Lovely Wild (26 page)

“You asshole! You hurt my kids!” Mari flies at him.

Andrew doesn’t even try to get out of the way when she smacks him across the face first in one direction, then the other. The second blow sends him again to his knees. She thinks about kicking him in the face but steps back instead, chest heaving yet unable to get enough air.

“The police said it was kids,” she says miserably.

“Oh, the police know about us back here in the woods,” Rosie says. “They know to leave us alone—that’s what they know.”

“The mud. The noises. The peacock?” Mari cries, beyond sickened.

Andrew nods without looking up at her. “I thought...I knew one day you’d have to come back here. You’d have to come home. So I kept the house empty as I could. I didn’t know it was you this time. Once I knew...”

“I don’t understand.” Her voice is thick like syrup. The words drip. She wants to speak clearly but stringing the syllables together is too much effort. “Why, Andrew? Why would you do any of this? Why would either of you do any of this? Are you crazy, out of your mind? You...you were supposed to protect me, take care of me, not mess with my head. Not ruin my life!”

“Is your life ruined?” Andrew shouts, getting to his feet. “You got out, you got away, you got help, didn’t you?”

“Not from you!” She wants to hit him again but punches her fists against her own thighs, instead. She looks at Rosie. “You’re sick, both of you. You’re sick and crazy. And I can’t believe...”

She trails off into tears. The fairy story’s happily ever after ending has been destroyed, which is no surprise because she’s old enough to know better. She doesn’t want to hate her prince, Andrew, the boy who did his best to keep her safe the only way he thought he could. She doesn’t want to hate him for throwing rocks at her children in some misguided attempt at keeping her home ready for her. Mari wants to remember where she came from and know that she’s become something better, that whatever happened to her in the past shaped her into who she became and, therefore, she should regret nothing.

She has one simple question for him, the boy who became the man in front of her. “Why did my mother ask you to take care of me?”

Andrew’s mouth has closed up tight, and his blue eyes still look black. Rosie is the one who shuffles her feet in the dirt of the chicken yard and lets out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Oh, Mariposa. You want to know why?”

“Yes.”

Another sigh, and the answer as complicated as the question had been simple.

“He’s your brother.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

ACCORDING TO LEON CALDER’S
files, Ellie Pfautz had lived with her disabled mother, Eleanor Pfautz. Her father had died when Ellie was a child. Her brother, Ronald, older by twelve years, lived in the house down the lane with his wife. Ronald provided financial support, making it possible for Ellie and her mother to live with only a little help from the state.

At age thirteen, Ellie Pfautz dropped out of school when it became apparent to everyone involved that she’d become pregnant. Father unnamed, but certainly not unknown, at least not to Ellie...or her brother. She gave birth to a son at the local hospital. Ronald and his wife had adopted the child, naming him Andrew.

Ellie continued to live with her mother, and six years later she gave birth again. This time at home, to a daughter she called Mariposa. Ronald and his wife didn’t take this child, for whom there was no record of birth. By this time, Eleanor’s increasing disability had made it impossible for her to work and Ronald’s monetary support had become inadequate as he struggled with the cancer that would eventually kill him, so Ellie entered the workforce. She held a series of jobs, being fired from a number of them and quitting others.

Finally, two years later, Ellie became pregnant a third time, again hiding the pregnancy. But this time, she had the baby in the bathroom of the fast-food restaurant where she worked. Unable to hide this child, Ellie gave the baby up for adoption at the hospital where they’d taken her. While there, she behaved so erratically, she was admitted to the psych ward at Philhaven for evaluation, where a diagnosis of schizophrenia was made.

Mari’s mother was institutionalized and never returned home. She died from a drug overdose shortly after being released a year later. The death was ruled accidental. Eleanor continued living in the house, allegedly alone and cared for by her son until his death three years later.

In monthly and then weekly home visits to care for the elderly and eventually senile but still mobile woman, not one person had ever noticed there was someone else living in the house. There were reports about the woman’s medical condition, her mental health and the fact she often chased off the home health nurses before they could even get in the front door by brandishing a cleaver. But not a word about a child.

Only after Eleanor’s death, some five years after her daughter’s, did authorities arrive to find a terrified, speechless child huddled among the dogs under a kitchen table. She’d been living with what turned out to be eleven dogs and an uncountable number of cats, a couple dozen chickens and a pair of goats. And the peacocks.

They’d taken her away.

They’d fixed her.

And she’d become Kendra’s mother.

Kendra closed the file carefully and thought about burning it. But no, it contained the answers to a lot of unasked questions. Made a lot of sense.

But mostly, it just made her love her mom all that much more.

With the folder in her hand, she knocked on her dad’s door. When he turned to her, she held out the file to him. “Take this,” she said. “I think you should read it.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

RYAN DROVE.

He’d been angry with his mother in the past—she’d done her share of shit-talking about his dad and her daughter-in-law, but she’d always been good to his children. That she’d used them in such a way was inexcusable.

The file sat beside him on the front seat. Kendra had chosen to sit in the back with Ethan, a distinct snub toward Ryan that he couldn’t find it within himself to blame her for. Ethan was quiet, a quick glance in the rearview mirror showing him to be asleep while Kendra tapped away on her phone. The bluish light highlighted her stony face. She looked up once, her eyes meeting Ryan’s in the rearview. He’d been the one to look away.

“Take this,” she’d said when she handed him the file. “But if I find you put this fucked-up
Flowers in the Attic
stuff into any book about our mother, I will never speak to you again for the rest of our lives. I will hate you forever, Dad. And I’ll make sure Ethan hates you, too.”

He’d known she meant it. Hadn’t even been able to scold her for swearing at him. Ryan had seen the end of his relationship with his daughter in her eyes and had thought only of doing whatever it took to salvage it.

So, now he drove. His mother had begged him to stay at least until the morning. She’d shown remorse, at least, he’d give her that. She’d been acting out of love, she said, but Ryan was done with that sort of love.

“You think that just because of this—” he’d held out the file “—I could ever stop loving my wife? You think this changes anything?”

“You deserve to know. Your father did. He should’ve told you long ago. Hell—” his mother had sniffed “—he should’ve told
her
.”

Maybe she was right, Ryan thought, hands gripped so tight on the wheel his fingers had begun to ache. It might’ve changed everything and nothing, had they both known the truth about Mari’s history. But he didn’t want that.

“All of this, everything that’s happened to her or was done to her, and yet all you can do is blame her for it. Or see the bad. You know what, Mom? Mari is a wonderful wife. And she’s a good mother. She’s an excellent mother. She’s a better mother than you ever were or could be, and that’s what really bugs you the most, isn’t it? That’s what really sets your hair on fire. That she came from all ‘that’ and yet still managed to become a better person than you.” He’d said all this to her under his breath so he wouldn’t scream. The kids had already gone out to the car, their bags half-packed. On the run like refugees. Yet Ryan had kept his voice down because he was afraid if he shouted at his mother the way he wanted to, he might never stop. He might scream on and on, and there’d be no going back from that.

Shit, there was no going back, anyway.

“You’ll be sorry you said those things to me, Ryan. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow or next week. But someday, you’ll be sorry you talked to me this way. And when you are,” his mother had said with wounded dignity, that familiar martyrdom he’d always looked past because it was part of her, “I will be here, ready to forgive you.”

“Plan on waiting a long, long time,” Ryan had said and left her.

He’d felt there was something missing from his father’s research, some piece to the story left untold. It turned out it was all in the file his mother had somehow absconded with—either because his dad had left it behind when he’d moved out, or because she’d stolen it for some sick reason of her own. She hadn’t admitted to that, but she hadn’t said anything else, either, which led Ryan to believe she’d kept it on purpose. It would’ve been like her, to take the thing that would have the worst effect and hold on to it until she thought giving it up would get her something she wanted.

When had she first read the file? When Mari was a child, long before Ryan’s dad had even considered bringing home the wild child to live as his daughter? Or had his mother only discovered it when her husband decided to go ahead and foster Mari without his wife’s consent or participation? Or was it even later, after Ryan’s dad had moved out, taking most everything with him but that one file. It didn’t matter. Ryan’s mother had known for a long time about Mari’s parentage, and that was enough.

Now Ryan knew, too, and so did Kendra. And Ethan because, though he was too young to grasp all of it, Kendra had insisted he not be kept in the dark. The time for secrets was finished, Kendra had said.

“I just wanted to protect you,” Ryan had told her.

Kendra had given him a solid, unyielding stare. “I know. Ethan should know, too. We love our mom, it doesn’t matter about any of that, but if he grows up someday and finds out by accident, it’ll be much worse than if you just let him know.”

So Ryan had given his son a condensed but not sanitized version of the story he’d only known pieces of before. Now Ryan navigated the increasingly rural roads, away from West Chester and heading toward Pine Grove. It had been a mistake to take them there, but he could fix it. He’d get Mari, take her and the kids back to Philly. Sell that piece-of-shit house that should’ve been sold years ago. He’d get a new job.

Ryan would make all of this right, no matter what it took. It was his job, to love and protect his wife and family. He’d messed it up, but he could fix it.

He’d have to.

FIFTY-NINE

MARI WANTS TO
run and run and run, into darkness and the shelter of trees. She wants to give up and be wild again, streaking along the paths of pine needles and seeking solace in the splash of the cold springwater creek. She wants to unknow all of this, forget what has happened, erase the memories of Andrew. All of them.

Instead, she runs to the house. Throws open the back door onto the screen porch. Boxes and folders and videocassettes and notebooks stare at her. She hisses, the sound too loud, and claps a hand over her mouth.

Mari shudders.

Chompsky whines from his place in the doorway. The small sound catches her attention, and Mari gets to her knees to reach for him. He comes reluctantly, shaking until she smoothes his fur over and over again in the soft spots over his eyes. She can’t say she ever wanted this mutt, but he’s hers now.

She straightens her shoulders. She takes her hand from her mouth. She breathes in, breathes out. She finds the voice she’s worked so hard to learn. The voice she’s earned, damn it.

“No more.”

All of this is part of a past she doesn’t want to remember. Her surrogate father had collected the data, viewing her as a curiosity, a freak, something to learn from. There’d been fondness, if not love. Her husband had taken advantage of her trust to be unfaithful to her, then intended to exploit his father’s work and her history for his own benefit. These files represent years of betrayal—whatever truth was inside them is better forgotten. Destroyed.

In the kitchen, she finds matches, but they won’t do. Not strong enough for what she has in mind. They will start a flame but not an inferno. Only a pyre will be big enough to get rid of all this.

This is crazy, but she comes from crazy, doesn’t she? Mari still doesn’t believe in sin, but she damn sure came from
something,
and none of it good. She bends over the sink, heaving at last, though all that comes up is air and slick sour spittle. She rinses her mouth and closes her eyes against the waves of red haze threatening to send her plummeting into the sort of darkness that is without comfort.

All she finds in the cupboard is a bottle of olive oil...but it will burn.

Matches elude her, though she tosses the drawers where she’d have kept them at home. Whoever set up this kitchen last loved half-used pencils, the ends gnawed. Twist-ties from garbage bags. Miscellaneous detritus she has no use for, but no matches.

With a cry, Mari dumps the final drawer. The contents spill. She kicks at the mess on the floor. The dog doesn’t care who’s making the storm, all he knows is that he wants to get away. With a yelp, Chompsky flees, probably upstairs to the spot under the bed he prefers when it thunders.

She remembers the ancient grill outside. What had Ryan said? The ignition was bad, something like that. He’d used one of those small lighters. He’d probably left it out there.

She’s calmer now. More focused. This only makes Mari more determined to finish. From the porch she takes one box, overflowing with papers, out the back door to the small concrete pad immediately against the house. The grill is there and sure enough, the utensils are still hanging off it. The lighter’s there, too.

Mari flips the lid open. Turns the knobs. She expects to hear the hissing of gas, perhaps smell it, but it’s silent and without any odor beyond the leftover stink of charcoaled burgers. Next to the grill is the big metal garbage can. She dumps the box inside, save for a handful of the papers from the top.

It takes a few tries before the lighter works. The flame is blue and small, but when she touches it to the grill’s rack it ignites with a whoosh and a burst of flame higher than she’d expected. The heat is immediate and intense, and she shields her eyes just briefly before holding the handful of papers to the flame.

A second later, fire.

She gives it a few seconds before tossing the burning paper into the garbage can. Doesn’t wait to see if it catches—there’s plenty more to use if this fire goes out. She bangs through the back door, grabs up another box, another tower of papers and folders. Back outside, those go in the now-smoldering can, and she holds another pile of notes to the grill’s flame to add to the blaze.

She is going to burn all of this. Every last piece. Not so she will forget the life that came before. She can never do that. But so that nobody, ever again, can use it without her permission.

Back and forth, Mari runs empty-handed into the porch and comes out again with more papers. The boxes of videotapes are heavier, and she takes the time to unspool some of them. The long black tape catches fire faster than the paper, but the plastic cases melt and stink, making black smoke she has to back away from with her eyes stinging.

She thinks there should be more satisfaction in all of this, but all she feels is tired. Her eyes burn. Her throat closes against the sting of the smoke.

“What are you doing?”

She whirls at the voice, though she can’t be surprised. Of course he didn’t leave just because she ran away. “Go away, Andrew. I can’t see you now.”

The light shining through the screened porch windows is pale yellow. The flames from the garbage can, orange. In between them are the shadows, black and shifting. Andrew’s hands dance in them.

I’m sorry.

“Don’t!”

I’m sorry, Mariposa.

If he touches her, she will punch him in the face. She will light him on fire. Mari thinks this but knows she won’t. “Just...please, go.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

She thinks of how he held her in the field. The taste of his mouth. Sickness rushes upward through her again, leaving her cold, though by now the flames have started shooting out of the garbage can and the heat is strong enough to make her eyes water.

“You knew,” she says. “All along, you knew!”

“I wanted to tell you, but...you were... I was...” He struggles with his voice as his hands make old patterns she used to know and can remember but not decipher. “I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you did!”

“I’m sorry,” he says and looks as though he means to say more, but falls silent.

She can’t listen to him any longer. Can’t see him. Can’t know him.

Pushing Andrew away, Mari runs into the house.