“I honestly didn’t think you’d notice,” I say. “You were so busy with work.”
“How could I not notice? Willow and I got back from our walk, and you were gone,” he says. “We didn’t know what time you left or where you were headed. You should have left a note. Willow thought you might have walked to that shopping plaza bookstore to get some magazine you mentioned, so I drove there to look. I asked everyone I saw if they’d seen you.”
I thrust my thumb over my shoulder toward the fields. “There’s something I want to show you. I found something.”
Dad looks me over. “Why are you wet? Did you fall into a creek or something?”
My hand goes to my shirt. “There was a thunderstorm.” The jeans that Patrick gave me are wet, but they hide the bandaged gash in my leg. “I need to tell you what’s happened.”
“Thunderstorm?” Dad presses his eyebrows together and looks up at the cloud-covered sky. “It hasn’t rained since last night.”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain! I wasn’t here. That oak tree that’s off in the cornfields—” I stop short. How am I going to recap my afternoon without sounding nuts? “Look, I have to show it to you, otherwise you won’t believe it. I was falling asleep under a tree yesterday when I noticed that—” I fumble again for the right words. “It’s just about a half mile—”
“You were gone all this time because you fell asleep under a tree?” He sounds exhausted, and I notice the dark circles around his eyes. “Don’t scare me like that. Ever again.”
He’s not listening. Maybe I’ll try telling him later, when he’s not so worked up. “You never minded when I took BART into San Francisco,” I remind him.
“That was different,” he says. “You knew your way around, and you were always with me or a friend.”
I was always with George.
“Did he call today?” I ask. “George?” It would be so nice to hear his voice.
“How would I know?” Dad says, exasperated. “I was out looking for you!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Come on, I’ll warm up some food for you.” He takes my hand like I’m a little girl and leads me up the driveway and into the house. I let him; I’m happy to. Once we’re inside, he nudges me toward the stairs. “Go dry off before you catch pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia comes from bacteria, not wet clothes.” I hesitate, one foot on the bottom step.
“Kandy upstairs?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Dad. He nods. “Did she, uh, say anything to you today?”
“About how well you’re getting along?”
I’m stunned. How well we’re getting along?
“She mentioned that you chatted this afternoon, and then you disappeared.” Dad shakes his head. “You took off and didn’t tell anyone where you were going.”
Yeah, right. Kandy is the reason I disappeared for hours. She’s the reason my leg is throbbing. Though I guess, in a manner of speaking, Kandy hasn’t seen me all day, or all week. Because she has that endearing way of looking right through me. Like I don’t exist.
“She said we chatted?”
“Yes,” Dad says, heading for the kitchen. “She said you had a very nice talk, and that you’re getting along great. Now go upstairs and change.”
A very nice talk. So that’s how she’s going to play this. What in the world is she up to?
I backpedal to grab my cell phone off the coffee table and then scan my messages as I tiptoe upstairs. There are five missed calls from Dad and three texts from George. Just seeing his name on my phone’s little screen makes my chest feel warm. I can’t open his messages fast enough.
The first is a photo of a golden-colored brownie centered on a white plate. Our favorite dessert at the East Bay Café, loaded with caramel chips and walnuts. I can practically taste its creamy crunchiness. The next text is another photo of the brownie, only this time it’s crookedly cut in two. The subject line reads Bigger half 4 ruby.
The third message shows the brownie again, half-gone. George’s piece has been eaten, crumbs on his side of the plate. This time the subject line says Where IS she???
I’m here, George. I’m right here. I sigh and thumb a message back. Crazy day! Will call u.
There’s no way to explain the tree in a text message, so I don’t even try.
Inside the bathroom, I flip the little dead bolt on the door before peeling off my wet clothes. Gruesome. The Band-Aids are blood-soaked, and the gash stings. I roll the bejeweled, poodle-collar jeans into a ball and shove them to the bottom of the trash can. Good riddance. Under the sink I find a tube of antibacterial cream, which I glob onto my shin before rebandaging it, and then I wrap myself in a towel.
Luckily, Kandy’s door is shut, and I silently pad into my room unnoticed, tossing my wet T-shirt and underwear onto the floor. Something peeks out from underneath my clothes; it’s the snapshot of me sitting on Mom’s lap. Me with my red-gingham blouse and denim overalls. I must’ve tucked the photo in one of my pockets without thinking, back at that brick house on Corrán Tuathail Avenue. I’m glad I didn’t lose it along the way, though now it’s bent and damp. I study Mom’s forced smile and the sparkle of joy in my toddler eyes.
Are you there, Mom? In that other place?
On my dresser is the faded, out-of-focus photo of Mom and me, the one that I’ve had for eleven years. She’s gazing distractedly off to the side, pensive, wistful. I prop my newly acquired version in front of the old. The new photo is in sharp focus, and Mom is looking straight at the camera. It’s jarring.
“Ruby?” Dad calls from downstairs.
I quickly dress in jeans and a gray sweatshirt and silently make my way down the hall, eyeing Kandy’s closed door as I ease past. I’m holding my breath, taking one stealthy step at a time, when a sudden boom-boom! stuns me. The blood drains from my head and I feel woozy. It’s music, pounding.
Now my heart is pounding too. Hammering.
“Your food’s ready!” Dad calls, and I bolt downstairs.
As I enter the kitchen, he’s pulling a dish out of the microwave, and the smell of Indian spices instantly warms me. Somebody—I’m assuming Willow—made a homemade dish with peas and potatoes. A nice change from the takeout garbage we’ve had all week. I eat in silence while Dad does the dishes. “Amazing curry sauce,” I finally say, mouth full.
Dad nods. “Do you want seconds?”
Before I can answer, he’s scooped another ball of basmati rice onto my plate, and more vegetables. He hands me a cup of hot tea. “So you went for a walk?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
“Um, you could say that. I cut through the cornfields, and then …” My voice trails off. I’m still struggling with how to tell him. “I’d really love to show you.”
“Ruby, those fields go on for miles. You could get disoriented.” Dad looks at me wide-eyed. “Completely lost!”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
“They’d have to send out dogs!” He drops a plate into the sink with a crash.
“Would you relax, please? You’re hyperventilating.” Secretly, I’m starting to smile. It’s nice having Dad worry about me. It’s like he forgot about writing gnocchi packaging. He’s thinking about me instead.
“There have been a record number of lightning strikes the past few days,” Dad continues. “The weather people can’t get over it. It’s dangerous out there.”
“Dangerous,” I repeat. Yes, I know. I’ve been to a place with a not-dead mother and a nonexistent brother. To get there, I’ve been through a tree with a door and a steering wheel. The strange inscription over the door could very well be a dire warning.
Dad slides a piece of mail next to my napkin. It’s a postcard. “I don’t know if he called,” Dad says. “But you got this in today’s mail.”