by Glen Krisch
She nearly collided with her father at the front of the house.
“Whoa, where are you going in such a rush?” he asked.
“Just trying to escape Hurricane Heidi.”
“She’s a bit less organized than some people I know.” He grinned from the corner of his mouth. “It’s not that bad, is it? I mean, sharing a room? You’ve always had your own space, so I know it can be an adjustment.”
“It’s fine,” she said impatiently, wanting to get outside. “We get along great.”
“Are you heading down to the beach? All the cousins went down after breakfast. I didn’t know if you’d heard, since you ate with Poppa.”
“I heard. But no, I’m not heading to the beach right now. I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk, really?” He looked at her from head to toe. “I don’t see a book. Do you have one hidden under your poncho?”
“I’m doing what you asked.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m going to let my mind wander. You know, because I’m a kid, and that’s what we’re meant to do?”
“Yeah, I do remember saying something along those lines.” He scratched his head, confused. The expression made him look a decade younger.
She smiled, leaving him to his puzzlement, and opened the door.
“Goodbye, Daddy.”
“Buh-bye.” He shook his head as she closed the door.
She passed the porch swing, crossed into the grass, and veered off toward the garage. She hadn’t seen the tiny shed built next to it until now. It was close in size to her closet back in Chicago. The door opened on rickety hinges. Even though she was still pretty short, her head nearly brushed the ceiling. She could grab something off the shelving without taking a step inside. A narrow workbench sat on the far wall, littered with plastic planting cells, a torn sack of potting soil, trowels, and a variety of seed packets. The closed-in air smelled of stale earth, as if no one had been in here since … well, since Nan died.
A chill ran through her. Nan.
She had never known her great-grandmother. Sure, she had received cards from her great-grandparents on birthdays and holidays, but those brief correspondences didn’t reveal anything about the people who had pretty much raised her mom and her siblings after the death of their parents. She knew even less about her grandparents. They had been good to their kids, at least that’s what everyone always mentioned on the rare occasions they ever came up. It was like that whole generation of her family tree had disappeared with little trace left behind.
And now she stood in Nan’s potting shed, looking for a basket, one in particular Poppa thought would serve the purpose for collecting flowers—purple nameless flowers from a narrow plateau marked out on a map crudely drawn by Poppa’s tremulous hand.
“Okay, Clara, let’s be …” she whispered, “childlike.”
As she searched the darkened shelves for the basket, her mind flittered about from one thing to another—her odd family tree, how incongruous she was to her cousins, the ill-defined reason for her mother’s hesitance over returning to the summer house.
She’d nearly given up when she spotted the straw mesh basket tucked on the bottom shelf near the door. It was well-used, the straw material frayed. Squatting low, she removed the basket from the shelf and held it up to the sunlight. Powdery dust floated in the shed’s enclosed air, swirling from an invading wind gust. The basket was frayed, sure, but lightweight and collapsible. She agreed with Poppa that it was perfectly suited for the task at hand.
A powerful yet peculiar feeling overwhelmed her. A dull ache in her sternum bloomed across her ribcage and deep into her gut—momentary fright—as if sensing someone was secretly watching her from inside the tiny shed. She slammed the door closed. The shed’s uneven boards revealed glimpses of interior darkness. She felt watched, and even though it was a childish flight of fancy, she hurried away, determined to not look back even when she reached the woods.
“Stop being silly,” she told herself, hearing a quiver in her voice as she removed the hand-drawn map from her front pocket.
The path into the woods was directly across from the front corner of the house. She soon found a narrow trailhead between two trees, similar to the ones on the map. Heading off into the woods, she was surprised how willingly she was venturing into the unknown.
Poppa’s map wasn’t to scale, but when she found a geographical detail highlighted on the map—a unique copse of trees, a distinctive rock formation, a deep seam through the undulating hillside—she could easily determine her next direction. An unsteady pencil stroke indicated the path, and as she went from mark to mark, she found it easier to relax. She spotted a huge rock, taller than her, and matched it to its counterpart on the map.
The overwhelming feeling from the shed was something akin to guilt, maybe closer to regret, but it was unmistakably built whole-cloth out of a greater feeling of loss. A loss for someone she had never really known. And it frightened her.
Poppa had spent decades married to Nan. She couldn’t imagine being alone so long after being a part of something greater. She wanted to know not only more about Nan, but the singular ‘Nan and Poppa.’
Poppa would recount stories about their time together, if Clara felt brave enough to ask. She decided she wanted to be brave enough to ask, that she would be brave enough.
The sky looked anguished with motley shades of dark gray and purple clouds fighting for supremacy. Even so, as she stepped away from the surrounding trees—eyes on the map and the next cautious stride in front of her—the atmosphere around her changed. Despite threatening cloud cover, the sky brightened. The canopies retreated as the trees thinned, revealing an unfettered view of the sky.
She’d arrived at her destination.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air seemed to thicken. Within seconds, the ambient birdsong accompanying her tromp had silenced.
“What the?” she whispered as breath escaped her lungs.
She stood in a plateau of unquestionable beauty. Purple flowers with vibrant blossoms no bigger than her thumbnail stretched from one edge of the woods to the next. The flowers reached her knees and tickled her as she slowly walked among them, not wanting to damage a single stem or stamen. She couldn’t help smiling, so full of joy that she wanted to share it with someone.
After setting the basket among the flowers, she began to pick, choosing only those at the height of their beauty. With long stems she could later trim, the basket quickly filled. She purposely spread out her harvest across the carpet of blossoms, lest she create a barren area where an invasive plant could get a foothold. After twenty minutes, she’d gathered more than enough to overflow the basket.
“Poppa’s going to love these.”
She grinned as she hefted the basket, before backtracking to the tree line toward the trail leading to the summer house. Disoriented, she pulled the map from her pocket.
Another peal of thunder rumbled the sky, closer. She’d have to hurry home to beat the rain. She matched the maple tree bordering the flower field with the one on the map, and then noticed someone had carved into its thick trunk: a heart the size of her palm, the carving relatively fresh. She read the inscription:
PIERCE
FRANCIE
“Poppa … Nan,” she whispered.
Her heart ached as she touched the rough bark.
“Isn’t that silly?” a voice called out from over her shoulder.
Clara dropped the basket of flowers and nearly tripped as she whirled on her heel. A girl approached from the other side of the field. She picked a flower and pushed the purple blossom behind her ear. Untamed golden locks bobbed as she walked, her skin as pale as cream, eyes a luminous blue. They were around the same age, but that’s where their similarities ended.
Clara subconsciously stepped away from the girl. “Excuse me?”
The girl be
nt down for the basket and opened the straw flaps. “The heart.” She looked up at Clara as she carefully placed the blossoms in the basket. “I heard you giggle.”
“No, I didn’t laugh.” Clara paused, thrown off by not just the girl’s sudden appearance, but the appearance of her. Her fingernails were cracked and caked with dirt. She wore cuffed jean shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt over a dark green bikini. Sweat dampened the shirt’s collar. Grass stains and mud streaked her clothes and legs. Clara became aware of how sore her own feet were getting from her new stiff sneakers, and then realized the girl was barefoot. “Well, I did laugh, but not like that. I … I think it’s sweet.”
The girl placed a final flower and then handed the basket over to Clara.
Clara wanted to grab the basket and run back to the summer house. “Thanks.”
The girl put her hands on her hips. “Do I know you? You look so familiar.”
“I’m not from around here. My family is visiting … from Chicago.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You’re from around here?” Clara asked.
More thunder rumbled, and the sky darkened even more.
“I’m from the other side of the lake.”
Leaves fluttered as it started to rain. The wind kicked up, but the branches above sheltered them.
“Are those,” the girl said, pointing at the basket of flowers, “for Nan?”
“Well … kind of.” The basket felt heavy in her hands, even though its contents weighed next to nothing. “How did you—?”
“I heard you mention Nan. Nan and … Poppa, right?”
“Yes. My great-grandparents. Nan is … well, she died.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It was a while ago. I hardly knew her. Poppa asked me to pick some of Nan’s favorite flowers.”
“That’s nice. Real nice.” The girl’s eyes dimmed, and then she looked away. “Everyone dies. Isn’t that awful? My dad died. And my mom … she … um …” She shook her head in frustration, as if she was having trouble remembering. Her hands, with her fingers splayed, began to palsy at her sides.
“Are you okay?” Clara rolled forward on the balls of her feet but hesitated to step closer.
Rainfall breached the protective canopies, splattering icy cold against her skin.
“My mom …” Suddenly, the girl clapped her hands together and her eyes flashed wide as the rain pelted down, flattening her untamed curls. Her skin seemed to glow, becoming translucent with the wetness streaming across its pale surface. “She’s an evil bitch.”
Lightning flashed, and as Clara gasped at the girl’s coarseness, thunder tumbled through the woods. Clara could never speak so ill of her own mother.
“I’m sorry,” Clara said, her voice swallowed by the storm.
“What?” The girl stepped close, clearly inside Clara’s personal space, inches away. She leaned in, offering Clara her ear. An earthy scent drifted off the girl. Dirt and grime and sour sweat.
“I said I’m sorry!” Clara nearly shouted. “You know, about your mom.”
“It’s okay,” the girl said and shrugged. “I’m used to it. She leaves me alone. I just wish her boyfriends would do the same.” The girl pulled away, her mad grin tilted up to the rain. An unnerving energy flowed from her; the arms’ width of air between them practically crackled. “Let’s get out of this rain.”
“The house where I’m staying is close,” Clara said. She couldn’t imagine what her family would think about this girl.
“Not close enough.” The girl looked around, as if deciding on a direction. She surprised Clara by taking her hand in her own. “Come on, let’s go!”
Clara didn’t know why she went so willingly, but as they crossed the field and entered a path on the opposite side, they were both running, and as lightning illuminated their footfalls, the girl’s energy trip-hammered into her own body. Clara felt alive, intensely so, as if she had only now taken her first breath, her first step, her first waking thought.
The girl tugged her up a muddy hill, and then down into a gully of sopping wet ferns and hanging vines like writhing snakes in the drenching rainfall.
A stabbing cramp formed in Clara’s side.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Down there!” The girl beamed a toothy smile. Soaked hair draped her brow, nearly touching her eyes. “Just a little farther!”
They nearly ran right into a swollen creek at the gulley. The girl dug her bare heels into the mossy forest floor, sliding to a stop. Clara, still holding the girl’s hand, whipped around almost a whole circle before finally arresting her momentum. The creek rushed a foot away, a torrent of muddy water, floating leaves, and torn up vegetation.
“There it is!” The girl released Clara’s hand and scampered away.
A centuries-old tree had recently fallen over, creating a concavity at its base. Tangled roots, stripped tree bark, and a thick mat of underbrush formed the walls and roof of a natural cave Clara would’ve easily overlooked under different circumstances. The girl climbed inside, disappearing from view, save her mud-caked feet dangling from the opening.
Clara felt a paralyzing moment of indecision. Her anxiety, already roused by the adrenaline-infused run through the woods, was now a raging fire.
“Come on!” the girl called out.
Clara stepped closer, the cold rain running in runnels beneath her shirt. She saw beyond the girl’s muddy feet—clear up to the knobs of her knees and the cuffed shorts—from where she sat in the gloomy shelter. The storm was nearly as chaotic as her thoughts. She reached the tumbled-over tree and its enormous girth became evident; it was at least twice as thick as her own height.
“What are you afraid of?” the girl yelled.
“Everything,” Clara whispered.
In truth, she wasn’t afraid of everything. Just mud and spider webs, and muddy spider webs, and burrowing animals—and what burrowing animals lived in the Western Michigan forest? Foxes? Wolverines? Werewolves? Not to mention the wild barefoot girl.
Is she feral? Clara wondered.
She took a deep breath, leaned over, and pushed aside the curtain of roots and underbrush.
“See? It’s dry …” the girl said, “well, drier than out there.”
Clara shivered, her arms coursing with gooseflesh. She climbed into the opening. A small log ran the width of the covered space, and the girl sat on it like it was a park bench. Clara couldn’t stand with the low ceiling, so she sat next to her.
The sound of the storm retreated, even though it was raining just as hard.
“By the way, my name’s Melody.”
Both girls stared out into the downpour. It was hypnotic, like staring at the white noise of an empty TV channel.
“I’m Clara.”
She didn’t spot any spider webs, and the space was so small that she would’ve readily seen a burrowing animal.
“I should’ve asked you before I showed you this place … can you keep it secret?”
“I, well, sure. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good.”
They were quiet for some time, watching the rain and lightning, counting the seconds before the accompanying thunderclap. The time between lengthened. The storm was passing.
“I come here sometimes when I need to be alone. I’ve never showed it to anybody. I figure, sometimes you need to be left alone. Sometimes that’s the only way to confront the noise in your head. Know what I mean?”
Clara didn’t have a clue. If she ever had the desire to be on her own, she would merely retreat to her bedroom and her growing library of books. She couldn’t fathom the state of Melody’s home life if she felt the need to escape to a fallen over tree in the middle of the woods.
“It’s weird being in here, right? But there’s something, I don’t know … comforting, enclosing you
rself in a tight space, almost like the dirt walls are embracing us. This is the only place I can let everything go. When my head can be clear and empty.”
Clara smelled dirt and moldering decay in the humid air as she shivered. Melody scooted closer until their arms touched. The girl tilted her head, resting it on Clara’s shoulder. The intimate contact made Clara’s muscles tense. She waited for Melody to say something, but all she heard was her steady breathing. It soothed her, in a way, how the girl’s breathing sounded so normal, so human, especially against the chaos of the passing storm. Clara didn’t mind the silence.
CHAPTER 15
Krista stood under the hot shower spray, as she had for going on twenty minutes, trying to forget the solitary trail of footprints on the beach. Though she’d chased away the chill from being caught in the storm, she couldn’t help the goosebumps still prickling her arms. She nudged the dial hotter and steam billowed around her like fog. It condensed on the glass door, obscuring the rest of the bathroom. She closed her eyes and angled her head down as far as it would go, luxuriating in the near-scalding water rolling off her shoulders.
She was desperate for her mind to meander aimlessly through mundane matters, but her thoughts kept returning to the one particular morning that had so indelibly marked her more than twenty years earlier. There was so much about that day she couldn’t remember, refused to remember. The memories only brought unbearable pain.
It’s all my fault. Exhaled breath caught in her throat. If I hadn’t been so stupid …
The shower was nearly hot enough to blister her skin, but she was no longer present to feel it. Her memories strengthened, almost painfully so, gaining depth and constitution.
The trail of footprints was so clear in her mind that she could lean over to see their sharp edges and distinctive patterns in the sand. Swirls and curlicues. Flowergirlz … an off-brand shoe, cute, but cheaply made, white with pink flourishes on the sides, the tongue a solid palette of pink flowers. She knew this because she had always known this, at least since that long-ago summer.