DAWN STARED AT THE EMPTY ROOM, THE IMPECCABLY MADE BEDS AND an open suitcase at the foot of each, her brain refusing to register that Quinn was gone.
She slapped off the light switch, as if to erase the scene before her. A sob gathered in her throat.
She stepped back into the hall and nearly collided with Quinn.
“Baby!” Dawn yelped. She flung her arms around her daughter.
Quinn kept her arms at her sides like a toy soldier.
“Why are you yelling?” said Quinn.
“If you heard me yelling, why didn’t you answer me?”
“I was busy.”
“Busy? Doing what? It’s after mid—” Dawn stopped herself; Mia’s voice in her mind admonishing her to let it go.
Quinn took a step back, pulling out of Dawn’s embrace. Dawn noticed that her daughter looked disheveled, her cheeks flushed and dark hair flat against one side of her face, mussed on the other. Dawn reached out to smooth the puffy side, but Quinn dodged her hand.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” said Dawn, trying not to feel hurt by Quinn’s avoidance of her touch, the same feeling of rebuff she’d been dealing with for twenty years. “And yes, I was at my birthday party. And it was, um, lovely. But it’s over now.”
“Okay,” said Quinn. She adjusted her stance so she was standing in the center of the hallway, squarely facing Dawn, as if blocking her.
“Were you—getting ready for bed?” Dawn asked. “Or,” she revised, noticing that Quinn was still wearing her “day clothes”—a baggy black T-shirt and sweats.
Quinn paused. “Yes. I was getting ready for bed. I have my—you know—” Quinn trailed off and angled her gaze to the floor. Dawn watched her pale cheeks color with discomfort.
And then Dawn got it. Relief coursed through her. Not only was Quinn not missing, but her hiding in the bathroom now made perfect sense: she had her period. It had been happening for nearly a decade, and yet she was nearly as uncomfortable with it now as she’d been at thirteen. Her embarrassment usually irritated Dawn, how if Dawn dared to ask her if she needed tampons, or if she wanted Motrin for cramps, Quinn would turn her head to the side and mumble an inaudible answer, if she even answered at all. Now Dawn felt almost grateful for her daughter’s quasi-phobia.
She offered Quinn an understanding smile. “Got it, honey. I’ll let you finish up in the bathroom, okay? Then I’ll have my turn. And then we can go to bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”
“I’m not,” said Quinn. “I’m going to stay up and read.”
“Helloooo?” Graham’s voice came from the living room. “Anybody home?”
“One sec!” called Dawn. “Be right out!”
“Why is he here?”
Before Dawn could answer, the beaded curtains parted and Graham stepped into the hallway, red-faced and winded. “There you are.” He placed his hands on his upper thighs, panting. “Quinn, hi! Sorry to barge in so late. Gosh, it’s been a long time. You’re so, ah, grown up. It’s amazing.”
Quinn didn’t answer but latched her eyes to Dawn’s. Get him out of here.
Dawn tried to explain. “Graham was just walking across the meadow with me, so I wouldn’t get lost.”
“You could just use the map,” said Quinn. “It’s a good map.”
“I’m bad with maps, honey, you know that. And my sense of direction’s not great.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Quinn, with a certainty that stung. How many more of Dawn’s deficiencies did Quinn “know” beyond a shadow of a doubt? That Dawn was anxious practically all the time? That twenty-two years into motherhood, she still felt she didn’t know how to do it? That last night she’d gotten so drunk and needy, she’d accidentally had sex with the tall, stooped, bespectacled man Quinn was regarding with palpable disdain?
She felt herself wither. She wanted nothing more than to crawl deep under the scratchy wool blanket on the cabin’s flimsy bed and sleep until the morning sun blazed over Celestial Ranch and she and Quinn could drive out of Topanga Canyon and back into their lives. Then, she vowed, then she would begin her second act—or was it her third?—as an entirely new Dawn. A Dawn who behaved like the self-assured, clear-eyed, forward-thinking woman she was supposed to have become long ago. A person who could hold her own in the presence of Mia Meadows. A person worthy of respect in the heart of someone as pure as Reece Mayall.
As soon as she got out of Topanga Canyon, so help her, she would become that person.
Graham cleared his throat. “Uh, guys? Did Summer and Joanie stop by here?”
Dawn snapped back to attention. “Quinny, did Aunt Joanie or Aunt Summer stop by?”
“They’re not my aunts,” said Quinn.
“Oh—r-right.” Dawn blinked in confusion. Why had she said Aunt? Quinn hadn’t called Summer and Joanie Aunt in years. Since just before the Project fell apart.
Why did time seem to be collapsing tonight? Was it the spiked tea she’d drunk? No, Dawn reminded herself, she’d felt it from the moment she’d set foot on Celestial Ranch, this sense of the present and past shuffling together like bridged cards.
“Summer and Joanie then?” Dawn corrected herself.
“No.” Quinn sounded defensive. “I haven’t seen anyone since you left for your party. I’ve been here alone.”
“Oh, honey.” Dawn’s guilt spiked. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Well then, I’ll get your mom back to you ASAP,” Graham said. “We’re just going to pop back out and say good night to Summer and Joanie, then head over to the yurt to close out the party. Your mom will be back like—” He snapped his fingers.
“Oh, I’m way too tired for that.” Dawn had also forgotten her false promise to Mia to return to the yurt for a final nightcap. The thought was absurd now. It was far too late, her eyes heavy and aching from the dry canyon air. Surely Graham would understand. “In fact, Graham, could you possibly go check on Summer and Jo without me? I don’t think they’re waiting around for me to kiss them good night.”
She didn’t want to leave Quinn again. Yes, Summer’s sudden absence had worried her, but Joanie had already gone after her. If Graham went too, was it necessary for Dawn to abandon her poor daughter yet again?
“Of course, you don’t need to go all the way back to Orion,” said Graham. “Mia will deal. But I think we should at least check on Jo and Summer. It’ll take fifteen minutes, tops. I mean, we haven’t seen Summer since we drank the . . .”
“I know, I know,” Dawn said. “You should check on them. I mean, I’m sure they’re fine—you know how those two are when they’re fighting—”
“They weren’t fighting.”
“They’re always fighting.”
“Come with me.” Graham’s voice was flat but insistent.
“Please,” Dawn said, exasperated. “I just want to go to bed. I’ll see them in the morning. My daughter is—”
“Mom.” Quinn spoke with such uncharacteristic sharpness, Dawn almost jumped. “Go with him.”
“What?”
“Just go with him.” She crossed her long arms over her chest, as if the decision were final. Dawn couldn’t remember the last time her daughter had spoken so assertively. Or suggested that Dawn leave. She told herself to be glad—this was what she’d been wanting, wasn’t it? This was the goal: for Quinn to behave like a typical independent adult who didn’t want to be doted on by her mother.
It was the goal. And yet, it hurt.
“Mom,” Quinn repeated. She took a few steps back, widening the gap between her and Dawn, as if saying: go.
“Quinn, what’s going on with you?” Dawn asked, moving down the hallway toward her. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Uh, I think I’ll wait outside,” said Graham. “I’ll be on the porch.” He pushed back through the beaded curtain. Dawn waited until she heard the front door shut.
“Look, Quinn, I know you’re upset with me for leaving you alone so much this weekend. I just want you to understand that I love you so much, sweetheart. I never intended to drag you here like this. Your father was supposed to—”
“Stop it! Stop saying you’re sorry!” Quinn whirled around and charged back down the hall. “Stop saying you love me!” She pressed her hands over her ears as she bounded away from Dawn, her elbows poking out from her head like sharp wings.
As if she wished to fly away.
Quinn stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
Dawn felt the cabin walls shudder.
Empty of Quinn, the hallway became an unbearable space. The single bulb on the ceiling threw its harsh LED glow across the nubbed brown carpet, its too-high wattage an affront to Dawn’s eyes. She thought suddenly of a doctor shining a wand into the eyes of a patient, searching for signs of life, lifting one eyelid, then the other, and then in her mind, she saw Reece, the long slender shape of her on the gurney, somehow retaining her grace even beneath the white sheet as the EMTs hoisted her into the—
Dawn screamed.
“Graham, wait!” she cried, and bolted through the beaded curtain, through the living room, and onto the porch, where he said he’d be waiting. She shut the cabin door behind her, hot tears flooding her vision.
She blotted her eyes with her knuckles and stood blinking. Graham hadn’t waited. He’d given up on her, apparently, and had already started walking. Dawn could see the weak glow of the flashlight knifing over the ground up ahead, in time with his long stride.
“Graham!” she called. “Wait! I’m coming.”
She saw Graham’s light change direction, back toward her, then go still.
He was waiting for her.
From some far-off place in the canyon, Dawn heard the coyotes’ crooning wails. How-woo. How-wooooo.
Had the howling just begun, or had it been carrying on all this time and she’d simply failed to notice until now?
Dawn took a deep breath and jumped from the porch to the dry, dark ground.