I squeeze her hand between both my palms. I should have been here when she woke up, should have been here to talk to the doctors; I never should have let her be alone.
“I told them it was a hunting accident,” she says. “That no one was at fault.”
We’ve told so many lies since we’ve found our way out, like we’re afraid of the truth—like we’re protecting the place we left behind.
“It’s cold here,” she says at last, and I release her hand to draw the white hospital blanket up to her chin, tucking it close. But she adds, “Not that kind of cold.”
I smile for the first time. “I know what you mean.”
She traces circles with her finger inside the palm of my hand. “Did you tell them where we came from?”
“No. Only that we were living in the woods, that’s all. I didn’t tell them about the others.”
“Maybe we should.”
“It will change everything if we do. And maybe they’re better off in that forest than out here.”
“Better living a lie?” she asks. “Living in fear with Levi?” She winces and touches her left side where the bullet was dislodged from her torso.
I touch her shoulder, wishing I could take the pain from her, stuff it down inside my own rib cage.
“I don’t know.” I don’t know what happens now, where we go from here. I’m worried about those we left behind, worried what will happen to them if we do nothing. And a small part of me is also worried I won’t be able to remember the man I used to be, the man I was out here. From the man I became. I’m worried I won’t be able to tell the difference between the two.
Calla’s expression settles. “How are Colette and the baby?”
“Colette’s real name is Ellen. She was an actress before she came to Pastoral. It was on the news in the hotel.”
“You’re staying in a hotel?” Her eyes smile a little.
“Yeah.”
“How is it?”
“It smells like damp laundry.”
She laughs then immediately cringes, grabbing for her ribs again. Her eyes begin to droop closed; whatever drugs are in her IV are making her drowsy.
“You should rest,” I say.
She swallows and forces her eyelids open again. “Maybe you’re wrong,” she says, the sleepiness heavy in her voice. “Maybe Colette’s real name isn’t Ellen. Maybe her real name is the one she had in Pastoral.” She smiles gently, touching my hand. “Maybe that’s the only one that matters.”
“Maybe,” I answer. But she’s already asleep, snoring softly, her dark hair draped across the pillow.
CALLA
My name is not Calla. I am Maggie St. James.
Seven years ago, I went into the woods and forgot how to get back out.
But now, I wake in my hospital bed, the clean hygienic scent nauseating—I can’t think of a worse smell than a sterilized room. I prefer the scent of dirt and pollen, old books and old wood.
Three days I’ve been here, but they say I can go home now. Home? Where is that?
A nurse told me that Colette—Ellen Ballister—left the hospital. Her husband and family came to collect her through a sea of reporters and cameramen anxious to get an image of the starlet, returned after all these years with a baby in her arms—a baby fathered by a man who was not the husband she left behind. A baby who, the nurse also tells me, should survive.
She also finally gave the child a name: Clover Clementine Rose.
A Pastoral name—a good name.
Theo comes to pick me up just after noon. I climb into the old truck and roll down the window, resting my head back against the seat and feeling the wind against my face. But the drive is short, and too soon Theo is helping me through the lobby of the hotel to an elevator.
Inside our room, I walk to the window and stare out at an unfamiliar landscape. A world crusted over with concrete and blinking streetlights and car horns.
“Your parents called the hotel,” Theo says from behind me. “They know you’re here.”
I turn back to face him. “How?”
“Police notified them. Found you in the missing persons database, most likely.” Theo is standing only a few paces away, like he’s ready to reach out and grab me if I start to feel weak. If I collapse beside the window.
On shaking legs, I wobble the few steps to the bed, sinking onto the end with a hand against my ribs. “What will I tell them?”
“The truth,” Theo answers.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know what that is.”
* * *
I know I should call him Travis. And he should call me Maggie. But we can’t seem to shake the names of who we’ve become. Our Pastoral names.
We sit in the lobby of the hotel, my body thrumming with nervous energy. The TVs are droning from the far corner of the long, rectangular room. An older couple is watching the news, their heads inclined back, listening to the voices blare about stock prices and the worst flu on record and a shooting out east somewhere. Death toll unknown. This is the framework of a society we’ve left behind, the things I was once numb to. But now, each one is a papercut across my skin, little wounds that burn more than they ever did before.
“They’re here,” Theo says, standing up from his chair and nodding through the glass doors at the parking lot. He runs his hands down his pant legs, like he could wipe away the nerves.
My parents are walking across the pavement, hand in hand. They seem familiar, but in that distant, watery way. And I’m unsure how I’m going to feel once they’re only a few feet from me, arms outstretched—these two people who’ve spent seven years searching for their daughter. For me. I should feel bad for them, for the worry that’s carved hard lines into their faces, for the sleepless nights my disappearance has caused. But oddly, I feel nothing. Only a knocking against my ribs.