After piling some blankets on the girl and bringing her some water, Mary Ellen found a pair of rain boots and brought them to her. “You’ll have to put these on so we can go to the car. Do you think you can get up the stairs?”
The girl shook her head, her blue eyes dull and sunken. She didn’t look at Mary Ellen. “Food.”
“Food. Okay, yes, of course. You haven’t eaten in a while. Let me just… I’ll be right back.”
The girl nodded.
Mary Ellen carried the groceries in from the car and warmed some butternut squash soup on the stove. She brought it in a mug to the girl, who had fallen asleep, her head leaned back against the chair, her mouth slack. Mary Ellen nudged her, then held a spoonful of puree to the girl’s lips, her own mouth opening by reflex, the way it always had when she’d raised a spoon to her daughters’ lips. The girl’s eyelids lifted sleepily. “Eat,” Mary Ellen said.
The girl accepted some soup from the spoon, then reached for the mug. She gulped greedily from it, letting the soup ooze around the sides of the cup onto her cheeks. “Slow down,” Mary Ellen said. “You’ll vomit,” but the girl didn’t listen. She handed back the mug, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She was still wearing Mary Ellen’s leather gloves.
“Sorry,” she said, looking down at the soup-smeared glove.
“It’s okay,” Mary Ellen said, sinking to the floor by the girl’s feet. She put her head into her hands, suddenly overcome with a mixture of horror and relief. What if the girl had died out there? Mary Ellen wasn’t sure she was equipped to handle another death on her watch, even the death of a total stranger, a squatter, a runaway. She reached up and pulled the gloves off the girl’s hands. “Feeling better?”
The girl looked dazed.
“What’s your name?”
“Have you called the cops?”
Mary Ellen looked away. “No, not yet.”
“I’m sorry…” The girl coughed, cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I broke into your house.”
Mary Ellen looked back at her.
“Thank you.” The girl patted the sleeve of the coat she was still wearing.
“What’s your name?” Mary Ellen repeated.
The girl’s stare floated away, then pulled back, like a balloon on a string. “Rose.”
“Rose. I have more food, but I think you should wait a bit. Let that settle. You’ve been sick.”
“I know.”
Mary Ellen put her hand against the girl’s forehead. “You have a fever. Wait here.”
She went upstairs and found the bottle of Numbitol she always carried in her bag. She brought it to the girl, along with a glass of water. “This’ll bring it down,” she said, putting the pill in the girl’s hand.
“Thanks.”
“I’m Mary Ellen.”
The girl swallowed the pill, drank some water. “Very nice to meet you.”
Hearing this caused tears to rise in Mary Ellen’s eyes. What was this girl doing here, all alone, in this condition? “We have to go now,” she said. “To the hospital.”
“No thank you.”
“I found these boots. I’m going to put them on your feet.”
The girl pulled her feet up under herself in the chair, shaking her head.
Mary Ellen squatted next to her. “Listen, you’re sick and dehydrated, and I don’t know what else is going on with you. You need to see a doctor.”
“I just needed to eat something. I’m fine now. Please let me go to bed. I’m tired.”
“Listen to me, I know you might be feeling better now, but this is not something you want to mess around with. I’m taking you to the doctor—”
“No.”
“Rose—”
“I’m going to bed.” The girl pushed herself up out of the chair and shuffled into the bedroom, closing the door.
“Okay then,” Mary Ellen muttered, standing up and going upstairs. She inspected the view from all angles, walking from window to window, scanning the trees, which were thin, prickly, and still. The lack of internet was exasperating; she had a thousand questions. Was vomiting normal with seasonal flu? Where was the closest twenty-four-hour clinic? Was this the kind of thing Social Services dealt with? Should she drive to town and call Justine right away? What would Matt say? Should she go home?
She began straightening the living room, throwing away food wrappers and dirty tissues. She found a sketch pad with all its paper torn out; in the far corner of the room, a drift of paper airplanes. She collected the planes, examining the childish cartoon figures scribbled on their wings and sides, then flattened them into a recycling bin. She gathered all the towels from the kitchen and bathrooms and put them in the washer, along with the dirty sheets she’d found in the drawer. She swept the slick bamboo floors, picking up all the pine needles, clumps of dirt, and dead leaves that had been tracked throughout.
Teenagers! It was one thing to break into someone’s house; it was another to completely trash it. Mary Ellen went to the kitchen and began washing the dishes that were strewn across the counter, scrubbing vigorously at the moldy smears of food. It was supposed to be simple, this trip—just Mary Ellen and the woods. Just Mary Ellen, her Nikon, and an uninterrupted expanse of time in which to focus on her photography. Was that so much to ask?
After finishing the dishes, she wiped the windows, erasing Rose’s handprints. The house was smooth, sharp, cool to the touch. The hard sofas, the lacquered cabinets, the tiny light bulbs: Mary Ellen was beginning to understand the point of such a retreat. It was a cool hand against a feverish forehead, a sip of vodka after a rich meal. It was also a warm, well-lit shelter against the frozen forest, which was swiftly darkening outside
