Page 45 of Wildwood

A flock of geese fly by overhead, black and white bodies in natural formation, honking loudly.

“Are you okay? You seem tired. Sorry, I know that’s a terrible thing to say to a pregnant woman.” Madeline’s eyes flick down to my hands, the fingertips covered in clumsy Band-Aids. She doesn’t mention them.

“It’s okay.”

She looks at me, green eyes intent.

“Topher says you’ve been having nightmares?”

I feel small smack of betrayal. Why is Topher confiding in Madeline? And when? The image of her astride him in the field, hips rocking, comes roaring into focus.

But I’m almost too tired, too overwhelmed, too frightened to care, and I push the image back into the shadowy corners of my mind.

“Yes,” I admit. “They always take place in the woods. In one, I’m running through the woods at night, and it feels like someone is chasing me. I come to this clearing filled with smoke.” I shudder, my body still reeling from the dream itself, the feeling of exploding with anger. “In another, I think I see a giant serpent on the riverbank. It’s hard to see at first. And then I feel a rope around my neck. I feel like I’m being hung.” I swallow, the scone a rock in my throat.

Madeline is looking at me, her face unreadable.

“It feels like they are showing me something real. Do you think that’s possible?”

She ponders a moment. “I don’t think it’s showing you anything real. I think it is the pregnancy hormones, the stress of being in a new place. People have all sorts of dreams, and I’m sure that the majority of them are common and represent some clear stress or fear you have in your real life.”

It sounds so logical, I want to believe it. But I can’t.

“I heard the local ghost story. About the witch in the woods . . .” I trail off, not sure if there’s a question at the end of my statement.

Madeline looks surprised, or irritated, and laughs shortly. “That’s such a silly story. Don’t tell me a woman as smart as you thinks there’s a witch roaming these woods?”

If it’s so silly, why didn’t anyone mention it before? I think.

“Who told you?” Madeline cocks an eye.

“I don’t remember,” I lie. “So, nothing bad happened here. Nothing?”

“Are you asking if I know of some awful secret? Some murder that what, your family kept buried? Or if I believe there’s a witch in these woods?”

Her tone is sharp, sharper than I’ve heard it. She laughs after a hanging moment.

“Come on, Elinor. You are beginning to sound a bit paranoid.” It comes out in a lilting voice, which I think she means to sound friendly though to me it sounds almost taunting.

When I leave the house a little while later, I replay the interaction in my mind. Normally perfectly poised Madeline let something slip today. I definitely felt it, a flash of abrasiveness. No, I say to myself. I don’t wonder if my uncle was keeping a secret. But I’m becoming convinced that you are.

Chapter 37

At the bottom of Cold Brook Drive, I don’t cross back over to Wildwood, but veer right toward Alice’s. She’s got to be home. She’s got to be home. I repeat these words over and over, willing them to be true. And when I arrive in front of Alice’s driveway and take in the old green truck, I almost can’t believe it. She’s home. Finally.

I run a hand through my hair and straighten my sleeves, an unnecessary and futile effort to look presentable. Then I walk determinedly down the dirt driveway, feeling a bit like I’m returning to the scene of a crime. On the left side is a large pen with five goats milling around, chewing grass and standing on platforms. They aren’t cute goats. They aren’t little baby goats who do yoga, or the ones with long, silky ears. They certainly aren’t cashmere goats. Alice’s goats are large, with scraggly coats and long, curling horns. They look like they could knock you out with a hoof or gore you with a horn. I’m glad there’s a fence between us, as they bleat at me, their strange eyes unfocused.

Alice must have heard the commotion because she comes out the front door of her modest Cape-style farmhouse. She is a broad-shouldered woman, a T-shirt from the local general store stretched across her chest and arms. Her long hair is still pulled back in a braid down her back. She folds her arms over her chest.

“Can I help you?”

I realize that I’m not sure I ever heard her talk before. Her voice is how I imagined it would sound. Low and direct. Alice also looks more or less exactly how I remembered her, only her hair is now gray instead of brown.

“Hi, my name’s Elinor. I just moved in next door. I’m—”

“Ezra Bishop’s niece. Yes, I know who you are.” It feels like a scene from a movie.

“Right. Hi. I’m so sorry to intrude, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a bit. I’m trying to learn more about the history of the area, and the woman at the historical society said I should contact you.” I really hope she agrees. I feel another headache building.