EMMA HEADS DEEPER INTO the woods, toward the road. The closer you get to Route 2, the thicker the woods become. The part along the side of the road, the very edge of the forest, is almost impenetrable in places. Prickly cucumber vines cover the trees in a thick blanket. Emma loves them and calls them porcupine eggs. They have spiny, oval, two-inch fruit that’s hollow inside, and kind of fibrous and webby looking, like a loofah. Emma’s mom says they’re members of the gourd family. Her dad calls them cactus balls. Mel calls them alien testicles, which Emma thinks is really gross. Whatever you call them, they’re bizarre and are most definitely Emma’s favorite plant, except for maybe the Venus flytrap.
Emma’s not near the road now, though she can hear the cars and trucks going by, tires bumping over potholes and frost heaves that the road crews haven’t gotten around to fixing yet.
In the leaf litter on the ground in front of her is a ring of toad-stools, which Mel says is a magic place where fairies gather. She says if you stand in the middle of one on Midsummer Eve, they’ll take you over into the fairy world. Emma doesn’t believe in stuff like fairies, but then again she probably wouldn’t believe in Danner if she couldn’t see her with her own eyes. If she could just see a fairy once, then it would be a different story.
Seeing is believing.
Emma counts the toadstools (seven, which uninformed people think is lucky, but really isn’t at all—in fact, it’s most decidedly unlucky) and pokes at the largest one with a thin stick. Poison black ink seeps from the gills underneath. Fish have gills and so do mushrooms. She thinks it’s nice that mushrooms have to breathe just like everybody else.
Just then, just as she’s wishing she had someone with her to tell this to, she hears her name called, but it’s not her mother calling. No, this is a voice from the other direction, from deeper in the woods.
Danner.
Danner’s magic too. Emma just has to think of her, and she’s there.
Emma runs toward the sound of Danner’s voice, into where the trees grow thick together, shading out all light.
“Where are you?” she whisper-yells, afraid her mother might hear.
Out on the road, a car blows its horn.
“This way,” Danner says. She’s close by. Hiding. Playing a game, maybe. Hide-and-seek. Sometimes Danner never shows herself at all—just keeps moving farther away, calling Emma from what sounds like every direction at once.
Emma tiptoes around the trees, trying not to make too much noise. She wants to catch Danner by surprise. Emma holds still and listens. She hears only the cars going by on the road beyond the trees. Faraway crickets. Birds. She steps forward, slowly, carefully, then turns around.
There they are: the words she and Mel painted on the tree trunks last week. Words in red letters on the smooth gray bark of the beech trees.
The words are painted one per trunk, lengthwise down the trees in blocky capital letters, spelling out a message that was supposed to be the next step in reuniting her parents.
It had been Mel’s idea, naturally. The day after she and Emma sent the postcards, they’d been sneaking around in the woods beside Emma’s mother’s studio, spying in windows, trying to catch her doing something interesting. But all she did was paint flowers, which was, in Mel’s words, B-O-R-I-N-G and L-A-M-E. This was not the outlaw artist they’d read about in Suz’s notebook.
“No wonder your dad moved out,” Mel whispered as they crept away from the studio. Emma gave Mel a pissed-off shove and Mel tripped on a root and went noisily crashing into a small stand of striped maples.
“Who’s there?” Emma’s mother called from the studio.
Mel got back on her feet and hissed, “Run!”
Emma raced all the way through the woods to the road, her mother shouting threats about guns and prosecuting trespassers behind her. What Emma didn’t know was that Mel had doubled back and gone into the studio. When they met up later, back by the pool, Mel took a tube of paint from her pocket and said, “I have a plan. We’ll use the paint to—”
“He didn’t move out on his own,” Emma said.
“What?” Mel hated to be interrupted.
“My dad. My mom asked him to leave.”
Mel tucked the tube of paint back in her pocket and shrugged. “Whatever. Do you want to hear about phase two of Operation Reunite, or what?”
“I’VE GOT A RIDDLE for you,” Danner says. She’s leaning against the tree with the last word painted down it in big, bold letters. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but over it is the red robe Emma got at Christmas.
“Okay,” Emma says.
“What is dark but made out of light?”
Emma thinks. Danner drums her fingers on the trunk of the tree, going faster and faster, showing time is running out. She never gives Emma long to answer.
“A shadow,” Danner says, grinning. Danner loves riddles.
“I should go back,” Emma says. “Closer to the house. So I can hear my mom if she calls.”
Danner makes a little tsk-tsk sound. “This was a complete waste of time,” Danner says, stepping forward so she can look at the tree she was leaning against.
“But I liked the riddle,” Emma asks.
“Not the riddle. I’m talking about painting the trees. Do you think your parents are ever going to come out here? Have they yet?”
“No,” Emma admits.
“And even if they do, a few words in the trees aren’t going to change anything. You think that just because you found them in that journal, they mean something, but you don’t even get what they really mean.” Danner spreads her arms and the robe looks like wings. Emma half-expects to see her take off flying.
“My parents will tell me. I’ll figure out a way to get them out here and they’ll explain it.”
Danner snorts. “When are you going to get it, Emma? Henry and Tess don’t tell you anything. If there’s something you want to know, you’ve got to figure it out yourself.”
“But how am I supposed to do that?” Emma asks.
“Relax,” Danner tells her with a smile. “That’s what you’ve got me for.”
Chapter 10
“YOU’RE LATE,” TESS ANNOUNCES when he walks in the door.
Fuck. He forgot all about her appointment at the gallery and that he’d promised to be back early to watch Em.
Henry has spent a lot of time standing around in galleries with Tess over the years, drinking shitty boxed wine, smiling like a good husband during openings and parties. He always nodded patiently as some earth-mother type said, “You used to do some sculpture, didn’t you? Tess tells me your work was ah-mazing!”
Henry could never stand all those pseudo-artsy women with their flowing clothing made from organic cotton and hemp, their necklaces and bracelets with clunky beads and words in Sanskrit. The art they make and sell sucks. It’s all the same. Wishy-washy watercolors. Tired nature photographs. Simple little vessels made from clay that are supposed to represent the birth of the goddess within. If you’re going to make crap, why bother?
“Got caught up at the office,” Henry says, biting the inside of his cheek.
In his pocket, he carries an unopened pack of cigarettes he picked up at D.J.’s (he hasn’t smoked since college) and the mysterious paper he just found when he stopped at the mailbox at the end of the driveway. It was there, on top of the bills and junk mail, sealed in a plain white envelope with only his first name written on the outside. Once he opened it, he found a carefully folded sheet of matching notepaper with a phone number written out neatly. It looks like a cell number, but one he doesn’t recognize. There was nothing else in the envelope.
“I called the office and they told me you left two hours ago. I tried to get you on your cell, but you didn’t answer.” She stares, waiting for further explanation, but he just stands in silence, takes the bottle of aspirin from his pocket and pops three into his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, chomping down on the bitter tablets.
He can’t tell her where he’s been, how he
couldn’t even bring himself to go up the damn driveway and take a look at the old cabin.
“I’ve got to go,” Tess says, shouldering her big leather purse. “Emma’s in the pool.”
In. The. Pool.
The words are bubbles of sound reaching him.
“She shouldn’t be swimming without anyone watching her,” Henry says, already crossing the kitchen to check on Emma. How could Tess be so careless?
Henry races out the sliding glass doors, across the patio to the pool, where he sees Emma practicing her butterfly. Her arms move in perfect circles, her face bobs in and out of the water.
Fine. She’s fine. This time.
Her swimsuit has one of those backs that go between the shoulder blades—Tess would know what they’re called. The muscles of her upper back and arms ripple as she slices through the water. Strong already, like her mother. Emma gets to the deep end and stops, smiling broadly at him as she catches her breath.
He hears the Volvo start in the driveway.
“Mom said it was okay,” Emma tells him as she treads water. “The chemicals, I mean. She said when you shock it, it just has to sit overnight.”
Henry nods. Lets himself breathe. “Nice butterfly,” he tells her.
“I’m not sure I’ve got the leg part right,” she says, then pushes off for another lap.
He watches Emma swim, and when he’s sure he can’t take any more, he hurries her out of the pool by saying the clouds are threatening.
“Thunder,” he tells her. “Lightning.”
“The sky is blue!” Emma whines. Henry points to the small, but dark, clouds in the western sky.
“They’re coming this way,” he lies. The lie feels thick in his throat, and once again, he imagines his lungs full of water, imagines himself sinking to the bottom of the pool trying to save her. What having no air might feel like. He imagines what he’d see if he looked up, through the water at the sky—if the blue in the sky would make it seem like the pool went on forever, impossibly deep.
Emma gets out, complaining. She towels off then goes to her room to change.
Henry makes shish kebabs on the grill: chicken, red peppers, and pineapple covered in a gooey sweet-and-sour sauce. He serves them with Minute rice and the world is good.
He touches the folded paper in the pocket of his pants, puzzling over it before sitting down to eat, decides to call after dinner. He gives the bottle of aspirin next to it a shake.
Emma’s sitting at the table in a T-shirt that has a seahorse adorned with sparkling sequins. Her towel-dried hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“Daddy!” she shrieks, already bordering on hysteria. “You forgot to set a place for Danner!”
Henry bites his cheek, takes a long sip of wine. “I didn’t know she was coming.”
Emma stamps her foot. “I told you! I told you! You never listen!”
“I thought maybe you and I could have dinner alone. Maybe Danner can come for dessert.”
Emma pushes her plate away without touching a bite, folds her arms tight across her chest and gives him the silent treatment. The if-you-can’t-acknowledge-Danner-then-I-won’t-acknowledge-you treatment.
Knowing he’s as good as beat, not wanting to ruin the evening, Henry stands up, gets out the extra plate and silverware, and sets a place beside his daughter, across from him, for their guest of honor.
“Wine, Daddy. Danner needs wine.”
“Of course. Of course she does. I imagine Danner is quite the connoisseur.” Henry opens the cabinet, gets a glass and sets it down on the table, grateful that at least he doesn’t need to fill it. In the beginning, he did. Platefuls of untouched food had been wasted by Danner. Finally, Tess managed to convince Emma that an invisible girl must need to eat invisible food.
“If she ate our food,” Tess explained, “it would show through and wouldn’t it be embarrassing for her to be walking around fully invisible but for a stomach full of chewed peas and baked chicken?”
Emma fell for it. Henry kissed Tess on the nose, leaned in and whispered, “Brilliant,” in her ear.
“DANNER SAYS SHE DOESN’T like that word.”
“What word is that, sweetie?”
“Connoisseur. She says it’s pretentious.” She pulls her plate back in front of her and uses a fork to carefully take the chicken, peppers, and pineapple off the skewer, arranging them in neat, segregated piles.
“Sorry to have offended.” The words are stiff. He’s trying to be patient, to not snap at his little girl, give her a good shake, and tell her he’s had it up to here with all this Danner bullshit.
When, he asks himself, did I turn into such a prick? He remembers how he passed the turnoff for the cabin only hours ago, tossing away any chance at destroying whatever evidence might be left in spite of his promise to Tess. A prick and a coward.
“That’s all right.” Emma stabs a chunk of pineapple, pops it into her mouth and begins chewing, stopping from time to time to turn to her left and laugh at whatever terribly witty thing Danner happens to be saying.
Whenever Henry asks his daughter about where Danner came from, she’s vague.
“She must have a home,” Henry says.
“She lives here, with us.”
“What about when she’s not with you, where does she go?”
Emma smiles. “She’s never far. She always sees me. Danner sees everything.”
After the how did you die conversation in the car, Henry has resolved to redouble his efforts. He hears himself sounding like a grim late-night cop-drama detective.
“What does Danner look like?”
Emma pushes rice around on her plate. “Like me, only different.”
“Is she your age?”
“Almost exactly. Her birthday is just before mine. But she doesn’t get red velvet cake.”
“Do you think she was once a real girl?”
Emma makes a frustrated growling sound. “She is a real girl, Daddy.”
“I mean, do you think other people could see her?”
“Everyone could see her if she wanted them to.”
“So she doesn’t want us to see her? Your mother and me?”
“Not yet.”
When Henry had gone to Tess with his concerns this morning, she told him he was overreacting. Emma was still in bed and Tess was busy in the kitchen.
“She’s an imaginative girl, Henry. An only child who’s invented the perfect playmate.” She turned her back to him to start grinding the coffee. Henry waited for the noise to stop before continuing.
“But what about the whole death thing? Don’t you find that the slightest bit disturbing?”
Tess dumped the ground coffee into the basket and flipped on the pot.
“She’s a young girl trying to make sense of the world. That’s it. Her hamster died last fall. Her grandfather before that. She’s just working it all out in her own way. Stop being so freaked out. And for God’s sake, stop asking her all those questions. You’re going to ruin the game for her.”
Some fucking game.
Tess turned away again, started getting cups and bowls down from the cabinets.
“So what am I supposed to do when she’s talking away to Danner about being dead?”
Tess turned back to face him, cradling the three bowls and two coffee cups.
“Play along. Believe it or not, you were once creative and whimsical too, Henry. See if you can call on that part of yourself, hmm? For Emma?”
So that’s what Henry tries to do now. He takes his well-adjusted, child-psychology-reading wife’s advice and plays along.
“Shish kebabs are Danner’s favorite,” Emma tells him, her mouth full of red pepper.
“I’m glad. I aim to please.”
Maybe Tess is right. Maybe Danner is just an extension of Emma, a creative way of testing out one’s place in the world, of always having someone to talk to, someone to reaffirm her thoughts and feelings.
Emma sets down her fork. “Danner has a secret.”
“Oh yeah?” Danner and her secrets. She’s always telling Emma things she isn’t supposed to reveal. Henry takes another gulp of wine, glances over at the clock, wonders how late Tess will be. He imagines her walking in now, breezing into the kitchen. He prays for it. His eye ticks. An involuntary contraction that begins with a feeling like a tickle in the outside corner of his right eye. It usually means another headache’s coming on.
“She says I can tell.” Emma wipes her mouth with a napkin, dabbing at the corners daintily, like a lady at a tea party worried about ruining her lipstick.
“Well then, what’s the big secret?” Another tick. He rubs at the eye, keeps his fingers there, trying to soothe it.
“She knows your friend.”
“What friend is that, honey?”
Play along, he thinks to himself. Play along.
“The lady who made Francis.” Emma looks so casual as she says this, like a little girl who’s just asked if you could please pass the rice.
Henry sets his fork down with a noticeable tremor in his hand, opens his mouth to say something, but only a hollow gasp escapes, an empty bubble of sound, and there he is again, at the bottom of the pool, unable to save anyone, especially not himself.
Chapter 11
DRIVING HOME FROM HER appointment with Julia, owner of the Golden Apple gallery, Tess is elated. Julia sold three of her new paintings this week, all to one woman—a summer person, Julia explained.
“She wants to know if you’d be interested in doing some commissioned work,” Julia said and handed over a folded piece of paper. Tess opened it up and in neat script was the name Claire Novak and a cell phone number.
“She asked all about you,” Julia continued. “Where you studied. Who your influences are.”
They’d left Julia’s office and were standing in the bright white gallery, where another painting of Tess’s hung—daisies in a cobalt vase—along with an eclectic selection of other artists’ work: collages; still lifes; photos of insects; landscapes painted on old pressed-tin ceiling squares; and a few pieces by Georgia Steiger, who did tapestrylike portraits using felt and yarn. Georgia was eighty and had been using a walker since her hip operation last fall. Her work was the best thing in the gallery and she was the most successful of all the local artists, her pieces hanging in a couple of folk-art museums. A local filmmaker had even done a documentary about her—Woven Lives: The Art of Georgia Steiger.
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