by Glen Krisch
“What time is it?”
“No idea.” the redhead said. “Daytime?”
“Neither of us has a watch,” Melody added.
“So I wasn’t lying here all alone for a long time before you guys showed up?”
“Nope. We heard the racket, then came running. Why?”
“It’s weird. I could’ve sworn it was almost nightfall.”
“Not by a long shot. So, are we going to help you, or what?”
“Yes. Sure. I could use the help.”
“Yay!” the redhead squealed.
“Don’t mind Breann,” Melody said, patting Clara’s shoulder as they started back up the hill. “She doesn’t get out much.”
“Breann …” Clara whispered the name. “Breann …”
“What is it?” Melody asked.
“My mom, her friend’s name was Breann.”
Neither girl said anything in reply, but they shared a glance. It was obvious the coincidence unnerved them both.
Starting up the hill, Clara alternated glancing at the map and the enormity of the wilderness surrounding them.
“I can’t believe you two have this place as your backyard.”
“It is pretty nice,” Melody admitted.
The trio worked single-file from foothold to foothold, slowly regaining the ground that had blurred by Clara on her way down.
“I want to see more than these woods,” Breann said. “I want to travel the world. You know, Paris and Tokyo and Chicago.”
“I live in Chicago,” Clara said and stopped at the top of the hill, letting the other two catch up before they started again.
“Chicago? Really? With your parents?” Breann sounded awed by the prospect of living in a big city.
“We have an apartment. It’s on the twenty-third floor.”
“I bet the view is incredible,” Melody said.
“It is. But I hate getting anywhere near the balcony’s railing. Vertigo makes it feel like you’re going to fall right over the side.”
“What are your parents like?” Breann asked.
Something in her tone made Clara look back over her shoulder. Breann’s brown eyes were intense, probing. The freckles across her cheeks seemed to flare.
“They’re nice.” She could have said more. She could have rattled off a long litany of great qualities, but something about Breann made her hold back.
“What does your mom do?” Breann asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What does your mom do for a living?”
“She … she takes care of me.”
“Like all the time?” Melody asked.
“Well, yeah. She went to law school, but she met my dad and they got married.”
“What does your dad do?” Breann asked.
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Well, isn’t that nice?” Breann said with a snide curl of her lips. “Why isn’t your mom a lawyer, too?”
“Like I said, she takes care of me.” Clara felt guilty but didn’t know why.
“Breann, lay off,” Melody said.
“Geez, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Clara turned her attention to the map. She held it high, trying to find where the trail met up with Poppa’s directions. She didn’t have a clue, other than knowing the lake was straight ahead and that she’d be able to pick up where she’d initially left the trail. She could hear the lake’s soft lapping waves.
They pressed on, pushing the pace, as if spurred by the sound, until the woods thinned and the sky brightened.
“It’s so beautiful here,” Melody said. “Sometimes I walk the beach at night. It’s so dark, especially if the clouds block out the stars. I close my eyes and wander across the sand. It makes me feel so free, so alive.”
“And that’s when I find her stumbling around like some blind bum, and I laugh and laugh,” Breann said.
“You can be so cruel sometimes, you know that?” Melody crossed her arms and stomped her foot in the sand.
Breann gave her a cold smile. “Did you know you can be too sensitive?”
Melody looked on the verge of tears. “I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.”
Clara felt like an interloper on a long-running tension between them.
Breann glared at Melody, then reached out and snatched the map from Clara’s hands. The girl sprinted away, kicking up sand with every stride.
“Hey, wait a second!” Clara said.
“Breann!” Melody called out.
Clara took off after the girl, but she quickly lost ground. “That’s not yours!”
“Come and get it!” Breann disappeared into a break in the woods.
Melody caught up to Clara and sprinted ahead.
“What is she doing?” Clara felt helpless as the chase left her farther behind with every passing second.
“She’s just … she’s lost,” Melody said. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Not anymore.” She sprinted away, leaving Clara far behind. “I’m sorry, Clara.”
Breann and Melody were nothing more than rustling underbrush and the snapping of twigs. They followed no discernible path, but Clara would do just about anything to not lose them, to not lose Poppa’s map.
Soon the sounds of the sprinting girls died away, and Clara realized her utter aloneness at the bottom of a rocky gully carpeted in ferns. Lost and without a map, she held her tears at bay, even though they threatened to fall. She followed an almost imperceptible bending and disorder in the plants, as if they had witnessed the slightest touches only seconds earlier.
The trail led to a clear pond fed by a gurgle of water lacing down from the hills. There were depressions in the mud near the pond’s edge, she noticed, outlines of tiny flowers in fresh footprints. A series of wide smooth stones spanned the water, each a couple of feet apart, each extending like links of chain.
Clara held fast to Poppa’s satchel and leapt from one stone to the next. Silvery fish as long as her forearm darted between the stones. Startled, she pin-wheeled her arms and her heart lurched in her chest before she managed to steady herself.
Halfway across the pond, a brief and mournful cry interrupted the singular sound of the gurgling water. At once, her feet solidified beneath her as her ears pricked up to the sound. Again, she heard the sound, and before thinking twice, she leapt across the stones without rest. She reached the far side of the pond and sprinted toward the cries.
She burst through a mass of underbrush, and found Melody staring with great concern at Breann. The little redheaded girl with the angry freckles across her cheeks was on her hands and knees, heaving rocks from a manmade pile. She tossed them aside, scraping her knuckles and fingernails, drawing blood from her crazed efforts.
“What is it?” Clara asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the end of the map,” Melody said, fear in her eyes. “This mound of rocks. What is it, Clara?”
“I have no idea.”
“It’s here. I know it’s here. It’s gotta be.” Breann tore another heavy stone from where dirt and debris had conspired to consign it to history.
“Breann, wait a second. Let us help you.” Clara approached the girl and set a hand on her shoulder. Her skin was hot, like the embers of a long-stoked bonfire.
Breann turned, glared at her with malevolence.
Clara stepped quickly away, nearly stumbling as she collided with Melody.
“Let’s just … let her be,” Melody said.
“But her hands, she’s bleeding.”
Breann pried a slab of gray granite the size of a dinner plate from the mound. It tumbled to rest near Clara’s feet. Breann didn’t move, just gazed at the opening in the rock pile.
Melody inched closer. “What is it, Bree?”
Breann reached into the darkened openin
g and removed a small wooden box. With trembling hands, she handed it over to Clara. “I … I can’t open it,” she said. “You do it.” She sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her nose.
“O … kay,” Clara said.
The box felt light enough to be empty. Barely bigger than her palm, its nearly black wood seemed to shine. It was only after Clara searched for a locking mechanism that she realized the effect was from Breann’s blood. She tried avoiding the wetness as she used a fingernail to pry open the little hasp keeping it shut. The hinged seam gave off a cry of rust.
Inside, the box was lined with black velvet, and coiled at its center, a necklace with a heart-shaped charm. A held breath escaped Clara’s lips—echoed by the other two girls—as she touched the charm’s smooth surface. A tingle coursed through her finger and up her arm.
“It’s beautiful,” Melody said, looking not at the necklace but at Breann’s reaction.
Even though she fervently needed to discover what was at the end of the map, Breann stood with her arms folded, staring off into the woods. She tried to act disinterested, but her trembling lower lip gave her away.
“What is this?” Clara said. She picked up the charm and its chain fell free from the box. “Whose is this?”
“Wait!” Breann turned on Clara, tears in her eyes.
“Breann, please don’t!” Melody cried.
“It’s not hers!” Breann lashed out for the charm, and as Clara stepped back, her foot caught on one of the many rocks tossed aside from the pile.
Clara fell backward, her vision scrolling from the forest floor to the dense canopies and to the shard of blue sky beyond. And she continued to fall—slipping between geography, through the liminal spaces dividing time and anguish—where true horror lived at the axis of those two elements.
CHAPTER 23
With Poppa’s manuscript under her arm, Krista circled around to the front yard. Spread out across the lawn, Trev, Robby, and Leah were attempting to play croquet with a playset that might’ve been new midway through the last century. Even with splintered mallets and rusted wickets, they were all enjoying themselves, so much so that no one noticed Krista slinking through the yard.
Pastel chalk in hand, Heidi ignored their game in favor of her canvas—the broad cobblestones lining the walkway between the porch and driveway. As if sensing her presence, Heidi looked up in Krista’s direction. Her serious expression softened into a smile and she offered a little wave. Krista waved back and the girl returned to her chalks.
Krista crossed the lawn to the far northern part of the property. As she neared the graveyard, nestled in the wooded wedge of land near the road, her irritation resurfaced.
How could he keep so much from us?
Her free hand trembled when she brushed the hair from her face. She needed distance and time before facing him, but she definitely needed to face him. It was unavoidable, but still, she seethed.
How could he?
She didn’t want to hurt Poppa, but that would be almost unavoidable when she asked him about the map mentioned in his manuscript. She had so many questions. Did he follow through and search for Edgar’s “treasure” hidden at the end of the map? Did he find anything? Why had he never mentioned it to her?
Krista couldn’t help picturing mud-stained bones and child-sized clothing buried in a shallow grave.
She had so many questions, but Poppa was weak and only getting weaker. She needed answers, but she couldn’t imagine tearing open that wound—one they both shared.
The short path into the dense woods provided enough seclusion to hide the graveyard from view at the house. Krista didn’t realize someone was already at Nan’s graveside until she entered the little alcove.
Jack didn’t notice her right away. He pulled weeds from around Nan’s marble stone, and carefully tugged on a dandelion until it gave up its root with a pop before he tossed it onto a growing pile.
“Hey there, little brother,” she said.
His head jerked up, revealing bloodshot eyes with dark bags beneath. His unhinged gaze made Krista pause in her tracks.
He blinked a couple times, as if he didn’t recognize her, before his senses seemed to crystallize. “Oh, hey, Krista.” He got to his feet and brushed his hands on his thighs. “What are you doing out here?”
“I just needed …” Her shoulders slumped as she looked over at the headstone. She read the inscription: In loving memory of Francine Whalen, who cast the light for many. She glanced toward the summer house. The kids and Leah were laughing and carousing just out of sight. “I needed to step away for a minute.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” His voice was a strained wisp. He pointed to the binder under her arm. “What’s that?”
She hesitated.
Jack looked so unmoored, as if he could snap at any moment and float away.
It was only out of concern for him, and for Trev by extension, that she said, “It’s Poppa’s new book. Oh, by the way, don’t tell him I’m reading it. I found it at his writing desk.”
“Really? I didn’t know he was still working.”
She nodded slowly. The question had never crossed her mind.
“Yeah, I guess a writer never quits.”
Jack nodded too, satisfied. He brushed a palm over the arching top of Nan’s headstone, smoothing away a thin layer of dust and pollen. Just as she expected, he didn’t press her for more details about the book. Her brother, love him, wasn’t much of a reader. It certainly pleased him that Poppa was a successful writer, but she doubted he’d read more than a paragraph or two from his vast output.
“I wish I could have helped her, you know?” he said, barely audible. “That I could’ve stopped her from doing what she did.”
“She didn’t do anything, Jack. She fell down the stairs. It was horrible, but there’s nothing you could have done.”
“I was here, Krista. I could’ve … I don’t know …” He stopped when his chest began to hitch. “I could’ve brought Poppa his sandwich.”
Krista almost laughed. She didn’t understand what he was talking about, just that he was terribly upset and burdened with guilt. She stepped closer to him, close enough that her nose wrinkled at the mixture of booze, weed, and unwashed skin wafting from him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers no longer trembling. Somehow, she found a way to pull it together when someone close to her needed her help or support.
“Are you okay?”
He shot a look back at her. “Do I look okay to you?”
“I’ve seen you better, no doubt,” she said, trying to make light of the situation, but it sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
She sat on a fallen log near the woods. It looked like it had fallen naturally, but from the worn bark, it also looked like it had served as a bench quite often. Krista pictured Poppa visiting Nan’s grave, sitting in this very spot. The summer house was always a place of belonging, of sharing, of being with others. This sad little island felt distanced from the living world, even though it was surrounded by the abundance of nature.
“Jack, come here.” She patted the log next to her. “Come on, I’m not going to bite.”
He glanced at her and rolled his eyes.
“Fine, I’m not going to lecture you, either. Just …” She again beckoned him over. “Sit with me before I start crying.”
He complied with reluctance, looking up from the headstone. As he sat next to her, his knees cracked, and he let out a heavy sigh.
After they hadn’t spoken in a minute or more, Jack cleared his throat. “Do you think she can hear us?” He stared down at his feet. “Nan, I mean.”
“I hope so, I really do,” Krista said.
“If she can hear us, do you think that means we could, I don’t know, hear her, you know, in some way?”
“It would only make sense, I guess. I know Poppa belie
ves it. That’s why he’s staying here instead of at the home in Grand Rapids. Or in a hospice. He thinks he’s seen glimpses of her from the corner of his eye, that he’s smelled hints of her perfume.”
“Unforgettable,” Jack said. “That’s what it was called, right?”
“How do you remember that?” Clara said and grinned. She wouldn’t have remembered the name of Nan’s perfume, even with a gun pointed at her head.
“It was the one fancy bottle on top of her dresser. She didn’t wear a bunch of makeup or jewelry. But she always had that fancy pink bottle.”
“Maybe Poppa’s right,” Clara said. “I can smell her perfume, now that you mention it.” She closed her eyes, pictured Nan spraying a single spritz on her neck. Her warm smile. Her unbelievable patience. “Ah … the power of memories.”
When she opened her eyes, Jack’s expression had darkened.
“You know, Mom and Dad … I can’t remember them. I mean, at all.”
Krista didn’t know what to say.
“We have that picture,” he said. “I think it’s the last one of all five of us together.”
“From Easter that year,” she recalled. “We went to the mall photo studio. We could barely get you to sit still. Only one photo turned out with all of us smiling at the same time.”
“Yeah … that’s the one. I was, like, four years old. You think I’d remember sitting on Mom’s lap. Or Dad standing behind us. Nope. Not a thing. My only memory of that picture is looking at it with you and Leah, with Nana and Poppa. Hearing stories about that day. I remember looking at it when we were little and thinking it should be important to me. Memorable in some way. But when I think about Dad, when I try to remember any little detail, all I remember is Poppa. Same thing about Mom. All I see is Nan.”
“We were lucky we had Nan and Poppa. Other kids in our situation, a lot of them wind up in foster care, most likely separated.”
“Yeah, we were lucky,” Jack said. “You couldn’t get away from me that easy.” He laughed softly as he stood, kissed his fingertips, and placed them on top of the headstone. When he turned his head again, the madness was gone from his eyes. “You know, I came out here to be alone. But I’m glad you came. In all seriousness, I’m glad Trev and I have you guys—you and Leah.”