“Isn’t it the most amazing thing you’ve ever felt?”
“Right soft.” Gently, I lay my check on the glove, imagining a whole pillow made of the stuff.
“Do you know what cashmere is?”
I shake my head no.
“It’s the silky, fine wool at the roots of the hair of the Kashmir goat.”
“A goat?”
“I know. Isn’t the world so interesting?”
I smile my yes, my attention turned back to the loot, to another pair of hand coverings with a thumb but no separate fingers, made of thick, scratchier material.
“That’s wool, and it comes from sheep. It’s not as soft, but it’s thick and warm. They’re called ‘mittens.’ It can get pretty cold most winters.”
She says it like I don’t know, like I don’t know cold the way I do. I like when she forgets. I think of early mornings with my clumsy hands purple as I rubbed Nessa’s little fingers, her skin denting yellow, then glazed-over white as we huddled together in the camper, frostbitten if we weren’t careful, our winter coats buttoned up past our throats, and underneath, sweatshirts, the hoods tied snugly under our chins. We wore two pairs ofjeans apiece, and a spare pair of socks on our hands once the feeling returned to our fingers.
It was warmer outside in the snow, where we sat on logs around the fire I coaxed to life from coals each morning, and if we had tea bags, we’d drink cups of orange pekoe. There, I could peel off the covering and warm my hands to the point that I could play for Ness, the ghosts of Bach, Vivaldi, Beethoven crouched on the log, the notes sparkling like the icicles hanging from the branches above us.
Sometimes, Nessa skipped and danced to the music to keep warm, her feet scratching white circles around the fire as I heated the leftover squirrel, hiding the bits of meat in thick beans sweetened with brown sugar, lucky with a few squares of bobbing fat.
My new clothes don’t smell like wood smoke, and neither does my hair or Jenessa’s anymore. I never thought I’d miss it, but I do . . . in the same way I miss the crisp ceiling of stars and the wanwood leafmeal that made up our floor.
“Look in the next bag,” Melissa urges, her voice gilded with excitement.
I unpack two pairs ofjeans, fancy as all get out. Jeans just like Delaney’s.
“Bedazzled jeans. They’re bedazzled with gems and rhinestones,” she explains as I run my fingers over the glinting swirls and patterns along the bottom of the legs. “Delaney and her friends brought them back into style.”
Along with a few plain pairs, I count seven pairs ofjeans in all. Seven pairs ofjeans. It’s right unimaginable. My fingers wander over to one pair, washed-out-blue, with a small hole I trace around the knee.
“Can you believe that’s the in thing? Even in the woods, you were sporting the style,” Melissa says, winking.
I laugh, startling myself with the sound. But it is funny. All these girls with hot water and warm houses and store-bought clothes wearing washed-out jeans with holes in them.
The next bag is filled with tops—a few sweater pullovers, a few button-downs made of flannel, also soft in my hands, and some of what Melissa calls “turtlenecks” to wear beneath them. There are more Tshirts, some short-sleeved, some long. My bed is a rainbow for the senses. Melissa leaves and then returns with six packs of hangers in white, pale blue, and pale pink colors.
We turn to the next bag, the one with the white rectangular boxes. My breath catches in my throat. Box after box is filled with shoes. I pull out a pair of ankle-high boots that look like my dad’s work boots, a pair of white Keds, another pair of sneakers in dark blue with the word Converse and a star on the sides, and a shiny pair of shoes with little heels that look as fancy and wobbly as Mrs. Haskell’s. Another box contains a pair of snappy snow boots with faux fur tufting the tops. I gasp when, from the last box, I pull out a slinky pair of knee-high boots in rich brown leather, so beautiful that my eyes grow as wide as Jennesa’s.
This can’t be for real. It can’t be all for me. Luck is as rare as butter for Mama, Jenessa, and me.
“These items should start you off right. Your closet’s going to look the way it should—nice and full. Go in and try something on.”
Needing no second invitation, I grab a bright purple bra with cups and a matching pair of underpants, a pair of bedazzled jeans, and a long-sleeve T-shirt splashed with flowers melting into different colors down the front. I close the door of the closet behind me.
My clean, warm toes sink into the plush rug, and I hold my breath as I put my arms through the bra straps, the A cups padded and the tricky clasp taking me a few tries to hook. I turn sideways in front of the mirror. I actually look like I have something up there now. I pull on the underpants, amazed that Melissa sized me so perfectly. I turn back to the mirror, holding my breath, afraid to open my eyes. When I do, I can’t believe the girl staring back at me is me.