Chapter 11
It is a gorgeous summer day, the air buttery and warm. Topher and I are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and eating scrambled eggs and toast. It is our one-week anniversary at Wildwood, and the skies have finally cleared.
“I know I should feel guilty about drinking coffee, but I don’t,” I say, yawning.
“I’ve been sleeping so deeply since being here, I think I’d be a zombie if I didn’t.
” It’s true, ever since moving in, I’ve been sleeping deeply, and with vivid dreams. I can’t remember them once I’ve woken, but I wake with that sense of something visceral having just happened.
“It’s that country air,” says Topher. “I’ve been sleeping like the dead too.”
He pushes his chair back and stands to clear the table. “But all the literature I’ve seen says a cup a day is fine. Don’t worry about it. Hey, I’m off to Home Depot to pick up some items. Want to come?”
Topher hasn’t shaved since moving in and he’s worn nothing but T-shirts for the past week.
It’s quite a change from the grown-up chinos and button-up shirts he normally wore commuting to the hospital.
He looks good, like he is finally letting himself relax for the first time in a long time. I reach out to take his hand.
He smiles and asks, “Is that a yes?”
Normally I wouldn’t mind a trip to Home Depot, but I am dying to get out and explore the property.
“No thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m going to hang out here and walk through the orchard and into the woods a bit.
We used to play there as kids. I remember this stone foundation where we used to play games. ”
“Fine, but don’t be upset if I come home with a trunk full of power tools. Not my fault if you aren’t there to rein me in.”
“Just don’t come back with a tractor.”
“Can’t promise that.” He smiles and heads toward the front door.
After breakfast, I take a quick, piping hot shower, pull on a pair of leggings and a loose top, strap on my Garmin, and run my fingers through my damp hair.
As I scrutinize myself in the floor-length mirror in the bedroom, I am struck by the image of me against the backdrop of the mural. I’m hardly the height of fashion, but still, I look anachronistic against the nineteenth-century painting.
Before heading downstairs, I grab the key from my underwear drawer, where I’ve been keeping it, along with a few of the journals.
Thus far I’ve been unsuccessful in finding out where the key goes.
I spent a solid two hours the other day wandering through the house, fitting the key into anything that resembled a keyhole.
It doesn’t go to the basement, not to the many cupboards and closets, not to any of the wooden chests, of which there are six and mainly contain blankets and linens.
Maybe it goes to one of the outbuildings.
If I have enough energy, I’ll explore those. But my priority is the woods.
Once out in the driveway, I veer right toward the orchard.
The grass is a vibrant green thanks to the week of rain, and in need of mowing.
The blades come up to my shins as I meander through the fruit trees.
There are peaches, pears, and apples, all nearing ripeness.
I realize that I have no idea if these trees require fertilizer or pruning.
As I have multiple times since moving in, I feel a wave of panic over the enormity of this property, and the work that will go along with it.
We’ve told ourselves we’ll go easy this summer. Mow the lawn closest to the house, maybe mow a few paths we think we’ll use, weed if the perennial gardens begin to look too unwieldy.
Once past the trees, I enter the woods and walk slowly over the pine-needle-covered forest floor, ensuring that I can always see the road on my left fifteen yards away.
I navigate over moss-covered rocks and the farther in I go, the more familiar the woods become, each step feeling more and more like one I’ve taken before.
After walking for ten minutes, I come to a clearing and upon an old foundation.
One whole side is fully deteriorated and the other three are crumbling, and overgrown with roots and ferns, but it is undeniably the remains of a very old structure.
“Oh my god,” I say to no one. I wasn’t sure if the foundation was a figment of my imagination, but here it is.
I ease myself down one of the side walls and slowly walk the perimeter, one hand dragging across the cool, moss-covered stones.
The crumbling walls had been the perfect backdrop for childhood games with Tom and Anna.
We used to pretend the foundation was a fort, taking turns being defenders and invaders.
It also formed the perfect boundary for blind-man’s buff.
We had tiptoed within the small square space, squealing with delight anytime someone narrowly missed the blind man’s eager, outstretched hands, always calling out “wall!” before the person could hit the wall. I can’t believe it’s really here.
I am lost in thought, when I hear the sharp crack of a twig snapping, followed by the almost audible sound of stillness, like someone holding their breath.
A few yards off, something catches my eye.
A mother deer and her fawn stand a few yards away, the mother’s front leg bent gracefully and frozen in midair.
The deer stare back at me with liquid, black eyes.
I expect them to run off, white tails flashing, but instead they regard me for a few moments and then slowly walk off, tawny coats almost immediately disappearing into forest. Just a deer, I think to myself, smiling.
But then I hear the crack of twigs again, from the direction the deer had come from, followed by something akin to laughter.
“Hello?” I call, heart suddenly a hair faster than a moment ago.
A bird takes off from somewhere in the forest, and I hear the flurry of wings.
“Hello?”
But nothing is there.
It’s just the sounds of the forest, you city girl.
From here I turn right and head away from the road, deeper into the woods. I lose track of time as I walk, but I’m not worried about getting lost. I know that at some point I’ll hit the river.
Eventually, I hear the musical sound of water moving over stone.
The trees become sparser, and I can see the river ahead.
It is beautiful, with sunlight bouncing off clear water, colorful stones visible beneath.
As I reach the embankment, I realize that I am in a bend of the river.
Turning around, I see there is a large rock, taller than me, in the middle of the little peninsula that stretches out into the bend.
I’ve been here too. I look down, knowing what I’ll see.
A roughly eight-foot drop to the water. Most of the river is fairly shallow, one to two feet deep.
Not deep enough for diving, but deep enough to splash around in.
But here, at this bend, there is a deeper pool close to the edge.
Here is where, hot and sweaty from playing in the woods, we’d hold our noses and jump into the cool mountain water.
There wasn’t a huge margin of error. The deep spot was maybe five feet across.
I shudder now, thinking of my own child playing out here at the river.
Memories seem to be breaking free from a long-forgotten place in my brain.
I look downstream. The water disappears around the bend, where it eventually flows past the house and farther down, it will pass the house that once belonged to a woman we used to call the Goat Lady.
I scrunch my nose at the memory. We called her the Goat Lady not because of the herd of angry-looking goats she kept, but rather, with the cruelty of children, her visible facial hair.
I remember now that we used to take inner tubes out here.
Tom would scramble down the steep embankment and Anna and I would pass him the tubes before scrambling down ourselves or jumping in the plunge pool.
Then we’d float downriver, laughing like maniacs when our bums hit rocks on the shallow journey.
The Goat Lady’s yard abuts the river, and we’d hop out at her place, streaking through her yard as fast as our legs would carry us, and then hobbling back to Wildwood, bare feet on the dirt road. I groan, in spite of myself. I hope she never knew the name we’d given her.