Page 65 of Wildwood

I regret the words almost immediately. It’s not true. The truth is that I feel guilty that in the midst of searching for Hugo, I got sucked back into this . . . well, I don’t even know what I’d call it. This mission. I feel guilty. And scared of what Topher’s reaction would be. Exasperation. Worry. Maybe even anger.

“Do you honestly think that?”

I force myself to take a steadying breath. “No. I’m sorry I said that. I’m just worried about him.”

“Look, before I go to work, I’ll drive up and down the road. I can also print out some signs at work, if there’s a lull in the ED.” Topher pauses. “On another note, I’m not sure if you noticed but the crib came in.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t know that. Where?”

“I dragged the box upstairs. It’s in your old room, the one with the roses.”

“No!” I say emphatically. “Put it in the gray room.”

He smiles. “Sure. So that’s the nursery?” Topher looks so relieved that I seem to have an opinion on this.

“Yes, it’s a nice room for a nursery,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s the smallest bedroom but it’s the one closest to ours.”

“I agree.” Topher comes over and kisses me lightly on the cheek. “I’ll put it together over the weekend.”

He shuffles off to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

The gray room will make a nice nursery. It’s the fifth bedroom upstairs. In retrospect I have no idea who ever used it. But it’s not so much that I want it to be the nursery, so much as I don’t want my old room or Mathilde’s to be the nursery. My room makes me uneasy, though I don’t know why. Mathilde’s makes me angry. I’m sad for her, yes, but I’m also upset with her. I didn’t realize it at first, but it’s been building since I found the letter. It turns out she wasn’t crazy when she said Wildwood was cursed. She knew that great suffering had befallen her family there. Possibly even knew it was haunted. And yet she never told me. We were so close. I confided in her about everything. Exams, boyfriends, parties. And yet she never told me this. Never told me why we never returned to Vermont, why I no longer saw my uncle Ezra. And now, here I am, in this giant mess, living among the ghosts of Wildwood.

Chapter 57

Hugo is on my mind before I open my eyes. It is another chilly morning. I can feel the drafts coming through the walls and windows. He must be so cold and scared, I think, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back the tears.

It’s hard to get out of bed. It was another night of light, dreamless sleep. I almost long for a nightmare. I’m learning things but it feels like I’m trying to decipher dead languages. I’m making guesses at what each new piece of information means. It’s exhausting.

I sit up and slowly crawl out from under the covers. It hits me like a punch in the gut that Hugo is not immediately by my side, ready to escort me down the stairs, nails clicking on the old hardwood floors. I swallow down a lump in my throat.

I shuffle into The Forest of the Dead. Topher’s sleeping mass is snoring quietly. Slowly, I walk around the perimeter of the room. Though the branches have leaves, the muted colors have always made the painted trees look chilly. Like if you found yourself lost in those woods, you’d feel the briskness in your bones, think longingly of a fire in the hearth, look warily toward the sky when it darkens earlier than you want it to. Topher turns over in his sleep and I tiptoe out of the room.

Downstairs, I open the back door to check the fresh bowl of food I’d left last night. Again, it’s uneaten and half frozen. I call his name a few times, my voice sounding lonely and sad as it carries over the field. Nothing. The fog is heavy again, blanketing everything in cold.

Back in the parlor, I build a fire. At first, I forget to open the flue, and dark smoke pours back into the room. Holding my sleeve in front of my nose and mouth, I open up the downstairs windows and doors, tears streaming down my face. The fire alarm does not go off. That’s not great. Topher sleeps through it all. Also, not great. Without Hugo here, my aloneness is magnified.

I remember, then, that I’m supposed to call the security camera company that Topher found. I’ll do that today. First, I sit in front of the fire, watching the flames crackle in the blackened hearth. If I put my hands close, they feel the warmth. But it’s not casting much heat. The fireplace, like everything else in this house, has not evolved from its original design. It’s a cavern of soot-covered brick. I think we need a more modern fireplace. One with glass and the right ventilation. Ezra must have frozen in this drafty house in the winter.

I wander back upstairs to put on one of Topher’s thick sweaters. I can just barely pull it over my belly. Next, I head into what will be the nursery. A giant cardboard box leans against one wall. I grab the key Mr. Warnick had given me, which now hangs on a ring with the second, older key, and use it to rip open the packaging.

I can build this, I think to myself. My hands and mind itch for a project. Something to channel my focus into.

Thirty minutes later, the floor is littered with pieces. Wooden planks, wooden bars, metal springs, metal screws, and bolts. I’m staring at the instructions, which also seem to be in a dead language.

I pick up a few pieces and try to fasten them together with the flimsy Allen wrench provided with the crib. It’s impossible to get a good hold on the wood and the Allen wrench slips out of my hand and clatters to the floor.

Nothing feels easy right now. I push the heels of my palms into my eyes. Where is Hugo?

Frustrated, I stand, abandoning my project, and wander into my old bedroom. I had so many good memories here. Reading Nancy Drew mysteries, playing Slap Jack, talking with Anna late into the night. And earlier memories too. I can remember snuggling in the twin bed with my mother, her body wrapped around mine, as she lightly scratched my arms. She’d tell me stories and nursery rhymes. Little lyrical tales of mermaids, of wolves, of midnight visits from a fairy queen.

I lie on my old bed, wrapping my arms around my belly, imagining my mom is here too. Whispering how much she loves me, how excited she is to meet the baby. I doze off like this, I’m not sure for how long. When I awake, it feels as though someone was just here with me.

I sit up and hear the faint clank of the keys in my pocket. Ezra’s keys. I head back down to the library and open the drawer with his journals. So far, none of the ones I’d scanned had much useful information. Just the two- to three-line descriptions of his day. Sweltering hot. Gave the mules water. Tractor with Henry for fixing.

Right now, though, I have that buzzing feeling. That sixth sense that today is the day. There’s something here, I know it.

I flip through a few more journals and find the one from 2004. I flip through. In these entries, Ezra is older; he would have been almost seventy. The entries are mostly the same as the others, but then, as I’m flipping through, an old newspaper article falls out.