They finally made it to the balcony, then through the door to the bedroom. Justine took Mary Ellen’s hand and brought her through a crowd of people standing at the foot of the bed, then led her to the stairs. Mary Ellen ran her hand along the wavy plaster wall to steady herself as she followed Justine to the second floor. “I’ve decided it’s time to make some changes,” she said to Justine’s back. “I’ve known that for a while, but tonight things kind of came into focus for me, you know?” On the second floor, people were crowded around one of those tall Middle Eastern pipe things, sucking smoke from a long hose. Mary Ellen paused and stared, swaying a little, then hurried after Justine, who was winding her way down the next set of stairs.
“My daughters don’t need me anymore, my job feels pointless, and I don’t know… I think I ended up on the wrong path somehow.” She was feeling tired, suddenly. These stairs were exhausting, with their triangular treads, which required you to aim so precisely with your foot, lest you land on the narrow part with your big, not-so-narrow foot and plunge over the edge. The thought made Mary Ellen dizzy. She paused and leaned against the wall, trying to stop the spinning, but even though she was very still, the stairway continued to rotate around her, a little wobbly on its axis, like a bent bike wheel. “Justine?” Mary Ellen carefully lowered her right foot to the next step, but despite her best effort, it ended up on the narrow part of the triangle and skidded out from under her, and she slid down the next three or four steps, her calves like skis.
“Whoa!” said a man who was coming up the stairs as Mary Ellen came to a stop on her bottom, bourbon fumes rising off her chest, which felt wet. She set her empty cup on the step and realized the person talking to her was the cologne-wearing man from the bedroom. He held out his hand. “Can I help?”
“I’m fine.”
But he’d already taken her by the arm and was helping her down the rest of the stairs, gently guiding her as if she were elderly or recovering from surgery. “I’m fine,” she repeated, when they reached the ground floor. She pulled her arm away and looked around for Justine. “I’ve got to get going.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Of course I am,” Mary Ellen said impatiently, heading for the front door. “I’m just going to call my husband.” She paused and looked back at the man, whose thick, black eyebrows were drawn together. “My husband,” she repeated. “I’m married.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the man, and he raised his first two fingers to his forehead, giving her a salute. Under normal circumstances, this would seem like a friendly, slightly goofy send-off, but through her drunken haze, Mary Ellen understood that she was being made fun of. She whirled around, lost her balance, and grabbed on to a girl standing by the door.
“Sorry. Sorry.” Mary Ellen managed to get herself out the door and onto the front sidewalk, where she found Justine.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mary Ellen said, fumbling with her phone. “I just feel kind of mixed up. I don’t think I belong here.”
“Sure you do.” Justine took out a cigarette and lit it. “You just need to go home and sleep it off. Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“No thanks,” Mary Ellen said, sinking onto the stoop. “Matt’ll come get me.” Her uncomplaining chauffeur, her tether to the real world. She suddenly longed to see his face.
“Okay, well, we’ll talk,” Justine said. “Let me know what dates you want the house, and I’ll make sure someone comes to plow the driveway.”
Mary Ellen nodded. “CALL MATT,” she barked at her phone.
“Calling Matt,” the phone answered equanimously.
When she looked up, Justine was halfway down the block, nothing but a tall, thin shadow punctuated by a languidly moving, bright-orange speck of fire.
5
Ivy took one of the backpacks out of the closet and put a bottle of water in there, along with some clean clothes, a half-gone bar of grapefruit-scented soap, her shoes, and a map she’d found in the kitchen drawer. She took down the flying deer newspaper clipping, which she’d taped above her bed, and slid it back into her wallet. She layered a couple of shirts under and over her hoodie and jean jacket, pulled the rubber boots over three pairs of socks, pulled another pair of socks over her hands, and headed up the frost-bleached driveway to the road.
She hadn’t come close to waiting the twenty days she’d originally decided on, but it turned out she sucked at rationing food. She also sucked at keeping her thoughts under control. She’d started obsessing over the scene back home—what people were saying at school, what everyone thought about her wild lunge at freedom. Were people laughing at McFadden? Were rumors flying about Ivy—where she was, what she was doing? Did people finally understand what she was made of? It was like a bad rash, the itch to know, and the more she scratched at it, the more it drove her crazy.
Behind those thoughts were other, sneakier thoughts—that maybe, if people back in Good Hope had a newfound appreciation
