Page 64 of Wildwood

But there’s no reply. And if there was movement, it’s stopped now. My eyes play tricks on me as they sweep the woods. Shadows and forms seem to appear then disappear. Could it be more teenagers?

“Hey! Hey, kids! Is anyone out there?”

But there’s no answer. No sound except for my own voice, fading into the trees.

Back home, my mind races for something to do. Some proactive action I can take, so I don’t go crazy. The best I can do for Hugo right now is to wait. He’ll come home soon, I tell myself. I wish I had taken him with me in the woods more, so they’d be familiar. So he could find his way through them. I think to the time I’d dragged him to the old foundation, and how spooked he’d been. Did he sense something? I wonder how he would have reacted at the hidden graves.

I picture them, those lonely stones, poking from the earth like crooked teeth. I think this for the millionth time. It suddenly dawns on me that I never heard back from the town clerk with the Newfield death records. It’s been over a month. How did I forget about that?

Jean from the historical society was supposed to put in a request for me. I open my laptop to send an email to Jean but see that the internet is out again. I grab the landline and pull out Ezra’s old town phone book and am about to look up the number for the historical society but realize I could just call the clerk directly myself.

A moment later, a woman’s voice picks up.

“Newfield Town Clerk’s Office. This is Sarah,” says a friendly voice.

“Oh hi. This is Elinor Leighton. I’ve been trying to track down a log of the town death records, going back to the founding of Newfield Village. I know Jean reached out to you, and I don’t mean to bug you, but I was wondering if you had an estimate of when they’d be ready.”

“Sorry, did you say Jean reached out to me?”

“Yes, back in the middle of September, I believe.”

“Sorry, I don’t recall that. It’s possible she did, and I just forgot. That happens these days, unfortunately.” Sarah laughs. “But no matter, I can get it done.”

I swallow down a knot of frustration. “Oh, okay. I know it can take a while to pull the records. Do you know how long it would be?”

“Oh, it’s simple. I’ve already got scanned copies. I’ll send you those and also export a file for the online ones from after 1910.”

“What the hell.” I say to no one, once I’ve given Sarah my email address and hung up. I go through the options in my head. Sarah forgot. Jean forgot. Or Jean intentionally didn’t do it. I know I’m probably looking for signs at this point, but I can’t help but think it’s the third option. I remember the way Jean laughed me off when I asked if they could investigate the graves. Her lack of curiosity with the possibility that Newfield Village was settled before 1771. The Brook name prominently displayed on the list of donors.

I hurry up the stairs, heart racing. In The Forest of the Dead, I rifle through my underwear drawer, until my fingers clutch the folded paper. Before racing back down the hall, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stop short, unsettled by what I see. My hair is an unbrushed mess. My belly is protruding far more than I had even noticed. The baby kicks at that precise moment, as if to say, See? You’ve forgotten about me. I place a hand where the baby kicked and will it to understand that I love it. I feel Lydia’s presence around me. I’m doing it for her, I tell the baby. She needs me first. You are safe with me. The painted trees seem to stretch and contract around me in the mirror.

I whip my head around, half expecting to find Lydia in my room. But there’s no one here but me, and the mural is just a mural, once again. In this moment, I feel a wave of sorrow for Ezra and my grandmother and Vera. How did it begin with them? I wonder. Were they haunted too? Or did their parents tell them the story, who’d learned it from their parents? And on and on? A tale of injustice that must be brought to the light, if only they could find the proof?

Back downstairs, I unfold the paper and flatten it out. The people buried on my land. Lavinia Brown. Amias Smith. Hester Proctor. I add Isaac Garfield’s name to the list. Next, I click open my email and see that the wi-fi is back on and, holy shit, Sarah’s email has come through. There are two attachments. The first one is a scanned copy of an old handwritten log. It’s simple and includes just the first and last names and date of death. The log isn’t long, maybe a hundred names in total. It begins in 1778, with the alleged first deaths of Josiah and Nathaniel, and goes up through 1909. My eye travels down the page. I know I won’t find Isaac Garfield’s name, as he died in 1753. But I want to know for certain that the others aren’t listed as well. One grave from the 1750s could be explained away by someone who wanted to. Isaac Garfield died in the forest, braving the frontier early. His body was buried, and a headstone was later erected. But four people from four different families. Men and women. That would suggest a settlement was here.

My eyes scan the log. Then I force myself to do it again, just to be sure. And then, finally, I am satisfied. There is no record for Lavinia Brown, Amias Smith, or Hester Proctor. In fact, there is no one with those last names at all.

I sit back in my chair, feeling a strange mix of triumph and confusion.

The lack of death records tells me that, like Mr. Garfield, they, too, were in Newfield well before the alleged settling of the town. But I would have expected there to be others with those last names on the death records. Family members who remained in the 1770s and beyond. What does that mean??

“Elinor.”

Topher’s voice is so unexpected, I jump. I turn around and stare at him, almost accusatorially. Then I realize that in all the commotion of last night and all that has happened already this morning, I’d forgotten about my husband sleeping upstairs. I was so focused, at first on finding Hugo, that I didn’t even think to wake him.

He’s staring at me now, hair tousled from sleep, looking both concerned and in need of coffee.

“Hugo is missing,” I say, almost defensively.

“What do you mean missing?” He takes a step toward me.

I step back. “He ran off last night. I’d let him out to go to the bathroom, but he must have heard something in the woods, and he ran off. He didn’t come back this morning, and I already checked with the Brooks. No one has seen him.”

Topher runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Okay.” He puffs out his cheeks and claps his hands together. “Dogs run off sometimes. It happens. He probably got lost but I’m sure he’ll find his way back. Hey, why didn’t you wake me?”

“I don’t know, you probably would have thought I was making it up,” I snap.

Topher shakes his head and looks down at the ground.