Page 136 of The Witch’s Orchard

They break apart as Mandy pushes through them, coming toward me.

“Mandy,” I say, stopping her. She smiles at me, hands me a coffee.

“Y’all done already?”

“I think so,” I say. “I think she’s told me all she needed to say.”

“Mandy, do you know the story of the Witch of Quartz Creek?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Can you tell it to me?”

“Here?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Well, there was a woman,” she says. “A woman who was beautiful but poor. She had two beautiful daughters who were her pride and joy. She loved them above everything else and so, when the hardest winter of a hundred years came, and her daughters were like to die of hunger, she took them up the mountain to where a witch lived. The witch had an apple orchard that no snow could touch, and the woman knew that if her daughters lived with the witch, they would never starve. She gave her daughters to the witch on that day. The witch agreed to feed them dainties and clothe them in finery and raise them like princesses. She took the girls into her house.

“But the woman was powerful sad about it. She loved her daughters, like I said. Loved them more than the world. She cried and cried at the witch’s doorstep. And the witch told her that she would curse the daughters if the woman did not leave. The woman said she would leave. The witch gave her a sack of apples, apples that would never rot but would stay fresh until eaten. And the woman ate all of the apples and, after every one, she planted the seeds.

“That’s why there’s so many apple trees in Quartz Creek. And it’s why none of them produce apples. Not a single one. They never have. Because they were planted in grief, bathed in a mother’s tears. Stories say that when the woman’s daughters return to her, the apples will finally grow.”

I find myself smiling at her.

“Mandy, do you know why there are so many versions of this story?”

She shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee and then says, “Gosh, you know, I think it’s like anything else. It changes in the telling. And that story’s been told over and over. You know, my sister didn’t know Rapunzel was named after the greens her mama stole when she was pregnant?”

“Was she?” I ask.

Mandy laughs and then nods back toward the room where her daughter lies. Damaged but alive and found at last.

“I’d better get back,” she says.

“We’ve got a social worker on the way,” AJ tells me when she’s gone. “I think they’re going to have their hands full with Jessica.”

“I think you’re right,” I say. “Where’s Deena?”

“She’s in custody.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“Her family sent an attorney up from Savannah. Sounds like they haven’t forsaken her after all. Deena hasn’t said a word since the woman got here. She’s pushing for an insanity plea, probably end up in a private psychiatric place down in Georgia.”

“Probably,” I agree.

I sigh and lean back against the cold hospital wall, press my fingertips to my face, rub my eyes. Sometimes, it’s the calm that comes after the storm that’s the hardest. When there’s nobody left to fight, nothing left to find, no one left to save.

All that’s left is you and your thoughts, your memories, as your mind starts shifting everything around, finding new contexts for old hurts.

“I’m going back to the cabin,” I say when I see Shiloh approaching, carrying a pile of my things.

“Okay,” he says. “See you later?

I nod.

“You ready?” Shiloh asks.