I should of took that fox. I was hungry and cold and feverish and if I went much longer without some kind of warmth I would get even sicker. But I sat and watched it hold the mouse between its jaws and crunch down on its body, and its reddish-orange coat made me think of Mom’s coat, the only bright thing against the whiteness as she stood at the mouth of the driveway. Till she turned back, come inside the house. Never passing the house to go into the woods the way I would of done.
When the fox slinked off, I stood, too, pocketed my knife, and headed home, my stomach aching worse than ever but my mind certain.
16
Sometimes I would catch Mom watching me. I would look up from sewing booties for our dogs’ feet or chipping frozen piss from their houses, and there she would be, hands shoved in the pockets of her coat, her eyes on me. A strange expression on her face, or no expression at all. When Dad was irritated with her he would call her temperamental, fickle, words that sent her into a rage but only meant you couldn’t predict what mood she might be in.
Sit with me, she would say other times and I would perch on the edge of the couch near her till she put an arm round me and pulled me close. I don’t bite, she whispered in my ear. I had come into the den more times than I could count to find her and Scott cuddled up in the same spot, reading together or her teaching him how to use her complicated-looking camera. There was always something between them, I understood, invisible strings that kept them close, while if anything tied me to Mom, it was only her understanding that I was different from Scott, that my needs was different. That’s what I thought for a long time.
Tell me about your day, she said when I still smelled like snow and wet wool after hours in the woods. So I described the windless afternoon and the trees furred in hoarfrost, how the brief sun that day had found diamonds in the snow, they glittered loud as a song in the soundless wood.
She stroked my hair while I talked. You’re so warm, she whispered.
Her moods would last days, weeks sometimes. She would grow paler than normal and stay in bed long past morning, and Dad would ask if she was feeling all right. Then, one night, I would wake to find her gone, her red coat floating in the dark while I gazed on her from the window that overlooked the driveway.
I only had a few days before the Iditarod ceremonial start, but a few days was more than I needed. The trick is to go just long enough, and not too long. By the next day, my stomach yawned and snapped like a fish on a bank gasping for water. By afternoon, it clutched like a fist, and that evening as the whole family sat round the dinner table, Dad complimenting Jesse on how tender and juicy the burgers was, the meat stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry as sawdust. When I finally got it down, my belly lurched and I got up from the table and run to the toilet.
When I didn’t come back out, Dad knocked on the bathroom door and said, Trace? You okay in there?
The taste of vomit was thick on my tongue. I flushed, then leaned against the sink and splashed water on my face, drank from my own cupped palm. Seen in the mirror what Dad would see when I opened the door.
Jesus Christ, kiddo, he said and put his hand on my forehead.
I don’t got a fever, I told him.
You look like death on toast.
Thanks, I said and give him a weak smile.
No going off in the woods tomorrow, okay? he said. I think you need a day in bed.
I’m okay, I said. I need to check my traps.
Jesse can check them for you.
But—
Do as I say. He put his arms round me and rested his cheek on the top of my head. I closed my eyes and let my whole weight sink into him.
Go on, now, he said. Rest up. You don’t want to miss your big race.
No, sir.
His eyes on me as I climbed the stairs. For that moment, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to listen to my own stomach gnaw at my insides. I wanted to push past him and run to the woods, drink the first critter I found. Then put my dogs on the line and run, because I had a race to train for. I wanted to slide into the yard after a hundred miles and be greeted by Dad’s smile, the way he always raised one hand, not a wave but like saying, Here I am, always waiting on you to come back. Over the last couple months, he’d worked just as hard as I done to get me ready for my first Iditarod and even though I knew he’d understand if I dropped out on account of being sick, I also knew that if I didn’t race, at least a part of him would be disappointed.
Trudging up the stairs, I glanced down at the kitchen and seen Scott and Jesse, both of them watching me head to bed at seven o’clock. My eyes found Jesse’s. Concern on his face, concern for me. When I got to the second floor, I heard him ask Dad, Everything okay?
No, I thought. But it would be. I would make sure it was.
The next day, I didn’t get out of bed till Helen come round. She took one look at me and become the nurse she was, took my temperature and shooed me back into bed, piled blankets on me and give me something to rub into my skin, something else to swallow with water. When I heard her tell Dad she thought he ought to take me into town, I pushed my blankets back and hauled myself to the bathroom, my knife in my hand. Made the smallest cut in the crook of my arm. Watched myself in the mirror after, as the color come back to my cheeks, the dullness gone from my eyes. Rolled my sleeve down, over the cut I’d made.
When I opened the door I found Helen about to knock.
I was just going to check on you, she said. You aren’t nauseated, are you? Dizzy?
Matter of fact, I’m feeling pretty good, I told her.
You do look better.
She put a hand against my cheek. I knew she was only feeling for fever, but my stomach dropped when she touched my face. Her hand so unlike Dad’s, which was broad and calloused. Unlike Jesse’s, which roamed over me, urgent, as generous as his touch was, it was always wanting something, too. Helen touched my cheek, and I thought of all the times Mom had done the same.
I’m okay, I said.
I know you’re probably itching to get on a sled, Helen said. But please do me a favor and don’t go outside today. Give yourself a day to mend.
I nodded. Can I give you a hand in the kitchen?
She smiled. Of course you can. It’s nice of you to offer.
I sat at the table and watched more than I helped, Helen give me vegetables to chop for a salad while she readied dinner. She moved like a bird about the room, lighting in one spot then sailing across the room to fetch something from the pantry. When Dad come in from feeding the dogs, the two of them beamed like kids to see each other. A surge of warmth come over me, though no one had thought to stoke the fire in the woodstove that evening. When Helen left after dinner, I waved as she pulled her Jeep out of the drive, sad to see her go, though her being round made things more troublesome for me.
One sip of my own blood wasn’t much, and by the next morning I felt woozy and looked pale enough to play up how sick I was. When I didn’t get out of bed round my usual time, Dad come in to check on me.