She found it hard to walk and look at the same time because the ground was so uneven, the snow concealing holes, sharp sticks, and rocks. Her boots crashed noisily through the icy bracken; she stopped every few steps to reassure herself that she was alone. She came to the deer blind where she’d found Rose the day before. It was crude—just a box on legs, a flat roof raised above the box on two-by-fours, the ladder nothing more than a few crosspieces nailed across the legs on one side. Mary Ellen approached it from behind her camera, her finger resting on the shutter, unsure what to do. One corner of the blind was hammered roughly into a tree, but it was hardly camouflaged, its yellowish wood glowing against the background. She climbed inside and found the dirty blanket as they’d left it and Rose’s socks, now stiff with ice.
Mary Ellen knelt on the blanket and peeked out. She tried to imagine what Justine would make of the scene, what importance she would assign to the black branches against the white snow, the gray shreds of sky visible through feathery fronds. She turned to study the crushed beer cans, the magazine fanned open in one corner, dead leaves sprinkled over its fleshy pages. There was something sinister and depressing about the scene; it seemed like ideal subject matter. But the minute she began thinking about the ideas represented within the gloomy juxtapositions—nature and man, hunter and hunted—the ideas immediately became stale and embarrassing. She didn’t even want to try squeezing off a few shots, because doing so would be a failure—an invisible failure, yes, but one with the power to demoralize her, which would imperil her creative process.
She climbed out of the blind and walked on, keeping the ravine within sight so she could find her way back. She tentatively raised her camera a few times but never pressed the shutter, her finger paralyzed with uncertainty. She reassured herself that this was normal; it was only her first foray into the woods, and she was distracted by thoughts of the girl. There would be plenty of time to think about what kinds of pictures she was going to take.
She couldn’t remember it being that way in college, despite all the distractions of campus life. She’d spent hours in the painting studio without ever running out of ideas, probably because she didn’t know enough to understand how immature her attempts were. It had been so fun, so absorbing; she could remember losing track of time, missing meals, losing sleep, painting until her wrist ached, painting until she felt dizzy from the fumes and the colors and the exhilarating rush of creation. She’d painted almost without thinking, and that had showed, of course. The work was amateurish and boring. But that was the trade-off, wasn’t it? She was older and wiser now, with more intellectual ambitions, and so the work would have to happen more slowly. Deliberately.
She replaced the lens cap and slung the camera over her shoulder. Her thoughts turned back to Rose. She wondered what she could be running from, and where she might be headed. It worried her, the way the girl had taken off into the snowy woods, not even saying goodbye, just fleeing like a frightened animal, like that jumpy deer outside the window that morning. The poor girl must be escaping something terrible. If Mary Ellen took her to the police, they’d probably send her right back where she came from. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Maybe she should back off a bit, give the girl some space, let her tell her story. Rose could probably use another day of rest, and if Mary Ellen could figure out what her situation was, it would be easier to decide what to do.
She brushed some snow from her hood and turned back toward the house. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but Rose would probably be waking up soon and wanting lunch. For such a small person, her appetite was enormous.
11
Something about this lady didn’t add up. The way her hand hesitated before she opened a drawer. The way she peered into closets. The pearls in her ears. The sweaters and corduroys a full size larger than the clothes Ivy had found in the dresser.
Ivy put an ear to her bedroom door, listening until she heard the lady come downstairs and leave through the sliding glass door. She waited a few more minutes, then went upstairs and watched the lady through the window. She seemed to be wandering aimlessly. She’d take a few steps, look around at the trees, bring her camera to her eye and then walk on, zigzagging through the snow. Ivy couldn’t imagine what her deal was, but it didn’t matter much. She’d brought tons of food, and she’d given Ivy some pills that were like a miracle drug, calming her fever, easing the piercing ache in her joints, pushing her off into a warm pool of sleep without any of those pouncing, slicing thoughts that had plagued her for what—weeks?
She’d also brought a car—a sporty little thing that looked like a toy. And a purse, which Ivy located by the front door. There was no wallet inside, though, just a phone. Ivy turned it on and examined the wallpaper: a picture of a family in front of a heavily decorated Christmas tree, Mary Ellen right there between two blond girls, wearing a bathrobe, not looking one bit divorced, just tired and kind of unsure what to do with her mouth.
So she was a liar. Maybe the cops were after her—like they were after Ivy. (Or Rose, the stupid-sounding alias she’d come up with in the nick of time, remember that the cops were probably hanging WANTED signs all over the place with her name on them.) The lady didn’t seem
