Lovely Wild Page 23

  Ethan wandered into the dining room. “When’s Grandma coming back? I’m hungry.”

  “Make yourself a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “I don’t want a peanut butter sandwich. Grandma only has soynut butter, anyway, and I don’t like it.” He kicked at the carpet. “When can we go home?”

  “Not until the end of the summer, monkeybrat. Dad said.”

  “I mean back home to Mama.”

  “I don’t know.” Kendra put away the album and pulled out another. Unlike the others, this one didn’t have a label or a date on it. She flipped it open about halfway through.

  Her grandfather had died before she was born, but she’d seen enough pictures of him to recognize his face. She didn’t know the little girl in the pictures with him. The little girl wore a baggy dress, her hair in two messy pigtails. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but at something far off in the distance. She clutched a book of fairy tales.

  “What’s Mama doing in that picture with Grandpa?” Ethan hung over Kendra’s shoulder.

  She shook him off. “Get off, dork. That’s not Mom.”

  “Sure it is. Doesn’t it look like her?” Ethan pointed at another picture of the same little girl, brow furrowed in concentration, hunched over a tray of food on what looked like a cafeteria table. “That’s how she looks when she’s hungry.”

  Kendra took another look. Then another. The little girl in the picture did have dark hair like their mom. And the same dark eyes. But...

  “Grandpa didn’t adopt Mom until she was fifteen. Before that she lived with her grandma in the Pine Grove house.”

  Ethan pulled up a chair next to hers and propped his elbows on the table to study the album. “It looks like Mama to me. C’mon, Kiki, look at her.”

  They didn’t have pictures of their mother from when she was a child. Kendra had never thought to ask why. It was just one more of those weird things in their family that they didn’t really talk about. She flipped a page. Looked closer. The other album she’d looked at, the one with her dad as a kid, had not only been labeled but also captioned.

  “Ryan’s First Birthday!”

  “Ryan’s First Bike!”

  Lots of firsts for Ryan, Kendra thought. But this album had only photo after photo, neatly placed in the plastic sleeves but without any notations at all. She slid one of the pictures, this time of the same girl in front of a chalkboard scribbled with a bunch of different markings that didn’t make sense to Kendra at all. Written on the back of the picture in faded, smudged pencil, was a single word.

  Mariposa.

  “See?” Ethan said with a shrug. “Mama.”

  FORTY-NINE

  ONCE MARI COULD’VE said anything with her fingers and a grunt or two, but back then she never had as much to say. She can’t quite manage now. This question seems too impertinent to ask aloud, but she has to find the words.

  “How did you know I’d be back?”

  Andrew shrugs. “I didn’t.”

  “But...you were waiting?”

  His smile quirks. “I thought you’d be back. I hoped. I wanted to know what happened to you.”

  “You could’ve looked me up.”

  His brows rise. “How? They took you away.”

  There’s no point in false modesty. “Apparently, I’m a case study. You could’ve looked me up online.”

  “And done what?” He gestures at his tiny room. “Called you up? Dropped by to visit? What could I have said or done? Would you have been glad to see me, Mariposa?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes and yes.” She reaches for his hands, but Andrew steps back.

  There’s only enough room for him to take one step before he bumps against the row of cupboards. This feels like a rejection, and Mari stops with her hands still outstretched. He turns his face, not looking at her.

  “Yes,” she whispers. “Because...you saved me, Andrew. I might’ve died without you.”

  “But you didn’t.” He sounds a little angry, and now he looks at her. “You moved away. You grew up.”

  “Of course I grew up. So did you. It’s what happens.”

  “You got married,” he says accusingly. “You have children. A family. A house in Philadelphia. You have a life.”

  “You have a life,” she points out. “You built this house.”

  He doesn’t really need to point out that it’s not the same. The life she’s made came to her from circumstance and fate, not necessarily by choice, but it did come to her and she’s made it her own. Mari looks around this small dwelling, this tiny space, then into Andrew’s face. He has kind eyes, lines around them. If she looked in the mirror, she might see lines around her own. It’s what happens when time passes.

  “When I was a little girl, you seemed so much older than me. But you’re not, are you?”

  “Not so much. No. Six years.”

  “My husband is eight years older than I am.” She laughs softly.

  “Your husband.” Andrew sounds disgusted.

  Mari can’t quite blame him. She’s somewhat disgusted with Ryan herself. But she’s not sure if Andrew’s curled lip is meant for Ryan...or for her.

  “You were there for me, Andrew. You were the prince from a fairy story. And later, when I met Ryan—” Mari shrugs, making no excuses but somehow understanding more about her life than she ever has before “—he became my prince, too.”

  “And you forgot me.” Andrew’s accusation is gentle but an accusation just the same.

  “I was a child. They took me away. I’d spent so long hiding from anyone who came—” She pauses, her turn to accuse. “You told me to hide. You told me they’d hurt me. I spent the first eight years of my life living in squalor when, at any time, any of those people could’ve—”

  “Taken you away. Which is what they did.”

  She stands suddenly, like being shot from a gun. There’s no room for her to advance on him, not without getting right up in his face, but after what they did together in the field, is it any more intimate to be nose to nose with him now?

  Her voice is too loud. Startling. “And would that have been a bad thing? Would it have been so awful, Andrew, for someone to have taken me away?”

  “Yes!” His cry echoes. He grips her arms so tight he will leave bruises. He shakes her and bares his teeth like a dog. “It was my job to take care of you. Protect you. It was my job to make sure you were all right.”

  “Why?” she cries. “Why?”

  “Because,” Andrew says, “I loved you.”

  Tears well in his blue eyes. She cannot stand to see him cry. Somehow, she is cradling him against her and they have sunk onto the cramped floor of his kitchen so she can rock him. When her children were small, scraped knees or bumped heads brought them running to her, and she cradled them this way. It wasn’t something she was taught how to do from experience.

  Motherhood, despite her fears, had come to her as naturally as it had been difficult for her to return to speaking with her voice. She’s never had to do anything else. Being a wife and mother has been her career. Comforting Andrew this way is not like mothering, and nor is it quite like comforting a lover, but just like all of this has been, something else entirely.

  His eyes open and stare. “Stay with me.”

  The idea is simultaneously so ludicrous and desirable she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Here?”

  “Here?” he echoes. “There. In your house. It is yours, now. Isn’t it?”

  “It was always mine, even when other people were living in it.”

  He finds a smile. “So. Is there room for me there?”

  Mari smiles, too, thinking he must be joking. “With me and my family? My husband? He wouldn’t be a fan of that.”

  “Do you care?” Andrew shifts to sit up, no longer cradled but sitting across from her, knees folded because there’s no room for him to sit any other way. “I thought you told him to go.”

  Her head tilts, eyes narrowing. Did she tell him about that, or did he somehow assume?
She says nothing at first.

  You told him.

  Andrew’s fingers trace patterns in the air.

  To go.

  “I did tell him to go,” she says. “I was angry. I needed time. It doesn’t mean he’s not coming back.”

  “You could tell him not to come back.”

  Mari gets to her feet. Looks down at him. Her stomach churns. She can still taste him. The smell of him still surrounds her.

  What has she done?

  “You don’t even know me,” Mari says. “Not really. I’m not a little girl anymore. And you’re not my prince.”

  Andrew stands. In this small kitchen he looks impossibly tall. Broader than Ryan. Stronger.

  “I could be,” he says.

  FIFTY

  THE HOUSE IS quiet when she’s alone, but Mari’s always enjoyed that. When her children were small, she would sometimes creep away from the constant sounds of their chatter. Hide away in the pantry with the door closed, breathing in the scents of the spices, in the dark, and count the seconds until they noticed she was gone and came looking to find her. They still did that. The moment she went missing, one or the other of them, if not Ryan, was calling out her name.

  Nobody calls her name now.

  Mari stands in the kitchen of this house and breathes. And breathes. It smells of cleanser and fabric softener from the counters she just scoured and the loads of laundry she’s been doing. It doesn’t smell like dog shit and mold. It doesn’t smell like fear.

  With her eyes closed, Mari can imagine herself anywhere. She could be on a tropical island with blue ocean waters surrounding her. A snowy mountain peak. Inside the depths of a cool dark cave with blind white fish swimming in dark and silent pools of mineral-rich water.

  But she knows where she is.

  And she remembers.

  * * *

  “Mariposa. Butterfly.” The words sounded different, but Andrew was pointing back and forth from the fluttering bug on the flowering bush to the girl and back again. “Mariposa.”

  Butterfly.

  She got it. She was a butterfly. What she didn’t understand was what that meant. But the sun was shining and the birds were flying overhead. The dogs were sleeping in the shade while the chickens took their dust baths. They rolled and coated their feathers, squatting, then got up and shook themselves. Over and over, until Mari laughed and rolled in the dirt, too.

  Andrew hadn’t brought food today, but that was okay. Gran was having a good day. She cooked something on the box that got hot when you turned the knobs. She left most of it in the pot, and Mari had eaten her fill. Only the biggest dog, Peppy, can reach it and only then if she stands on her hind legs, so Mari didn’t even have to fight anyone for it.

  Get up. You shouldn’t. Dirty.

  Mari didn’t care about dirty. Why should she? In the heat of summer there was splashing in the creek to cool off. There were shady patches in the grass to lie in. There were these puddles of dust she shared with squawking chickens that scattered if she moved too fast but that would sit quietly beside her if she moved slow.

  Andrew was making that face, though. The madface. His eyes scanned the yard, the fields beyond. The trees. He wanted to get back into the trees, Mari thought, but she patted the dirt beside her. Andrew should roll in the dirt. Maybe he’d feel better.

  He shook his head, instead. “No. I have to go. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

  Mari liked it better when Andrew didn’t sound so loud. His voice reminded her of when They came, when she must be silent, silent, quiet, quiet. No sound. No noise. Not even a breath. She didn’t like when Andrew spoke aloud because he didn’t sound like Gran, who only ever mumbled, toothless mouth smacking. Or the dogs, who growled or barked or whined when they wanted to speak.

  No, when Andrew used his voice to talk to her, he sounded like a Them, and since he was the one always telling her to hide from Them, it made Mari feel tight and tangled inside like the long pieces of yarn that came out of Gran’s basket when she was using the clacking sticks to make blankets.

  Stay.

  He shook his head. Can’t stay.

  Mari stood and shook off the dirt the way a chicken did, scattering the hens that had been sitting beside her. She slapped at her bare skin. The sweat on her palms left marks. She dodged past him and ran to the creek. She squatted in it, splashing. She gestured.

  Andrew. Come.

  He followed but didn’t go in. Andrew wore long pants, shoes, a shirt with buttons. His hair was shorter than it had been the last time he came there. He shifted from foot to foot and looked at the thing wrapped around his arm just above his hand. This thing told Andrew when it was time for him to leave. Mari hated it.

  Up, fast, quick like a dog snatching a bone away from another, she grabbed him. Fingers moved, undid the clasp. She took it, dodging his grasp. She threw it in the water and laughed at the splash.

  She didn’t laugh when he grabbed her. Shook her. Her arms would turn black-and-blue. Andrew shook Mari so hard she fell into the grass, against a rock. It cut her leg. There was blood, not as much as the time the dog bit her, but enough.

  “She bought me that watch for my birthday, Mari! It’ll be ruined, and she’ll want to know what happened to it! And what am I supposed to tell her? I’m not even,” Andrew said through short, panting breaths, “supposed to be here. If she knew—”

  From her place in the grass, her blood painting red on the green, Mari made the question with her hands. What would she do?

  Andrew’s she is different from the Them he warned Mari against. She must be. Why else would he go back to she, when he made Mari promise to hide and never ever show herself when the other Them came?

  “She’ll punish me. That’s all.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Mari didn’t know what that meant. Punish. Her lips formed the same shapes, but her tongue tripped on the sounds. Andrew scowled again.

  “Shut up. Don’t talk. Don’t speak, Mariposa. I told you. If you talk like that, you’ll be tempted to talk to Them when they come.”

  She didn’t know what tempted meant, but she knew the sound of his madvoice. The ditch between his eyes meant angry. She didn’t like when Andrew was mad, because she was afraid that meant he wouldn’t be back.

  And what would she do if Andrew didn’t come back?

  Stay. Please. Stay.

  “I can’t, Mariposa! I can’t stay!” Andrew shouted, sending her back. “Don’t you get it? I’ll get in trouble! She’ll punish me. You don’t get it. You just don’t understand.”

  His scary voice, madvoice, softened. “Of course you don’t. I know you don’t. C’mere.”

  She didn’t want to go to him. He was still making the madface only now it was like the sadface, too. She wanted to be sad, too, when he looked that way, but she was still a little scared.

  “Mariposa. Come here. Don’t you know I’m just trying to protect you? I just want to make sure you’re all right. That They don’t come for you. You should be safe, and you’re safe here. Where They can’t get you.”

  She understood almost none of this. The jumbled sound of his words made a mush in her head. She saw his face, his mouth moving, she heard the tone of his voice. But she wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

  Stay.

  “I’ll come back, Mariposa. I promise. I will come back for you. I will take care of you.”

  But Andrew didn’t come back for a long, long time.

  * * *

  There’s a knock on the back door, and she knows before she opens it who it is. Who it has to be. He doesn’t look angry now or sad. Mari has words now for the expression on Andrew’s face.

  Contrite.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew says.

  It’s okay.

  He smiles at the flutter of her fingers. “You don’t need to talk like that anymore. You have a voice now.”

  She steps aside so he can come in. They stand awkwardly in the den, surrounded by Ryan’s boxes of files and folders
. Andrew looks around, taking in all of it, then looks at her with raised brows, proving again they really don’t need words to understand each other.

  “Come in,” she offers. “Let me make you something to eat.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  KENDRA HAD FLIPPED through every single album at least three times, even the ones without pictures of her mother in them. Looking for clues. Trying to figure out what the hell had happened to her family.

  Sammy’s parents had been on the verge of divorce forever. Her mother threatened to leave her dad every few months, and her dad spent the night away from home at least as often as that. Both of them usually ignored Sammy when they were fighting and got on her case when they weren’t, so honestly Sammy preferred it when her parents were mad at each other. Sammy spoke of divorce as something inevitable and meaningless. Something to look forward to, maybe. Two sets of holidays and presents, two allowances. Two parents guilty enough to overindulge instead of ignore her.

  Kendra knew lots of kids whose parents were divorced. Most of her friends had more than one set of parents, and some had more than two. Stepsiblings all over the place. She thought about her father with another wife, of having to share her house with a stranger. Of Ethan not being her only brother.

  She wanted to puke. Ethan was a brat sometimes, but he was her brother and she didn’t want another one. She didn’t want her life to change.

  Her door creaked open, and she turned, expecting to see Grandma or possibly her dad. It was Ethan. His pajama bottoms were a couple inches too short, showing his ankles. His shirt was inside out, and she was pretty sure he’d worn it for the whole week. Gross.

  “Kiki, can I sleep in here tonight?”

  “Sure.” She moved over and shoved the album to the side.

  Ethan ran across the floor as if something was chasing him and took a flying leap into the bed. When he was a lot smaller, he’d curl up against Kendra just like this, and she’d read him a story. Now instead of Pooh and Tigger or the hungry caterpillar, all they had was this album full of old pictures. She reached for it. Flipped the pages.