True Places Read online

  Sleep came for her quickly, her body taking control. She woke before dawn, unfurled her limbs, and swept the dew from her face. Memories of yesterday replaced the vestiges of her dreams—the lingering sweetness of escape already lost to her—and sadness, thick and heavy as wet clay, fell onto her. She watched the night shapes around her resolve into familiar forms. When she was sure of where she was, she crept to the edge of the hole.

  “Mama?”

  Birds stirred in the branches around her but did not call.

  Louder: “Mama?”

  The girl listened, not only with her ears but with her entire being, melding the input from her senses, subtracting the background noise, pointing her full attention at the hole in the earth, at the stone vault. Her mother’s scent of loamy earth and sun-scorched grass lingered, faint, mixed with the bitter scent of fear, but that was all.

  She listened a long while, until she was certain, then shrank back from the cave mouth and sat on her heels, rubbing a finger over a scab on her knee. Her stomach churned a slurry of acid and grief, her soul limp. Again she fought against the impulse to lower herself into the dark. That was based on a wish for something she couldn’t have. Mama was not there, only a cold, broken body, heaped on stone, surrounded by seeping walls. Mama was gone.

  The girl packed the blanket and the rope in with the rifle. She spun in a slow circle, memorizing the spot, hazy and green-smelling in the damp fresh of the morning.

  “Come on, Ash.” She shouldered the pack. “We’ve got that turkey to deal with.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Suzanne lowered both front windows to combat the overbearing sweetness of the sixty hyacinths in the rear of the Navigator. She’d been delighted when the nursery offered potted plants as a donation for the Boosters auction, but she’d been told they would be tulips or daffodils. A single hyacinth in full bloom could send its scent to every corner of a moderate-size home; no one would be able to breathe, much less eat, with sixty blooming hyacinths in the Boar’s Head ballroom. If the flowers could be wrapped in cellophane, it might be tolerable. She couldn’t remember what they’d decided about packaging and presentation at the meeting last week. Fifty decisions at that meeting, plus a hundred more at two others—one for the faculty appreciation lunch and another for the food bank. Suzanne, as president of the Boosters, had put Greer Rensworth in charge of auction presentation. She remembered that much. Who else but a stay-at-home mom with degrees in interior design and marketing? At least that made sense, unlike the assumption that any plant-related task would be Suzanne’s responsibility because she had majored in botany. In case the hyacinths needed emergency repotting on the trip home?

  Her phone chimed—a text. She stopped behind the other cars at the intersection with Route 250 and picked up the phone from the console.

  BRYNN: Forgot my English paper on my bed. Need it by 4th period.

  She dropped the phone into the console and shook her head. Second time this week her daughter had left something at home. The car at the front of the line swung left and the others scooted forward. Suzanne followed suit.

  Fourth period. Eleven sixteen. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten thirty-two.

  She could make it home and then to the school with perhaps six minutes to spare. She didn’t have to consult her phone to know there were countless other tasks waiting to occupy that time. That was, in fact, what time was: a narrow container for a relentless succession of tasks. The container could not be expanded, but the tasks could multiply exponentially. In fact, tasks were guaranteed to multiply. The law of entropy had undoubtedly been discovered by a mother with two teenagers.

  The compressive nature of time was the most salient aspect of her existence. Time was a squeezing bitch. It never expanded, never gave up any slack, in a perverse reversal of the state of the universe itself. Her younger self would have been amused by this irony. Forty-two-year-old Suzanne had no time for irony, the snappy way it caught and twisted the truth, not even for irony about time itself.

  Suzanne understood there were three options for dealing with time pressure. Option One: Perform tasks more efficiently. Move faster, triple-task, cut corners. Buy cookies instead of making them from scratch, and ignore the raised eyebrows or direct complaints from better, more efficient mothers. Drive faster and risk a speeding ticket with scheduling repercussions rippling for days afterward. Text at stoplights but not in front of the kids. Sleep less.

  Option Two: Delegate more. Because she was in charge of so much (her mind flew too fast to bother to enumerate her responsibilities), she already delegated a great deal. Unfortunately, it was not as straightforward as it seemed. People were unreliable, especially the more competent ones, because of the inevitable burgeoning of their own to-do lists.

  Option Three: Refuse to perform. This radical notion rarely surfaced, because Suzanne was so accustomed to being busy. Everyone she knew was busy; it was something they talked about as they caught up on emails at a swim meet or texted takeout orders to their husbands while waiting for prescriptions at CVS. Being busy was a by-product of the life she had chosen with her husband, Whit, although if she was perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure the word chosen was accurate. Once their kids had started school, it was more like jumping into a fast-flowing river. You didn’t choose. You swam to keep from drowning. Suzanne was an excellent swimmer.

  In front of her Navigator, a pockmarked red pickup edged forward, engine gargling, the driver’s elbow thrust out the window, sleeve rolled up.

  Her phone chimed. Suzanne retrieved it from the seat and read the text.

  WHIT: Meeting Robert at 5 so can’t pick up Brynn from swim. Home by 8. Sorry!

  With one hand she texted Ok , hit send, and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Another ripple shuddered across her schedule.

  Suzanne flicked her turn signal, indicating right toward Charlottesville and home. Home, where that morning Brynn had leveled her with a look so contemptuous Suzanne had been certain her daughter was possessed. How could an expression that hateful, and directed at Suzanne, appear on the face of the child who had once—no, hundreds of times—looked upon her mother with love so pure it made her life, crystallized by that moment, almost too beautiful to bear? It simply wasn’t possible. And yet Brynn’s face had not lied. Suzanne’s throat cinched shut.

  The pickup turned right onto the main road. As Suzanne pulled up to follow it, her phone chimed. She snatched it off the seat.

  BRYNN: ????

  Suzanne dropped the phone in her lap. A gap in the traffic opened. She hovered, blinking back tears and staring at the brown, matted pasture beyond the road, bordered by a black triple-rail fence.

  A honk from the car behind her.

  Brynn at the breakfast bar hours earlier, her face, skin smooth as icing, framed by hair the color of champagne, one side grazing the brow of one eye, the other parted neatly over her shoulder, as if it were not hair but two sheets of silk. Her eyebrows neatly arched over her hazel eyes, the lashes coated with mascara. Her mouth pulled tight as if holding back the full measure of her disdain.

  You are such a tool, Mom.

  Suzanne slapped the turn signal all the way down, indicating left, crossed the intersection, and headed east, away from home. She pressed the accelerator and felt the weight and power of the car beneath her, heard the growl of the engine. In a few moments the fenced pasture gave way to woods, dark straight trunks and tangled bare branches separated from the roadside by a weedy verge. The foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains rose before her, a nubbly carpet of muddy gray, running to olive in the sunlit patches. Suzanne gripped the steering wheel tight and drove faster, the wind whipping her hair from her face, then sending it back to sting her cheeks. The air was sharp in her lungs.

  She could no longer smell the hyacinths.

  The sign for the Blue Ridge Parkway entrance surprised her. She knew it was there but hadn’t been paying attention, too occupied with controlling her emotions and the car, hurtling along at well o
ver the posted limit of forty-five miles per hour. The sign for the parkway appeared, and, before the decision reached her awareness, Suzanne veered right onto the ramp and came to a jolting stop at the T intersection. The road was devoid of traffic. Turning south onto the parkway, she crossed an arched stone bridge.

  She would drive until she felt like turning around, until she felt like going home. The idea of such a nebulous plan unsettled her; she didn’t trust herself to know when she had gone far enough. Her day would be shot. If she reversed course this instant it would already be too late to drop off the flowers at the country club before her lunch meeting with Rory, the Boosters treasurer, and that didn’t take Brynn’s forgotten paper into account. Suzanne’s thoughts tumbled along the falling dominoes of broken commitments. She spotted an overlook, pulled off the road, and came to a halt. Hers was the only car.

  She would text everyone, cut some corners, turn around, and resume the necessary frantic progression of the day. She swiped to activate the screen and paused. No reception. Not one little bar. Texts might go through regardless, she knew that, but her finger balked.

  Suzanne lifted her head. The foothills tumbled gently down to the valley floor, an undulating expanse, farmland and wood, hazy through lingering mist, still and mute. On the far side, mountains rose again, an ocean swell of dull ochre. The sky above the range was an indefinite shade at the horizon, grading to a somber blue overhead.

  She was alone. Her chest constricted and her heart raced. She reached for the window controls, raised both front windows, set the door locks, and stabbed her finger at the radio button. A woman’s voice, matter-of-fact and even toned, filled the car. Suzanne’s breathing slowed. The car was safe. She was alone but not stranded. Her car had just been serviced; she brought it in every month religiously. She could head back right now to Charlottesville, to her appointments and obligations—the self-imposed chain that kept her linked with other people and immune to solitude, her enemy.

  Placing her foot on the brake, she shifted into drive and thought again of her daughter’s look of contempt, her dismissive, rude words. She thought of her husband’s displeasure should the intricate clockwork of their lives fail to operate smoothly, and of the ease with which his responsibilities became hers. (She couldn’t resent it, though, because he had work and she had only duties.) She thought of her son, who did not (would not?) fit in, which pained and frustrated her in equal measure.

  She was alone in her car, but that had never been a problem. And today she would fail to text her absence. She would fail to rescue her daughter. She would allow the dominoes to fall without having a reason anyone would understand.

  She would drive.

  Suzanne rejoined the parkway and drove fast, neglecting to decelerate into the corners, jerking the steering wheel to feel the car hitch a little, like a prodded animal. She didn’t cross the line to recklessness but did wish the road were twistier, her car more able to tuck nimbly into the turns. The Navigator had been Whit’s idea, and she hadn’t cared enough to disagree. She’d come to appreciate the very tanklike qualities she used to resent.

  She switched off the radio as she passed the Wintergreen Resort and the turnoff for Love. A sign read: COME IN LOVE . STAY IN LOVE . LEAVE IN LOVE . She slowed. The road she was on snaked through dense woods, a circuitous track no animal would make. Perhaps it traced the contours or avoided rocky ledges. She couldn’t know. All she could see was a tunnel of bare trunks and evergreen boughs surrounding her, open above, with reluctance, to the sky.

  Her phone bleated periodically, like a fussy infant passenger. Suzanne ignored it and drove on, following the serpentine path through the maze of hills and out again onto the ridge, where the trees were pulled to the wings of the stage, where the valley to the east, or the one to the west, lay exposed, only to be veiled again seconds later.

  As she passed a turnout on the right, she caught sight of something sizable lying between the gravel parking area and the forest. She checked her mirrors and came to a stop. There was nowhere to turn around, so she put on her blinkers and, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, reversed up the road and swung into the turnout, backing past the trail entrance. Suzanne shifted the car into park and peered through the windshield.

  The object, perhaps thirty feet away, was definitely a person, huddled in a squat and facing the other way. She scanned the grassy area that rimmed the turnout for a motorcycle, a bicycle, a backpack, but saw only a bear-proof trash can and a picnic table. The figure, clad in dark clothing, was motionless. Asleep? Injured? Dead?

  Suzanne tapped her horn. The figure stirred. All at once she realized how small it was. Suzanne lowered the passenger window.

  “Are you okay?”

  The body gathered itself quickly onto all fours and lurched away, up a set of stone steps. It was slight, perhaps even a child. The hair was dark and straggly.

  “Hey!” Suzanne turned off the engine, snatched the keys and her phone, and leaped from the vehicle.

  The figure bounded away, agile but unsteady.

  “Wait! I want to help you!”

  Suzanne ran up the trail, negotiating the rough steps that ended at wooden railroad tracks running parallel to the road. The tracks, dappled with mute sunlight, bent in a graceful curve and disappeared around the hillside. Beside the tracks, sprawled across the ties, was the child—a girl, Suzanne guessed, but the child’s face was so dirty and her features so thin and sharp Suzanne wasn’t sure. The child propped herself up on one hand and twisted to stare at Suzanne with abject fear. The tension in her body signaled she would spring to her feet at any moment.

  “Wait,” said Suzanne calmly, keeping her distance. “I’m Suzanne. Let me help you.”

  The child let out a high squeal, muffling it with closed lips. The whites of her eyes were stark against her face. The clothes she wore were too large for her; her pants were rolled up and her long-sleeved shirt was frayed and torn at the neck as if it had been viciously chewed. The soles had begun to peel off her boots, which were secured around her ankles with nylon cord.

  Suzanne took two steps closer, crouching a little and smiling. She was sure now the child was a girl. A terrified girl. “Where are your parents? Are they nearby?”

  The girl trembled. Closer now, Suzanne could see the girl’s cheeks were red beneath the grime. Her eyes were an unusual violet blue, the color of periwinkles.

  “Are you hurt?” Suzanne reached out her hand, palm up, and inched closer. “Let me help you.”

  The terror fled from the girl’s face. “Mama—” Her brow relaxed and she collapsed.

  Suzanne rushed to her side and knelt. The girl’s chest was rising and falling. Suzanne touched the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead. She was on fire. Where was her family? She couldn’t have been more than eleven, maybe twelve. Suzanne stared down the track in one direction, then the other. “Hello? Anyone there? Hello?”

  A squirrel dashed across the tracks and leaped into the bushes.

  “Hello?”

  Suzanne’s hands went cold and her pulse accelerated. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and reassured herself she was not truly alone. Sweat trickled down her spine. She turned to the girl. Not alone. Suzanne picked up the girl’s hand, so small and bony it was barely human. And hot. The girl was feverish. Suzanne closed her eyes and pushed against the swell of panic rising from her diaphragm, spreading into her lungs. Not alone.

  Marshaling her strength, Suzanne scooped the limp girl off the ground, shocked at how light she was. It was like picking up a log and discovering it was driftwood. She carried the girl down the steps and spotted a ratty backpack sticking partway out of a thicket. Suzanne continued to the car and, with effort, managed to hoist the girl into the passenger seat and strap her in. The girl’s jaw was swollen and her exposed skin was marked with wounds and scars. Suzanne wondered if the girl had been attacked and abandoned but hoped the fact that she was fully clothed indicated otherwise.

  Suzanne retrieve
d the backpack. The exterior pockets were rotted and torn and incapable of holding anything, and she didn’t want to waste time rummaging through the main compartment, so she threw the pack onto the rear seat, climbed behind the wheel, and headed toward Charlottesville and the hospital as fast as she dared. Surprised and dismayed at how far she’d driven, she wished the miles would pass as quickly as they had earlier. The girl drifted in and out of consciousness, eyelids fluttering, cracked lips parting and closing, but she uttered only low moans.

  Suzanne’s phone continued to plead with her from the console. She considered pulling over briefly to call or text Whit and explain the situation, but dismissed it as pointless, as was the thought of calling 911 or the hospital. She was on the way.

  On Highway 64 East, fifteen minutes outside of Charlottesville, the girl twitched and jerked awake. She screamed, eyes fixed dead ahead in terror, hands clutching the edge of the seat.

  “What’s wrong?” Suzanne reached across to calm her.

  The girl whipped her head, following the path of one car, then another, again and again, then seemed to switch to tracking trees as they flew by. The sharp staccato movement alarmed Suzanne. The girl screamed again, a high keening, and scrabbled at the door and window, desperate for an exit.

  “It’s all right!” Suzanne checked that she’d locked the doors and windows and reminded herself to pay attention to the road.

  The girl yanked at the seat belt, unreeling it, stretching it in front of her with both hands. She pulled her feet up, squatted on the seat, and slid out from under the belt. Before Suzanne could speak, the girl slipped over the console and tucked herself into a ball in the footwell behind the passenger seat.

  “Okay, okay.” Suzanne mustered her calmest voice, the one she’d used when her children were small and prone to tantrums, especially Brynn. “You can stay there. It’s fine. We’re almost there.”

  The girl whimpered and wedged her body more tightly into the space.