Page 24 of Wildwood

Chapter 20

I lie in bed that night, thinking of the Ouija board, clenching my fists as though to block out the memory of the planchette trembling beneath my fingers. I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise, therefore, that the dream I fall into is a nightmare.

This one starts differently than the other. It’s daytime and I’m in the woods by the river. I can hear the water, floating musically over the rocks. It’s so beautiful. The leaves overhead are lush and green. The air smells of pine, of cold stone, of moss and dirt, of some faint sweetness. I catch a shadow move in the periphery of my vision and turn my head, expecting to see a deer. The sun must be passing behind a cloud because there is a sudden darkening, the colors that were so vibrant a moment ago becoming faded and muted. I look up and see deep gray clouds, from opposite ends of the sky rolling toward each other, like armies converging at battle. I look back to where the deer should be, as I still sense its presence. I squint my eyes to see better, but the trees seem to swim in front of them. I reach up to rub my eyes but find that I can’t. My hands are behind my back. I try again to move my hands, but they feel as though they are in handcuffs. I start to panic. Even though I cannot see clearly, I realize that it is not a deer in front of me. I can see a dark, shadowy outline, tall and curved. It looks over at me now, just for a moment, and the movement sends ice spreading through my limbs and into my lungs. I crane my neck and blink my eyes, shake my head violently. I need to see what is happening in front of me. But the more I struggle, the more my vision swims in grays and browns. I begin to hyperventilate. And then, a woman’s face, with eyes that are cold and cutting, appears clear as day. I want to look away but cannot. She opens her mouth and a shriek blasts out, and I can feel it hit my face like a gale-force wind.

My eyes snap open. The faintest outline of gray limbs swim before my eyes. For a moment I think I am still there, in the woods. But I realize I was asleep. I can feel pounding in my ears and realize my breath is fast and shallow. A panic attack, like a ravenous snake, is ready to uncoil. There’s a glass of water on my bedside table, which I grab with both hands and drain in one go. Then I use a trick my therapist taught me. I focus on my breath. I focus on my hands. Ten fingers. Five on each hand. My body is real. I’m not dead. I place a hand on my belly. I think of my baby.

Gradually, my breathing returns to normal. It was just another nightmare. A hellish one. But a nightmare. Christ almighty. I’m too scared to go back to sleep right away. So, I lie there, in a state of waking dreams, until I hear the front door open and close below, and the sounds of Topher puttering about. It’s only then, with that grayish light beginning to peek through the blinds, that I let my eyes finally close, and I drift off into a sleep so deep, I’m not even sure dreams exist there, and I feel safe.

Chapter 21

Every Saturday in Newfield, there is a farmers’ market. Apparently, this is a centuries-old tradition. I imagine when it was first conceived, it was solely dedicated to local farmers selling meats, eggs, and produce. But now about half is composed of local artisans selling soaps, watercolors, stained glass, knitted hats.

Isabelle invited me to join her, showing up on my doorstep early this morning in a pale pink polo shirt and matching visor. If she weren’t eighty, she’d look like she was going to play tennis. I’m glad I said yes. That last nightmare really messed with my head. I can’t remember ever having nightmares before, and now I’ve had two that have literally ripped me from my sleep. What’s strange about them is that when I was in them, I felt like I not only traversed the dreamworld, but also traversed time. Like I was in another century and had to crawl my way back to wake up.

But thankfully, the cheerfulness of the farmers’ market is infectious, and I feel my mood lighten. The fresh air is also doing wonders for the migraine I woke up with, likely caused by the poor sleep. Here at the farmers’ market, my head feels lighter, physically, and mentally. Families walk around, waving to one another, the children eating giant chocolate chip cookies and raspberries straight from the carton. Today it will go up to ninety but right now a pleasant coolness from last night’s rainfall lingers.

We walk around the market, with Isabelle pointing out which stalls sell the best sweet corn, which farmers go back generations in Vermont, and which are transplants. She seems to know everyone, and everyone knows her. First, we check in on the Cold Brook Wool and Cashmere stall, manned by an attractive young woman.

“How are sales?” asks Isabelle.

“Great!” beams the girl. “Selling like hotcakes, even in the summer!”

She gestures to the display in front of her, organized stacks of cashmere scarves and sweaters, in a beautiful gradient of earth tones. I gently touch one, as though it were alive. The fabric is silky and luxurious, and when I discreetly flip over the price tag, it takes real effort to not recoil my hand in shock. Five hundred dollars for a scarf??

I notice, next, a printout from @TheRealMadelineBrook’s Instagram profile. The featured photo shows Gwyneth Paltrow and Zoe Kravitz sporting hooded scarves, posing in front of an old western-style building, mountain peaks beyond against a dusky sky. The caption reads: Look who we found at the Aspen Film Festival??

“Wow, impressive,” I say and Isabelle looks pleased.

Next we buy tomatoes and watermelon from a stall, and the vendor, a woman with short, cropped hair and Carhartt overalls, slips in a large slice of strawberry rhubarb crumble.

“Good to see you, Mayor,” she says with a wink.

“When you are as old as dirt, you become the unofficial mayor,” Isabelle explains, seeing my face.

“She’s being modest. She saved our farm. We almost certainly would have gone under last year after the late frost killed our berry crop. The Brooks kept us afloat.”

Isabelle shakes her head and waves off the compliment, but her eyes show an amused sort of pride.

“You’ve all been so nice. Madeline and John, especially.” I pop a cherry tomato into my mouth. It tastes like summer and dirt, which isn’t displeasing. “They seem like a really happy couple. He seems to adore her.”

Isabelle pauses a moment, looks almost wistful. “Yes, he’s a good man. They are well matched. It’s a shame that . . .”

She trails off, and I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. She shakes her head and rearranges her face into a smile.

“It’s lovely that Julian and Topher have hit it off so well too,” she says, taking my hand for a moment, and patting it.

I’m a little confused. “Sorry, you mean that they hit it off at the dinner?”

Now she looks at me, confused. “No, I thought they met up for a beer once or twice. On Topher’s afternoon off.”

I scan my memory. I don’t remember Topher mentioning anything. I thought I knew his every move. There were a couple of times he ran out in the afternoon for some errands, which took longer than expected. But why wouldn’t he tell me?

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Sorry, baby brain.” Lying seems easier than admitting I didn’t know, but I’m not sure how many more times I can use this “baby brain” excuse around the Brooks without seeming concerningly forgetful.

But Isabelle just smiles, like that makes perfect sense.

“Let’s go investigate the flowers.” She waves for me to follow her, and I hold back a moment, watching as she hobbles through the crowd that parts before her.