Outside the Ordinary World (12 page)

The first time I met Rosalyn, she as good as cursed us. She’d walked over to introduce herself a week or two into the renovation, just after we’d discovered the complete lack of insulation in the kitchen. Nathan and I were slumped on the decaying porch steps, debating whether to tear apart the Sheetrock or blow in insulation, when Rosalyn emerged from the woods, her gray hair shining in the 5:00 p.m. light. It was early September, and she held a bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace and a pound of goat cheese, as if there was any place to store such things at a construction site. Still, I was touched by her hospitality, until she opened her mouth.

“The family that lived here before didn’t fare so well,” she said in her even therapist’s tones, her watery eyes unblinking.

“I’m starting to get that,” said Nathan wryly.

“The poor man lost his way, couldn’t keep up with the place. You may have heard….”

“We heard that there were money problems,” I offered. “We heard his poor wife and child died in a car accident and—”

“That’s what some people say.” We were all silent, regarding each other warily.

“Well, I guess you think something different,” suggested Nathan after a pause.

“John Kauffman shouldn’t have stayed on here after his wife was gone,” Rosalyn said, glancing around at the stripped siding, the overflowing Dumpster, the crumbling porch steps. She shook her head sadly. “I hope it goes better for you people, but they say houses have their own auras.”

“Yes, this one has the
aura
of about seventy thousand bucks in renovations.” Nathan chuckled joylessly.

“I hope it goes better for you people,” Roz repeated. “Let me know if you want me to do some energy cleansing.” And then she walked away, leaving her offerings on the railing.

“I think she just cursed us or something,” I said after she’d disappeared down the road.

“Please, Sylvie. You’re starting to sound like the old-timers in town.”

“What did she mean by ‘energy cleansing’?”

“I don’t think I want to know,” he said, dropping his head in his hands.

Now Rosalyn stands before me in her tiny, dark kitchen, inspecting Emmie’s wound, while Hannah pats the russet head of the injured goat Roz has stashed in a laundry basket. I glance at the odd assortment of clutter: herbs and chili peppers hanging from the low rafters; jars filled with beans, legumes and dried mushrooms, unidentifiable mossy bits, shells. The windowsills are lined with pieces of driftwood, painted wooden animals and ceramic goddesses. Though as crowded as any room I’ve been in, it seems clean. I’m starting to feel less panicked when Roz announces, “I’ll just make a healing poultice, then. To stem the bleeding.”

“I’m afraid she might need a couple stitches,” I whisper over Emmie’s whimpering head. Roz stares up, those wide eyes startlingly beautiful in her withered face.

“Aloe leaves can be quite useful for—”

“We just need a good-sized bandage, if you’ve got one. And maybe some ice.”

“Of course. But it might be wise to brew some calendula and nettle—”

“And then a quick ride back to our place, if it’s not too much trouble.” I try to communicate gracious disinterest with my whole person.

“Uh, Mom, I’m, like, totally soaked here.” Hannah indicates her river-sodden jeans.

“Ah—it’s always the little ones who suffer when we go wandering.” Roz nods gravely, rummaging in a cabinet under the sink.

“Excuse me?”

“Think of my Daniel…” She wafts back to the table, unwraps two brown bandages and secures them to Emmie’s forehead. Then she freezes, scrutinizing my daughter’s face. “Why, she looks just like Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“Yes—” she says, her hand starting to tremor, like one of those bobble-headed dogs on a dashboard. “The children are the ones who pay,” she concludes.

“Look, we were just trying to get your goats back to you, Roz,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“Of course. Of course you were. And I’m sorry for the trouble my darlings caused you. They’ve never been able to keep away from John Kauffman’s old place.” She pats Emmie’s thigh. “Looks like I can’t, either.” Plucking the kid from the laundry basket, she tucks him under one arm and leads us out the side door, to an ancient VW bus. I climb in, hoisting my trembling four-year-old onto my lap, struggling to keep the ice pack—wrapped in Rosalyn’s now-bloody gauze scarf—pressed against her wound. Hannah ambles in behind us, tailed by three of the goats; at the sight of this, Emmie stops whimpering and lets out a delighted squeal—a good sign.

“It’s all right,” chirps Roz. “The sweet dears like a ride to town now and then.” As she backs out the long driveway, Hannah falls forward and the goats scramble onto the vinyl seat beside her. She crosses her arms, scrunching hard against the window.

“More exciting than hanging out at the mall, though, isn’t it?” I tease. She rolls her eyes as we bump down the dirt road.

“I’m filthy and freezing.”

“Just hold on, Han. There’s a change of clothes in the car.”

But when we pull into our driveway, there’s no sign of Nathan, or the minivan.

“Brilliant,” drawls Hannah, who is being nibbled by one of the goats.

“I want Daddy to fix my boo-boo,” Emmie whimpers.

“He’s probably just gone for coffee.” I place a hand on Hannah’s damp leg.

“Yeah, but you never can tell with Daddy, can you?”

I check Emmie’s saturated bandages, knowing Hannah is right. Nathan’s the only person we know capable of turning a ten-minute errand into a major detour. I know his lateness isn’t a personal affront, but something more complicated and benign—a kind of childish idealism about time mixed with his inability to gauge the big picture, and spiked, most likely, with a dash of passive aggression.

“My head hurts, Mama,” Emmie says again, swamping me with fresh panic.

“Okay. Listen, Roz, would you mind taking us to the market? Nathan might be there with the car.” But Rosalyn is absently stroking the kid in her lap, staring at our unfinished house.

“We ought to do some energy work around that foundation,” she lilts.

“Right, but—can you take us to the center of town?” My voice is now sharp with irritation.

“Anything for the little ones.” She pulls onto the paved road. Hannah makes a face.

“You still think it’s brilliant there’s no cell phone service up here, Mom?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find him,” I say. But as Roz idles in front of the market, I can’t spot our car anywhere on the street or in the parking lot. Still, I decide we should get out; there’s at least a working phone here, and I sense that Roz, now muttering something about Mercury being in retrograde, will not be of further assistance. As I’m thanking her for the ride, she blurts, “There’s Tai Rosen’s car. Surely he can help you.”

“You know Tai?” My stomach churns into a pretzel.

“Oh, sure. Helped me with my garden some time ago. Sort of famous around here.”

“Is that right?”

“One of the only people around who understands about labyrinths. Are you friends?”

I pause, perhaps long enough for her to detect something in my features, for her eyebrows float to her hairline, those aqua eyes glinting—no longer dreamy.

“We’ve got to go.” I offer my hand, which she turns, holding firmly in her own. “Thanks again for your help,” I try, but she’s busy examining my palm.

“Would you look at that,” she mutters. “Cleanly divided.”

“Sorry?” I withdraw my hand from her cool, sinewy fingers.

“Your life line is divided in two. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know, Rosalyn.” Antsy to get away from her, I lift my injured girl from the bus. “I don’t know what to make of anything, just now.”

The Ashfield Market is empty, except for Eveline, two young women in black at the back table and Tai, of course, reading his paper at the counter. My insides lurch to make room for this new piece of chaos, and I shift Emmie higher on my hip bone. He glances up as we enter, his surprise turning to consternation when he sees the look on my face, my bloodstained toddler and sopping teenager. My already rushing heart gallops so violently, it threatens to knock me clean over. “We’re looking for my husband,” I say in what I fear is the voice of a nine-year-old. “Emmie’s hurt—we need— Did you see Nathan come in?”

“Sylvia.” Just that one word—quiet and insistent as a prayer—and my breath finds purchase in my lungs again. “I don’t even know what your husband looks like.”

“You after Nathan? He came in looking for fasteners.” Eveline appears behind Tai. “I sent him to Williamsburg, to the hardware store. We haven’t got— Lord Almighty, what happened to the child?” At this, Emmie begins crying again and Hannah mutters an obscenity.

“I think she needs a couple stitches. I don’t have my wallet, or, anything.”

“You’ll come with me,” Tai insists. And then, more softly, “I can take you.”

I stare into his face, studying the features that have become too familiar, though they aren’t—I rarely see this abundant mouth, the vivid eyes, except in my thoughts, reading his e-mails, sipping my guilty wine. His torso suddenly seems too long, as if some whimsical, sadistic god has heaved him heavenward by the armpits. Growing nauseous, I wonder if I’ve somehow orchestrated this whole event, sacrificing my youngest just to feel the simple heat of this hand resting on my forearm.

“Take us to the hospital,” I whisper. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

For the second time in two months, I am speeding in the maroon Saab, listening to Tai’s reassurances, only this time they’re directed at Emmie, falling asleep between Hannah and me in the back, her wounded head on my lap. Theresa’s warning echoes in my mind:
your kids will be involved eventually, if it’s taking up this much space….
Why is it that when your life’s falling apart, everyone becomes a bloody seer?

“Weird, how this guy seems to be around when Emmie gets hurt,” Hannah whispers, and I look away, frightened of her uncanny ability to read me.

“It’s lucky we ran into him,” I say, but find myself wondering if he is, in some karmic way, responsible for these mishaps.

“Don’t you think we should call Daddy?” Hannah asks. “Shouldn’t we at least leave a message?”

“You do it, honey. You’ve been waiting all day to use your cell.” The thought of calling Nathan at this precise moment catches my voice, pinning it mouselike somewhere behind my breastbone. “Tell him we couldn’t find him anywhere—tell him we waited at the site and Emmie needed help, and we ran into—”

“I’ll just tell him what happened,” she shoots back. “I’m not gonna
lie.
”

“Of course.” I clear my throat. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

Tai drops us off at the emergency room door and I thank him perfunctorily, expecting not to see him again for days or weeks, swallowing the dry ache in my throat. So a few minutes later, as we’re behind the front window admitting Emmie, I’m surprised to spot him in the waiting room, rolling back and forth on the soles of his cowboy boots, hands shoved in his back pockets. Hannah spies him, as well.

“Why is that dude still here, Mom?” she whispers as I’m filling out the paperwork with one hand, gripping the sleeping Emmie with the other. “Are you guys friends or something?”

“Yes, well—sort of,” I answer. “Han, can I give you Emmie to hold? You need to keep this ice pack pressed to her forehead.” She nods and I situate Emmie on her lap, hoping this will provide sufficient distraction to shut her up.

“How do you know him?” she insists.

“His son Eli was in my printmaking workshop,” I say, relieved to have something tangible to offer. “Remember Eli Rosen, Isabel’s friend?”

“Yeah, he’s kind of a loser, isn’t he?”

“
Hannah,
that’s cruel.” I sign the last sheet of paper, hand it to the admitting nurse, who secures a wristband around Emmie’s inert arm. “And no, he’s not—”

“Isn’t it kind of weird for some random dad of some random student to be hanging around like that, waiting for us?”

“He’s just concerned,” I explain. “And he’s not ‘some random dad.’”

“Right this way, please.” The nurse leads us into a narrow white room. I lay Emmie on the bed and peel off the bandage to inspect her gash. Though it’s no longer bleeding much, it grins up threateningly, flowering purple along the edges.

“I’m still dampish,” Hannah complains as I cover Emmie with the thin hospital blanket. “No one thinks about the girl who’s slowly freezing to death. So long as there’s no blood.”

“My poor baby. You want me to get you a hospital johnny?” I tease, gratified that we’re moving on to other topics. And then…

“So, how come this Tai dude isn’t just a random dad?” I’m amazed by her tenacity, and I start to wonder if she suspects something, but how could she? What could she possibly know? Still, I decide to give her a meatier explanation.

“He’s someone we know from Ashfield, Han. A landscape designer—okay? Lots of people know him up there. He might be helping us with the landscaping on our new place,” I add, regretting the lie at once.

“He is?”

“Well, maybe, yes, probably. I just said so, didn’t I?”

I’m rescued by the E.R. doctor, who enters the room with a bit of a flourish, asking for details. He inspects Emmie’s wound and proclaims that she’ll need half a dozen stitches. “We might even be able to accomplish it while she’s napping.” He winks. “You must watch her for signs of concussion, although I don’t think it’s likely, from what you’ve said….”

Hannah becomes so engrossed in watching the procedure, she forgets about the inquisition. I’ve never felt so relieved to see a doctor.

Half an hour later, though, as we’re leaving the E.R., Emmie’s forehead stitched up with bright blue thread, we run smack into Nathan and Tai, chatting affably in the waiting room. The air squeezes from my lungs as I hoist Emmie up my torso. Hannah sprints to embrace Nathan, as if she’s missed him for days. Tai peeks around Nathan’s shoulder, cocking an ungainly brow. I try to breathe the way I’ve been taught in yoga classes—slow, deep breaths, all the way to my navel, one, then another—as if this can save me.