It wasn’t the priority it had once been to find a signal and call for help. When Orla was ready, nothing would stop her, but first she ran a bubble bath for Tycho. Washed him, warmed him. Fed him grape jelly with a spoon. He sang a little song about living in a cave as Orla helped him into clean clothes. He hugged his stuffed moose to his chest, and Eleanor Queen told him about the herd of moose and the one she had ridden.
“I want to ride a moose too!”
“I might be able to arrange that.” She stroked his cheek like she’d never felt skin before. “People are so soft,” she murmured.
Orla looked at her daughter. It didn’t matter anymore what the spirit was, beyond being part of Eleanor Queen. She wouldn’t think of them as separate or wonder which aspect of her was doing or saying what. She wasn’t sure when she’d decided that, but it felt right; she would treat Eleanor Queen as a human child, even if that meant chastising the transcendental part of her if it grew mischievous. Orla would keep raising her daughter, making sure she remained thoughtful and brave. A girl with integrity and all the potential in the world.
Tycho fell asleep on the couch soon after they came downstairs. Orla retrieved Shaw’s phone, and when there was no signal inside, she stepped onto the porch and then into the yard.
“Eleanor Queen? Can you help me?”
The girl shuffled out, wearing boots but no coat. She took the phone from her mother and held it toward the sky. “There.”
Forty minutes later a parade of flashing lights filled the driveway: a pair of police cars and an ambulance. The men and women moved about without urgency; greeted one another; asked about their families and holidays. The volunteer firefighters arrived next; they worked on the garage—towed out her trapped car and tore down the rest so the structure wouldn’t be a hazard.
A freckled EMT, like a grown-up Pippi Longstocking, showed Tycho around all the emergency vehicles while Orla and Eleanor Queen huddled with the police officers by the blue tarp.
“I couldn’t leave the children, after he died, and Tycho was feeling poorly and I didn’t want him to walk all that way in the cold until he was better, and I kept trying but the phone wasn’t working…” She gestured to the satellite dish dangling from their roof. Orla’s excuses sounded suspicious even to her own ears, though her tears came naturally.
One of the officers lifted a corner of the tarp—again—and they peered, again, at the remains of Shaw’s body. A second officer stepped carefully around the scene, taking photos of the deceased and the surroundings.
“I don’t deny it was my fault, but it was an accident.” She trembled and turned away from them to wipe at the snot that dribbled from her nose, stupidly embarrassed by her emotional breakdown.
A part of her wanted to hug the rescuers, tell them how beyond glad she was to see people again. But she knew she’d always have to hide the particulars of what they’d endured. They’d lock her up in a psych ward, at best. If they arrested her, now or later, what would happen if they tried to remove the children? Even if just to take them to the station? As it was, Eleanor Queen preferred to be outside, and she acted restless when she was in the house. It would be a long process that they hadn’t yet begun, exploring how far away Eleanor Queen could go, and for how long. Her combined selves couldn’t predict the consequences. Could she defend herself if they grabbed her, maybe transform into an owl and fly away? Orla had phoned her parents right after she’d called 911, and Walker after that, but it would be hours before they could come to the children’s rescue if the police wanted to haul them all away.
“Mama didn’t mean to,” said Eleanor Queen. “It was a bear, too close to Papa. He didn’t know what to do, run or stay still. So Mama got the gun. But she can’t…she doesn’t know how to shoot. She missed the bear and hit Papa.”
Orla inhaled a short, surprised breath, taken aback by the deftness of her daughter’s lie and the perfect tear that rolled down her cheek. So Eleanor Queen could still lie. Had she lied—or would she—about anything else?
The cops kept their heads bowed, solemn.
“I know I need to come in, to make a statement, but my parents are on their way from Pittsburgh. And Shaw’s family; they’re coming back from vacation. It’ll be several hours. I just want to get the children some food.”
“There’s no hurry,” the oldest of the cops said. Orla couldn’t remember any of their names. He went to his car and brought back a handful of greatly appreciated granola bars. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time of it out here. It can be a tough place to move if you aren’t used to the winters.”
Orla smeared away the last of her tears. Eleanor Queen pressed against her, and Orla wrapped an arm around her; she’d thank her later for telling the cops a plausible but inaccurate version of how her father had died. And maybe ask if she’d withheld any secrets that Orla needed to know. A shiver clambered up her spine, a naughty imp with ice for hands, when she thought of the possibility that She may yet have manipulated her. The persuasive teenager who’d devised complex schemes to ensure she got her way.
Her daughter—the precious girl who looked exactly like the Eleanor Queen Orla had always known—unwrapped a granola bar for her little brother and guided him inside. The EMTs bundled Shaw’s body into a bag and loaded him into the ambulance. The cops took a few more pictures. Asked a few more questions. The volunteer firefighters got her car started. She kept a smile from tweaking the corners of her lips; hopping in the car and driving to the local market had never sounded more appealing, or easier. Why had driving ever intimidated her? It wasn’t like she had to worry about tightly packed streets or changing lanes on the freeway. Deserted roads and a few turns. Load up on supplies and hurry back to the kids.
Orla was afraid someone would ask about the massive tree that no longer towered above their property, but when she looked…a new giant tree, with more evergreen boughs, all dusted in picturesque snow. An illusion, of course. She glanced at the house; Eleanor Queen gave her a little wave from the living-room window. It should have been a relief, how well her daughter could now protect them.
A call came in on the police radios, a road accident, and Orla tried not to look too happy as the first responders headed to their vehicles. She had to go shopping and dismantle the postapocalyptic camp in her living room before family descended. Maybe Eleanor Queen would help her figure out what to tell them—not the straight-up lies they’d told the police, but maybe something with a few vague nods toward the truth. She could not set an example for Eleanor Queen of constant evasions and falsehoods. Not if integrity was the imperative she demanded.
She stood up straighter, hands clasped under her chin, as the ambulance pulled away, silent but with lights flashing. The police cars and fire truck trailed behind it, everyone ready to get back to work. Their cautious departure down her snowy driveway reminded Orla of a funeral procession, the bumper-to-bumper crawl from the funeral home to the grave. Her husband had loathed the idea of being embalmed. He’d liked some of the more modern options—becoming part of a coral reef or a forest. Cremation wasn’t out of the question, but he hadn’t wanted to be stuck in an urn like a genie in a lamp waiting for someone to rub it.
They hadn’t had a homestead back then, a place where he’d want his ashes to be dispersed. But Orla knew exactly what she would do with them when the weather grew warm and they knew their way around. She and the children would scatter him on their land. Around all of the places where they liked to walk. They’d always be together.
Home.