Page 58 of Wildwood

“It’s not a debate.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Mathilde’s bed is too small for the both of us. I’ll stay in the big room. We both need a good night’s sleep.” He pauses, his face softening slightly. “It’s only temporary. Until this all settles down.”

He sounds so definitive and sure of himself.

I sit there, breathing heavily, trying to map out my arguments but cannot come up with a single thing that can contradict what he’s saying. He’s right. Objectively, he’s right. And right now, I’m tired. So very tired.

I allow Topher to scoop me up in his arms. He carries me into Mathilde’s room and hands me a pill. I’m not sure what it is, but I swallow it down obediently. He tells me he’s going down to check the basement, to make sure there’s nothing there or no obvious sign someone was there. When he leaves, I stand and walk quietly back to The Forest of the Dead, pulled as though a cord runs from the painted trees to my abdomen. I slowly walk the perimeter of the room, running my hand along the mural’s painted trees, tracing branches. I find the raccoon in the tree by the window, search his face for some answer. I find the deer on the wall with the wardrobe. I find birds flying, wings in arching V’s. What happened in the woods? I ask.

My head is beginning to feel heavy, and I hear Topher walking on the creaking floorboards down below. I tiptoe back to Mathilde’s room and climb back into the bed, pulling up the covers. The last thing I remember hearing is Topher talking quietly on the other side of the bedroom door.

“She needs help,” he’s saying. “She’s not doing well.”

Chapter 48

“She was really, really helpful,” I tell Topher a few days later, as we prepare dinner on his day off. We are making venison stew, using meat that Topher and Julian had hunted. I slice carrots, onion, and mushrooms, while Topher handles the meat. I’m not a vegetarian, but I feel slightly sickened, watching him slice the flesh, so deep red it’s almost purple. It doesn’t help that I despise the source.

“Really. Already?” Topher looks me squarely in the eye and sets down the chef’s knife. Using his clean hand, he picks up a can of beer and takes a long pull.

He was adamant I see a psychiatrist. I agreed reluctantly, not because I think it will do any good but because I’m worried about what will happen if I don’t. Would Topher want to move? It would mean forfeiting the house, but he might consider it. Or would he insist I get a job so that I focus on something else? I don’t want either of those.

“Yeah. I mean, we are only just getting started but I can tell she’s going to be really helpful. She led me through a mindfulness session and then we started to dig in on what purpose I think the nightmares are playing, how my subconscious is using the nightmares to protect me.”

It’s a lie. The session was a total waste of time. Dr. Prescott is a stone-faced woman with chapped lips and a strange habit of not looking me in the eye. She spent the majority of the time checking my previous medications and the rest assessing if I am a risk to myself or others. Upon determining I am not, she seemed happy to shoo me out the door, telling me to schedule a follow-up in a month.

“Does she think you should be on medication?”

“No. Just talk therapy for now.” Another lie.

He stares at me, almost as if he’s waiting for me to blink. “Okay. Well, I’m glad you are doing this. For the record, I do not think you are crazy.”

I take a drink of water. “Yes. Me too. Thank you for scheduling the appointment.”

“Okay, let’s rest on the couch while the stew cooks,” says Topher. “No offense, but you look dead.”

I try not to flinch at the poor choice of words, and don’t even bother checking a mirror to see if I can refute him. My skin is sallow, and I look haggard. That’s what weeks upon weeks of poor sleep does to a person. My mind flits, momentarily, to Madeline, with her luminous skin, her fiery hair, her raw femininity.

We lie on the couch as the stew bubbles.

“I found a good local security camera system,” Topher says. “It’s probably easiest if you manage it, given my schedule. I’ll text you the info.”

“Thanks,” I say, though it doesn’t really make me feel better. Ghosts don’t show up on security cameras.

Chapter 49

Two jack-o’-lanterns sit leering on our front steps. My hands feel frigid from the work. Carving a pumpkin is always more appealing in theory than in practice. Today is Halloween. I don’t expect we’ll have any trick-or-treaters but it feels wrong to not mark the holiday somehow. And perhaps it will appease Topher to see me doing something normal, something festive.

I’m about to go inside to grab some matches when I think I see a dark shape move in the woods just past the orchard. It’s at enough of a distance that I can’t be sure. But I swear, I swear, I saw something. Without thinking, I take off at a run, through the orchard, past the rotted apples and into the woods.

I pause momentarily, straining my ears, eyes darting in all directions. And I can see something moving through the trees, maybe twenty yards ahead. And I can hear the snapping of twigs. Someone is there.

I follow, half jogging, half walking, my body physically unsure of how far I dare go. But I keep my eyes trained on the dark shape, moving with some speed, through the forest.

“Stop!” I yell, my voice sounding too loud somehow, regret and fear that this is a mistake suddenly taking violent hold.

Then quieter. “Lydia?”