Candice’s tea clanked to the table. “Do you really think you’re strong enough to sift through those details? I insist you let it go. For your own sake.”

My stubborn streak dug in. “I think I can handle it. It’ll be a lot better than making stuff up in my head. I’m ready for the truth. Hey, by the way,” I changed the subject as quickly as I could, “we had an interesting adventure yesterday.”

I filled her in on my visiting family and the scare we had from Sam’s ex-husband.

“You have Melissa Belmont staying at your place?” Candice straightened, disapproval thick on her voice. “Does Drake know that?”

“I hope not. But I’m pretty sure he must.” I told her about Stick’s visit and Joel’s deception. “For all we know, Stick went right to Drake and told him where Missy and the kids are hiding out.”

She pressed her hands together. “Tish. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into. Drake’s scheduled to get out of jail in a few days. Don’t think for a minute he won’t go after his family.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And what were you thinking taking in that Sam girl? Now you’ve got her ex starting in. And it’s only the beginning. He’ll play cat and mouse awhile just for fun. Then he’ll go in for the kill.” She stared at me with pleading eyes. “Throw them out. Save your own life.”

I shivered at the chill in her voice. But all her urging couldn’t quash the defensive feeling that rose in my chest. “These are my friends. They need me. I can’t let them down.”

The color drained from her face. “I understand.” She stood and stacked the tea things on the tray. “Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll rest a bit.”

I took the hint, said goodbye, and headed back to the lodge.

31

With Brad’s impending arrival, my home became my enemy. I felt as if a scythe swung just above my head, ready to cut off my breath the moment I saw his face. Perhaps he’d show up for dinner. Or drop by to say hello. Or take a shift as bodyguard. Not wanting to appear interested, I’d avoided asking the details of his visit.

My waitress-training commitment provided an opportunity to escape the house, but I couldn’t bear to be around Brad’s sister. She’d burdened me with a guilt trip over the way I’d treated him. And my mind played right into it. I beat myself up over every perceived slight I’d given my good friend. Now, if he did show up, my only option seemed to be crawling under a rock and hiding in shame until he went away. Toss in Candice’s criticism of my friends and choices, Puppa’s suggestion that I needed therapy, and Joel’s scorn of my very existence, and suddenly I could see how the bottom of Mead Quarry might become an attractive proposition.

But ending it all wasn’t a fitting choice for me. I was a survivor. I prided myself on having lived through everything God and others threw at me. I just had to wait out this latest storm. Next time I poked my head from my hole, things would be better.

The key was getting away from my tormenters. I needed space, time to think, air to breathe—somewhere they couldn’t imply how bad I was, how I should change, how I should never have been born.

Friday morning I woke early to make my escape. Snacks, water, and bug spray would be my only companions for the day. The quiet house seemed to echo with even the slightest of my movements as I snuck to the kitchen and gathered my supplies. With a final, slow zip of my backpack, I reached for the kitchen door.

“Where you going, cuz?” Gerard’s voice halted me at the verge of freedom.

I froze, busted by the bodyguard on the sofa.

“Uhh, just going out for some fresh air.” Even the truth had a ring of fiction to it. What was my problem? I didn’t have to tell him where I was off to. I was an adult—and this was my house.

I turned the handle without waiting for a response. The porch squeaked under my boots. The door latched behind me.

Damp air, still full of the dew that covered the grass, rushed into my lungs as I put one foot in front of the other, faster . . . faster . . . until the gravel was a bouncing blur. Pavement appeared briefly, then was gone, replaced by the sharp incline of the bluff. Roots, thorns, bark, and bare earth —all passed beneath my fingers as I scrambled unthinking to the top. I paused only a moment for a glimpse of the bay. Leaves blocked the view. Before thoughts of those still sleeping could invade, I fled toward the forest, losing myself—and my mind—in the flat expanse of the Silvan Plains.

I returned in near-darkness.

“Where have you been?” Sam met me, hands on hips, at the door.

“Out for a walk.” I drank down a glass of water.

“We’re all worried about you. What’s going on?” Sam leaned in toward me, her expression changing as her eyes shifted to my hair.

“Nothing to be worried about.” I brushed past her to my room. Nice of her to show concern when she was the one to drive me from my home in the first place.

Twigs and thistles snarled my hair. I picked out the most annoying ones, then climbed under the covers and slept with my head under the pillow.

Saturday brought more of the same. I evacuated the area early, hoping to avoid brown eyes softened by those crinkles in the corners. Happy crinkles. Fun crinkles. The kind of crinkles that made you want to hang out with Brad for the rest of your life.

Sunday came. Instead of trudging to church in my negative state of mind, I trudged the plains. Every so often, my swampers sank in surprise springs, soaking my feet. I hardly noticed. At least the water washed off some of the mud caked on my jeans. And when did I tear that hole in my sweatshirt?

My slim digital camera, the one I used for before-and-after shots of my renovation projects, came along for the ride. My link to my mother . . . How would she have photographed the seed cluster clinging to that branch of the cedar tree? What angle would she have chosen to capture the circle of mushrooms in that sunny clearing? Which spring wildflower would have caught her attention and stolen her breath?

Snap. Click. I could only guess.

That night, a light supper from the kitchen. Then upstairs, exhausted. Bathe, sleep, dream. But as always, morning came. Out the door again, running . . . hiding . . . avoiding . . .

Monday found me at the Port Silvan cemetery a couple miles down the road. I meandered through headstones, reading names and dates, intent on finding one in particular. I started at the front near the highway and worked my way through family plots toward the back, like a wraith wandering over hallowed ground. Bouquets of plastic flowers, tiny American flags, and statues reminded the living that someone still cared. A few graves had elaborate displays of fencing and photos and even stuffed animals. But not the one that read elizabeth marie amble. I found it along the back row, in with the Nagy family plots. Grandma Amble had insisted on burying her daughter with the rest of her family, though Mom and I had only spent summers on the peninsula and the rest of the year in Escanaba. A simple rectangular slab of granite was inscribed with my mother’s name and the years of her birth and death. I crouched down. Somewhere, six feet below, lay the remains of my beautiful mother. I put my hands on the grass above her casket, imagining she could feel the pull of energy between us.

“Mom,” I whispered, my lips close to the ground. The scent of rich earth greeted my nose. A black ant traversed the grassy grave top, climbing up and down through the mess of green blades. I flicked it away with my finger.

Legs tucked, I rolled onto my side and rested my cheek on the ground. “It’s Tish, Mom. Your baby girl. Remember?”

I pictured her sitting on top of the grave, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, like a character from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.

“Of course I remember my little princess.” She smoothed my hair as I rested my head in her lap. “I’ve missed my pumpkin. I’m glad you came to see me.”

I crushed my eyes closed, but the tears came pouring out anyway. “I miss you so much, Mom. Why did you leave me? Didn’t you love me?”

Her soft voice comforted me. “Tish, you have always been the most important thing to me. I made a mistake that night. Sometimes you have to let go of people so you can live. I held on to your father. But he wasn’t real. Just a dream. I should have let go of him. You let go too, Tish.”

“I don’t want to let go. I want you back. I want to be seven again, playing in the woods. Gerard and Joel can come too. We’ll all be together again. Puppa and Jellybean and the rest of us.”

“Let go, Tish. It’s all just a dream.”

“I don’t want to let go.” I clawed at her lap, but got only a handful of dirt and grass. I laid there sobbing, I don’t know how long, before I dusted off and headed home.

It was Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. Whatever the day, I left just after I heard Sam’s van pull out the drive. I made it to the edge of the woods without seeing anyone. Then, there she was. My friendly doe.

“Hi, girl,” I said. I kissed at her and held out a hand. She stared at me awhile. Then she casually bent her neck to eat. I smiled. She knew me. She liked me. She was comfortable around me. After a minute, she turned and walked away. I followed at a distance. Ahead, the underbrush crunched. Several times she stopped and I thought I lost her. But soon her shape emerged from the backdrop and we’d start off again.

The ground got soggy. Cupid’s Creek must be just ahead. If she decided to cross it, I’d have to let her go. Water trickled. The doe stopped in a clearing and looked back at me. I waggled my fingers.