If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  Around the corner, I find the fence securely attached to the wall of the shed. I grab the round wooden fencepost, put my toe in the web of metal and throw my other leg over the top. Pain zaps through my body, tossing me to the ground along with a section of metal fencing that comes down with me. My head buzzes and my stomach is a tight ball.

  Through the bent section, Ireland and Jenna climb out. They kneel at my side. “Are you okay?” Jenna asks.

  “What just happened?” Inside the shed voices are yelling and cows moo over the chaos.

  Ireland looks around, her head moving like a nervous owl’s. “You knocked out the electric fence with your body.”

  “That sounds about right for how I’m feeling.” I rub my fingers into my temples.

  Ireland yanks me up, but I’m not ready. She and Jenna hold me under the arms. “That surge made the lights go out in the barn. They’ll be here in a minute to see what happened. We have to move.”

  About ten yards farther away from our destination of the farmhouse is an old pickup that looks like the owner parked it there in 1860. We crouch behind the rust-mobile waiting for the men to come out. One finally does. He opens a compartment on the side of the shed wall, pulls a switch and lights snap on again.

  As soon as he’s back in the shed, Jenna tugs my arm. “We’ve lost a lot of time. If we don’t get to the house quickly, we won’t have time to make our 911 call before they come back.”

  I know we need to cover the open area fast, but my legs won’t respond to my commands. Each step is clumsy and off center. Ireland is making better progress than I am, and she’s hopping on one foot. We stay to the edge of the road, in the shadows.

  At the side of the overgrown yard, we leave the road and scoot our way around the back.

  Shouts ring up from the shed. Then the sounds of metal bending and men cussing burn the air.

  I peek around a tree. The boy we saw this morning is on top of the truck, the bull gouging the door with his horns. “Do you see that? I let out the bull. What if he kills one of them?”

  Jenna squeezes my shoulder. “They’re ranchers. I’m sure they can manage. That just gives us more time to get in the house. Let’s go.”

  She’s right. Maybe this is God’s provision. It never looks how I imagine.

  Barking startles me as we close in on the house. A dog that looks like a mix of hyena and lion stares at us, drool dripping from his sagging lips. He lunges, but the chain that ties him to the porch yanks him back. “We’re not getting in that way.”

  “I’ve never been to a house that didn’t have a back door.” Ireland hobbles on.

  We skirt the yard. In the back it’s dark, the trees cutting out much of the moonlight. Three cement steps lead to a back door with a dilapidated screen. I feel like I should knock, maybe call on the graces of the wife.

  Ireland pulls the gun from the pack. “If we meet someone, there’s no harm in them thinking we have bullets.”

  I grab tufts of my filthy hair. “No harm unless they decide to shoot us before we can shoot them.”

  Ireland tucks the gun close to her side as she pulls open the door. It whines as if purposely calling attention to our presence.

  I catch Jenna’s eye. Her mouth hangs open, her ear tipped toward the house.

  Ireland eases open the back door. Country music drifts out from a radio, but I don’t hear the sound of anyone singing along. We each step into a mudroom where dirt crusted work clothes form piles alongside a rusty washing machine. I reach my hand out and stop Ireland from going any farther. “We’ll track mud,” I say.

  “So?” Ireland shrugs me away. “What do we care?”

  “It’s like leaving a trail. If we find a phone and make the call, we’ll still have to hide until help gets here.”

  “She’s right.” Jenna starts to strip off her pants and boots. She pulls a garbage bag from the shelf and deposits her clothing into it. “Here. Everything in here until we leave. We can hide it outside.”

  The bruise that runs from Jenna’s hip to the outside of her knees makes me cringe. I pull off my mud-covered clothes and put them in the bag, leaving me bare-legged with only a pair of ripped running shorts to make me decent.

  Lord, if you’re after my pride, I think you’ve got it.

  When the bag is filled, I take it and our pack outside, push them into the dirt along the cement steps, and cover the top with leaves. Within the next hour we should be safely traveling down the road with all our things in a patrol car. We’ll be heading home.

  Chapter 27

  IRELAND

  This place is all about beef. The cows they stole from a neighbor, the bull in the field behind the shed, and I’m sure there’s a whole lot more cows on this ranch that we haven’t met yet. And then there’s the smell of stew that permeates the walls of the house. They must cook up the stuff by the gallon. We creep through the living room. A television plays in the corner, the sound down, the picture fuzzy like I remember it being when I lived in a foster home that had a rabbit-ear antenna. Two recliners, worn at the arms, face the screen. I don’t see any computers or tablets lying around. These guys are old-school.

  The twang of Johnny Cash filters through from the kitchen where we find the stew. I touch the cast-iron pot. It’s still warm, but the burner’s been turned off. Dishes are piled in the sink, not even rinsed. Beer cans line the chipped orange counter. Brown and yellow linoleum peels at the edges, dirt collecting near the vents. There doesn’t seem to be anyone left in the house. And honestly, I can’t imagine a woman who could tolerate this kind of life.

  “I think the coast is clear.”

  “No kidding.” Vicky holds her nose and drops a half-eaten shriveled hot dog into the trash.

  I reach my hand out in front of her. “No cleaning.”

  Her face reddens. “Any sign of a phone?”

  “There’s none in the hall,” Jenna says as she joins us. “I found an old jack, but no phone.”

  I move things around the counter and find the same. “Looks like our low-tech guys are cell phone only. Could be a phone upstairs.”

  We start to move toward the hall when a man shouts outside. “Only take me a minute to get the rifle.”

  A voice scratches something back on a radio.

  Adrenaline buzzes through my body as I watch the doorknob turn.

  “Hush, Killer. We’ve got bigger problems than your need for a bone.”

  Jenna grabs my arm and pulls me around the corner. There’s a door behind us, but I hear the man enter. It’s too risky to make a move now.

  I hold the gun in front of me.

  The smell of him—sweat, smoke, and alcohol—weaves through the house. An interior door clicks open, then the sound of a gun cocking, and another, and another.

  My heart beats so loudly it’s only the nonstop barking of the dog that keeps me from being heard.

  A voice scratches over the radio. “Three of those cotton-pickin’ cows are coming up your way. Shoot ’em before they get past the house.”

  Jenna draws in a quick breath, and I feel the man hesitate.

  “Did you hear me? Hurry!”

  “Got it.” He slams the door on his way out.

  All three of us slide down the wall, holding each other in a huddle on the floor.

  The door opens again, banging against the wall. “You get on in there before you cause us more trouble.” The wall behind us shakes as the man goes out.

  The click, click, click of toenails pattering along the floor is followed by a low grisly growl.

  VICKY

  “Maybe he won’t come this way.” My arms clasp around Ireland’s leg.

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Jenna claws her way back up the wall. “He’s a dog. He’ll smell us even over the stew.”

  I’m shaking, my whole body giving in to one of my greatest fears. When I was only five, a dog got free from his owner at the park where my brother practiced soccer. The nanny had let me play on the swings, out of her reach
but within her sight. I was wearing my pink tutu, having just been picked up from ballet, and I felt like a princess gliding through the breeze. But the dog thought I looked like prey. He ran by, jumping into air and pulling me off the swing by my leg. The pain cut through me, his eyes, they burned with hate.

  It must have been only seconds before the dog was pulled off, but the memory has remained clear for over forty years. That was the day my favorite nanny was fired, leaving no one to hold me when I woke with nightmares. My mother did come in after she heard my screams, but only to tell me to quiet down and not to worry. She was going to get that man for all he was worth, her attorney had guaranteed it. I didn’t understand what she meant, but I knew it didn’t sooth my fears.

  What would I have done if that had happened to one of my children? Jenna would have slept the night beside her little girl, always there when the child woke up scared. I wonder if Brooklyn will let me brush her hair when I get home. I wonder if she still has room for me.

  There’s a crash in the kitchen and the beefy smell gets stronger.

  “Here’s our chance.” In one quick motion, Ireland is up, swinging the door to who knows where open.

  We rush through, Jenna tripping on the unexpected stairs and tumbling down into the darkness. Something crashes followed by her moan.

  “Jenna?” I feel around the wall for a light switch but Ireland grabs my hand.

  “No lights. They’ll see them through the windows.”

  A tiny glow of moonlight filters in along narrow windows near the ceiling. As my eyes adjust, I’m able to see shadows but not much else.

  “I’m okay.” Glass scratches along cement. “I don’t think I’m cut, but you’ll need to be very careful coming down here.”

  Behind me the dog’s nose sucks in air from the crack under the door. This basement isn’t inviting but it is better than the alternative. I make my way down wood-plank stairs until my foot falls on the landing where Jenna is righting herself.

  Behind her I can just make out a shelf of canned goods. Real food. Running my fingers over a jar, it comes away with a mound of dust. These could have set on this shelf since the pioneers came over the trail. Holding one up to the moonlight, I see the murky invitation to botulism. Not my favorite dinner guest even in this circumstance.

  From the landing, stairs go down to the left and the right. I choose the right.

  “Well, this is just great.” Ireland’s breath is too close to me, and she’s in dire need of a mint. “We just keep trading one problem for another.”

  “Don’t you think we know that?” I wave my finger in her face. I hope she can see it. “Why don’t you get on the horn with the universe and see what’s up?”

  “Whoa.” Jenna puts her hand on my arm, but I shake it away. “Come on. We can’t turn on each other.”

  “Whatever.” Ireland unfolds the top of a cardboard box on the shelf.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I say.

  “Looking for anything that will help us get out of here.”

  Jenna joins her. She holds an apron up in the moonlight. “There was a woman here at one time. I wonder what they did with her.” She makes a creepy sound.

  My stomach shrinks. “That’s not funny.”

  “Vicky, nothing is funny in your tight life. Loosen up.” Ireland holds up a child’s book. “Nope. Nothing here.”

  I need some space from these two. That night in the hay fort was about the last straw for my patience. I feel my way along the wall until I come to hooks piled high with coats. Below these are an assortment of boots. “Ireland, I think I found something you need.”

  I pick up a rubber boot and something scurries away toward the corner.

  “What was that?” Jenna wraps around my arm as tight as a boa, and I stand as much chance getting her free. Although I’m just as happy to have her here. Whatever that was probably doesn’t live alone.

  “Enough of this.” Jenna stomps. “I want to go home. Now.”

  “Okay.” Ireland’s voice is cracked but steady. “But how do we do that?”

  “We know where the road is now. We just have to get to it.” Jenna’s voice breaks and she starts to sob into my shoulder. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I push her away. “Yes, you can. You’ve led us through some really desperate times out here. Pull yourself together. It’s time to get home.” I yank a thick coat off the wall and lay it over Jenna’s shoulders. The scent is worse than dust or even cow manure, but it will keep her extra warm. “Ireland, let’s find you some boots that will work. Do you think you can walk with the condition your foot is in?”

  “It’s doing remarkably well. Mind over matter.”

  “Then we got this.” I point toward the wall by the furnace. “See that? It’s a wood chute. We’ll climb out that way as soon as we know it’s safe.”

  JENNA

  Curled up with Vicky and Ireland in a dark corner, I’ve tried to sleep while the scrapings of rodents makes me sweat. I thought I wanted to get home before, but this is a whole new level of need. Every time I start to drift off, I imagine one of them climbing on me, chewing. I shiver even in the heat of my borrowed coat.

  The days are getting shorter, but I imagine the guys upstairs are not the type to sleep away the morning. They didn’t bang into the house until what had to be well past midnight. Maybe that will buy us a few extra minutes. I nudge Vicky.

  She moans and wipes a string of drool from her face. “What time is it?”

  “How should I know? It has to be close to dawn. I think we need to get out of here.”

  Ireland stands with a cringe and a low yelp. She reaches high, taking long slow breaths, then folds over, laying her palms flat on the cement floor.

  I can’t even brush my toes with the tips of my fingers. Looks like age can’t take the blame for that one.

  There’s more light coming through the window than is comforting. My heart starts to pound. I think this is the day we get home. And who will I be now? I want to go back, but not to the person I left behind.

  Vicky unlatches the wood chute and pushes the small doors to the sides of the house. Cool air rushes in. “We’ll need something to step up on.”

  Ireland situates an ancient wooden ladder against the wall. “That should do it. Time to go.” She looks around in an almost sentimental way.

  Vicky is up the ladder and outside in under a minute. She squats near the opening, her gaze going one way, then the other. “Looks good,” she whispers.

  Ireland braces the bottom of the ladder. “Your turn.”

  On an impulse, I hug her, then start my short climb. The rungs bow under my weight. I’d hate to survive all this time to die in a freak ladder accident. The opening is wide but short. I slide my head out and see the sun rising over the trees. Fresh earth sinks under my hands, the scent reviving me after a night in a musty basement. One step higher on the ladder, I try to squeeze through, but my stomach wedges tight. Even after this crazy wilderness diet plan, I don’t fit through small holes.

  “Hurry,” Vicky whispers.

  “I’m stuck.”

  “What?”

  “Stuck. You know, it means I can’t get through.”

  She grabs my hands and pulls, but that only forces all my weight down on my middle and the edge of the opening cuts into my flesh. This is going to leave a mark.

  Vicky presses her face to my side. “Ireland, you’re going to have to push.”

  I’ve become Winnie-the-Pooh. And I didn’t even get a lick of honey. Ireland presses on my backside, while I wiggle side to side, my flesh scraping against rough wood.

  “I hear them,” Ireland says.

  I wiggle faster and Ireland pushes harder. Finally, I make it past the tight spot and roll onto the wet ground.

  Ireland pops through like one of those circus dogs through a hoop. She closes the doors and Vicky rolls a rock in front to hold it down. “We’ve got to move quickly. They’ll be in the basement to put wood in the furna
ce any second.”

  My arms go numb. They’d be within their rights to shoot us. We’re intruders. I get upright, and we rush to the trees at the side of the yard. From here we make our way to the edge of the driveway and follow it without speaking, Ireland between us, leaning on our shoulders for support.

  It must be over a mile before we get to a mailbox and intersecting road. A road. It’s an actual road. I haven’t seen one of these in so long. I drop to my knees. “Thank you, Lord, for this road.”

  Ireland pats me on the back, her face is bright with a grin, but her eyes are tight, like they’re holding back unspeakable pain. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your family.” She pulls me up and starts down the road, limping but not complaining.

  “Wait.” Vicky twists around. “How do we know this is the right way?”

  Ireland shrugs her shoulders. “We don’t. We just have to trust our instincts.”

  “So we’re throwing out logic?” Vicky kicks a rock.

  “No, Vicky. We’re not going to trust logic, or instinct. We’re going to trust that God will take care of us just like he has through every other struggle.”

  She doesn’t answer, but she does follow.

  “What do you miss most about home?” I ask.

  “Moisturizer,” Vicky says. “No, really I miss my kids. It’s not unusual for them to be gone for weeks at a time to camps and things, or for me to travel. But I’ve never missed them like I do this time. I hope it’s not too late for us.”

  “What about you, Ireland. What do you miss?”

  There’s a long silence. “I don’t know. I miss eating when I’m hungry. And I miss a safe warm bed. But other than that, my life doesn’t have much in it to miss. When I get home, I still have the situation with my job to deal with. My word against that kid’s. But I think I’ll fight it out, and then I’ll leave on my own terms. That’s what I’m looking forward to. I want to go back to Carrington.”

  “Will you look up Skye?” Vicky asks.

  “Maybe. It’s been a long time. I don’t want to cause more damage.”