Page 94 of Poison Wood

When my father sees me and backs the dozer away from the flames, I pull up next to him and hop out. The dirt here is like silt, soft and feathery. Not like the red clay in the lake bed. Dust flies up as I walk toward the bulldozer. My father kills the engine and opens the door.

I shield my eyes from the bright sun and look up at him. “Can we talk?”

He looks at the burning logs and says, “Later.”

“Dad.”

“Later,” he repeats and climbs back up into the dozer.

I pull away as he whistles toward Debby, who is carrying branches and limbs way bigger than her.

“Food’s on the table,” she yells. I wave out the window to her.

The three dogs greet me as I walk into the farmhouse. The kitchen is quiet, but a plate sits on the table with Saran Wrap over it and a sticky note with my name on it. It looks like pork chops and mashed potatoes. A nice light lunch. I pick it up and start to scrape it into the trash, then stop. I’m starving.

I heat it in the microwave, then sit at the breakfast table and eat every bite of the food Debby prepared. I bypass the bar on my way to the back stairs. Hair of the dog may not be the best idea after all.

Poison Wood Therapeutic Academy for Girls

Kisatchie National Forest

November 22, 2002

Meadow

Dear Diary,

I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is going to be fine.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Riverbend, Louisiana

Sunday, February 17, 2019

6:41 a.m. CST

Something feels off the next morning as I walk past the bedroom downstairs and see Debby didn’t make their bed. I stayed upstairs the rest of the day yesterday, slipping back into avoidance mode as I read journals and googled names until I fell asleep at an insanely early hour. Despite the hours of sleep I logged, I still feel groggy.

When I enter the kitchen, no lights are on, no food is baking, no coffee is made.

Yapping coming from the laundry room, and when I open the door, the three dogs run out wiggling.

Something’s up.

I pour coffee grounds into the coffee maker and start a pot as I punch in my dad’s cell phone number. The phone rings in my ear and in the kitchen. I look around. His cell phone is sitting on the breakfast table. I hang up and call Debby.

She answers in a sleepy voice. “Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Well.” She clears her throat, and I hear shuffling. “Hang on.”

I pour a cup of coffee before the pot is finished, and coffee drips out and sizzles as I put the carafe back in place.

“Okay,” Debby says. “I’m here.”

“Where is here?” I say, trying not to sound as frustrated as I am.