“And Sasha can come, too?” she asks, through her tears.
“And Sasha, too,” I say. “I promise. Please, trust me. I’ll be back for you. I would never leave you.”
“Do you promise?” she asks.
I muster all the solemnity I can, and look her dead in the eyes.
“I promise,” I reply.
Bree’s crying slows and eventually she nods, seeming satisfied.
It breaks my heart, but I quickly lean in, plant a kiss on her forehead, then get up, cross the room, and walk out the door. I know that if I stay for just one second more, I’ll never summon the resolve to leave.
And as the door reverberates behind me, I just can’t shake the sickening feeling that I’ll never see my sister again.
Three
I hike straight up the mountain in the bright light of morning, an intense light shining off the snow. It is a white universe. The sun shines so strongly, I can barely see in the glare. I would do anything for a pair of sunglasses, or a baseball cap.
Today is thankfully windless, warmer than yesterday, and as I hike, I hear the snow melting all around me, trickling in small streams downhill and dropping in big clumps off of pine branches. The snow is softer, too, and walking is easier.
I check back over my shoulder, survey the valley spread out below, and see that the roads are partially visible again in the morning sun. This worries me, but then I chide myself, annoyed that I am allowing myself to be disturbed by omens. I should be tougher. More rational, like Dad.
My hood is up, but as I lower my head to the wind, which grows stronger the higher I get, I wish I’d worn my new scarf. I bunch my hands and rub them, wishing for gloves, too, and double my speed. I am resolved to get there quickly, scout out the cottage, search for that deer, and hurry back down to Bree. Maybe I’ll salvage a few more jars of jam, too; that will cheer Bree up.
I follow my tracks from yesterday, still visible in the melting snow, and this time, the hike is easier. Within about twenty minutes, I’m back to where I was the day before, rounding the highest plateau.
I am sure I am in the same place as yesterday, but as I look for the cottage, I can’t find it. It is so well hidden that, even though I know where to look, I still can’t see it. I start to wonder if I’m in the right place. I continue on, following my footsteps, until I get to the exact spot I stood the day before. I crane my neck, and finally, I spot it. I’m amazed at how well-concealed it is, and am even more encouraged about living here.
I stand and listen. All is silent save for the sound of the trickling stream. I check the snow carefully, looking for any signs of prints going in or out (aside from mine), since yesterday. I find none.
I walk up to the door, stand in front of the house and do a 360, scanning the woods in every direction, checking the trees, looking for any signs of disturbance, any evidence that anyone else has been here. I stand for at least a minute, listening. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Finally, I am satisfied, relieved that this place is truly ours, and ours alone.
I pull back the heavy door, jammed by the snow, and bright light floods the interior. As I duck my head and enter, I feel as if I’m seeing it for the first time in the light. It is as small and cozy as I remember. I see that it has original, wide-plank wood flooring, which looks to be at least a hundred years old. It is quiet in here. The small, open windows on either side let in a good deal of light, too.
I scan the room in the light, searching for anything I might have overlooked – but find nothing. I look down and find the handle to the trap door, kneel down and yank it open. It opens up with a whirl of dust, which swims in the sunlight.
I scramble down the ladder, and this time, with all the reflected light, I have a much better view of the stash down here. There must be hundreds of jars. I spot several more jars of raspberry jam, and grab two of them, cramming one in each pocket. Bree will love this. So will Sasha.
I do a cursory scan of the other jars, and see all sorts of foods: pickles, tomatoes, olives, sauerkraut. I also see several different flavors of jams, with at least a dozen jars of each. There is even more in the back, but I don’t have time to look carefully. Thoughts of Bree are weighing heavily on my mind.
I scramble up the ladder, close the trap door and hurry out the cottage, closing the front door tight behind me. I stand there and survey my surroundings again, bracing myself for anyone who may have been watching. I am still afraid this is all too good to be true. But once again, there is nothing. Maybe I’ve just become too on-edge.
I head off in the direction where I spotted the deer, about thirty yards away. As I reach it, I take out Dad’s hunting knife and hold it at my side. I know it’s a long shot for me to see it again, but maybe this animal, like me, is a creature of habit. There’s no way I’m fast enough to chase it down, or quick enough to pounce – nor do I have a gun or any real hunting weapons. But I do have one chance, and that is my knife. I’ve always been proud of my ability to hit a bull’s-eye thirty yards away. Knife-throwing was the one skill of mine Dad always seemed impressed by – at least impressed enough to never try to correct or improve me. Instead, he took credit for it, saying my talent was due to him. In reality, though, he couldn’t throw a knife half as well as I could.
I kneel in the place I was before, hiding behind a tree, watching the plateau, holding the knife in my hand, waiting. Praying. All I hear is the sound of the wind.
I run through in my head what I will do if I see the deer: I will slowly stand, take aim, and throw the knife. I first think I will aim for its eye, but then decide to aim for its throat: if I miss by a few inches, then there will still be a chance of hitting it somewhere. If my hands aren’t too frozen, and if I’m accurate, I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can wound it. But I realize those are all big “ifs.”
Minutes pass. It feels like ten, twenty, thirty… The wind dies, then reappears in gusts, and as it does, I feel the fine flakes of snow being blown off the trees and into my face. As more time passes, I grow colder, more numb, and I begin to wonder if this is a bad idea. I get another sharp hunger pain, though, and know that I have to try. I will need all the protein I can get to make this move happen – especially if I’m going to push that motorcycle uphill.
After nearly an hour of waiting, I am utterly frozen. I debate whether to just give it up and head back down the mountain. Maybe I should try to fish again instead.
I decide to get up and walk around, to circulate my limbs and keep my hands nimble; if I had to use them now, they’d probably be useless. As I rise to my feet my knees and back ache from stiffness. I begin to walk in the snow, starting with small steps. I lift and bend my knees, twist my back left and right. I stick the knife back in my belt, then rub my hands over each other, blowing on them again and again, trying to restore the feeling.
Suddenly, I freeze. In the distance, a twig snaps, and I sense motion.
I turn slowly. There, over the hilltop, a deer comes into view. It steps slowly, tentatively, in the snow, gently lifting its hooves and placing them down. It lowers its head, chews on a leaf, then carefully takes another step forward.
My heart pounds with excitement. I rarely feel that Dad is with me, but today, I do. I can hear his voice in my head now: Steady. Breathe slowly. Don’t let it know you’re here. Focus. If I can bring down this animal, it will be food – real food – for Bree and Sasha and me for at least a week. We need this.
It takes a few more steps into the clearing and I get a better view of it: a large deer, it stands maybe thirty yards away. I’d feel a lot more confident if it were standing ten yards away, or even twenty. I don’t know if I can hit it at this distance. If it were warmer out, and if it wasn’t moving, then yes. But my hands are numb, the deer is moving, and there are so many trees in the way. I just don’t know. I do know that if I miss it, it will never come back here again.