The Ice Sings Back, page 24
“If you don’t fight, all this…” Tove gestured around them, “it’ll bring you to your knees.”
Ros felt fused to the wooden chair. Her feet stuck flat to the floor. Her eyes anchored to Tove’s. She traced the interior of her own mouth with her tongue. Asked quietly, “What do you fight for?”
Tove raised her right eyebrow, nodded slightly, released Ros’s chin. She turned, pushed Ros’s beer away, then glided her bottom onto the table. Tove’s knees hinged on the table edge, feet dangled lightly beside Ros’s legs.
Ros watched, unmoving, as Tove reached and picked up her hand. Tove placed it gently on bright green thigh. Ros stretched her fingers and palm out slow, felt the warmth of Tove’s leg. Lost her ability to breathe.
She heard Tove take an audible gasp. She looked up, then watched soundlessly as Tove took her hand again and pulled it away from her thigh, held it, then pressed it tight against Tove’s left breast.
“I fight for me,” Tove whispered, both eyes locked to Ros. “My future.”
It took her a full blink to understand, to overlay the padding she felt with the breast she’d assumed. Her jaw loosened and she gawked at Tove.
“I had no idea,” she whispered when her voice worked, hand sinking deep. “I think I’ve been entranced by your lipstick.”
Tove warbled in her throat, a pleased smile flashing at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve learned a lot from Frida Kahlo,” she murmured.
Ros blinked. Total unconformity of the landscape.
She’d been looking at the whole rock and hadn’t taken into account layers, angles, division. What kind of observant scientist was she? She swallowed.
Tove was watching her, and when Ros met her eyes, Tove bowed her head forward and she, shaking, reached her free hand up and tugged at the knot, and then, all that hair was free, an unstoppable debris flow plummeting over Tove’s shoulders.
The movement left Ros watery inside, and she gaped, felt transfixed, as evening light came in through the cabin’s dusty windows and danced off Tove’s loose hair. It looked like a curtain of satin, liquified obsidian. It took her minutes, hours, to re-focus, to remember, to come back to the real Tove sitting beside her on the table.
She raised her eyebrows, looked at Tove, hoped the woman read the question on her lips.
“CHEK2 mutation,” Tove answered.
“When?”
Clearing her throat, Tove lifted her hand away from her breast, set it back on the table. Ros felt emptiness under her fingers, a flash of loneliness.
Tove brought both of her own hands to her neck, to her buttoned collar. “Two years ago.” She tugged lightly, and the first pearl snap on the purple silk gave way. “When I was twenty-seven. Felt the first lumps when I was twenty-five, was told both tits had to go after the first round of chemo didn’t work.”
Tove pulled harder. Four more buttons gave way.
Ros sat motionless but could hear joyous, ecstatic singing emanating from her own core, could see the literal terror and desire she felt twisting together just out of the corner of her eye, could taste adrenaline and ice mixing in her mouth. She glimpsed the center white frame of Tove’s bra like the flash of a geode.
Tove unbuttoned two more.
Ros couldn’t look away, not from the golden eyes flashing, nor the long dark hair flowing, nor the purple shirt slowly splitting apart like two tectonic plates. Unbidden, Amelia Kane jumped into her thoughts, how the search for the missing became more about those looking than those lost. How, seemingly inevitably, women disappeared from their own stories.
Ros swallowed the chalk growing in her throat. She ached for more. She wanted to live.
“I don’t want to disappear,” she murmured to Tove, so soft she barely moved her lips.
“I see you,” Tove whispered back, chin tucked down on her neck like a sleeping seabird. “You are not going to disappear.”
Ros trembled as she breathed in her intense fear. She prayed the little girl was safe, prayed she’d get answers in the days to come about her own mother, her sister. But then, Ros pushed the whole crowd of ghosts away, out of her mind, far back with all the fear and uncertainty and other things that didn’t belong in this moment, this breath between her and Tove. This living.
The shirt came completely unbuttoned and Tove slid her arms free, dropped the silky fabric on the table. Her white bra had wide straps that glistened satin over her pale skin.
Tove reached for Ros’s hand, but then pulled back, dropped her fingers twisting into her lap. Her chest rose and fell shakily. Ros saw for the first time a linear crack, inches to miles deep, in Tove’s confidence. Compassion threaded with joy threatened to overwhelm Ros, and she felt hot tears boil in the corner of her eyes.
“Sorry,” Tove said. “This is new for me.”
Ros gurgled a shaky laugh, heart pounding, sweat blanketing her skin. Heat surged through her legs, stomach, chest. “Me too,” she said. “May I?”
Tove nodded, pulled a deep breath.
Ros reached her fingers up between the fabric cups, unclipped the tiny plastic front closure, opened the sides, slid the straps back over Tove’s shoulders. Let the thickly padded bra fall to the table.
“You okay?” she asked, almost choking on the mire of emotions surging up her throat. Here was now and this was happening and she could not have ever predicted this or dreamed this or hoped this, but she did not want to stop herself and she was damp and sweating and singing.
“I haven’t shown anyone before.”
Ros paused long enough to take in Tove shirtless on the table, still and backlit and unbelievable.
Currents of hot pulse-surged through Ros’s entire body, hairline to toes, and she took a deep breath—one, two—and then she reached and ran her fingers like a khaki-clad explorer down Tove’s shoulder to her bony clavicle, then down further, over the scar tissue half mooning from left sternum to armpit. The Earth’s crust crumpled, the mantle imploded, and entire continents were displaced as the ice within Ros retreated completely and she was throbbing like lava. Her fingers shook as she ran them back along Tove’s skin to the right side, tracing the line like a Braille map, tracking the small hummocks of scar welts telling stories that she wished with all her will that she’d one day learn the proper context to fully interpret.
Tove trembled, shook, as Ros’s fingertips danced along her chest. Tove reached, then pressed Ros’s fingers with her own hands, trapping them against her chest. “We’ve all lost things. But we’ve all also found things.”
Ros could feel Tove’s heartbeat pulsing through the scar’s rumble strips.
“Look at me.”
She looked up, met Tove’s eyes.
“I see you. You see me.”
Ros saw Tove’s hard look, her eyes radiating an intensity that simultaneously terrified and exhilarated her. She paused, felt the flutters in her throat burn hot.
Then Tove grinned like a mad woman. “Sizzle,” she breathed.
“Yes,” Ros said, reached for the woman wearing plum lipstick on the table in front of her.
14
THE
DAUGHTER
Donna parked the car in her usual spot, stared at the dark cabin before her. She’d gone round to the gas station, had picked up bread and canned beans and other essentials—a newspaper and chocolate and a frozen coffee.
“It’s not working,” Donna said aloud, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, looking about the cabin’s clearing. Where she used to take baths as a child. Where she used to stoop and help her mother launder motel sheets. Where she’d kneeled and organized rocks and pebbles and twigs. Where Julene had grown winter greens. Where Ray had beaten her broken.
“I’m deluding myself,” she said, talking to no one but herself and the humming trees looking expectantly at her.
She shook her head, reached for the newspaper, chocolate, and coffee. Tried not to think about having to extend her leave of absence from work a third time. The center needed her back, she knew. But Ray persevered.
Strategize, Donna heard Blazey say in her head. Risk assessment, Donna’s therapists said.
Donna opened the car door and stood, clutching her purchases to her chest. Tried not to spill the open cold brew coffee. Slammed the door closed with a bump of her hip.
The thump of the door banging shut snagged her.
She stopped, waited.
Almost.
There.
The drawers in her cabinet jostled, the folders out of order slid into place, and then out of all the mixed-up data, Donna was finally able to make value.
She remembered.
Julene had lifted her into the trunk of the car parked right there where Donna was now parked. Julene had tucked Donna’s dress in around her, handed in the cloth bundle, looked one last time at Donna, slipped off her green beads and placed them in Donna’s hands. She’d stepped back, reached, banged the trunk closed. Donna had calcified with fear.
But then, in came a whisper through the cracks, the keyhole, the porous accommodating metal that graciously allowed soundwaves to pass through. Donna had heard her mother’s voice. The car engine had revved, and Donna had felt the first jostle as the tires began to roll.
But her mother’s voice was still discernible.
“Forgive me, daughter,” her mother had whispered.
Donna straightened, stood immobile, let the memory replay in her ears once, twice.
She’d known to her core that her mother had said something. She’d known it.
And now.
She remembered. She’d had the audio file all along. It had just needed to be jogged, activated. She felt the hot burn in the corner of her eyes, the triumph.
“Nothing to forgive, Mother,” she said aloud. “You tried to protect me. Forgive me for taking so long.” Her pulse thrummed and sang and heat rose to her face. She felt a smile lift slightly, reached up her hands and held herself, her face, in stillness.
The trees around the clearing stood silent. The cabin leaned, and Donna could hear no sound other than the creek and a light wind rambling through the grass. She stood still and waited, felt peace swell in her belly and tension drain from her throat.
At least, amongst all the horrors and all the days, Donna knew definitively, she now had the data file to support what she’d always suspected but lacked tangible evidence for. She had irrefutable data. Her mother had loved her, her mother had tried to protect her, her mother had cared.
She stood still, the smile motionless on her lips, replayed the memory again, again. This was happiness.
Donna’s fingers started to shake, her arms, shoulders, legs. She allowed the tremors to pulse through, the emotion to vent physically, the collision of desire and discovery. An urge to scream moved up her throat, but she didn’t indulge herself. There was still the larger question.
Donna adjusted her posture, shoulders back, head lifted. This was it. She had hoped to learn everything, but if she didn’t, at least she remembered this.
She walked back to the cabin, clenching her groceries. The thrumming grew stronger as she approached the porch. Three steps shy, she stopped, cocked her head, looked around. Donna was sure she was alone, but she heard something. A music almost, surrounding her. It was radiating, and she could feel the humming she heard now vibrating within her chest.
Donna threw her head back and laughed. Long and hard, booming resonant in the grim forest glade. The only thing she knew in that moment was that it felt good.
Her mother had loved her.
She cradled the heated feeling inside of herself as she moved up to the steps, stride sure and strong. Settled down on the edge of the porch, dangled her legs, set the milk chocolate bar and coffee down beside her thigh, opened the newspaper.
Donna went cold. Her joy evaporated. Her hands clenched.
The front page of The Register-Guard: “Women’s bodies found piled in Three Sisters Wilderness.”
Sweat iced down Donna’s back, she tasted rage. Her skin was cotton, her eyes glass as she read, her brain stoic as data fed into her system and erupted bullet points.
A search and rescue team looking for Amelia Kane has discovered at least five bodies decaying in the wilderness near the Collier Cone off Highway 242.
All women.
Police expect to locate more bodies as they continue to search the area.
Police suspect foul play but refuse to speculate.
Police commissioner of Eugene acknowledges the horrific nature of the crime scene.
Police detail body extraction difficult, delicate procedure.
Police identify and release the names of two remains.
Brie Anitala, aged 32, a white woman last seen nine years ago walking home from a night shift in Sisters.
Dee Mercier, a 49-year-old Siletz woman with three children who disappeared twelve years ago outside of Bend.
Public advise the public to stay away from the area.
Police ask that anyone with any information regarding the case to call local police.
She swallowed, swallowed again, again, again, her dry throat clicking as her eyes darted between the article’s date from three days before and the actual text clumped in thick paragraphs below. Stared at the picture on the front of the newspaper, a low-angled image of the Three Sisters mountain peaks bathing in the glow of a setting sun. No pictures of the missing women.
Closing her eyes, she folded the newspaper calmly in half, set it gently to the side. Her ears pounded with blood, her stomach a single tight fist.
Risk assessment. Consequences. Calm.
Her brain twisted, data layers stacked, her therapists shouted and shook their heads while her inner cool self screamed through the calm, through the quiet, through the patience. Fury and anger boiled, simmered along the surface of her skin as she sat still, unmoving.
A terrible itching came over her and she stood, brain contorting. She tried to blink but her eyes were so tense her lids were locked open. Strategize. Put the data together. Map the next moves.
She moved to the screen door, traced a single finger along the latch. Considered. Her single critical question had focused for so long squarely on Julene. But now, she knew, it wasn’t just about Julene. Donna’s arm shook, her green beads rattled. Now, it was Julene. And all the others.
Donna tried to think clearly.
She could do it with a pillow. She’d planned for that outcome.
She almost opened the door.
But then cool calm settled over her and she turned, walked out across the clearing to her Subaru. She’d planned for so many outcomes, had mapped out so many ways her time with Ray could culminate. And no, she hadn’t mentioned all the outcomes she’d envisioned to her current therapist. Or to Blazey. She just went about planning, layering data sets and gear and necessities, because there was no harm in planning for all contingencies. And planning was her favorite part of strategizing, of organizing options to stay in control.
She just hadn’t thought it would actually go this way. Sometimes the data really was unpredictable. Donna would have smiled in that moment if her face wasn’t still frozen.
Gently, she ruffled through the glovebox, moving papers and files and an ice scraper. There, slipped between tissues and tampons, were the cigarettes. Donna grabbed the soft blue pack, jostled it in her hand. American Spirits. She checked inside, counted six cigarettes. Probably stale. She hadn’t smoked in years. Flipped the pack over, tapped the lighter out. Hesitated, was tempted to light up there on the spot. Needed it. But shook her head, knew she had to wait. Put the pack and lighter in her front pocket, then slammed the door closed.
Planning soothed her, focused her brain. She pushed aside her furious thoughts, gave them space to shout, but insisted they shout from the end of a tunnel where they couldn’t break her calculations. Donna was numb, as cold as the bodies stacked up somewhere in the wilderness. She’d suspected that they were there, but for so long had only the bandwidth, the survival skills, to focus on one. Julene.
Not any more.
Donna propped open the screen door and main door with a rock, grabbed the one good wooden chair from the kitchen table, pulled it into Ray’s stale room. Dragged the chair beside the bed. Slammed it down, loud.
Ray’s eyes jerked open, followed her as she settled herself into the chair, stared at him. His face was still swollen.
“Where is Mother, Ray?” No preamble, no trying to coax him with water or kindness or hate. Just blunt—everything on the table now. “Where is Julene?”
He shifted, rolled his shoulders under the blanket, licked his lips.
“You’re dying, Ray. You know that. Any day now.” Her eyes roamed the room, landed on a decaying box on the floor by the end of the bed. Full of moldering books. She recognized a Bible.
“Confess before you stand before the seat of Christ and receive his judgment, Ray.”
Donna sought to speak a language she hadn’t heard since childhood. Tried to quote from memory. “Revelations? ‘The dead were judged by what was written in the books, according to what they had done.’”
She leaned back in the wooden chair, heard it creak. “What’s written in your book, Ray? What have you done?” Donna heard her voice, was surprised at the tone of strength and calm. “Where is Julene?”
Ray stared feverishly at Donna, pink tongue darting like a worm. She had to suppress an urge to pinch it off. He obviously didn’t like her use of verse. But she was committed. Her stomach churned. “Revelations, Ray, yes. What else does it say?” She leaned back, pulled from patchy memory. “‘But for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral… something… they will be thrown into the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which will be the second death.’”
