“Not the rustic sort. I don’t have the energy. See that light?” I pointed down the dark path. “Our cabin away from home. Our weekend retreat.”
My kids weren’t often complainers. In the way some play the “so many people have it worse than us” game to lift their spirits, my kids lived with a constant mind-set of “we know how bad it can get, and this is nothing.” We didn’t need games to quiet our grievances.
Drew hauled the cooler while the girls and I toted backpacks and duffels. Roman ran along beside us down the path. “Who! Who! Who!” he chanted, as wide-eyed as the owl he mimicked while fear and excitement battled for command of his mind. He’d never been in a forest at night. Every new noise made him toddle a little faster, but he was growing independent enough to resist clinging to my legs.
When he veered close, index finger in his mouth and lip quivering over a ghostly scream that had sent a shiver down my spine, too, I gave him an ultimatum: “It’s you or the bag of cupcakes, kid. And I’m hungry enough to make it a real dilemma.” The cabin was in sight by then, and he pumped his legs faster to catch up with Jada and Drew. Hope, my girly-girl, was bringing up the rear. She was a city mouse. But her hesitation was more than an aversion to forest things. She knew the most dangerous part of hiding was that we’d have to go back again.
We ate, read, ate, slept, and then woke up to eat more before taking a morning nap. When had basic functions like changing clothes become such an effort? The Ozark mountain cabin was the perfect, quiet getaway to spend hours looking out over the mountains contemplating my future. Who am I kidding? That’s what it would have been, without four restless kids.
I was sitting at the table, arranging silverware into a house plan while Jada and Hope started their tenth snippy argument of the morning. When I started fantasizing about running down the side of the mountain to hide behind a tree until the vacation was over, I jumped up and yelled loud enough to make Drew jump, “Treasure hunt! It’ll blow some stink off you,” giving them the mom-glare that said it wasn’t optional.
I grabbed a handful of plastic shopping bags. “Best find gets a prize.” Having treasure hunts instead of walks was a habit my mom had started when I was a little girl. Obviously, she had been born an optimist, too. She was in Wisconsin that fall, visiting her siblings. My mom was my best friend—my only friend—but even she didn’t know everything that had happened with Matt and Adam. Shame is the best secret keeper.
Jada ran ahead, with Drew keeping an eye on her so he wouldn’t have to make small talk with me. Hope helped me with Roman, herding him along the path and pulling him away from a fuzzy blob of fungus and then a pile of scat, all the while planning an elaborate Christmas party aloud. Parties were her thing.
By the time Jada ran back, crying over a scraped knee, I discovered that my plastic bag was filled to the top while everyone else’s were empty balls in their fists. Roman bawled a sympathy wail for Jada’s knee, so obviously fake I was confident he wouldn’t make his million in Hollywood.
“Firewood?” Drew asked, his left eyebrow angled up like he’d only just noticed his mother was slap-ass nuts.
“No. I don’t … I’m not sure…” But then I looked down at the bag full of sticks and knew exactly what I intended to do with them. And I also remembered that—especially with Drew—the time for tall tales had ended. “I was thinking of making my dream house. Like your old Lincoln logs. Remember the elaborate houses we used to make?”
I found a Band-Aid in my mini backpack and stretched it across Jada’s knee. She ran off down the path without pausing to wipe her tears or pull her pant leg back down to her ankle.
Drew stretched his stride to put himself halfway between Jada and me, just far enough that conversation wasn’t comfortable. But then he leaned down and picked up a stick, took a few steps, snagged another, and then one more. Hope must have finished her Christmas plan and had moved on to her ideal Christmas wedding venue—never mind that she didn’t have a boyfriend—complete with wine-colored roses and invitations printed on vintage wrapping paper. All the while, Drew filled his bag with sticks. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Hope gathering them, too. Stop the world and let me off: Hope had touched nature.
“Pee-pee,” Roman said, tucking his hand between his legs and doing a little dance.
“You get to pee-pee on your first tree!” I announced, helping him drop gray fleece pants and Spider-Man underwear to his knees. I worried for a split second that he wouldn’t go outside and I’d have to carry a soggy boy all the way back to the cabin. But peeing outdoors is a universal pleasure for human males, and he joined his band of brothers with a deep laugh, chin pressed against his chest.
By the time our noses and fingers were red and tingly from the cold and Roman had marked his territory on three trees, we headed back to Hickory Haven carrying five bags of sticks, one storm-damaged bird nest, and a handful of the most beautiful rocks Jada had ever seen, which appeared as unique as street gravel.
“Was the clock right when we left?” Hope asked, adjusting the time on the microwave to match her cell.
“We’re on vacation,” I answered. “There is no such thing as a clock.” But her forehead had gone all bunchy and she was eyeing the clock on the fireplace mantel, which was off by several hours. So I wasn’t the only one who worried about someone coming in and changing things, moving them around to send us messages. That shouldn’t surprise me. Thankfully she was only worried about the change, though, not reminded of the sound a watch makes right up close to your ear through adrenaline-flooded eardrums.
“Ours used to change.” She waved at the clocks. “A long time ago. Someone used to come in and change the clocks to all different times.”
I hadn’t known that, and it bothered me that she hadn’t told me she set them all right. It also made me wonder what else Adam had done that I didn’t know about from all the long years when I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
“People could come in from different time zones and set the clocks to their own times. I’ve done that in hotels to avoid jet lag.” I held her gaze. “No one knows where we are. No one was in here.”
I believed I was telling the truth, and she could see that, but she was still afraid.