by Lisa Unger
Bethany sank onto her bed, looked out the window into the trees that surrounded the house. “Was she alone?”
Jolie Marsh, Willow’s only new friend, was a disaster waiting to happen. Bethany could just see the two of them sneaking off into the woods to drink or smoke or whatever it was that teenage girls did when no one was looking.
“Yes, as far as I know, she was alone,” said Mr. Ivy.
She tried to think of what to say. It seemed as if she were always trying to think of what to say to some school official about Willow.
“I’ll head out to look for her.” Again, she thought but didn’t say. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d set out to hunt for Willow.
“You’ll need to bring her in to discuss this, Ms. Graves. And we’ll need to take disciplinary action.” His tone was soft, apologetic. Not crappy and judgmental. But he might as well have said, You’re a terrible mother, and Willow is a problem for all of us because of that. Because that’s what she heard, and that’s how she felt.
“I will,” she said. “Of course. We’ll come by your office in the morning.”
She hadn’t even ended the call before she grabbed her bag and was heading out the door. Behind the wheel of their new SUV, she felt more in control and had a moment of respite from that special panic reserved for a parent who doesn’t know where her child has gone. Bethany had purchased a Land Cruiser because she figured they’d need a four-wheel drive for the winter months to navigate the long dirt road to their house. And she wanted as much metal around them as possible, since she hadn’t operated a motor vehicle in more than thirteen years.
Of course there was an argument with Willow about it, because there was an argument with Willow about everything.
What about the environment, Mom? Your carbon footprint? Hello.
The environment won’t mean very much to us if we’re both dead, squashed like beetles in one of those Smart cars.
You’re such a drama queen. You do know how to drive.
Just zip it, Willow.
Driving the route between their house and school, Bethany dialed Willow’s cell twice and got no answer. Her agitation, dread, and anger ratcheted up with each of the four miles along the narrow, twisting road between school and home, then back again.
Where would Willow go? There was no place to go in this town. Willow knew that better than anyone. But Bethany had thought that’s what they needed, after everything they’d been through-a quiet, peaceful place to live. Or maybe it’s just what Bethany had needed. Or what she thought she needed. Or maybe, as Willow was quick to accuse, the decision to move from Manhattan to The Hollows was one she hadn’t thought through at all.
Arriving back at home, she was sure she’d find Willow slumped on the couch, her hand buried in a bag of potato chips, the television blaring. But no, the house was empty. Feeling the space around her expand with her anxiety, she listened to the silence-no siren, no bleating horns, no constant hum of traffic, electricity, elevators in shafts, subways beneath her feet.
She walked up the creaking staircase, an extravagant sweeping turn up the wall leading to a landing.
“Willow!” she called pointlessly.
She walked down the long hall, glancing into the myriad empty rooms occupied by boxes she had yet to touch from the move. She’d fantasized about these rooms-this one would be a gym, this one a library. Downstairs they’d finish the basement and make it a media room. But those plans, so exciting while she was packing up their New York City apartment, now just seemed daunting and unattainable-not to mention silly and naïve. Every little project would take months, cost thousands.
Everybody thinks it’s so romantic to move to the country. Oh, the stillness and solitude. And then… Unsolicited commentary from her friend and agent, Philip May.
And then what?
And then they’re in the country. And oh, God, the stillness! The solitude!
She pushed into the door of her daughter’s huge bedroom, amazed at how much clutter and mess had accumulated in the short amount of time they’d been there. Willow’s closet was so stuffed with clothes that the door wouldn’t close completely. The drawers were gaping, spilling T-shirts, tights, socks, and underwear. There were stacks and stacks of books, a giant television, piles of DVDs. Willow’s desk, dominated by a computer screen, had disappeared beneath mounds of paper, magazines, photographs, and sketchbooks. They’d simply moved her old mess from her much smaller room in Manhattan. It had apparently grown to fit the new space.
She sank onto Willow’s bed and fought the urge to start poking around. That’s when the imagining started. Willow on a train to New York City or getting high in the woods with Jolie or, worse, with some strange boy. Bethany could see her daughter tumbling in the leaves with some pierced and tattooed kid. And then it got even worse: There was Willow, angry and vulnerable, climbing into some stranger’s van. Bethany could see the stranger’s hands, big and muscular on the wheel. He’d ask her little girl, Where are you headed? Bethany had no idea what Willow might say. But it wouldn’t matter. The driver of that imaginary van wouldn’t care where Willow wanted to go, only where he wanted to take her. Next Willow was falling down one of those mine shafts Bethany was always hearing about. She’d be walking, defiantly miserable, with her iPod blaring, when the earth gave way beneath her. Willow was alone, in the dark. Hurt, weeping. Bethany could write the whole story-the manhunt, the hotline, the tearful news conference. She could feel the horror, the grief. She could rocket through the seven stages of loss.
The rich and vivid imagining that served her so well on the page was torture in her real life sometimes, if she let her thoughts sweep her away. But she didn’t; she knew better. She was always able to keep her feet on the ground, especially for Willow. She didn’t have the luxury of hysteria. She pushed out a deep breath to calm herself.
She walked the rest of the house, even climbed up to the attic-which was spacious and studded with skylights. Eventually she planned to renovate it and make it her office. But she wasn’t thinking about that as she headed back down to the first floor, out through the sliders to the elevated deck that allowed them to look over the tops of trees to the mountains beyond. It was her dream house, really. But she bought it during the worst time of her life, almost like a consolation prize. And the thought of it had consoled her. It was just that the reality of it took more work than she’d imagined. Kind of like marriage. Kind of like life.
She was walking back into the kitchen when she heard the front door slam, Willow’s heavy footfalls beating their way down the hall. Such a small girl-legs like reeds, torso as slender as a pencil, ballerina arms-and yet she thundered about the house like a rhino, crashing down the stairs, banging around her room.
Bethany knew she should be angry, furious. She should storm and shout. But instead her own legs felt wobbly with relief. She put the phone back in the charger and rested her head in her arms on the counter, summoning her strength for the battle ahead. When she looked up, her daughter was standing in the doorway. Willow’s hair was wild, her face flushed.
“What happened?” Bethany asked. “Where were you?”
She fought the urge to run to her daughter, hold her in her arms and squeeze. She had to at least pretend to be angry, not just afraid and sad and feeling like a complete failure as a parent. Willow dropped her bag heavily to the floor, pulled out a chair from the table with a loud scrape against the hardwood, and threw herself down.
“That place-” Willow began.
“Don’t, Willow.” Bethany raised a palm, feeling a welcome wave of anger. “Don’t tell me how and why you had to leave that horrible place. I don’t want to hear it. You are not supposed to leave school without permission. Not ever. Not for any reason.”
“But, Mom-”
“There’s no excuse for this.”
Her words didn’t feel powerful enough, sounded lame and weak to her own ears. She’d ground her daughter, but the kid was having trouble making friends here and had no
place to go, anyway. Bethany put her hand on her forehead, trying to think of something with some impact. “No Internet for a week,” she said finally. “And I want your cell phone.”
“But-”
“No. I told you if I ever tried to reach you on that phone and you didn’t answer that I’d take it away.”
Willow slumped in her seat and blew air out the corner of her mouth, lifting some wisps of hair from her eyes. “I lost it. My phone. I dropped it somewhere.”
Bethany looked at her daughter, who in turn was looking at the ripped knees of her fishnet tights. Bethany could see that Willow’s knees were skinned, that her shirt was ripped. Worry shouldered anger aside.
“What happened?” Bethany asked. “Tell me.”
Willow rolled her eyes. “I came home through the woods.”
“Christ, Willow!”
“I got scared and started to run,” she said. Willow looked teary and so young suddenly, just like when she was a toddler, in those moments right after a fall and before the real crying started. “I fell and dropped my phone. I was too afraid to go back for it.”
“Oh, Willow.” Bethany didn’t know whether to believe her or not. That was the really sad thing. She just didn’t have an instinct anymore about when her daughter was lying. Lord, what she wouldn’t give for a glass of wine. She glanced at the clock; it was a few minutes after three. She heard that if you were looking at the clock waiting for the hour to chime five so that you could have a drink, you might have a problem with alcohol. Bethany wasn’t sure she believed that. Seemed like there was always someone waiting to tell you that you had a problem with something.
“Really?” she said. “You lost it.” Bethany picked up the phone and dialed Willow’s number.
“Don’t!”
Bethany watched her daughter and held the phone out from her ear against the blasting music that played instead of a ringtone. She didn’t hear the phone ringing in her daughter’s backpack or on her person, as she’d suspected she would. She practically dropped the phone when a male voice answered. Some unnamed fear pulsed through her.
“Who is this?” she said.
“Who is this?” the voice on the line asked. There was something nice about his tone, something soothing. “I found this phone in the woods.”
Willow was pale, staring at her with eyes the size of dinner plates.
“Don’t tell him who you are,” she said. She was standing now, pulling on Bethany’s arm. “Mom, hang up!”
Bethany gave her daughter a warning look, and Willow drew back, looking stricken. Then she put her head in her hands. “Mom, please.”
“This is Bethany Graves. Can I come and pick up that phone from you? Sorry for any inconvenience. My daughter lost it.”
“Sure, of course,” said the voice. He sounded as though he found the encounter amusing, which was just a shade irritating. “Or I could come to you?”
“Well, we could meet you somewhere.” Nice voice or not, the New Yorker in her thought better of giving some strange man her address, letting him come to their remote house surrounded by ten acres of trees. Peaceful, isolated. Perfect for a writer. Yeah, and no one can hear you screaming, Philip had commented when he came for dinner last weekend. The sentence had stayed with her.
“How about the Hollows Brew in an hour?” he said.
“Perfect. Thanks so much.” She ended the call.
Then, to Willow, “What is wrong with you, kiddo?”
The look on Willow’s face made her stomach flutter. It was always like that with them, even when Willow was an infant-what one of them felt, the other felt, too. When Willow was small-yesterday, a hundred years ago-as soon as Bethany opened her eyes in the morning, or at night, she would hear Willow start to stir. If Bethany had been nervous, anxious, upset, Willow was cranky. It was still true. There was no way Willow could feel sad or stressed or afraid without Bethany’s feeling the tug of it on her insides.
“Who was that?” asked Willow. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes wide. “The man from the woods?”
“You saw a man in the woods?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
Bethany felt a flash flood of annoyance banked by guilt. Willow was probably right. Bethany might not have believed her.
“Try me,” Bethany said.
Willow started talking fast about her teacher, how hurt and embarrassed she was in his office, fleeing from the school, what she saw in the woods. She paced, waved her hands in the air. Bethany just watched in awe, listened to the way she wove the story, told the details-the damp leaves, the sky through the trees. Her daughter was a natural-born storyteller. And this-at her age, anyway-had not proved to be a good thing. When Willow was finished, she collapsed back down in her chair in a dramatic flop, as if exhausted by the events and their retelling.
“Now he knows who we are,” Willow said. “What if he was burying a body or something?”
Bethany pulled up a chair beside her daughter, wiped the strawberry blond hair back from her face, squeezed her frail little shoulder. She’d been looking into those dark brown eyes for a million years. The girl around them had grown and changed, but those eyes seemed as eternal as the moon.
“Willow. Really,” Bethany said. “Where did you ever get such a wild imagination?”
Willow looked at her sharply, incredulous, and then they both started to laugh. They laughed until they were weeping with it, both of them clutching their middles. And Bethany thought how much she loved her wild, defiant child, how she’d failed at almost everything, lost so much, but that none of it mattered because of the one thing about her life that was right.
chapter four
“So how have you been feeling, Jones?”
Useless, aimless, broken, Doc. Really just miserable. Was that true? No, not totally. But Jones felt as if Dr. Dahl would be happier if that’s what he said.
“Good,” said Jones. “You know. Keeping busy.”
“Keeping busy with what?” Dr. Dahl had this earnest way about him. He always accompanied his questions with a hopeful, inquiring lift of his jet-black brows.
Jones offered a shrug, took a sip from the coffee he’d carried in with him. He’d brought one for the doctor, too. But the other man had declined. I’m off coffee, he’d said. Thanks. This refusal somehow seemed petty and superior to Jones; it made him like the doctor a little less. And Jones didn’t like Dr. Dahl very much to begin with.
“The house, mostly,” said Jones. “An old house like ours requires quite a bit of maintenance.” He paused, but the doctor didn’t say anything. Jones felt compelled to go on. “My neighbors have been relying on me a lot lately-watching their homes while they’re away, checking mail, helping some of the older people with jobs around the yard. You know.” Why did it sound so lame?
Dr. Dahl looked pensive. Jones thought the doctor was a little too pretty, with girlish lashes and smooth skin. Too well maintained. His nails shone a bit, as though he’d had a manicure. Why it should bother Jones that the guy took care of himself, he didn’t know. But it did.
“It’s been a year since you stopped working,” said Dr. Dahl. The doctor’s tone implied a question, but Jones knew he wasn’t asking. The doctor was making a point.
“About that long, yes.” Jones felt his shoulders tighten with the urge to defend himself. But he didn’t say anything else. The doctor seemed to wait for Jones to go on. When he didn’t: “So. You’re a relatively young man. Have you given much thought to what might come next? If you might embark on another career?”
Jones looked around the room, his eyes resting on a tribal mask that hung on the wall. It was the only thing in the space that was not generic, that told him anything about the doctor. In the landscape of gold and cream surfaces, within walls featuring the most banal art images-a sailboat at sunset, a still life of flowers, another of fruit-that mask was the single object that Jones could tell wasn’t picked from some catalog. Sometimes during his sessi
ons he found himself staring into its hollow eyes, fixating on its snarling mouth.
“I haven’t thought about it much,” Jones said. The truth was, he didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t think about it. He was a cop; that’s what he’d always been. He simply couldn’t imagine doing anything else. What was he going to do? Go to work in some office, stand around a watercooler and sit in a cubicle? What was he even qualified to do? He didn’t say any of this to the doctor.
“What were your interests before you were a police officer?” asked Dr. Dahl.
“Before I was a cop, I was a kid. I went straight from college to the academy. I was on patrol before I was twenty-three.”
“So you didn’t have any interests?”
“Sports.” He was conscious of the fact that he had folded his arms across his chest, was so tense that his shoulders were starting to ache. He tried to relax, let his arms rest at his sides. “I played lacrosse.”
There had been other interests; he’d always liked working with his hands, building things with wood. He’d done well in his shop classes, might have gone on to a vocational school if he hadn’t developed an interest in the police department, heard that you did better on the job with a degree. Of course, his decision was informed by his crippling guilt, his sick relationship with his mother, his abandonment issues. All things he’d hashed over in this office until his head ached.
He’d been seeing the doctor for the better part of a year-partially (mostly) because his wife insisted, partially because he was struggling with the events that had caused him to retire early from the only work he’d ever wanted to do, partially because he knew that there were things going on inside him that weren’t quite healthy. But what good was it doing him, really? Did he really feel any better than he had a year ago? He didn’t know.