10

It took a few days, but the children have stopped sleeping beneath Adelaide’s bed.

They now sleep under the living room table, which they’ve draped in blankets, sheets, and miscellaneous clothing—their own private tent. As if they are camping in the woods. Adelaide notes the irony.

She encouraged them to sleep beside her in the bed at first, to no avail. She then offered the sofa. But they either misunderstood her suggestion, or she misunderstood their needs—misunderstandings are becoming a large part of Adelaide’s days—because the pile of blankets she folded neatly on the floor as a makeshift mattress, and the sweaters she couldn’t manage to wrangle over their naked little bodies, were transformed into a tent by the following morning. Adelaide gives them that. No harm done.

This morning, Adelaide wakes early and surveys the kitchen cabinets. Feeding two additional mouths has been a strain on her already neglected resources. She had not anticipated she would have to endure another winter, and so did not stock her shelves over the summer and fall months, nor had she sent her supply list last season.

Adelaide cracks the door of her cupboard in search of a suitable breakfast. She spots a jar of pickled tomatoes and a handful of crackers, likely stale but still half-wrapped in plastic.

Thumps and scratches from the living room—the children are awake.

Adelaide peeks around the corner to find them sitting cross-legged before their tent, patiently waiting. This is the new routine. Adelaide presents something edible procured from the back corner of a cabinet. The children sniff it. Sometimes they eat, sometimes not. Sometimes they drape her furniture with the food, or stash it in cracks and crevices, and she must search each night for hidden remnants beneath the sofa and tucked inside cabinets before they turn rancid.

Adelaide would have thought it impossible, but she believes their bodies may be growing even smaller. She needs to go down to the river. It’s been too long since she’s fished. Her old fishing rod is in the storage shed and the river is only a short walk away, but Adelaide has been hesitant to leave the children alone for too long. She fears they will have disappeared upon her return, as if they never existed at all.

But she also fears bringing the children outside. Will they disappear into the forest without so much as a glance back to the woman who saved them from their savage life? Will they scamper away, searching for a mother who is likely dead by now? Cross paths with the men from the farm? She can’t bear the thought. But Adelaide knows she will have to bring them outside sooner or later, if only to teach them to use the outhouse. She is tired of cleaning their mess from the floors.

Adelaide turns back to the jarred tomatoes. The lid is tight, and she struggles to find the right grip.

It’s been hard to get a smile, or any emotion, from the children in days. Neither child allows her to get too close. They do not yet trust her, and Adelaide can’t blame them. She wouldn’t trust her either.

They stare at her as she struggles with the jar, expressionless, indifferent, as if letting her know that she is no savior. As if Adelaide needs reminding that she is bad at this.

The lid slides free, taking half a fingernail with it. Her brittle nail bed cracks straight to the cuticle, and blood blossoms beneath the fracture. Adelaide winces, cries out. She searches the countertop and shuffles through cupboards and drawers, looking for the hand towels. Bright red splatters mar her floor, and she turns toward the children to make sure they are not frightened.

They stare at her still—impassive, unmoving. Behind their stiff little heads, a pile of hand towels atop the makeshift tent.

The girl watches the woman. Beside her, brother trembles. She senses his desire to investigate the shiny thing the woman is holding. She is curious, too. There is something in it the color of the bird that makes the yeep sound, like the food they ate with mother in the square-shaped forest just outside this place. Where mother screamed and bled the same color. The food was good. She remembers liking it. The girl touches brother’s knee with her own. He grows still, and she knows he has understood.

They only have to wait and stay alive until mother comes. Brother has little patience. The girl is used to it. She will have to be mother until mother comes.

The woman fights with the shiny thing, and then she makes a loud noise.

The woman is hurt. The girl feels a pressure in her chest. She does not like it when people get hurt. It is like she is hurt, too.

The woman puts the shiny thing on the counter, and in the sunlight, it glows the color of the pointy flowers with the dark spots that make you sick. The girl remembers being very sick from eating those flowers. She remembers the forest going pale, and the leaves becoming fuzzy, and the sounds disappearing. She remembers being carried in mother’s arms. There was a moon, and then another sun, and then another moon. That moon lasted a very long time before the sun came again, and the colors returned, and the noises came back. The girl never ate those flowers again.

The woman is searching for something, and she looks mad.

The woman looks right at them and the girl holds her breath. Blood drips onto the floor and she realizes that the woman is not mad, only hurt. The girl also realizes that the woman is looking for the soft squares they took from the food room last night. She doesn’t want the woman to become mad, so she takes one of the soft squares from their sleep cave and stands. Brother looks at her, his eyes big. He shakes his head. But the girl has to be mother until mother comes. And mother would take care of the hurt woman because mother is kind.

The girl stands and nearly falls because her legs are tingly from sitting so long. She inches toward the food room. Standing this close to the woman’s scary eyes makes her shiver, and she sits at the woman’s feet so she is not so close to her eyes.

The blood on the floor is turning the color of the berries that are made up of bunches of smaller berries and her mouth waters. The girl is very, very hungry. But she will be patient. She lifts her arm into the air and holds the soft square until the woman takes it. Now the woman can clean off her blood and feel better.

The girl watches big-eyed brother in the big room. It is dark here, not like in the forest. And the air doesn’t smell like trees or water or animals or anything the girl recognizes. And it certainly doesn’t smell like mother.

The girl reaches up her hand and grasps the fingers of the woman. She hopes this shows the woman that she should be kind, and not mad.

Adelaide looks down at the dirty little hand in her palm. The girl’s skin is rough and cracked, not at all like the velvety skin of a child. She is shocked by the proximity of the girl. Adelaide has never been this close to either child, and she examines every tiny detail. Dark freckles pepper the girl’s slim shoulders. Her hair is curly, forming loop-de-loops along her hairline before the mats take over and transform the soft, precious curls into dirty lumps.

Something small and silver—nearly invisible—moves through the girl’s hair. Adelaide leans closer to the child. The nearer she gets, the more silver dots appear. Little meteor showers of insects zip this way and that. Hundreds of bugs, tunneling in and out of the tangles. All over the child’s tiny body, small silver parasites now evident against her skin, among the freckles. They must be everywhere. In the cabin. On Adelaide’s hand that the child now holds. Crawling all over her knuckles and burrowing into her flesh. Adelaide gasps and the child jumps, scurrying back to her brother. And in a moment as small as the silver insects, the magic of the exchange is gone.

It seems today will be a good day to take the children to the river for a bath. Bugs have a way of making a person resolute.

Adelaide opens the door to a pale but glorious sight—this morning, the forest has offered them all concealment. In the Blue Ridge Mountains, fog banks crest over the mountaintops like foam. They loom higher and higher, mountains of their own making, until the roiling waves can take no more, and they cascade into the canyon, swallowing trees and boulders, hungry and demanding, conceding to nothing. Piece by piece, trees disappear beneath wild, white tongues.

The children perk up when she opens the door wider, but they do not come closer. They perch at the edge of the living room rug, an invisible, yet tangible, barrier they hesitate to cross.

Adelaide approaches the girl first. When she extends her hand, the child takes it, but there is uncertainty in her face. The girl looks at the floor and bites her lip, and when Adelaide feels her pull away, she squeezes the girl’s hand, gently, like a mother would. Like she did all those years ago.

“It’s alright, little one. Water. Bath. Clean?”

The child does not understand, and Adelaide feels silly to have spoken as though she might. But the girl allows herself to be pulled from the rug.

The boy shakes his head vehemently. Something verbal is passed between the children, something Adelaide cannot translate. Vowels and consonants in no recognizable order. Adelaide extends her other hand to the boy, hoping he will take his sister’s lead.

He does not.

But as they leave the safety of the cabin, Adelaide is glad to see him bounding down the steps to catch up with them after all. She offers a simple smile over her shoulder before turning back to the path.

The fog is still thick, but its hunger is satiated. It now pools at their feet, spinning in sleepy vortices as they walk. Fog has a way of drowning out sound, and today is no exception. The forest is silent.

Adelaide is grateful for the fog. She can barely see through the trees, which means the children can barely see through the trees. Maybe they won’t run away from her today.

Mist clings to the river’s surface, and Adelaide tests the temperature of the chilly water before stepping in farther.

She gestures for them to follow her into the river, but they remain on the bank like two statues, in all their bronze glory. It is then that Adelaide realizes she is still clothed, her housedress floating on the surface like a pale pink lily pad. She must look ridiculous to these children of the forest. She should undress but finds herself uncharacteristically shy. It would be inappropriate to expose them to her nakedness. There are decency standards when it comes to children. Societal standards. But what society? Adelaide looks to the children watching her, waiting to see what she will do. She is on the precipice of a breakthrough. She can feel it. Adelaide must be the one to lead. Leading cannot be left to children. They need her to be strong. Authoritative. They need her to be just a bit more feral.

And in that moment, her mind is made. Adelaide gathers the skirt of her dress and lifts it from her body, flinging it onto the rocks by the riverside.

Adelaide is no stranger to nakedness in this river, but with her two young spectators watching her every move, she suppresses the urge to cover herself, to turn away and stay protected beneath the waters. They don’t want to see a shy old lady. They want to see a wild woman.

Adelaide stands proud in the waist-deep water as they examine her. How different she must look from their mother. Do they know that their mother, too, will look like this one day? Or that they will as well? Adelaide doubts they’ve seen another human being in their entire lives, other than their mother. They must know nothing of friends, cousins, grandparents. Of fathers. Something churns in Adelaide’s mind. Those dark, bewitching eyes. The ones that still haunt her at night, even all these years later.

The children laugh, returning her focus to bath time, where it belongs.

Adelaide laughs as well. She jumps in and out of the water, her haphazard nakedness only making them laugh harder.

Adelaide puts on her best mean-but-still-smiling face, and she furrows her brows at the children. “Who do you think you’re laughing at?”

The children are cackling now, collapsing to their knees and falling over each other.

Adelaide raises her shoulders until they are practically above her head and she stomps widely through the river as the children run in tight circles on the embankment.

Adelaide submerges her hands in the water and flings it at the children. They squeal with glee, twisting and leaping to avoid each icy drop.

Adelaide is delighted when the children rush to the river to join her, and utterly exhausted by the time they begin to slow.

This is the first time she and the children have had an opportunity to just be themselves, and Adelaide makes a mental note to bathe with them more often.

The little girl tugs on Adelaide’s hand, pulling her toward the deeper part of the river. Adelaide follows, offering her a smile, and together they sit on the widest stones where Adelaide often sits to submerge herself.

She looks into the girl’s eyes, and the child raises her eyebrows in response. If she knew what Adelaide was looking for, she would clench her eyes tightly shut and never open them again. But these worries are for grown-ups, not for children.

She shows the little girl how to take the sand and rub it into her skin, but it seems the girl has done this before, and she reaches into the riverbed, buffing sand and clay across her shoulders. She rubs it down her arms and across her stomach, pushing a kernel into her tiny belly button. When Adelaide brings sand to the girl’s hair, the girl flinches and backs away, as if she’s never known hair can become clean, too. Adelaide demonstrates on her own messy hair. She rubs the muck into her scalp and pulls it down the length of her mane. She brings it in front of her forehead and twists it into a giant silver horn. She finds her best goblin face and growls (politely) at the little girl, who laughs wildly. Laughter comes easily to the very young. She envies them.

The little boy follows, coating his skin in clay and sand, buffing away all the dirt and bugs that have claimed his body.

The little girl sits before Adelaide, and she burrows her fingers into the girl’s scalp, coating her hair with clay, scraping away layer upon layer of sweat and dead skin cells and dirt and insects. Some of the hair loosens, but full release is likely many baths away.

After a rinse, the children float on their backs, speaking of things Adelaide will never understand. Even if she wanted to ask, she wouldn’t know how. This is just the way it is, she imagines. But they’ve done pretty well so far without words. Maybe words are overrated.

Adelaide relaxes against a large stone, watching the fog through the foliage. The haze hovers just above the ground, clinging to trees, wrapping their gnarled trunks with wisps of gauzy cotton.

A dark shape rushes through the fog and Adelaide sits up, tight and erect. She tries to locate the shadow, but it has already disappeared. It was large, lumbering on all fours. No sound.

The figure appears again in her periphery. Darker this time. Closer, but still obscured. A whine pierces the fog, raining down all around them. The children rush from the river, their faces twisting to the left and to the right. Behind, above. They don’t know where to look, and quite frankly, neither does Adelaide. But she knows she wants them all in the cabin. Now. Before she loses everything.

The wild woman, it seems, is still alive.

Adelaide grabs the children by their hands and runs, dragging them behind her as they wail, heads whipping from side to side, seeking the source of the sound.

The cabin feels so far away, like none of her footsteps are closing the gap. With visibility this low, she feels terribly outnumbered. Like the sky is in on it. Like the ground and the trees and the sun itself are all in on it. The forest, once again, has sent her a thief.

Adelaide tumbles through the front door, flinging the children into the living room, where they collapse onto their sleeping tent, sending the table and blankets spinning across the floor. She locks the door. Deadbolts it. Looks around for something to grab but sees only the children. And so Adelaide grabs them both, covers them with her body, and wraps her arms tightly around them as the pounding begins. The first assault comes from the door, the second from the kitchen window. Adelaide throws a blanket over them all, hiding under the bedsheets from the boogeyman.

From a wild woman.

The children are hers now. Out there, they were uncivilized, filthy, and covered in bugs. In here, they are clean and happy enough. They will flourish. They can finally be children. The creature she trapped in her garden is, admittedly, no mountain lion, but neither is she a mother, and Adelaide can do better.

The wild woman pummels the walls and the sound echoes through the cabin, unyielding, as though it will never end.

Until suddenly, it does.

Adelaide is too scared to look outside the blanket, so she holds the children beneath her, rocking them, hushing them, though they are already silent.

Mother came for them, just like she said she would, but mother is still hurt. Normally, mother is very strong and very fast, but she was not very strong or very fast today, so the woman stole them again.

The air outside was thick and pale, and the girl couldn’t see mother, not really. But she could feel her, and she could hear her.

Run, mother said. Run away.

But the woman’s hands were so strong, and even though she and brother tried to run away, they weren’t as strong as the woman. They will have to wait until mother is strong and fast again.

Unless they can find a way out on their own.

Tonight, the girl stands at the window with brother, and together, they push and pry and smell and lick the glass. The girl does not understand. She can see through it, like water, but she cannot taste it, like water. Or step through it, like water. Brother begins to cry until the girl shushes him.

Don’t wake the woman, she says, and brother stops.

Perhaps there is a different way. The girl tiptoes to the door and jiggles the shiny thing that the woman uses to go outside. It only makes a little noise—not a big noise—but the girl waits until she hears the woman’s sleep-breathing before jiggling it again.

The girl runs her hands over the door, which looks a little like a tree. It smells a little like a tree, too, if she gets really close and presses her nose against it. But it is not a tree. It is a pretend tree. Like the small birds that make the sound of the really big birds, even though they are not the really big birds. The woman is pretending, too. She pretends that she is their mother.

After licking the window and sniffing the door, the girl grows tired. She curls up with brother in their sleep cave in the big, dark room. The girl touches brother’s hair. It is soft as a feather now, and a little wet. Brother leans forward and touches his forehead to the girl’s forehead, and then falls asleep.

Instead of the moon and the stars, the girl stares at the soft, swaying sky of their sleep cave. On it are little pictures of the flower with the sharp thorns. They are all around them, and though they are pretty to look at, the girl doesn’t know how anyone can sleep surrounded by thorns.