The Wilderness by Karen Novak

Author:Karen Novak
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781596918658
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

molly

It is now thirteen minutes after three. Molly has killed a whole four minutes since she last checked the time. She throws off the covers, gets out of bed, and goes out into the hallway. The light is on in her parents' bedroom. Apparently Dad cannot sleep either. He's waiting for Mom. Or worried. Both. She knocks lightly on the door. He doesn't answer. Maybe he fell asleep with the lights on. She peeks in the room. "Dad?" He isn't there. Downstairs?

She's halfway down when she hears his voice. He's in the kitchen, on the phone. He sounds upset. She ventures down further, her bare feet silent on the steps. The floor is cold so she hurries, clutching her fists at her belly because as she gets nearer to the kitchen she's beginning to feel ill. His voice is thick and halting. Molly recognizes that voice. He's talking about Mom; he's trying not to cry.

" . . . I really don't know if I can do it again, you know, Frank? I don't . . ."

Molly knows only one Frank who takes calls from Dad at three o'clock in the morning. It's Mom's doctor. She pivots her toes and heads back for her room, sick for real. Before she runs up the stairs, Molly unlocks and opens, just a little bit, the front door.

She runs as lightly as she can; she doesn't want him to know she's up; he'd try to reassure her again and she can only do the fine, fine, we're just fine crap so many times a day. Back in bed, she stares up at the dark ceiling, her heart is racing with a weird sort of urgency and her breath is gaspy.

Out of bed again. She runs to the sewing room, tries the knob, opens the door. The peacock drawing stares down at her, the oil surface gleaming back the thin light from the thin moon as though mocking the moon's own trick. She reaches up on her toes and runs her hand over its eyes, smearing them shut. Her face is hot. She feels both relief and dread as she smears the colors again with both hands. The smell from the oils is dense and awful; she knows she's making a mess. She's pounding at the smeared drawing, her fist sliding in the muck. She can't stop.

The office light comes on. Dad stands in the doorway, his hand on the light switch. He's still wearing his work clothes.

"What are you doing, Mol?"

She can't answer him because she's crying too hard. He rushes over and grabs her wrists, making her stop hitting, turning her from the murky gray blank she's made of the feathers and words, pulling her gently away through the open sewing room door.

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