Chapter 5
5
Ever since her life had been upended, Maura had clung to her little rituals. They gave her a feeling of security in her newly chaotic world. Every morning that she awoke in her grandfather’s house, she put on her slippers and a thick fleecy robe. She checked her hair in her grandmother’s old mirror to see if it needed any additional black hair dye. She’d dyed it when she left Colorado, and decided she might as well stick with her new Goth shade for the time being.
Then she went into the living room to stoke the fire. By morning time, it had usually burned down to a few embers buried in pillows of ash. Once it had resumed its roaring output of heat, she padded around the house to make sure all the windows were secure. She’d check the measuring stick planted in the yard to see how much snow had fallen overnight. Then the outside thermometer, which needed a new battery but still faintly displayed how many degrees above or below zero it was.
At that point, Pinky’s old Newfoundland, called Newman, would notice she was up, and heave himself to his feet for the long walk over to the food bowl. She’d feed him. Then she’d feed the three cats who were also clamoring for her attention.
Things she didn’t do—check her phone, her email, or her social media. There was no point, since Pinky got zero cell service out here.
Then she’d boil water for tea. Pinky had limited electricity—only a generator, which was too noisy to turn on while he was still sleeping. She wasn’t a fan of instant coffee, so she’d transitioned her caffeine addiction to tea. Three bags in one mug woke her up enough to function.
With her steaming mug of tea, she settled herself into Pinky’s ancient swayback couch. One arm was patched with silver duct tape, and a broken spring protruded from its underside. Miraculously, it was still comfortable.
When she’d first arrived, she’d spent a solid two weeks cleaning Pinky’s house, a process he found both mystifying and unnerving. He’d flutter nearby, riddled with anxiety that she would throw something out that he might need someday.
“Grandpa, it’s me or the cobwebs,” she’d told him. “You choose.”
So they’d made a deal: she’d stuck with dusting and mopping and organizing, and only thrown out things that were clearly useless, like moldy cardboard boxes and unlabeled jars of unidentifiable pickled things. Even those required advance clearance.
Now she found his house perfectly livable, especially if she blocked out the boxes she’d stacked in the corners. They were all carefully labeled in case Pinky really needed to find that particular capsule-maker or spindle of pink string or broken headlamp that just needed some rewiring.
Pinky was delighted with the results of her efforts and boasted proudly to his friends about his brilliant granddaughter.
As the fire crackled and the cats wolfed down their generic-brand kitty chow, she wrote in her journal. Her journal was a lifeline, a way to stay connected with herself when everything around her had changed. Into those judgement-free pages, she poured her anger, her fear, her frustration.
I don’t deserve this. NO ONE DOES. Was it something I did, because I really don’t think it was. I’ve picked over every single thing I said to him and I still can’t make sense of it. It really is him, not me. He needs professional help, but he’ll never admit it. Sometimes I think I should never have spoken up, never filed for a restraining order, never reported him. If I’d just kept quiet, maybe he would have moved on. But would anything I did or didn’t do make a difference? We only dated for a month. It’s insane. madness.
After that month, all the initial green flags had turned to bright red. Just little things at first—manipulating her into a kiss goodnight. Guilting her into going to a work event with him even though she had school the next day. Making her change her outfit to something more like what the other officers’ wives would be wearing.
So she’d broken it off, and that’s when the barrage of texts started coming in. Ignoring me? … You’re like all the rest, aren’t you? … We need to talk … Text me back asap … WHERE R U BITCH!
She shuddered at the memories, which always seemed to surface when she wrote in her journal. On the bright side, there was lots of new territory to cover—the eccentric people she was meeting in Firelight Ridge, and the highly unusual lifestyle of her grandfather.
Pinky never wakes up before light. He doesn’t have a clock or a watch or anything that tells time in his house. He doesn’t care about time at all. The only reason it matters to him is that some places are only open certain hours. But no one around here sticks to fixed hours anyway, so if something’s closed, he thinks nothing of it. He’ll just go back later. Except The Fang. If The Fang’s closed, he’ll break in and help himself. He says Bear doesn’t mind, and I’m sure that’s true. Everyone here takes care of my grandfather, it’s very sweet to see.
He’s still in good shape. Amazing, really. He can still chop wood and run a kick sled. But he looks old, the skin on his face is tanned like leather, his hair is grayer than Granny’s. No barbershops out here. A farmer named Martha cuts people’s hair. I think she might do it with her sheep shears judging by the results.
Even though she loved writing in her journal, it often brought out a lot of emotion. She missed her students. She missed her family, who didn’t even know where she was. “It’s safer if you don’t know,” she’d told them. “Safer for everyone. But don’t worry, I’ll be with someone I can trust. And it won’t be for too long.”
It had been a big leap, searching for Pinky, assuming he’d be willing to take her in. But she had a very vivid memory of riding in a dog sled with him to look for a proper-sized tree to cut as a Christmas tree. His love had radiated through his wide gap-toothed grin and gentle blue eyes. Her child self had adored him, and in the worst moment of her life, she’d remembered him, and turned to him.
Now here she was in his unfinished house with the gaps in the sheetrock where pink fluffy insulation showed through behind a plastic vapor barrier. The floors throughout the house were bare plywood without a rug to be found. Pinky didn’t like rugs because they collected cat hair and while he had a vacuum cleaner—a vintage version with one speed and no attachments—it used a lot of power so he rarely brought it out. He didn’t have a washing machine or any way to do laundry. Eve Dotterkind did his laundry in exchange for Pinky’s special smoked salmon. The arrangement worked for both of them.
Sometimes it was hard for Maura to picture her grandmother living here with Pinky when they were a young married couple. Now, Granny Jeanine lived in a retirement home where she had an active social life and drove a golf cart to visit her friends for their ongoing poker games. The only thing Granny had to say about Pinky—or Ellis, as she’d known him—was that he’d swept her off her feet with his love for adventure and that she didn’t regret a moment of their marriage, especially the part where it ended.
Pinky, on the other hand, didn’t talk about Jeanine at all because it made him too sad. Tears would instantly spring to his eyes and he’d get choked up and have to grab the nearest rag to mop his eyes. Since sometimes the nearest rag had diesel or paint thinner on it, Maura tried not to bring up her grandmother.
I haven’t seen any animal weirdness yet this morning , she wrote. Nothing like whatever was happening last week. Maybe the mystery migration is over. I have to admit I’m a little disappointed. It was fun trying to solve a puzzle with Lachlan. He’s one of the nicest people I’ve met here. Nice isn’t really the right word, because it sounds so bland. Lachlan isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. He’s like…radically himself. Always, every moment, one hundred percent real. I like that.
Hm, is that why I’ve been going with Pinky to The Fang whenever I get the chance? Yes, this is my private journal so I can say it freely. I like walking in and seeing Lachlan smile at me. Yesterday he was wearing a fisherman’s sweater and looked so ridiculously good that I had to rethink my no-men strategy for a hot second. But I can’t do that. I made up my mind and I need to stick to it. With that psycho out there, you never know what he’s going to do. I don’t need another Brad situation on my hands.
She’d connected with Brad on Bumble, then after some texting back and forth, they’d met for coffee and a hike. Only to be interrupted by SS showing up and pretending to be her ex-husband. She’d never heard from Brad again, except when he texted to tell her that his car had been keyed and she owed him because he was sure that lunatic ex of hers had done it, even though he had no proof.
SS wanted to ruin her life. But she refused to consider her life ruined—only scrambled. New home, new state, new surroundings. But she was still near family, and now she was even going to start working again.
After a few days’ thought, she’d agreed to become the town’s temporary teacher. Her first “class” started in…well, she didn’t know exactly, since there were no time pieces in the house, and her phone was dead. But it was this afternoon, and it was barely getting light outside, and that meant that she had a few hours before she had to make her way into town.
One of the cats jumped into her lap and dislodged the journal. It was Placer, the fluffy white one. All the cats were named after gold-mining terms. Maura had never met cats named Dredge and Windlass before, but that was Pinky for you. Placer was a cuddle-bug who loved nothing more than getting scratched under his chin. She obliged as she murmured to him.
“Placer, I wonder why you’re still here instead of heading across the snow to Smoky Lake? Did you notice all those creatures passing through? Any thoughts? Theories?”
A knock sounded on the door. It was such an unusual thing to happen that she froze. Her heart raced a mile a minute. Had it finally happened? Had SS figured out where she was and come after her? When would this end? When would he come to his senses and find something else to do with his life?
“Pinky?” called Solomon. “I know you ain’t up yet, but I need a hand with this moose I found by the road. Get on up, would ya?”
Maura put a hand to her chest in a doomed attempt to get her heart rate down. “Come on, Placer.” She picked up the warm furry mass of cat on her lap and carried him to the door with her.
“I’ll wake him up, Solomon,” she told the old miner as she let him inside. “Unless it’s something I can help with?”
“Know how to field dress a moose that got hit by a truck?”
“Not even a little.”
“Better get Pinky.”
She let him in and padded across the plywood toward Pinky’s closed bedroom door, which had been recycled from a park service bathroom and was adorned with a unisex placard.
As she went, she heard him murmur something that sounded like, “Wacky-ass moose I ever saw.”