I don’t tell him I couldn’t have gorged if I’d tried, my stomach stuffed full of butterflies and grown-up worries. I also don’t tell him I ache something fierce for the river, the trees, the flecks of robin’s egg blue playing hide-and-seek through the heavy boughs. That’s the kind of filling I crave.
I jerk forward at the downward shift of gears. The truck slows as he turns onto an old road crisscrossed with tar patches.
“This road will take us to the farm. I think you’ll like it there. There’s plenty of room for you girls to run around. Just like your woods.”
The road soon turns into dirt, bumpy and loud.
“We’re in Tennessee, USA?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just farther west from where you girls were living.”
The strangest noise, a baying whoop, grows in volume. Ness sits up, excited, searching for the thing making the noise. She climbs into my lap to see better, staring out the windshield, the light soft but not yet dusk.
Wooooooool Woo woo woo woo!
She turns to me, but I don’t have an answer.
Wooooooo! Wooooooool
Nessa bounces, her face splitting into a huge grin as we catch sight of an animal we know from her picture books.
“That’s my hound dog, Shorty. Got ears like radar. He probably heard the truck coming before we’d even left the blacktop.”
I press back into the seat, holding Ness tighter.
“He’s a bluetick coonhound. What, don’t you like dogs?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’ve never seen one outside of Ness’s picture books.”
His eyes widen in disbelief. I wish I’d just said yes.
“He’s right big,” I say, my voice quivering. “Why do you call him Shorty?”
His eyes crinkle with affection.
“Because he’s short one leg.”
I look harder, and it’s true: The hound is missing his left hind leg, yet he runs alongside the truck like no one’s business.
“I found him as a stray, skinny as you and Jenessa, snapped up in a bear trap. Doc Samuels couldn’t save his leg, so it had to go. But he learned real fast how to make it work—see how he slides the one leg underneath him?”
I watch Shorty use his back leg like he was born that way, positioned under the center of his body, more than compensating for the lack.
“Smart critter,” I agree, my eyes on Jenessa, who leans in toward me when my father isn’t looking, her breath curling into my ear.
“My dog,” she whispers, too low for our father to hear. “Mine,” she adds, no changing her mind.
I squeeze her tight and smile into her hair, the bubble moment lasting all of about two seconds before the weathered farmhouse rushes into view, larger than any house I’ve ever seen, clad in a cheerful coat of yellow paint. There’s a porch that wraps around the house and lots of rocking chairs, but that’s not what causes my jaw to drop.
On the stairs is a pretty woman in an apron, her raven hair woven into a braid that snakes over her shoulder and hangs clear down to her elbow. Next to her is a girl, face dark as a thunderstorm, arms crossed over her chest, her mind made up, like Jenessa with Shorty.
Nessa’s eyes are wide enough to pop out.
“Maybe I should’ve said something sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you girls. That’s my wife, Melissa, and her daughter—my stepdaughter— Delaney.”
Jenessa and I look at each other and then go back to staring at the strange figures. I can’t even pray to Saint Joseph, because I have no idea what to say, or what good a saint of beans could do for us now. My throat feels clogged with a bean the size of a baseball. My father opens the door and jumps to the ground, stretching his legs after all those hours crammed in with us.
This is a fine wrinkle all right. Jenessa turns to me, her eyes full of question marks. I shrug; even I know I’m out of my league. The keening ache washes over me again like creek water soothing a stone, and that fast, I’m pining for the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, the smoky campfire, the world I know with my eyes tight shut, and even the beans.
5
I make a big deal out of smoothing down Nessa’s dress, then comb her curls with my fingers. Steady now. I draw myself up taller. The girl’s eyes bore through the windshield like lasers.
I know, as I’ve always known, that I’m Ness’s filter. She’ll take my lead on things, mimicking my reactions, comfortable when I’m comfortable, confident when I’m confident. That’s what little kids do when they trust people.
I remember those large eyes staring up at me when she was just over a year old. I was feeding her a bottle, more water than formula. Mama had been gone over three weeks at the time, but Ness hadn’t minded because she had me. It’d felt like she was my baby, my arms a love-worn hammock rocking her endlessly, while she cooed and shined as if I were Saint Joseph, himself.
If I’m okay, she’s okay. It’s the same thing I have to do now.
“Are you ready?”
Ness nods, sopping up confidence as if through osmosis. (And yes, I know what osmosis is. I’d devoured the eleventh-grade science books Mama brought back like osmosis, itself.)
I jump out first, then catch Nessa under the arms and swing her to the gravel. She takes my hand, damp with sweat, which stops her cold. She checks my face.