just regular green, split-pea soup green.

  Jenna listens at the door then squeezes a spring and flips up the hook-and-eye latch and cracks it open. We slip inside as if we’re about to pull off a major bank heist. A guttural moo stops my heart and breath.

  “Milk cows. Thank God!” Jenna pushes us in, and closes the door behind us. “This is just the break we need.”

  No. She’s gone off the steep side of the mental cliff. Steam is literally rising off piles of cow … leavings. The huge eyes of about a dozen mammoth creatures stare us down with nothing to keep them from trampling us. What little flesh I have left is going to be eaten by bovines. On the other hand, being able to see by virtue of electricity-powered lightbulbs makes me almost giddy.

  Ireland slides down the wall. For the first time I notice her missing boot. How long has she been like that? “Jenna.”

  She turns and takes in Ireland’s state. “I thought you were in rough shape.”

  The comment stings. I run my hand over my bumpy skin. There are more hills and valleys on my face than the most acne-affected teenager.

  Jenna kneels near Ireland. “We’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

  Ireland’s eye blink, then go wide.

  I follow her gaze. Posted on the side wall are three posters of former presidents. They’re all decorated with bullet holes.

  “Okay, maybe this isn’t the friendliest farm.” Jenna tosses our one bag at her feet. “But it’s tons better than where we were living in Nowhere, Wilderness.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think we can trust them without further information.”

  “Agreed.” Jenna’s shoulders slump. “We may not be exactly saved yet, but we’re getting closer.”

  “Closer to one end or another.” The wet nose of a cow nuzzles my neck, sending me into a hard battle with paralysis. “Help.”

  Jenna shakes her head. “Get back now, Bessy. We’re not here with treats.” She pushes on the animal’s shoulder and it takes a couple steps back. Jenna helps Ireland up and moves her to the side of the barn where hay is stacked. “First things first. We need to have a safe place if they come back. I’m not saying these are horrible people, but a few minutes to observe them would be good.” She walks up to the backside of a cow. “Hey there, old girl.” Running her hand down the leg she continues on to the bulging sack that hangs below.

  My stomach wavers, and I hold my hand in front of my mouth.

  “Looks like they haven’t been milked yet. That’s good for us.” She cups her hand and sprays milk into her palm then tips it into her mouth. “That’s the best thing I’ve had in maybe forever.”

  “Clearly that’s the starvation talking.” I don’t usually drink milk, but when I do, it’s organic and it’s skim, and it definitely has gone through serious pasteurization. But my stomach is hollow and desperate. “Can you get me some?”

  A smile lights Jenna’s eyes. She pulls a bucket from a nail on the wall and places it under the cow. “There’s something strange going on here. This is a hay barn, not equipped for cows to live in.” Milk echoes off the metal. After about ten streams she moves to the next one. “I don’t want it to be obvious that we’ve been here.”

  When the bucket is half full, Jenna hands it to me and motions for me to drink. I’ve come a long way from crystal goblets and imported water.

  The milky scent fills my nose and mouth before the warm liquid pours over my tongue. It’s thick and smooth like satin. The taste is more of a feel than a flavor, a sensation. It’s heaven to the starving. The heat rinses down my throat, and I gulp, taking in more and more. Just as I’m sure my feet will lift off the ground in ecstasy, Jenna pulls the metal rim away from my lips.

  “I think that’s enough. You’re going to get yourself sick swigging it like a drunk sailor.”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, removing a layer of cream. “Nice image.”

  She grins.

  We return to Ireland. She’s so still, I shiver with the fear that she’s already left us.

  Jenna shakes her shoulder. “Ireland, I need you to wake up.”

  She stirs but her eyes stay closed. How could I take the time to feed myself when Ireland lays helpless on the edge of a mountain of hay bales?

  Chapter 24

  JENNA

  I have to stay positive, but I want to crumble onto the floor and cry. Ireland doesn’t look good. I search through all of our decisions since entering the cave. Was there something we should have done differently?

  I’ve filled the pail again. Steam rises off the surface of the milk. I try to take the sock off Ireland’s bootless foot. The wool seems stuck to the skin. Is it better to leave it or take it off? My instinct tells me the sock has to be removed. It’s wet and the skin can’t warm this way. She whimpers as I do this horrible job. It gives me that same sick feeling I had while changing Calvin’s bandages after he fell in the campfire the summer the triplets were nine. I’m shocked by the swelling and redness. This isn’t something she’ll be able to push past. Ireland needs a doctor. Then I see her hand.

  There’s a stick, this is not in the splinter category, woven into the tender tissue of her palm. It’s terrifying, but we’ve landed in a reality where that will have to wait.

  I want to go home.

  Digging a hole in the straw, I settle the bucket on the floor and position her foot so the sole lies against the warm metal. I wonder if dipping it into the milk would be better.

  Ireland cringes, pulling her foot away. “Hot.”

  “No. It’s only warm. It won’t burn you.” I place her foot back on the pail.

  Vicky comes to us with a ladle. “Look what I found.” She dips it into the milk bucket and squats next to Ireland. “Take a drink. The fat does wonders.”

  I grab the ladle. “You can’t do that.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “She’s vegan. Don’t you remember?”

  Vicky drops her chin to her chest. “You’re kidding me, right? I’m sure with the choice of starvation and death over an animal product, anyone would choose life. It’s not even meat, for crying out loud.”

  “Convictions mean something.” I’m overwhelmed with a wave of protectiveness for everything that makes up Ireland. “It’s commitment. If we don’t stick with our commitments, what are we?”

  “Alive. We’re alive.” She settles her fists into her sides.

  I can’t answer. And I can’t make Ireland break. And I can’t watch her die. It’s a world of can’ts.

  “Fine.” Vicky tosses the ladle into the bucket. “Feed her hay. But we have to give her something.”

  I hold up a hand, my mind spinning with sudden realization. “Grain. There has to be grain in here. It will be packed with nutrition and it’s not an animal product.”

  “No. Just a product for animals.”

  “Desperate times, Vicky.”

  She doesn’t respond, only takes to scratching the rash on her arm. If those guys walked in right now, they’d probably run away. Vicky looks like a carrier of leprosy.

  I scan the crowded room for anything that would indicate feed. Along the stacks of hay is a metal garbage can with a bail placed on top of the lid. “Vicky, help me move this.” I push a cow out of my way.

  Vicky edges toward me, her back away from the animals, but she does come.

  “We need to lift this bale off the top. Can you take one end?”

  She nods, but her gaze doesn’t even come close to the task.
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  I take hold of her hands and press them into the twine bindings. “Lift.” In a moment, I’m opening the top. My heart races at the treasure inside. I unfold the top of a feed bag and fill my pockets with rolled oats, corn, and barley, all covered in molasses.

  When we’ve put the container back like we found it, and I’ve given Ireland some grain to suck on, it’s time to move on to shelter. Is this really how pioneers lived, one life-saving task to the next? Vicky and I try to move some bales from the middle of the tall mountain of hay. We’ve been weakened by our Fantasy Island vacation, and this just about takes my body to the breaking point.

  “There’s too much lying on top.” Vicky plops down on a bale. She holds her head in her hands. “I can’t do this. I can’t do any more.”

  “What are you talking about? We just have to use our brains instead of our muscles.” I hold back my thoughts on the fuzziness of my thinking lately.

  “What’s the point? We die here, or I go home and wish I had. You have no idea what it’s like to know your husband doesn’t love you anymore. You can’t understand what I’m facing.”

  “No.” I put my hand on her shoulder. It shakes with sobs. “I can’t. Mark has loved me through the worst of me. And I’ve never even appreciated that. But you’re stronger than you’re acting right now and, Vicky, this isn’t all about you. Now get your backside off that bale and help me.” I stand, my arms crossed and my face forced into a serious stare, but in my heart I want to hold her, stroke her hair, and let her cry until she’s better.

  To my shock, Vicky stands and brushes hay from her wet jeans. “What do you want me to do?” Her voice is still weak, but I can sense the tiger inside of her.

  “Grab that pitchfork. Wedge it under the bale on top and pry it up. I’ll pull.”

  She sticks the tines in and lays her body across the handle. The hay rises and I pull.

  There’s a slight movement, but it’s like trying to pull a Jenga piece out of the tower and realizing that it’s been glued in.

  “You’re going to need me.” Ireland’s voice is soft, scratchy, and determined.

  Tears catch in my throat. “Yes, we will.”

  IRELAND

  For the first time in what feels like months, I’m in a warm place. Jenna is the genius behind our quarters, the superstar in this play. By rearranging a few bales of hay, we’re tucked into a tiny house of sorts, insulated on all sides.

  And now that there’s heat, it actually brings with it pain.

  My foot aches and burns, the skin taut with the throbbing flesh.

  With my good hand, I take more grain from our pile and lay it on my tongue. It’s sweet and sticky with molasses. My mouth waters with the sensation. It’s almost more than I can bear. I take a drink from the canteen newly filled from the cow’s makeshift water trough. My stomach pinches with the deep, primal desire for milk, but there’s something that tells me this commitment of mine is no longer about me. It’s about Jenna. If I give it up, even though I have no true memory or understanding of why I ever made vegan my lifestyle, I’m afraid Jenna will see that as the time to give up hope. She holds on to my needs like I’m a child giving her life purpose. And she’s so strong right now, I can’t stand to be the fault that brings her down.

  “Are you doing okay?” Jenna rubs my leg. “Do you need anything?”

  I start to speak but choke on a piece of rolled corn. “I’m good,” I lie. The truth is, I’m pretty sure I’ll be the first one of us to experience the sweet relief of death, and I feel guilty about this. Really, after everything Vicky’s been though, dying first is a feat. Maybe I should be proud as my body gives up the fight. In an odd way, this is a win.

  A tear burns as it slides across my cheek. Jenna and Vicky will walk into heaven together. I don’t know where I’ll be sent, but it surely will not be through the pearly gates of eternity.

  I figure my sadness is well masked by the dark of our hay bale home, with only two slivers of light slicing through, but I’m wrong. Jenna pulls my head over to her chest, and I snuggle into her, breathing to the beat of her heart.

  “We’re going to be okay,” she says.

  I can’t answer. I can’t tell them what I’m really thinking. It’s not about the now. It’s about the forever.

  “She’s right.” Vicky’s at the other end, her boots at my hip. “I don’t believe God would bring us out here without a reason. It’s a trial. That’s all. And trials help us to grow. And growth is meant to be shared, so others can learn from our struggles.”

  “Wow. You’re going to turn this into a sermon.” I sound angry, but really, I’m impressed.

  “That’s not what I mean. I just think the three of us have a message. I’ve learned more about myself through this than I did in the forty years before. I’m praying that God will give me a chance to change. And, don’t be offended, I’m praying that for both of you too.”

  I’m too overcome with emotion to answer her, so I squeeze her leg then pat it, nodding my head. I want that chance too. But I’m not as convinced God will give me a second, who am I kidding, a billionth do-over. And I know Skye won’t. And, River, my baby boy. I’ve abandoned him in my desire to protect him from my rejection. The idea is so ridiculous. But I’ve become my mother in a way I didn’t see coming. A part of me always longed to hear her say that she loved me and was sorry. I can give that to my child, if I live long enough to deliver the message. If not, I know two women who can do it better than me.

  JENNA

  There’s a crash as the barn door hits the siding. I’ve woken from the best sleep I’ve enjoyed in weeks, maybe years, and I’ve done it instantly. My heart pounds against my ribcage. They’re here. What if my hideout isn’t as hidden as I think?

  Ireland moans in her sleep.

  I shake her shoulder then lay my finger over her lips as she awakens.

  At the other end of our little house, Vicky curls into a ball, her knees tucked to her chest, her face close to one of the open slits.

  “Which one of you idiots left the door unlatched?”

  I can’t help but look. My face is jabbed with hay as I press close to the view hole.

  “Do you realize what could have happened here?” A man with a belly as round as my ready-to-pop-with-triplets one had been sets a shotgun against the bottom of the hay bales. It looks like the one my husband uses for goose hunting. He scratches rough fingernails through thinning hair. In his other hand he holds a wool-lined hat.

  If only we had half of the warm clothes he’s wearing right now.

  “I’m sure I locked the door, Pa.” I can’t see the owner of this voice, but he sounds at least as old as my son, maybe older.

  Our vision from here is extremely limited. And so far, this doesn’t look like a friendly situation. If they realize we’re here, we’ll be helpless targets.

  “Well, that doesn’t explain the open door, now does it?” The older man looks all around him. “Seems like all’s in order.” He shakes his head. “We’d have an awful time coming up with how Johansen’s cows got all the way over to our field if they got out. I’m already feeling perty itchy about them being in the barn.”

  “Kyle said he’d be able to bring in the trailer tonight if it cleared up. He doesn’t want to chance sliding off the road and having to explain the herd to a state trooper.”

  “The boy’s a coward. We should have done this ourselves. The sooner these cows are in Wyoming, the better for all of us. Well, maybe not Johansen.” He lifts his chin and bellows with laughter, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth.

  The boy walks into view, a stack of metal pails held in his mitten-covered hands. “Pa, are you really sure this is the right thing to do?” Metal screeches as he pulls apart the buckets.

  “You’re not turning coward on me too, are you, son? Johansen has this coming. Those prize animals of his and the money we’re getting for them won’t begin to make up for my trouble last summer. The old man thinks he owns all the water in th
is valley. Well, he’ll think twice about cutting off our stream next year.”

  The sound of milk hitting the bucket’s bottom makes my stomach growl and my bladder spasm. I bite my bottom lip. Vicky was right to question the character of the barn owners. I’m so grateful I didn’t drag Vicky and Ireland up to the farmhouse’s front door. Right now we’d probably be buried at the bottom of a well instead of cozy in our hay bale castle.

  Vicky flinches then draws in a deep breath. My gaze snaps toward her. She’s pinching her nose, trying to stop a sneeze. I look back at the man who will surely kill us if that noise gets out.

  Lord, please. All I can do is beg God from my heart to save us.

  Another flinch from Vicky then she lowers her hand, breathing deeply.

  I tap my palm against my chest indicating my relief.

  “Milk’s less on this one,” the boy says. “Suppose we should be feeding them more?”

  “That’s no concern of ours. I’m not fattening up these cows, just keeping them going until they’re out of my hair.” He smacks his hand on the backside of Bessy, the first cow we milked when we got here. The one that gave me some hope to work with.

  My skin crawls. I’d like to punch this scum.

  “Move your boney hind end over.” He slaps Bessy’s caramel-toned skin again.

  Crossing his arms, he leans back, evaluating the boy’s work. “You’re not giving that bovine what she needs. Grab hold and pull harder. We’ve got our own chores to get to. When you finish this one, throw a bit of feed at them. Forget the others. One bucket’s enough for us.”

  I bite my bottom lip. I imagine all the chores around this place go much the same way as the milking. He bellows orders, and the boy does the work.

  Chapter 25

  VICKY

  Jenna doesn’t wait five minutes after the truck rumbles away before she kicks aside the door bale to our cubby. Her face glows so red I think at first she was having some kind of allergic reaction to the hay.

  “I can’t believe the nerve of that man.” Jenna paces back and forth in front of our hay home. “Leaving these animals half-fed and most of them not even milked. We had a cow when I was a child—”