Annie was quick when it came to languages. She’d learned French by eavesdropping on her parents, and now, because of the bits Claire had taught during her recovery, she understood a little Arnish. Recently she had gone to see a therapist, who had in formed her that she should have never allowed a separate reality to be constructed, especially one that excluded parents. The Story sisters had isolated themselves from the rest of the world, as though they were mere travelers in the here and now, meant for some other time and place. Such activities caused nonattachment, delusions, disloyalty. The world they lived in should have been enough.
Elv was stretched out, wearing the clothes in which she’d slept. They’d woken her early. She had grumbled and complained, but when she saw that her father was visiting, she’d pulled on her boots, grabbed a sweatshirt, and thrown herself into the car, where she quickly fell back asleep. She was dreaming while Meg looked out the window and Claire bit her nails and her father navigated and her mother sat in the front seat wearing sunglasses even though there was no sun that day. Annie had brought along a cooler of drinks and sandwiches, not that anyone was interested in eating. The trees were so red by the time they reached New Hampshire that the leaves looked like flames. Elv yawned and sprawled across Claire’s legs.
“Halav semma burra.” She was half in a dream. This is so uncomfortable.
Elv still wore the robin’s bones. They were turning yellow, black lines striating the marrow, but she didn’t mind their decay. Every girl needed protection against evil.
Elv was heavy, but Claire didn’t complain. She ran her fingers through her sister’s knotted hair. Elv didn’t brush it or take care of it and it was still beautiful. For an instant Claire thought she should wake her. If they escaped, they could live in the woods. They could eat wild berries, commune with bears, never be found.
“Let her sleep,” Meg whispered.
Ever since Meg’s hair had been cut, it had turned coarse. It wasn’t straight anymore and on humid days it grew curly. She had turned sixteen and for a little while was the same age as Elv. In fact, she felt like the older sister, the one who had to get up and do all the chores, weed the garden, complete the schoolwork, keep quiet when she wanted to scream. Earlier that morning, as they went out to the driveway, Meg had leaned in close to whisper to Claire. Do what I tell you when we get to New Hampshire.
Their mother had confided in Meg. She’d told her the intervention was for Elv’s own good. They wanted to save her. When Meg had revealed some of this to Claire, Claire couldn’t help but wonder if Elv wanted to be saved.
As they drove on, Meg remembered reading somewhere that tigers could smell fear. The best thing to do if one ever attacked you was to think of chocolate or cinnamon, scents that would mask your terror. She forced herself to think of chocolate sauce and hot apple pie and the marshmallow s’mores they used to make on the grill in the summertime. She thought so hard she could taste the chocolate, but it had a harsh flavor and she wished she could reach the cooler her mother had brought along, in which there were bottles of spring water.
When Elv woke, she lay there prone, tired, and out of sorts. She could see fleeting images out the window: red leaves, the black bark of the trees, the shadows of other cars. She knew they’d been driving a long time. “Harra leviv jolee,” she murmured. Our parents are crazy. “Je below New Hampshire.” I hate New Hampshire.
In spite of their nerves, Meg and Claire both laughed. They hated New Hampshire too. The day was already too long. Their legs were falling asleep under their sister’s weight. Elv had little red marks all over the backs of her hands where she’d burned herself when she was bored. The burns had scabbed up and it looked as though she was recovering from the chicken pox. She had fifteen black stars on her body, most in places her mother couldn’t see, homemade tattoos she’d made by plunging an inky needle into her skin. There were dozens of broken-down Bic pens on the floor of their closet. Since their mother didn’t see anything, Elv had gotten away with it. She had perfected household deception. A secret, after all, was only a secret if no one heard it.
Annie switched on the radio to a song about falling in love. She looked straight ahead at the road. Being in the car with Alan was even more uncomfortable than she had imagined. But he was the girls’ father, despite the fact that he’d moved in with his girlfriend, that nice woman who’d been there for Elv’s birthday cake. Well, what difference did it make who he was with? If Annie had ever loved him, she didn’t now. As they drove along, she wondered if she would ever feel anything again. Maybe she was heartless. What sort of person tricked her own daughter? She had become the witch in the woods, just as Elv’s diary had predicted, leading the way with a trail of sandwiches and good cheer. She was the old woman who stole children and coaxed them into the forest. Where they were going, no one escaped. That’s what the brochure had said. Not a single student had ever successfully run away.
The rain had begun, and there was the rhythmic sound of the windshield wipers. The windows were foggy and streaked. Red leaves fell in clouds. They drove through a little town where everything but the gas station seemed to have closed for the day or gone out of business. Annie had done nothing but research for the past few weeks. She had hired a consultant and seen a therapist. She had been on the Internet and talked with other distraught parents halfway across the country. The consensus was always the same. The Westfield School was the best. It was ridiculously expensive, but was said to have the most success with kids like Elv. Annie had borrowed the money from her parents. Her father had written out the check without even asking what it was for. He was ailing, struck with congestive heart failure, and she hated to ask him for anything. But he’d been in Paris with the girls in the spring. He’d seen what was happening to Elv. When they’d gone back to Paris after spending the summer in New York, that man she’d gotten herself involved with was still skulking around. Once they had returned home from the opera to find him weeping beneath the chestnut tree. Martin had had to chase him off with a broom.