Whoever came in here did it only to screw with me.
The realization brings anger, which is much more comfortable than fear. Anger I can use. I think of the e-mail, the staff’s hostility, my sister’s irresponsibility. All of it is fuel.
I will keep going. I will find her. I will tell her what she needs to know, and then I’ll get out of this godforsaken place. I yank on the sweater and put my outer layers back on. I debate bringing my phone with me, then imagine it falling out of my pocket or someone patting me down for contraband. I left it here once, and no one took it. It’s safer here than on me. I leave it in its hiding place, lock the cabin door, and stomp toward the northern edge of the property.
To keep my bearings, I stay close to the hedge wall. Other than the cabins in the distance, there’s nothing to see out here. The sky is a furious shade of iron. Beyond the wall the wind bends the spruces, threatening to rip them from the earth, fling them into the surf. For a moment I’m sure I can hear the churning sea itself, snapping at the granite shoreline, clamoring for a fight. I walk until my nose runs, fingers and toes frozen. Snow blows over my boots. Every few minutes the wind forces me to stop and brace against the hedge. I cling to the fake leaves as they tremble. The going is slow, draining, uneasy. Despite my anger, I wish Kit were here. She’d make this fun: challenge me to sing the Full House theme song backward or make up her own version of the chicken dance. Then again, if Kit were here, I wouldn’t be searching.
When I reach a corner of the hedge, I notice a door built into the shrubbery. I almost missed it; it’s painted the same shade of green as the surrounding leaves. On the door in black letters are the words STAFF ONLY.
I reach for the handle.
* * *
? ? ?
THE DOOR IS locked. I swear under my breath.
I follow the hedge back toward the cabins. I’m getting a better lay of the land, but still no sign of Kit. Barely a sign of anyone. Sanderson said this was low season. I wiggle my toes in my shoes. I should have packed wool socks.
I try to prepare for how my sister will look when I find her. I tell myself to be positive, to picture that contagious grin, her dimples, but insidious images overpower the pleasant ones. Tear-soaked cheeks and dripping chin. A face full of blood, features bashed beyond recognition. A nose poking out of wet soil. Eyes without light. No eyes at all.
I tell myself to stop being ridiculous. There have been no signs that she’s hurt.
Let me find her. I’ll tell her everything. I will do better.
I wonder if other sisters leave as much unsaid as we have. We’ve never apologized for our slights against each other as kids. Some of the inflicted pain was accidental, but most of it was intended. I still feel bad about all the times I refused to let her play with me and my friends, yelled at her to leave us alone. Once I offered to do her makeup. She jumped up and down with anticipation, but I did a terrible job on purpose, turning her into a clown. She was thrilled when I handed her the mirror, too young to understand my betrayal. All she’d wanted was to spend an hour with me. Another time I locked her out of the house while we were home alone. I’d meant it as an innocent prank but forgot about her. Thirty minutes later, I found her curled up and weeping on the front stoop.
There’s so much we’ve never talked about. We haven’t talked about the boy in high school who she liked but I dated anyway. We haven’t talked about the night I caught her talking shit about me with her friends. We don’t talk about sex. Do other sisters? We don’t talk about Mom’s death. We don’t talk about our father. Kit has never taken the time to understand my pain, and I guess I haven’t bothered with hers either. When you’ve known someone your entire life, it’s easy to assume you understand the way their mind works. Most of the time I know not only what she’ll say before she says it, but the exact tone and gestures she’ll use as well. Part of me will always see her as the rug rat I need to keep in line, like part of her sees me as a humorless taskmaster. Do the big and small ways she’s hurt me still weigh on her too? I take solace in the fact that I can remember almost none of her wrongdoings, only my own. I hope the same is true for her. Why haven’t we said we’re sorry?
Because “sorry” is woefully inadequate in my case. If I knew which words would make what I’ve done okay, I would have said them years ago.
The snow keeps tumbling like a levee in the sky has burst. It piles on my head, clutching my shoulders, promising to bury me alive no matter how fast I walk. Charcoal clouds part, revealing an aloof moon. I check my watch and decide to break for dinner. The big house looms ahead, soundless, watching. I hurry toward the dark void.
Ten minutes later I reach a garden. Tiny lights illuminate the walkways, casting ghostly shadows in the snow. The vegetable plots are barren. I try to imagine Wisewood in the summer. It might look less like a Tim Burton movie set once everything is in bloom.
Bones aching with cold, I open the door to the cafeteria. A blast of heat hits my face. After an unsuccessful attempt to pat my flyaways into submission, I decide the absence of mirrors might be a good thing.
In the cafeteria stand six long wooden tables. Serving counters are at the far end of the room. Behind them is an industrial kitchen. The room is bustling, all the tables occupied, though not full. I’d guess there are around twenty people inside. Most of them know one another, chatting and laughing as they return from the counter with trays full of steaming food. Traces of thyme, oregano, and basil waft through the room. My stomach growls.
I search the tables for Kit, heart sinking a little more with every unfamiliar face. The guests watch as I pass. I hurry to the counter and grab a plate, getting in line behind four others. Two chafing dishes hold penne and red sauce. A third offers dinner rolls. I start when I see the staff member standing behind all the food.
She too is bald.
The fluorescent lights bounce off her shiny scalp. What are the odds that every employee here is part of a cancer support group? My stomach turns when I reach the front of the line.
“I love your hair,” she says. “How do you get it so shiny?”
The ordinariness of the question throws me. “Hair masks. It sounds crazy, but once a week I beat an egg, comb it through my hair, rinse it out after fifteen minutes. Lot cheaper than the salon versions.”
“Gosh, it’s beautiful.” She runs a hand over her own smooth head. “You must be new here. Welcome to Wisewood. I’m Debbie. I prep all the food.”
Debbie is in her fifties with whiskey-brown eyes that droop at the corners like they’re weighted down by the shit they’ve seen.
“Natalie.” I reach for Debbie’s hand, but she keeps her arms at her sides. Awkwardly I gesture at the food. “The sauce smells delicious.”