Page 25 of Wildwood

The flower stall is beautiful. Deep, almost neon pink dahlias; coastal blue hydrangeas that remind me of the beach; snapdragons in pinks, yellows, and white; fuchsia and pale pink peonies; and countless others I don’t know the names of. The scent is uplifting. A young mother, with a baby girl strapped to her front, peruses the goods. She picks up a bouquet of peonies and holds it for her baby to investigate. Her chubby hands swat at the delicate petals.

I realize that I’m staring openly and smiling. The mother notices. “When are you due?” she asks.

“January.” It feels distant and imminent. And like I’ve done nothing to prepare. “Your baby is beautiful.”

“Thanks. How are you doing? Excited or terrified?”

“Both,” I say smiling.

The mother laughs knowingly and continues on with her shopping.

I pick up a potted hydrangea and am musing over where I could plant it. It is then that I feel, rather than see, the weight of a person’s eyes on me. Isabelle is talking to me, explaining how I should scatter old coffee grounds at the base of the plant, and I nod agreeably while I try to sneak glances around the crowd. Nothing stands out, at first. There is movement everywhere. Families herding children, friends bumping into each other, waving hello.

But then I notice a person standing several stalls over. The day is starting to heat up, but the person is still wearing a rain jacket, with the hood pulled up. They have a tall, solid build, and I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. Unlike the rest of the marketgoers, the figure stands still, arms crossed, staring in our direction. I squint trying to get a better look.

“Did you catch that?” Isabelle is asking.

“No. Yes. Sorry.” I pull my eyes back to Isabelle. “Add acid periodically.”

I turn back toward the figure, but they’ve disappeared back into the crowd. I realize, with an unsettling feeling that I’m not sure who the person was staring at. Me or Isabelle.

Chapter 22

The air of the conservatory is heavy with the scent of rotting leaves. It’s evening and I’m sitting at the wrought iron table with a cup of peppermint tea. Topher just left for his shift. I almost told him about the most recent nightmare but held back. He’ll think I’m worrying over nothing. And to be fair, he’d be right to think that. They are just bad dreams, I repeat to myself, for the millionth time. But there’s also something that feels a little off-kilter between Topher and me right now. The fact that I didn’t know he and Julian had met up for drinks. It’s nothing, really. Wouldn’t even count as a lie. Except that it feels like something. Some almost imperceptible yet meaningful shift in our relationship. Get a grip, I tell myself. Everything is fine. Your marriage is fine. And then I stand up decisively, wanting to put those niggling thoughts in the past. Focus on the present.

Looking around the conservatory, I realize I have work to do. We haven’t spent much time out here yet, and some of the smaller plants, which were beginning to die before we moved in, have now fully passed to the other side. There’s a thick bed of dead leaves on the gravel floor. I should rake these out soon. It’s a fire hazard, my dad would have said, and I’m suddenly hit with a memory of him meticulously clearing out the conservatory and then dragging the brush to what must have been an unsanctioned burn pile in the field. My father was always like that. If there was a project to be done, he couldn’t not tackle it. I remember it used to drive my mom nuts. We’d be looking for him on a Saturday afternoon, only to find him up on the roof, trying to prune a tree branch he’d suddenly decided was too long. It was the immigrant work ethic, I think, that made it hard for him to sit still.

I smile to myself at the memories and, swallowing the last of my tea, begin to wander through the narrow paths of the conservatory. The trees are hanging on, the deciduous leaves wilted but still green. I’d remembered to water them a few times. I place my fingers on top of the soil in one of the large, terra-cotta pots containing an olive tree. It’s dry. I should water it before I go to bed. I walk through the glass room, weaving in and out of the larger pots, reading the little name placards Ezra had placed in the soil, Amelanchier, bay trees, starry magnolia, passiflora edulis, bougainvilleas, yucca, sago palm, dwarf cyprus. I press my face into the cyprus. The branches are a cross between fern and evergreen. I inhale.

I feel the moon on my face and look up. It’s heavy and full. Some strange sensation takes over and I feel an internal clock ticking. I look back down and find that I’m no longer in the conservatory. I’m outside. I see woods close ahead. How did I get out here? I go to cry out for Hugo but have no words. And then, against my will, I’m in the woods. I know I need to get through, but the branches lash out at me, cutting my skin. There’s an evil all around me, I can feel it in the trees, holding me back from where I need to go. If I can’t get out, I’ll die. Something is in pursuit. Suddenly, a woman is behind me, moving with inhuman speed. Her hair is wild as are her eyes. She opens her mouth and I know what’s coming. A bellow that will break my bones.

I scream and come to. There’s a blanket of dead leaves beneath me. My fingers dig into them for solid ground and find gravel below. I’m back in the conservatory. I sit back on my heels and cover my mouth with both hands and begin to sob.

I make a beeline to the house, avoiding looking at the glass panes that surround me, avoiding the reflection that I know will look ghostly white. I go through every room and turn on every light. I check that every door is locked, and that the security system is on. Hugo, who has been sleeping on his doggie bed in the living room, pads carefully over to me, and licks my hand, in tune, as always, with my moods and what I need from him in the moment. I am so grateful to have him, I start to cry.

He gives me a worried look, so I sit down on the antique couch in the living room and break the house rules by patting the space beside me. Hugo jumps up immediately and curls up next to me, the action so quick I wonder if he’s done this before. The thoughts going through my head are not rational. I know this. I’m a smart person, I just need to get a grip.

I just need a good night’s sleep.

I can’t face sleeping in The Forest of the Dead. My nerves are wrecked. I wish I could smoke a joint. Instead, I scurry up to take a Unisom from my bedside table. I don’t like taking these while pregnant, but my brain is on fire. I swallow it down dry and go back downstairs to the couch, where Hugo awaits. As I slowly feel the heaviness of the drug taking over, I repeat a mantra. It’s a stress dream. It’s the pregnancy. It’s being in a new place. I repeat these three phrases over and over in my head, willing them to be true. But they’re not. There is a wickedness in these woods. And I think it’s trying to get me.

Chapter 23

“Elinor.”

A hand is on my shoulder, gently rocking. Topher’s voice is near me.

“Elinor. Are you okay?”

My body jolts and I blink open my eyes. I’m in the living room, sleeping on the couch with Hugo loyally curled up next to me. Through the living room window, I can see the sky is beginning to lighten, hints of pink glow from above the tree line at the edge of the meadow. It must be early morning. I look up at Topher, who must have just gotten back from the night shift at the hospital. He looks exhausted, skin slightly ashen.

“Hi.” I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

“Why are you down here?”

“I had another nightmare. It’s my third actually. It’s messing with my head . . .” I let myself trail off.

His expression is unreadable at first. Then he sits down next to me, shooing a begrudging German shepherd out of the way.