Chapter 13
Topher made it back from Home Depot with our bank account more or less intact. He’d bought a Weedwacker, a leaf blower, and, inexplicably, an enormous-looking drill that he informs me is an auger.
“Why do you need that?” I’d asked.
He just gave me a broad smile. “In case I need to dig holes.”
“Dig holes for what?”
“Posts,” he’d replied, as though the answer should be self-evident.
Now we are sitting on the back deck, eating sausages Topher had picked up from a pig farm in town, and a salad of baby greens and Vermont cheddar.
“Oh, before I forget, we are going to have dinner with the Brooks on Friday. Madeline came by to introduce herself and she invited us over.”
Topher nods, spearing his sausage with a fork and taking a bite caveman style. “That’s nice of them.”
“So please use proper table manners when we are there, I don’t want them thinking we are uncivilized.” I shoot him a look.
Topher takes another bite of sausage. “Me eat. Sausage gooood.”
I suppress a laugh and roll my eyes. “Man, she was, like, annoyingly beautiful in person. How is it that a person can be so beautiful and so successful?”
“Money helps,” he says, simply.
“Yeah, but there’s something about that family.
They are all just so impressive. And to have a legacy like that, from, like, the beginning of the country.
” I think back to my night of online stalking.
The Vogue feature. The picture of Madeline naked except for a cashmere scarf.
I think of the countless other Brooks there must be scattered across the country, exclusively attending Ivy League universities, holding positions in finance, academics, and politics.
“Usually families like that have made a deal with the devil somewhere along the way.”
Topher winks and sips his beer, and I don’t want to admit that he’s probably right.
“How were the woods?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Beautiful,” I say, wiping my chin. “It was just how I remember it from childhood.”
Games at the old foundation. Tubing with Tom and Anna. These memories make me ache for family.
“Are you friends with Tom and Anna on Facebook?” Topher asks.
The question is so obvious I’m momentarily dumbfounded.
“No,” I say, almost laughing at my stupidity. “I never even tried to find them.”
While Topher cleans up, I open my laptop and pull up Facebook.
I’m about to look up Tom Bishop, when I realize that Bishop wouldn’t have been his last name.
Shit. I rack my brain. Something with an R, I think.
Remy? Reed? Reese? I close my eyes and picture Vera’s name.
Vera Reese. That’s it. I think it was Reese.
And I remember Uncle Christopher was Vera’s son, so he would have retained the last name.
I look up Tom Reese but find no results that seem right.
Too old, too young, too not Tom-ish in the face.
Next, I try Anna Reese. Again, a smattering of results that don’t seem right.
Then, remembering what Mr. Warnick said, I add Switzerland to the search bar.
When I click enter, I realize I’m holding my breath.
There is one exact match. But as I squint at the screen, my heart sinks. The profile is set to private, and the picture simply shows a snow-capped mountain.
“The Matterhorn,” says Topher, peering over my shoulder. “Think it’s her?”
I bite my lip. “Possibly?”
I click “Add Friend” and then close my laptop.
Please be you, Anna, I think, as I lie in bed later that night. Please, please, be you.
* * *
I am sitting in darkness. There’s a sharpness in the air.
It smells of smoke and metal. I inhale and exhale slowly, though I can still hear the stuttering of my breath.
Something in my gut tells me to run, that this is the time.
And so I do it. I push through a door and am met with more darkness, faintly illuminated by the pale light of the moon.
It is nighttime, and for a few moments, I stand disoriented, leaning against the doorframe.
But I know there’s no time to lose. And so, I run.
The grass is cool beneath my feet. I look down and discover they are indeed bare, and filthy.
But they are swift and carry me quickly across the meadow.
Then I’m in the woods and that’s when everything inexplicably becomes much harder.
The forest floor is rough and seems to crumble beneath my feet.
Branches whip at my face and with each step, they seem to be thicker, more weblike.
They reach and stretch toward me, and they don’t look real.
They look painted, as though each branch was lashed down by angry bristles.
I put my hands in front of my face for protection as I push on, but it’s no use.
My hands are bloody, and it feels as though I’m weighted down with tar.
One branch seems to reach for me and then wraps around my neck.
It’s hard to breathe. I know there’s not much time left so I open my mouth and scream, using every fiber of my body, but no sound comes out.
* * *
I gasp and draw in a huge breath of air.
I still feel the branches holding me, so I shake my body violently, to get out of their grip, and find myself on all fours.
The ground is still unstable beneath me, though I slowly realize it is soft, but not crumbling.
Blood is pounding in my ears as things come into focus.
The ground beneath me is white. In front of me, I can make out the warped curvature of branches. But they aren’t real. They are painted.
“El! Elinor!” Topher’s voice is urgent.
I collapse onto my stomach. My heart feels as though it will thud out of my chest.
It was a dream. “Oh my god,” I say, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, squeezing my eyes shut.
I’m aware of Topher rubbing my back, kneeling beside me.
“It’s okay, El. You were having a bad dream.”
There’s a presence, suddenly, by the side of the bed and I gasp, scrambling to my knees.
“It’s Hugo!” Topher says emphatically. Then softer, “It’s just Hugo.”
The German shepherd is sitting attentively, head cocked to one side in concern.
“Hugo,” I whisper. It’s too much; I need a moment to process.
“Just give me a sec,” I say, burying my face in my palms.
Topher stops rubbing my back but keeps his hand there.
I am drenched in cold sweat. The sheets too.
I climb out of bed, peel off my nightgown, and then stumble over to my dresser.
I put on a sweatshirt and climb back into bed, pulling up the sheets to my chin.
I stare up at the ceiling, still taking deliberate breaths.
“What was the dream?” he asks finally.
“I was running through the woods. At night. The branches were hitting me on the face. I was trying to run quickly, but it felt like I was in quicksand or like my legs were bound together. Was I making noise?” I suddenly realize that I didn’t wake up on my own, that Topher pulled me from the dream.
“Yeah, you were thrashing and almost growling.”
I’m shaking my head to myself. “It was just so real.”
“Well, it was just a dream.” He begins rubbing my back again. “Those nightmares are so common. Feeling like things are moving in slow motion when something is chasing you.”
Was something chasing me? I can’t remember. It’s slipping away already.
“I’m sorry for waking you.” I attempt to smile. “Go back to sleep.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer and then lies back down.
He’ll be asleep in seconds, I know it. He has that uncanny ability to fall asleep almost on command.
I suppose it’s a side effect of his medical school days.
The grueling schedule, the torturously short hours of sleep to be milked for every ounce of rest.
I lie back too. First, I lie on my side, but the painted trees do little to calm my frayed nerves, so I roll onto my back and squeeze my eyes shut.
To put a pleasing image in my head, I replay scenes I now remember from my childhood.
I picture the river. Jumping from the embankment into the plunge pool, goose-pimpled skin on scrawny little kid limbs.
Catching the crayfish that poke out from the rocks, often with nets, sometimes with bare hands.
Tubing down the river, gazing up at the verdant green tree cover.
I picture Tom and Anna, and their curling dark hair.
In the summer, when Tom let his go long, they looked almost like twins.
We were inseparable, moving through the meadow like a flock of birds or a herd of horses.
We’d raid the vegetable fields, wandering in barefoot.
I can feel the cool crumbliness of the soil beneath my feet, feel the minuscule prickles of the cucumbers on my fingers.
It was a world away from suburban New Jersey, with its developments and strip malls.
Summers here had felt magical. Perhaps partially because the trips felt like a trip back in time, not simply a trip to another location. At least in my memories, we lived the life of Tom Sawyer, unsupervised and untroubled.
It helps, putting this imagery in my mind.
Gradually, I feel the heaviness of sleep take over and the last coherent thought I have is that tomorrow I will buy paint samples, and that whether Topher likes it or not, we are going to paint over that damn mural.
A nice serene blue. I mean, come on. Who could sleep well in The Forest of the Dead?