Wildwood

4. Ghost

GhostI stare at the clock on the cafeteria wall, my lunch sitting untouched in front of me. I have been away from home for three hours and forty minutes. What if Dana has called? What if they finally found Dad?

I shouldn't be here. The thought grows bigger and bigger. I couldn’t concentrate in my morning classes. Teachers ignored me, or gave me sympathetic gazes when they caught me staring. Other students don’t seem sure whether to speak to me for the first time or avoid me completely. The school counselor I had to meet with this morning advised me to lean on my friends. My friends aren’t here. My friends are at Wildwood.

The bell rings, announcing the end of the block, and I startle with a jerk. Everyone surges into movement, and the volume doubles in the big, rectangular room. The voices blend into a roar, the torrent of feet on polished floor becomes akin to pounding, driving rain, and all of the sudden I can’t breathe.

I leap to my feet, leaving my full tray on the table, and run for the parking lot. I climb into the driver's seat of Dad's truck and slam the door, panting. Once my hands stop shaking, I turn on the ignition, and pull out of the lot. Everything inside of me wants to go to Wildwood – where I am a piece of a puzzle that I know how to put together. Even though Dad’s absence has left a hole there, it’s still a place that makes sense to me. Home… home has become a puzzle with half the pieces missing. What has Mom done while I’ve been gone? Has she left her room yet? Worry for her chases me down every street. She’d been the one to suggest I return to school. Maybe she figured if I left, Dana would finally call.

I pull into our driveway. There’s a blue cooler propped in front of our door. Someone must’ve dropped off another meal for us – someone who knows Mom well enough to be prepared for her to not answer the door. With Mom refusing to leave the house, and me refusing to leave mom prior to today, these meals are the only way we eat. Rather, the only way I eat. Mom has done little more than pick at a plate. In the last few days, she’s stopped bothering to set herself a place at all.

I climb out of the truck. On a hunch, I back track to the mailbox. It’s completely full. Neither of us has checked it since the day of the accident. I stuff the mail in my backpack, retrieve the cooler, and step inside.

The house is quiet and still. I shoulder off my bag and then thumb through the mail, automatically beginning separate stacks for Mom, Dad, and me. I drop the mail and grip the countertop, besieged by a wave of sadness. Envelopes scatter all over the floor. I bend down and gather them.

I don’t know what to do with the letters for Dad. A few of them are obviously junk. I tear them across the middle, the way he does every evening, before I toss them in the trash. A letter with my name on it catches my eye. It’s from the University of Kentucky, where I’d submitted an early admission application. It’s probably just a form letter acknowledging they’d received it.

I haven’t thought once about where I’ll be next year since Dad went missing. I peer down the dark hall to my parents’ room. What if she still won’t leave the house alone come next fall? I can’t imagine packing all my things and moving away, knowing the farthest she’ll go from her bed is to stare out the window behind the kitchen sink.

I take her stack to the window sill and prop it against the glass pane, knowing she’ll see it there. I thumb through what’s left of Dad’s mail. A couple pieces are definitely bills.

“What are you doing home so early?” Mom asks from behind me. I whirl around. She’s barefoot, and still in her nightgown. Dad calls her “lightfoot” for the way she can move around the house like wind through a window. Called. Dad called. I press my fist against the sudden ache in my middle.

“I… I just wanted to be home. Someone brought us food.” I point to the cooler, which I left in front of the refrigerator.

“We should go to the store,” she mumbles.

“I can go, Mom. I should’ve gone while I was out.”

“No. I should go. I should go,” she repeats.

I stare at her. Her hair is matted and dull. She picks through the knotted ends with her fingers. Her transformation has been so slow and slippery over the past three weeks that I didn’t catch how far she’s sunk until I stepped away.

Neither of us should go. She can’t leave the house like this and I can’t leave her again.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow you can go. We’ll go together,” I say.

“Tomorrow.” She turns back toward her room.

“Mom, why don’t I draw you a hot bath? Don’t you have some lavender bath oil that you like?” I call to her. She keeps walking as if she doesn’t hear me. I follow her to her room, which is dark. Dad’s clothes are strewn across the bed. She curls up on top of them, and brings a shirt to her face. I stifle a sob and move past her into her bathroom. I start the water, for once grateful for the sound of it. The silence emanating from the bedroom is almost more than I can take.

The bath oil is in a basket on the bathroom counter. I drop in two, watching them fizz for a few seconds, and then grab a towel from the linen closet. Once the tub is full, I turn off the water, and tip toe back into the bedroom. Mom lies there, stone still, her ribcage barely stirring with breath. Her eyes are open, and she’s staring at the wall. Her knuckles are clenched tight around Dad’s shirt.

“Come on, Mom,” I say, and rest a hand on her shoulder. She jerks from beneath my touch, and anger flickers across her face. She blinks, and it’s gone.

“I’m sorry, Tanzy,” she murmurs.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you in the bath.” I want to take her hand, but I won’t be the one to pry Dad’s shirt from her fingers.

“I don’t want a bath.”

“You need one. Come on, it’s nice and hot.”

“No, Tanzy.” She rolls over.

“Mom, yes.” I sit on the bed and try to help her sit up. Now that I am this close, I can smell her, a sickly sweet, syrupy smell. “When’s the last time you took a shower?” I ask softly.

She starts to cry. “I was about to get in the shower when Dana called and said they’d found you in the river, and that Travis was missing. She came and picked me up, and brought me to the hospital to see you, and it wasn’t until we got home that night that I realized I’d never turned the shower off.”

I wrap my arms around her. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. I’ll sit with you in the bathroom, okay? I can read to you from whatever book you’re reading now.”

“Okay,” she says. She leans on me, and we walk to the tub. She’s probably lost ten pounds, maybe more. She steps out of her nightgown, and I hold her hand as she settles into the tub. A long breath leaves her mouth, and she closes her eyes, easing back against the round rim. I roll up a towel and tuck it under her head.

“I’m going to get your book.” I hurry to her nightstand and grab the top book from the pile. When I return, she’s staring blankly ahead.

“Do you still want me to read?”

She doesn’t answer.

I back to the counter for something to lean against while I watch her. She doesn’t move. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and gasp. The circles under Mom’s eyes belong to me, too. My face is all bone and angles, just like hers. My father’s voice enters my mind: you are your mother’s daughter. The thoughts in my head begin to brew to a storm. Needing to drown them out, I open to the folded page, and start reading.

I read to her until her water turns cold. Once she’s clean and dressed, I head to the kitchen and heat up the casserole. I set out two plates and two forks, and serve a small portion on each plate. I sit down, mashing the casserole with my fork, and peek down the hall. She isn’t coming yet, but I can hear her moving around her room. I take a bite, barely tasting it. Her shadow appears in the rectangle of light coming from her room. I straighten in my seat. Then the light vanishes, and her door clicks shut.

The bite of food in my mouth swells, and I have to spit it out. Exhaustion creeps in from all sides. We can’t keep going like this.

I leave her plate on the table, and retreat to my room. I sit on the floor, resting my back against my bed, and call Dana.

“Dana, we need help,” I whisper.

“I’m leaving now,” she says.

I hang up the phone, and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Once I hear her truck rumble into our driveway, I stand up and head down stairs. Mom is standing at the foot of the stairway, watching me. Her hair is pulled on top of her head in messy bun, and her eyes are more alert than they’ve seemed in days. Still, the bath seems to have washed away another ten pounds, and her clothes hang off of her frame.

“You can visit outside for a little bit, but then Dana needs to leave,” Mom says.

“She’s here to help.”

“With what?”

“With… with us.”

“We are fine.” Her expression hardens.

“We are not fine.”

“Your father is gone,” she barks. “This is what fine looks like when someone… when someone is gone who shouldn’t be,” her voice breaks. “I don’t want her in my house, Tanzy,” she whispers.

“She’s a friend!”

“She’s not family,” she counters.

We don’t have any family. I clamp my mouth shut, trapping the thought. “Eat something. Eat something right now, and I will tell Dana that we’re fine,” I counter.

“Okay.” She squeezes her hands to fists, her knuckles blanching.

“Promise me,” I insist, knowing I won’t be able to see her.

“I promise.”

I watch her spoon out a chunk of the casserole, take her plate to the counter, and nibble at a first bite, her gaze already locked on to something on the other side of the window pane.

I slip through the front door. Dana is standing at the bottom of the steps.

“Do you want to go inside?” Dana asks, pointing at the door. “It’s cold out.”

“The fresh air is nice.”

“If you say so.” She moves forward and sits on the second stair. “What’s going on?”

“It’s like… it’s like we are a ship, and Dad steered the ship,” I start, trying to explain how lost we are, how motionless. “We don’t know how anything works without him.” There’s no map, no compass, no destination, which didn’t previously point somehow, some way to him.

“Wildwood is falling apart, too,” Dana says. “I’m doing the best I can, but I’m not your dad. It seems like everything that could go wrong has gone wrong since he….” She wipes her face. “Enough about me, though. What can I do to help?”

“You’re helping.” I muster a smile.

“I just… I just wish we could find him,” she says.

“Me too. It would help Mom a lot.”

“If we don’t find him soon…” Dana pauses, and drops her gaze to the bricks. She clears her throat. “I lost my mother when I was a little older than you. I remember the blur, mostly. But I also remember her funeral service. It was horrible, honestly. The hardest thing I’ve ever sat through. But it helped. And it seemed to really help my dad. He saw how many people she touched, how her life wouldn’t be forgotten, and that he didn’t have to carry the torch of her memory alone.”

“I didn’t know about your mom.” Tears burn in my eyes. I haven’t even considered this additional pressure my mom must be facing. I remember my father’s warning about the walls she built, how she thinks they help. She just refused to let Dana in our house, when Dana has been here hundreds of times.

“How could you have known? I never told you.” She pulls at the brim of her ball cap. Between her elven features and her wiry stature, she appears much younger than most thirty-somethings I know, too young to be without a mom. Is there such thing as old enough?

“When does it get easier?” I ask.

“I don’t know that ‘easier’ is the right word.” She blinks rapidly and looks away for a second. “Have you two talked about maybe doing a memorial service?” she asks gently.

“I don’t know if she’s come to terms with…” my voice fades.

“Say no more.” Dana holds up a hand. “Why don’t you come out to the farm? Harbor came in from the pasture today covered in mud. You can’t even tell she’s supposed to be gray.”

I snort at the mental image. The laughter, however short, fills me with relief even as tears spill from my eyes. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

“I could use your help, too. We need a pair of good hands in the afternoons to help with evening feedings and lesson prep. You can come straight from school. I’d pay you.”

I glance back at the house. “I’d have to ask Mom.”

“Of course.”

“She’s not ready to be alone yet.”

“How could she be?” Dana asks softly.

“She… she asked me to stop riding.”

Dana’s face shifts with a kaleidoscope of reactions before going completely blank. “She’ll come around. But you don’t have to ride, Tee. Especially if you don’t want to. Anyone would understand you needing to take a break. I do think some time out there would do you good.”

“I think so.” In my mind, I wander the barn aisle. Before I can stop it, my mental view races ahead, out of the door, across the pasture, and into the woods. I can hear the roar of the river, and in these trees, the shadows move and flash. “Maybe not yet though.” I stand.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Dana says, rising. “We’ll take care of Harbor in the meantime, so don’t worry about her. We could all use you out there. It would do everyone good to see you. We’ve been trying to give your mom space.” She steals a glimpse of the front door. “But everyone misses you.”

“Thank you for coming. It helped more than you know.” I steal a glimpse of Mom’s favorite window. Her eyes are on Dana, and her hands look like they’re in the sink. The phone rings, and she disappears.

“I… I have to go.” I back up the stairs, my heart rate escalating. The ringing stops. Mom has answered the phone.

“Call me if you need anything again, okay? Even if it’s just fresh air.”

“Okay.” I turn and open the door, then I pause. Whoever is calling can’t be Dana with news. Still, a sense of urgency rushes me into the house, and I close the door without telling Dana goodbye.

My mom’s footsteps sound through the ceiling above the foyer. She’s in my room. I take the stairs two at a time. My door is open. Mom sits on my bed with her back to the door, pressing the phone against her face with one hand, and smoothing wrinkles only she can see on my bed spread.

“Are you sure?” she asks, and then waits. “You checked the entire river?”

I hold my breath, wondering who she’s talking to, and the burst of energy animating her body.

“I don’t know, as far as it goes.” She squeezes the quilt, and the smooths it flat again. “Well thank you for checking. I’ll be in touch.” She hangs up the phone, and then presses both hands into her face. Tension ripples across her shoulders, and she turns to spy over her shoulder.

“You seem like you’re feeling better,” I start, keeping my voice soft.

“Food helped.”

“Who were you talking to?” I take a few steps forward, and even though it’s my room, I feel like I’m trespassing.

“Just someone about your dad.” She stands. “I hired a private team to search the river. They didn’t find him.”

“When did you do that?” I ask. I haven’t let her out of my sight with the exception of this morning, and the phone hasn’t left my room since the day after the accident.

“I took the phone out of your room while you were sleeping one morning last week, and put it back under your bed before you woke up. We should return it to the kitchen.”

I stare at her, knowing she’s lying. I just don’t know which part she’s lying about, or why. But I do know it’s the first bold faced lie she’s ever told me; the first one I’ve caught her in, anyway. I never sleep late, and in the last three weeks, I’ve barely slept at all, while sleep is all she’s seemed to do. Dana’s right. We need a way to move on. We need to face that this is our reality now, a family of two people and a man – a ghost – of a million memories.

“Do we… do we need to think about planning a memorial service?” I ask.

Mom turns toward me with her whole body, and then goes completely still. “How could you ask me that? Why would we do that when we don’t know where he is?”

“I don’t think we ever will, Mom,” I say quietly. “And even if we do, if we find him… it’s… it’s. He’s gone, Mom. He’s gone.”

“You don’t know that,” she says through her teeth.

“No, I don’t know that for a fact. But Mom, if he’s not gone, where is he?”

“I don’t know! And that’s exactly why we shouldn’t have some memorial service like he’s dead. We don’t know!”

“Okay. Okay.” I catch myself wishing she’d leave my room. Instead, she turns away from me, and lies down. The temperature in my room feels like it’s dropped ten degrees in a matter of seconds. A shiver passes across Mom’s back, as if she feels the chill, too. I start forward, ready to cover her up with the blanket folded at the foot of my bed, but stop after two steps. I wait for her to peer back at me, or roll over. She does neither.

I back out of my room, and walk down the stairs and to the kitchen. I pour a glass of water, and my mind drifts back to the morning of my birthday, the smell of burning pancakes, the batter in her hair. How could that only have been three weeks ago? How far will we fall before we hit bottom? I choke on the overwhelming sense of helplessness. How am I going to help my mother when I can’t even make it through a whole day of school? Where do we go from here?

I snap out of my head, and, with a start, realize I’m staring out of Mom’s favorite window, projecting my fears to the eastern horizon. Rage and grief course through me. My heart throbs in my chest, and my hands tingle. A growl escapes me as I heave the empty water glass at the wall. It explodes on contact, and tiny shards rain down all over the tile floor.

Flushing with shame, I retrieve the dustpan and broom from the closet. The clear glass glitters on the floor in the evening glow. A few pieces have scattered into a shadowy corner. Multi-colored light shimmers on the surfaces. I freeze, staring at the dark place, waiting for it to become more, for the edges to glow. But the dark is only dark. Relief and longing pass through me by turns. If the shadow moved for me, would I have stood still? Let it swallow me whole? I cast a gaze through the doorway and up the empty stairwell. Then I let out a breath, and begin to sweep.