Wild is the Witch (4)

We walk in opposite directions, and I take a deep breath, letting the cool coastal air calm me. The sloth habitat comes into view with a bright-yellow sticky note attached to the door, standing out against the dusk. I recognize Pike’s handwriting and squint to read the words: Thanks slow much!

I roll my eyes and pull the note off the door, crinkling it in my hand and tossing it into the trash. I get started cleaning, doing my best not to disturb the sloths, most of whom are sleeping. All of the money we get from the tour groups goes directly toward caring for our animals, and while the wolves are the biggest draw of the tours, the sloths never disappoint.

Once their habitat is clean, I check the temperature before slipping back outside. Mom is already waiting for me, and she wraps her arm around my shoulder.

“How are you?” she asks, leaning her head against mine, and I know she’s asking about Amy.

“I’m glad she’s going home,” I say. “She deserves to.”

“She does,” Mom says, giving me a tight squeeze before pulling away.

What happened that night was so much worse for Amy. All she wanted was to share the magic she adored with the person she loved, and instead she watched him die. But there was so much collateral damage, so much pain, and I’m still working my way through the wreckage.

I want Amy to go home. I want her to find happiness and love and a way to move forward. I want to reach out and ask how she is, but we haven’t spoken since her trial, and I don’t know how to start up again. At first, she didn’t want to speak to anyone, and I was okay with it because I didn’t know what to say. I was so mad at her, and so devastated for her. It was complicated, and it still is.

Eventually, weeks passed, then months, then years. And after all this time, I still don’t know what to say.

“Maybe it can help give you some closure.” Mom drops her work gloves onto the office railing and looks at me.

“Maybe,” I say, even though I don’t know how a person gets closure from something like that. If closure is even something I want. The pain of it keeps me sharp, a constant reminder that some things are best left hidden.

I don’t say anything more, and Mom doesn’t push it. She knows there was a fundamental shift inside me after my trial, that I began to close off the parts of myself I’d previously held open to the world. I think it makes her sad sometimes, the way I built so many walls around myself for protection from something she can’t see. The way time and distance didn’t bring as much peace as she thought they would.

“You take him way too seriously, you know,” Mom says after several minutes, interrupting my thoughts.

“Who?”

She raises her eyebrows and tilts her head expectantly.

“Oh, Pike. Honestly, Mom, I’m a little surprised you don’t.”

“He’s hardly the first person to make a joke about witches.”

“I don’t think he was joking. But even if he was, he works with us. And after everything I’ve already put us through—”

Mom cuts me off. “How many times do I have to tell you that what happened that night wasn’t your fault?” I’m about to argue, but Mom continues. “Besides, look around you,” she says, motioning to the acres of land surrounding us. To the animals we’re lucky enough to take in. “Tell me that having to move isn’t one of the best things that ever happened to us.”

I suppose she’s right. Mom and I fell for the Pacific Northwest the moment we arrived, and being forced from our old home in the plains of Nebraska led us here, to a place neither of us could ever imagine leaving. Mom was able to start her own nonprofit, and now we operate one of the most diverse animal sanctuaries on the West Coast.

Sometimes it feels like a dream.

We love it here, but we don’t talk about how the Pacific Northwest can’t fully fill the hole my dad created when the fallout from that night on the lake required us to move and he refused. How his desire to stay outweighed his desire for us.

How who we are became too much for him.

And yet, I believe my mom when she says she’s happier now. I can see it in the way she moves, with a lightness she didn’t have before.

“Maybe it is,” I say, and she leans into me. She takes a breath as if she wants to say something more, but no words follow.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Pike’s a good kid, and he’s the best intern we’ve had.”

“He’s also infuriating.”

She frowns at my words, and I stop and look at her. “Just say what you want to say, Mom.”

“Our life here is pretty great,” she starts, her voice hesitant. “Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one.”

I sigh. I know she’s right. Our life here is great, but that’s why I cling to it so tightly, why I want to protect it with everything I have. Maybe Pike really is just making stupid jokes that mean nothing, but I’m unwilling to let my guard down enough to find out.

“It really is great,” I say, softening my tone.

“It is.” She squeezes my hand and pushes through the gate that leads toward the house, but I pause.

“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” I say.

“Give Winter a scratch for me.”

I smile at her words, at the way she knows my routine so well. It’s almost dark now, and I take my time walking to the woods where the wolves roam. Pacific tree frogs croak in the distance, and a crescent moon illuminates the clouds, casting the forest in a soft glow. I let myself in through the metal gate, then whistle for Winter. She comes running, the way she does every night.