path behind her, ‘the phone’s just ringing and he isn’t at the work number Lee gave me, either.’
‘He isn’t at work?’
‘No. His car’s still there. I don’t know.’ She laughed wheezily. ‘He might be stuck in the toilet again.’
‘It was the bath. Did Lee tell you about that?’ She hated the thought of her mother and Rena clucking over Michael. That awful, female power.
‘Have you got a key? When did you last see him? Someone should probably break in and check he’s not in trouble.’
‘Ha ha. Well I’m just . . .’ Dorothy patted the dog, who was whining. ‘I’ll be home later. The cedar house over there. If you need anything.’ She continued down the path a bit and thought once upon a time that witch saved my mother’s life, turned and called, ‘I mean would you like to come for lunch?’
But Rena was walking on.
The trees thickened and lace-holes of light swayed on the damp forest floor. Dorothy trod on fallen nuts, small broken forks of twigs, acorns that rolled glossily away from her progressing feet, looking boiled and indestructible. God, she was sweating, under her arms – the anxiety sweat of menopausal hormones, or of instinct. The woods continued ahead, thick with the crackle of insects. She looked over her shoulder as though Rena might be coming after her. The dog was somewhere. A couple wearing red-and-orange jackets of stiff, waterproof fabric chafed past, pausing in their conversation to exchange hellos. Light pearled in the raindrops that hung on the underside of branches, like the bellies of glow-worms.
An old van stood parked outside Dorothy’s house, not the same van that had taken them away all those thousands of nights ago, but close enough. Its windscreen framed a dream catcher and a couple of dead flies lay in the dust on the thin ledge of dash. The memories wouldn’t hold, they were unlatched, she felt blurred by some other place and time she couldn’t really see. If Evelyn were here, or Daniel, she could ask them what was wrong about Rena. Easier not to grasp at the evaporating past, easier to focus on what was in front of her now.
A trio of figures formed a tableau on her porch. Rena introduced Dorothy to her daughter Mei, and Mei’s daughter Susan, a girl of about eight, dressed in a hand-knitted jumper and white cotton knickerbockers. Mei must have been one of the younger children at the commune, or perhaps back then she wasn’t born yet. They all backed away from the dog when it loped up the steps and skittered to a stop right by them, claws audible on the wooden boards. The girl’s hair was in braids that might have been slept on, gaps appearing between the woven strands, a sparkled hairclip perched over one ear. The dog lapped noisily at its water dish and Dorothy opened the house and welcomed the small group inside, the hallway giving onto the cedar-panelled kitchen, autumn sun warm through the windows, setting the glazed bowls on the table alight. The women smelled of wet wool and old citrus fruit, and Dorothy lit the scented candle on the shelf.
The girl, Susan, sat down and reached across the scrubbed wooden expanse, lying nearly flat on it to arrange the bowls, the largest in the centre, smaller ones in orbit. ‘There are some books in Hannah’s room,’ Dorothy said. ‘Do you want to see?’
Susan shook her head. ‘No thanks.’ Her voice was husky.
‘She’s a wee bit older than you, I think. My kids are at school. Well, my eldest’s at university.’ Dorothy looked at Rena, expecting some reaction to this evidence of the passing of time, but the woman was impassive, maybe blissed out.
‘I’m eight. How old are you?’ the little girl asked.
‘I’m forty-nine.’ She’d just had a birthday; it was the first time she’d said this new number out loud. On that birthday morning she had lain in bed, listening to the shower running over Andrew’s body, the mattress rising to hold her like an open palm, feeling closest of all to Eve. Later she lit a candle for her sister. Yes, she wanted a postcard from Daniel that never came, just as she wanted the phone call out of the blue, the unexpected knock on the door. It was easier to admit these things than pretend the ache did not exist.
Susan smiled. Her two front teeth were new adult ones, rectangular, wavy-ended. ‘It was my mum’s birthday yesterday.’