Page 3 of The Woods

“They’re sending another technician out for the Wi-Fi in a couple of hours,” her mother says, finally letting her eyes land on Polly.

Polly only nods in response, withholding further interaction until she’s properly connected. She’s sure they would have had Wi-Fi earlier if not for some error her mother had made in the first place.

“Can I help get you started on unpacking?” Her mother’s offer melts her just a little bit. She knows that Polly gets stuck sometimes. She knows about the survivor’s guilt and the PTSD.

“Maybe you could put away my clothes?”

“Happy to.” Her mother unzips the duffel bag at her feet and starts making piles of clothing on the bed. “What do you think of your room?”

“It’s great if you want to feel like you’re at summer camp year-round.” Her response causes her mother to stop unpacking and straighten up to scrutinize the room.

“Okay,” she says, with a sideways nod. “I can see what you mean. How about we paint the walls?” She gestures to the floor. “Rip up that old carpet and see what’s underneath. But I mean, look at the view. Those trees are gorgeous.” Her mother goes back to putting things away in the dresser.

“They’re also straight out of a horror movie,” Polly responds. “Some lunatic could pop out of them at any moment, go all Michael Myers on me. And the hot teenage daughter is always the first to go.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Polly,” she snaps. “Why do you have to be so morbid? That’s a horrible thing to say.” She slams the dresser drawer, and Polly is sure she’s going to storm out. Her mom’s mood swings are off the charts these days.

“Holy shit, Mom. I was joking.” She lies back down on the bed. “It’s a cool house, okay? And you were right. We all needed a change.”

Her mother pauses, her arms full of Polly’s sweatshirts, and widens her eyes. “My God, did you just say I was right? Someone come quick. Polly said her mother was right about something.” Polly chucks a pair of socks at her mother, who dodges it, then scoops it up and launches it right back.

Polly’s glad the fight was averted. She shouldn’t have said that thing about the horror movie. She can tell how much this move means to her mom. She’s been even more wound up than usual. She loves her mom, but she drives her nuts.

Outside her window, her dad passes by with some boxes and nods at them. Polly realizes she’s going to need some curtains ASAP. Without them she’s like a fish in a fishbowl.

“Hold on. I have to talk to your dad.” When her mom drops the sweatshirt she was folding and leaves the room, Polly’s insides instinctively clench. She can tell by her mom’s tone that she’s annoyed at her dad for something. Hopefully the “talk” doesn’t lead to a massive fight. Polly considers pulling out her dab pen, just a quick hit, to make the whole moving ordeal more tolerable. She only started smoking weed after the accident and finally came to understand what all the fuss was about. It’s become a habit, one that she’ll stop as soon as things get better. Is it her fault they never seem to get better?

She hears her sister’s voice in her head: Don’t do it. Mom will be able to tell and then she’ll implode. She hears her sister’s voice in her head all the time. She has no idea if it’s really her dead sister talking to her or if it’s just her own imagination. Either way, it’s weird, which is why she hasn’t told anyone about it. Especially not the therapist.

She wonders what her sister would think of this house, of them moving away from the city. She’d probably hate it. The thought makes her chest hurt, like her rib cage is suddenly too small for her lungs and heart, making it hard to breathe. She reaches under her pillow and takes the pen out and hits it not once but twice. It’s the only way to make the ache go away—and the ache is worse than her mom’s wrath any day. Her fingers instinctively dig into her thick hair to find the long, textured scar that runs along the midline of her skull—another new habit since the accident.

A shadow moving across the window catches her eye. She looks out, expecting to see her mom or dad passing by, but there’s nothing but trees. A shiver tickles up her spine and she can’t shake the feeling that someone was out there. Probably just paranoia from the weed, but she really does need those curtains ASAP.

Alice

“Geoff,” she calls out, running to catch up to him as he crosses the lawn toward the cabin that he has claimed as his own. “Are you busy?”

Geoff holds up the box he’s carrying as though that’s evidence enough. “I’m setting up my writing studio.” His dark, curly hair is pushed back with sweat, the silver streaks in it frizzing around his face, and his salt-and-pepper beard has bits of dust in it. Clearly, he’s been working hard, just not at anything helpful to the rest of the family.

Alice nods. “Okay, but that’s not really crucial, is it?”

“To me it is,” he shoots back, already looking wounded.

Alice holds up a hand to illustrate she didn’t mean anything by it. “Of course. I just meant the kitchen, for example, is a crucial room for the entire family and it needs to be unpacked. I would do it but I’m helping Polly. You know how she gets kind of stuck now, since?”

Geoff turns and looks longingly at the cabin behind him. “Okay,” he says, not even trying to hide the annoyed reluctance in his voice. “I guess I’ll just put this box away and come in.”

Alice puts a hand on his shoulder, tries not to recoil at the sweaty dampness of his Nirvana T-shirt. She’s pretty sure she smells booze on him. “Thank you,” she says, even though now the connotation is that he’s doing her a favor when, really, he should be doing it for the sake of the family. Nobody’s thanked her for getting the Wi-Fi organized or making sure each bathroom has toilet paper and toothpaste.

“I’ll get in there to take over as soon as I can,” she adds, because she just can’t help herself. When he goes to walk away, she asks, “Have you been drinking?” also because she just can’t help herself. He stops and turns back, eyes narrowed. “It’s just that you smell like it,” she says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal, even though it is.

He recovers and tries for nonchalance. “Yeah, I unpacked a bottle of bourbon and had a glass while I was putting shit away.” Now he shrugs. “No big deal.” She nods, and then he turns and walks away.

From behind he could still be the twenty-four-year-old she fell in love with in worn jeans and T-shirt—the gray in his hair not visible, his slim frame unchanged. The view doesn’t bring those feelings back though, just makes her wonder where the hell they went and why. The drinking worries her. It used to just be a social thing when they saw friends or went out for dinner. Since Lucy died it’s become more regular, and something he does on his own. She hasn’t said anything because she knows it’s his way of coping with the loss of their daughter, but it’s not healthy, it can’t go on, and it seems to be getting worse. It was more than one drink; his brown eyes were notably glassy.

Before she works herself up into a full frenzy, she changes tack. The move will surely help, the change of scenery will do him good, and so will having his own private writing space. The sentiment settles the gnaw of worry that’s always so quick to arrive in the pit of her stomach. The ideal refuge for you and your family, she repeats in her head for the millionth time. The words give her something she hasn’t had in a long time—hope. That her family can be fixed after Lucy’s death broke them.

When she sees other people’s family photos on social media, it’s not the white-sand beaches they’re on, or the lakeside settings, or the Eiffel Tower in the background that she’s jealous of. It’s the look in their eyes—the look of contentment. That’s all she wants for her family now. Full-blown happiness is too ambitious since Lucy died. She’ll settle for contentment.