Four Months after the Accident
JULY 1983
By the time I get home from meeting Nancy at the Monkey Bar, Jude is already asleep, and she’s gone by the time I awaken in the morning. In a way I am relieved; I need the space to consider my meeting with Nancy, her alarming questions about how much I really know about myself, my sister, our vanished history. I have not yet caught Jude in a lie but in a significant omission—she’s said not one word about this strange woman with an investment in our lives that extends far beyond any debt or loan. A part of me is now afraid to ask Jude anything; I could talk myself into forgiving a well-intentioned omission, but never a lie. A lie would leak like poison into our shared self, distorting our complementary pieces so that they never fit again.
I see that Jude has left a note and a package on the kitchen table: “Here are Wen’s pictures of our time in Europe together—some of them so great they almost don’t disturb me!”
I’d almost forgotten my phone conversation with Wen, her stories of the time we spent at her cottage in the Cotswolds, her promise to fatten me up like a turkey. I open the package and find that each picture has a caption written in cheery, detailed prose—an attempt, I suppose, to help me relive this forgotten time. The top picture shows me and Jude standing side by side, each of us cradling a chicken, and these words from Wen:
I remember this day well! In fact I believe this was the afternoon after our first meeting. We had all indulged just a bit too much the previous night and were paying the price. But as soon as you two saw my chicken coop, you made immediate friends with George and Imogene. You told me that the coop and my farm made you feel like you were kids again, playing on your farm back at home in Harmony. How you missed your chickens, the simple and satisfying routine of your lives, and, of course, your mom …
Jude and I sitting in a leather booth, huddled close together, raising mugs of beer:
This was my birthday! You both insisted on taking me out to our favorite pub. They were having an “American night,” with a band playing all of the best songs from the seventies. You requested “Bad Girls” and “I Will Survive,” and we danced until our feet hurt and laughed until our stomachs ached …
Jude and I and a strange woman—obviously Wen—standing in some sort of garden, flexing our arms. Wen looks eerily close to how I’d pictured her: tall and lean, with short white hair arranged in spiky points, as sharp and discrete as shark fins. Her arms seem almost unnaturally long; if she were a cartoon, they would unfurl into spaghetti-like ropes and choke her enemy from across the room.
What a day this was! We took a break from working on the farm to visit this stupendous topiary maze. The hedges loomed ten feet high and slithered out in every direction, coaxing us into lush twists and turns, leading us to verdant dead ends. In the midst of one labyrinth we spread out a blanket and had a lavish picnic. We all felt so strong that day, so free and unencumbered by the troubles of the past and uncertainty of the future, and we struck this pose to commemorate the moment. The proprietor of the field was kind enough to snap this shot.
The last one shows me and Jude and Wen on the edge of a lakeside dock, the water a deep and muddy green, reflecting a forest in the background. Jude and I are tanned, our long legs jutting from frayed denim shorts.
This was shortly before you left the Cotswolds to go to London. We spent a day at the lake not too far from my cottage. We took a canoe out to the middle of the water and paddled around and then just soaked in the sun for hours. That night I cooked black pudding, your favorite English feast. You both were shocked when I told you it’s made of congealed blood, but that didn’t stop you from licking every last crumb.
Hoping to divine secrets and clues, I study each picture intently, looking beyond the main image, searching for meaning in Wen’s descriptions. I have no knowledge of the Cotswolds or its environs, but one thing becomes clear: these photos betray nothing about the venues they depict. Not one street sign, or shop awning, or singular landmark, or plate of exotic cuisine, or any telling detail that would indicate a remote and charming English village. A chicken coop, a bar, a topiary maze, a lake—all things that could exist anywhere in the world.
I look at the address on the package—somewhere in Newberry, New York—and strategize; Jude might think it strange if she beats me home two nights in a row. I will tell her that I wasn’t feeling well and made an appointment with my doctor and asked Sab to take me. She will not expect me to do what I’m about to do. She won’t suspect I’ve put on my Jude costume, my hair parted against its will. She won’t expect that I’ll dig beneath my bed and retrieve more of Sab’s gifts: various road maps of Pennsylvania and the surrounding states. She’ll never imagine me taking the keys to my inherited car, now parked in a discreet corner of the lot, a new lover awaiting a rendezvous.
Holding the keys, I approach the car slowly, my heart creeping higher in my chest, accelerating its beat. I pet the steering wheel like it’s a strange dog, softly, cautiously. Closing my eyes, I remember Jude’s descriptions of that night and try to picture it as it happened. I can hear raindrops on the windshield, see the smooth glide of the wipers, spot the hide of the deer, sense the tires losing their grip. The sickening crunch of steel against wood. My body launching through the glass. Jude’s hands cupped beneath my arms, the drag of my feet against the road, a glimpse of jaundiced moon before the lights flicked out. My head across Jude’s lap, my blood soaking through her jeans.
I roll down my window and turn the key and the engine coughs to life. I think, I am a person unafraid to do the thing that nearly killed me.
I have two stops to make today. The first is a five-minute ride, an easy warm-up, the wheel vibrating its welcome against my palms. In the distance rises an angular gray building, one side composed entirely of rectangular windows. A banner unfurls above the entrance: FEED THE MIND.
The library reference desk is front and center, marked by a chalkboard sign and commandeered by three women sitting in generational order: my age, mother, grandmother. I pick the mom, who seems efficient and kind, her nimble fingers arranging index cards in a wooden drawer, a pencil stabbed through her fat black bun.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice eager and smooth. “How can I help you?”
I pull out one of the maps, in which I’ve tucked Sab’s photograph of my childhood home, the address written on the back: 415 Touchstone Road, Harmony, Pennsylvania, 16037.
“I’m trying to trace the ownership of this home,” I say. “I think it was sold five years ago, but I’m interested in the records as far back as they go.”
She slides her glasses down her nose and peers at my scribble. “That should be doable,” she says, copying the address. “We don’t have a copy of the deed records here, but I can call the library in Butler County. They’ll be able to track down this information.”
She asks for my name and writes it down, saying it aloud: “Katherine Bird.” Check back with her in a day or so, she says, and I promise I will.
With one stop for gas, I should arrive in Newberry in three hours. I will find Wen, staying just long enough to ask all the questions that have stacked up in my mind. Her responses will dictate what happens next. Either I hurry back and crawl into bed before Jude comes home, or I tell Jude exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve done, and see if her answers are the same.
All along Interstate 95, past the Wawas, the gas stations, the signs imploring me to come see the world’s largest light bulb in Edison, New Jersey, I am alternately brazen and petrified. I am going the speed limit, even a bit below, but the blast of horns and rumble of trucks feel like predators, inching closer and closer still.
When it’s time to stop for gas, I fish a dime from my purse and call Sab on the pay phone. I know he’s on a construction site, but I need to hear his voice: Yo, it’s Sab. You know what to do. I leave him a message telling him so far, so good; I’ll report back as soon as I can.
In the ride’s final hour my body feels attuned to the car, as though it’s forged a separate path of communication, bypassing my brain. I succumb and let it lead me. Off the interstate the view changes every few moments in subtle, kaleidoscopic twists: red brick buildings, red farmhouses, bleached expanses of swaying wheat, the sun hunkering low in the mottled sky. I am driving slowly now, safe, the hard part behind me. I read faded street signs, each situated a mile apart, until I reach Wen’s address on Kill Devil Road.
I expect to pull up to a ramshackle compound but instead find a broad white farmhouse, the paint fresh and bright, with a wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. Several smaller structures, identically decorated, are scattered like ducklings behind it. I park beneath the shade of a tree, keeping the keys clutched tight in my fist. Halfway up the long gravel drive, I hear commotion coming from the rear, the clanging of tools, the clapping of hands, the sound of gunshots being fired, shouts and chants and grunts. I creep around the side. To my right I spot a chicken coop filled with a brood of strutting birds. I move with my body flush against the house, bits of frayed wood embedding splinters into my skin.
The field is crowded with women, a range of colors and ages, all dressed in a similar uniform: denim shorts, T-shirts knotted at the waist, red bandanas tied across foreheads. They are divided into four distinct groups, each at a far corner of the field and executing different tasks. One does calisthenics, jumping jacks and high kicks and push-ups. The next takes turns chopping wood, each woman wielding an axe high above her head and shouting upon contact. The third conducts target practice, aiming at full-length cardboard cutouts shaped like hulking men. The fourth performs a series of martial arts sequences—the same ones I used on Sab—their arms slicing the air with crisp precision, so synchronized they move as one.
I recognize Wen from the photos, with her sculpted hair and long, ropy arms. She stands in the center of the field, waving her arms like a conductor, making this strange world spin. I inch closer, watching the spectacle so intently that I don’t notice Wen until she’s beside me, close enough to shake my hand.
“Jude!” she says, and pulls me toward her for a hug. “What are you doing here?” She smells of peppermint and clean laundry. I hold the hug as long as I can, waiting for my body to send me a signal, a fuse of memory being lit: This is a person I’ve touched before. She pulls away. “Are you here to talk about the complaint? I thought we’d settled everything on the phone.”
I rummage through my mind, trying to make the connection, and begin a coughing fit to buy some time. Wen whacks me on the back, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m not contagious. What were you saying about a complaint?”
“The complaint about the missing ring from the Ardmore house? You said you didn’t know anything about it.” I don’t know what my face is showing her, but she presses her brows together and touches my arm. “Jude? Are you okay?”
And then I understand: Wen is in charge of the cleaning service. She is the one who takes on charity cases. She is the one who hired Jude, the one who helped orchestrate my reentry into the world.
“Yes, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I’m just tired from the ride. And of course! All is well. I’m sure it will turn up.”
“I hope so,” she says. “It would be a shame to lose that client.” She turns to the women, who are now switching stations: the jumping-jackers migrate to wood chopping; the choppers to target practice; the shooters to self-defense. “So what are you doing here, then?” she asks. “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”
I check my hair, ensuring my Jude part is intact, and remind myself to wear Jude’s face: bold, dismissive, confidence aspiring to arrogance. “Kat insisted on taking over my roster today, despite my objections. She thought I needed the day off. I do, but I hope you don’t mind. She’s just been worried about me.”
“How sweet of her,” Wen says. “I’m sure she’ll do a good job. I just hope it’s not too stressful on her.”
“She’ll be fine,” I say. I’m eager to get inside the house to have a look around. “Let’s have a drink. I’d like to toast to everything you’ve done for me and Kat.”
We walk inside through a screened door. A table made of wide wooden planks dominates the kitchen. On one wall hangs a chalkboard listing work schedules similar to Jude’s: Hell House (Wayne); Ghost House (Hudson); Serene Oasis (Rittenhouse Square). A similar board occupies the opposite wall, but this one is labeled GOALS: Divorce, Financial Independence, Custody, Sobriety. I try to summon a memory, any memory, that would place me among these people, in this home, in this very position in the kitchen, having a drink with this stranger who knows everything about me. Nothing comes, of course, just a slippery black ribbon of lost time.
Wen pours lemonade into two glasses etched with the words The Furies.
“To dead pasts and new beginnings,” I say, and tilt my glass toward her.
“Not the toast I was expecting, but I’ll take it.” Her glass kisses mine and she takes a long sip. I stifle the urge to ask what sort of toast she’d expected to hear.
“You got the photos okay?” she says. “Did Kat like them?”
I pick my words carefully. “They were perfect. Exactly what she needed to see.”
“Excellent. I’m so glad they worked.” She takes another sip. “So how is Kat feeling? Is she acting like her old self? What does she do with her days?”
“Not much, really. She’s sort of in limbo. She met a guy she seems to like, so he’s been taking up some of her time.”
“Good for her. Do you like him?”
I smile. “I think he’s perfect.”
“Wonderful,” she says, and means it. She swirls her glass, considering her next words. “I hate to even ask this, but she hasn’t found you, has she?”
My hand grips my glass so tightly, I fear I might break it. I can’t imagine who she means. Nancy, the loan shark? Some other ominous figure from our past? A threat I’ve forgotten, or one I never knew of at all? I try to find a balance, eliciting information while giving nothing away.
“Oh, no,” I say, slowly. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Good. Let me know if she does.”
I can’t resist. “Do you know where she is?”
Her eyebrows press together. “What do you mean? Isn’t she still in Norris Ford?”
I remember my trip with Sab, the stakeout at the bar. My strange conversation with Nancy: How well do you really know yourself?
“That’s Delaware County, right?”
Now she’s rubbing a finger along her temple, as though waking up her brain. “Yes,” she says, stretching the word. “Where else would it be?”
“Right,” I say quickly. “Of course.”
“Are we talking about the same person?” she asks. There is a hint of panic in her voice.
I put my glass down and lean forward an inch. I’m not sure what I want the answer to be. I know she’s made me, and I speak with equal trepidation: “Are we?”
“I’m talking about the people you’re in debt to. The loan shark.” She seems satisfied, as though she’s volleyed a perfect serve, awaiting my response. “I know you were worried about her finding out exactly where you lived.”
Again I think of Nancy and her threat about Jude’s necklace: You left this behind and you owe me. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. That’s under control.” My calm voice belies my body’s unease; every working, ticking piece inside me tightens.
“Well, it was good seeing you,” she says. She glances at her watch. “I have to get back out there—I promised to teach them a new move today.”
“Good seeing you, too,” I say.
“Tell Kat hi for me, and that I hope she’s healing.” She covers my hand with hers. “It would be terrible for both of you if she regressed, all of that hard work undone.”
She hugs me, her arms tight around my back, and I bring her even closer, our breasts and shoulder blades pressing together. I sense something familiar in the minty scent of her skin, in the way she raps her fingers against my spine. I know her, I think, and yet I don’t.
I slide behind the wheel, check my seat belt to make sure it’s secure, and roar off. The landscape comes at me in a blur, matching the pace of my thoughts.
Zipping along the interstate, I notice a sign I missed on the way in:
EXIT HERE
For
EMMA’S ENCHANTED HEDGE MAZE
A FANTASY COME TRUE!
I remember Wen’s photo and description of the topiary maze in England—the hedges unfurling in every direction, leading us to exquisite dead ends.