Wonderland Read online

  They were planning to get a bigger table, but for now they were still using the folding card table they’d had in the apartment. Orla pushed the remaining kitchen boxes past the threshold, then hoisted one onto the table and another onto the counter. The living room was more manageable then, with more space to maneuver in and fewer boxes to focus on. She poked her head into Shaw’s studio before settling down with the boxes of books. He’d been up late, and the room looked completely finished.

  It was all coming together.

  She caught herself feeling more optimistic than she had in months. The craziness and stress of being perpetually between places was finally all behind them. It was time to unwind. Get settled. Embrace their fresh start—and the magic Shaw wanted them all to experience.

  Orla bent over and pressed her forehead into her knees as she held her wrists loosely behind her heels. It felt so good, the stretch along the backs of her legs. She could’ve stayed there forever—or at least another five minutes. But then her children started screaming. Spears of high-pitched terror. She bolted upright.

  7

  Orla clambered for the front door, not bothering with her boots or coat. Outside…

  White.

  Nothing but white.

  Blue sky and sunshine gone. The force of the wind made her stumble as she headed down the nearly invisible porch stairs.

  “Tycho! Eleanor Queen!”

  “Mama! Mama!” The children were yelling, but she couldn’t see them.

  The wind tore at her flimsy clothing and she clutched her arms against her chest. She slipped down the last two steps, falling onto her knees as one bare hand sank into the snow. The children were out there, and not far, by the sound of their voices, but the whipping snow obliterated her field of vision; she struggled to even keep her eyes open.

  “Tycho! Eleanor Queen!” she screamed. “Keep shouting so I can find you!”

  “Mama!”

  Orla staggered toward their voices, her skin prickling with goose bumps and her heart knocking against the thin bones in her chest. She stretched a hand out in front of her and groped blindly, expecting to grasp the downy padding of one of the children’s coats. They sounded so close. Except when the wind seemed to carry their voices away. Once, Orla twisted her head and looked up toward the sky, convinced she’d heard her daughter being sucked away into the atmosphere. “Eleanor Queen!”

  “Here, Mama! We’re here!”

  Orla tripped over something. The dragon. Finally, she saw color in the whiteout. She grabbed for it. The red of Eleanor Queen’s snow pants. She tugged at the red with one hand and grabbed at her son’s blue coat with the other. The children scrambled for her, pressing their faces against her collarbones. She held them with all her strength, grateful to have them in her arms—and grateful for the warmth they provided. They couldn’t stay out there much longer—Orla would be the first of them to freeze to death. She made herself stand, even though her cold muscles resisted such exertion, and dragged the children up to their feet.

  The wind pushed, pulled, as the snow slammed in her face—where was the house? She took her best guess, lifted the kids, one in each arm, and plunged forward.

  After a few steps…

  Everything went still. The roaring wind died so suddenly that at first Orla thought she’d gone deaf. Then she realized there simply wasn’t anything to hear. As the snow settled, falling gently back into place, the clarity of their surroundings emerged. The house. The garage. The trees. The blue sky—free of clouds. The sun, undiminished.

  Orla took a moment to catch her breath. She let the children slip off her body and onto their feet. All three gazed around them, stunned by the ferocity of the weather, and shocked by its sudden departure. It was only when Eleanor Queen began whimpering that Orla regained her urgency. She clutched them to her sides and half dragged them back toward the house. Tycho struggled through the deep snow, so Orla hoisted him up and carried him like a baby in her arms.

  Eleanor Queen dashed across the porch and held the door open for her mother. Once they were all past the threshold, they collapsed—Orla and Eleanor Queen in tears.

  “What happened, Mama?” Tycho asked, his face pink and amazed.

  “Blizzard—snow squall.” Her hands were frozen almost stiff. And her slippers were soaked all the way through; her toes sizzled with pain. Her exposed skin felt like it had been whipped. With clumsy hands, she helped Tycho out of his boots and gear.

  “It came out of nowhere.” Eleanor Queen’s eyes were wide and hopeless.

  “Come on, everyone out of your wet things and we’ll get warmed up.” Though in truth, only Orla was chilled to the bone. “Mama can’t stop shaking.”

  She didn’t want her children to know her terror; better to pass it off as cold. Whatever had happened…what had happened? A freak weather burst? She’d seen bouts of wind like that tear through the five boroughs like a formless tornado, leaving strewn garbage and shattered tree limbs in their wake. In all their preparations, Shaw hadn’t mentioned anything about dangerous snow squalls or the weather being so volatile and unpredictable. The flush of anger that he’d kept things from her brought warmth to her freezing limbs.

  Eleanor Queen didn’t want a bath, but she helped run one for Tycho as Orla toweled off in her bedroom. Orla put on two layers of sweatpants and shirts, two pairs of socks. Before joining the kids in the bathroom, she ran downstairs and turned the thermostat up to seventy-two. Her bones ached from exposure and she wouldn’t have minded a few minutes submerged in the warm water, but the kids needed her.

  As Tycho splashed in the bubbles, playing with a toy airplane, Orla sat on the closed toilet, with Eleanor Queen—cocooned in pajamas and a fleece blanket—on her lap. Tycho seemed undamaged by whatever had happened outside. He was back to humming one of his little tunes as his airplane made repeated crash-landings in the water. But Eleanor Queen trembled inside her cocoon in spite of Orla’s strong arms around her.

  “It was just a bit of bad weather. Winter can be mischievous like that.” Orla didn’t fully believe her own words, but she cooed them into her daughter’s ear, hoping to ease her fear.

  Eleanor Queen shook her head.

  “No?” Orla asked.

  Eleanor Queen shook her head again. “It wasn’t regular weather.”

  “No, I’d say you’re right about that. It was very sudden and intense, but still—it’s just snow and wind. And it didn’t last. It scared you, but you’re okay. You weren’t going to get lost or—”

  “It wanted to eat us.”

  “Shhh.” Orla rocked her. “It didn’t want to eat you any more than the sun wants to kiss you or the rain wants to wash your hair.”

  From the tub, Tycho giggled.

  “It did, Mama—I felt it.” Eleanor Queen nestled even deeper against Orla’s body.

  She’d never felt such a strong urge to dismiss her child’s feelings, but if she accepted Eleanor Queen’s bizarre explanation—so different from the very real and immediate things that usually frightened her—then Orla wouldn’t know how to reassure her. “You felt scared because it was hard to see with all the snow, and hard to breathe with all that wind. It’s okay to be scared—everybody gets scared. But it’s over, and you’re safe.”

  Orla wished Shaw were home. He’d put their daughter at ease. Maybe he’d even put Orla at ease. She felt something too, a layer of fear she couldn’t explain. Shaw would set her straight just as she was trying to do with Eleanor Queen.

  A lingering spindle of ice twirled along her spine. What if Shaw had been caught in it too? Maybe there wasn’t a cliff he could tumble over, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get hurt and need help. And she wouldn’t know how to find him. Come home. Come home.

  “Okay my little loves.” She set Eleanor Queen on her feet and stood. “Before our little Tigger gets all wrinkly like a raisin.”

  As she held open a fluffy towel, Tycho shot up out of the water. “I don’t like raisins. Can we have hot cocolate
?”

  “Hot chocolate—does that sound good?” she asked Eleanor Queen, still hoping to find a way to comfort her.

  The girl nodded, the blanket up to her ears and clutched beneath her chin.

  Orla quickly dried off her son. “Then it’s a plan.” At least it gave her a direction, a distraction. And the assurance that in this, at least, she could give her children what they wanted.

  She kept the kids busy with small tasks. They took turns feeding crumpled newspapers and twigs into the wood-burning stove. Orla lit it, and they all watched, mesmerized, as the flames spread and grew stronger. Then she settled a dry log atop the blaze and shut the stove door, all the while babbling about how warm it would be, how cozy, how soothing on a cold winter day. The devil on her shoulder dissected her words, ready to pick a fight: It was barely winter yet, still November, how bad were things going to get? But she’d save those arguments for Shaw. She let the children fold up the card table’s legs, and the three of them made a production of carrying it into the living room—though Orla could have done it one-handed in a matter of seconds.

  Eleanor Queen went on a search through the cabinets to find the newly unpacked mugs. Tycho tipped a packet of hot “cocolate” into each of them, spilling a halo of fine brown powder around the base of every one. Orla poured the hot water but let Eleanor Queen do all the stirring when she insisted she could do it without splashing even a single drop over the brim. And she was true to her word.

  They hung out in the toasty living room for hours, playing Yahtzee, Uno, Chinese checkers. Orla heated up some canned soup for lunch—the freezer wasn’t yet stocked with homemade staples—and pretended she wasn’t worried that Papa hadn’t come home yet.

  The day remained sunny and clear, though neither of the children asked to go back outside to play. Tycho ended up taking a nap on the couch. Eleanor Queen slunk off to her room, her books. Orla started washing up the dishes, but stopped when she realized that each member of the family was in a different place—three different rooms inside, and somewhere outside.

  A new fear struck her.

  Would they grow apart? Would they instinctively seek their own solitude and forget how it had been when they were always on top of each other? It was something they’d sometimes complained about, but now Orla could see the disadvantages of having more space—the slow stretching of their connections to one another. For years, making it work had been a daily exercise in compromise, new dances with new choreography—sometimes a waltz as she swept around the obstacles, the people, on her way across the room; sometimes a polka with an impromptu do-si-do to avoid a collision. Would they stop trying to read one another’s moves, moods, now that being in close proximity wasn’t a necessity? Instead, would they walk away and succumb to the silence and separation that seemed to reside like a feral entity in most family homes?

  She wouldn’t allow it.

  Orla abandoned the kitchen duties and returned to the living room. The boxes were already open so she started with the children’s books, and it took little additional effort to slide them noiselessly onto their shelves. Sometimes she glanced at Tycho as he slept, floppy like the baby he still was. What a sweet boy he was going to be. She could imagine him in school someday with equally sweet and curious friends. They’d talk about going to Mars in all seriousness, their future as astronauts never in doubt. He knew there was a real-life Tycho who’d been an astronomer, although her son was actually named after his papa’s best friend Lawrence’s parrot. The parrot-Tycho liked to count down from ten and squawk, “Blast off!” For a brief period, she and Shaw had silently cursed his astronomer-parrot namesake as toddler Tycho—well acquainted with the parrot—screamed “Blast off!” in answer to every question.

  The memory always made her smile; while other two-year-olds said “No” to everything, her little boy was ready to shoot for the moon. He’d be a remarkable man someday. She’d do everything possible to make sure he retained his kindness, his easy comfort with loving and being loved.

  Just as she was about to project Eleanor Queen into the future—a girl who, even by name alone, would never settle for princess status—something clattered at the back door. Her pulse quickened and she sprang to her feet, ready to gather in her children, or fight. The first irrational image that came to her mind was of a fox—or foxes—with nimble hands and small tools, seeking to break in and rob the place. You’ve been reading too many picture books. Her second thought was a black bear, ready to shove its paw through the kitchen window in search of leftovers.

  A thump.

  A whack-whack.

  She eased toward the sound, wondering which kitchen utensil could be used as a weapon. What was even available? A bamboo mixing spoon? A saucepan?

  Should she get one of the guns?

  Shaw stumbled in, bringing with him a spray of snow and a burst of cold.

  Her panic deflated, but not before the worst thought ever assaulted her relief: This is how families are shattered by fatal mistakes. If she’d gotten the gun; if, in her fear, she’d seen a blur and not her husband…she’d never have been able to forgive herself.

  He panted and propped the snowshoes against the wall, where slush dribbled off them. Orla crossed her arms over her chest, full-on angry. Despite the imagined catastrophe, she was certain that whatever had delayed him for so many hours was his own fault. She had the luxury of such condemning thoughts after seeing that he was, beyond his exhaustion, all right.

  “Where have you been?”

  He collapsed on the one kitchen chair that wasn’t in the living room with the folding table. After unzipping his coat, he just sat there, depleted of energy, his body slumped.

  “Get me some water?”

  Orla filled a glass and handed it to him. Her outrage withered. Whatever he’d endured—though it hadn’t resulted in broken bones—hadn’t been easy. Or fun. He gulped down the water.

  “More?” she asked.

  He shook his head and handed back the glass. With effort, he hoisted one ankle up to his knee and started untying his boot.

  “What happened?” Something wasn’t right. And of all of them, Shaw was the one who’d greeted the wild North Country with zeal. Now he looked defeated. “Did you get lost?”

  He uttered a bark, half laugh, half cry. “I didn’t think I was gonna find my way back.”

  “Baby.” Orla went to him and he wrapped his arms around her waist. And wept. His tears made something crackle within her; simultaneously, the basement furnace’s internal fire bloomed to life. Was it uneasy too? Afraid? She’d never deny her husband his manly right to cry, but what had so shaken him? She wanted to ask him if they were safe but instead held him until he quieted, then got on her knees and undid his other boot. Lifted off his hat. Eased him out of his day pack. She left the boots on the doormat, so it would soak up the melting snow, and moved the snowshoes onto it too, leaning them against the closed door.

  “Do you want something warm? Coffee? Tea?”

  “I’m too hot,” he said, slipping out of his coat, tugging at the neck of his sweater.

  She pulled it off over his head; the T-shirt he wore beneath it was soaked through with sweat.

  “Papa?”

  Eleanor Queen stood in the threshold between the two rooms, watching. Cautious. Orla wondered how long she’d been there. Had she heard that he’d been lost? Had she seen him cry? Shaw’s state was unlike him; neither of them tended toward the overwrought. And for the first time she realized she had nothing to picture when her husband was out there, alone. In the city, she knew all of his favorite places, could imagine him in his element when they weren’t physically together. But here…

  She shuddered, glad she hadn’t thought of it sooner, the nothingness, the vacuum he’d disappeared into the moment he left the yard.

  “I’m okay, Bean.” He used his nothing-to-worry-about father voice and held out his hand to her.

  Orla smoothed back his sweaty hair, ashamed she hadn’t run to greet him, to co
mfort him, the moment he’d come through the door. She stood there with an arm around his shoulder, smiling at Eleanor Queen so she wouldn’t be so hesitant.

  “Papa’s fine. Had a long day in the woods.”

  Eleanor Queen kept her eyes on her father. She approached with the same vigilance she usually reserved for dogs; she didn’t trust them even when they were sitting quietly, always afraid they would start barking or jumping. When she was within reach, Shaw reeled her in and gave her a kiss on the head. But she wouldn’t let him keep her in his embrace. “Did it try to eat you?” she asked, pulling back.

  “Did what try to…what?”

  “We had a little adventure of our own,” Orla said. “A little blizzard. Out of nowhere. But everybody’s fine now.”

  A perplexed look lingered on Shaw’s face. “It snowed here?”

  “Briefly.”

  “It didn’t snow where you were?” Eleanor Queen asked.

  “No…no.” He tried to laugh it off. “Man, I knew we’d get some crazy weather here, but it’s not like it was when I was a kid.”

  With one hand, Orla massaged the tight muscle between Shaw’s shoulder and neck. He looked up at her, giving her a conspiratorial raise of his eyebrows. It was a gesture they both understood and had used before, a silent request to postpone further discussion until they were alone, when neither of the children might overhear.

  The house was so warm—too warm—but Orla shivered. She willed time to slow down, afraid of what Shaw would tell her after the kids were asleep. His words might confirm a scenario she wasn’t sure she could gracefully handle—that maybe he didn’t know how to live here either.

  8

  Supper was a moody affair, the family’s usual chatter replaced by exaggerated slurps and chewing noises—or so it seemed to Orla. Eleanor Queen stared at her plate, poking fork holes in her noodles. Tycho let out an exuberant—annoying—Aaaahh! every time he gulped his milk. Shaw’s fork clanged against his plate so much—what was he even cutting?—that Orla started to believe he was intentionally trying to get on her last nerve.