Page 115 of The Wilderwomen

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The premonition had to be important. Why else would the same words have followed her from Texas to the Pacific Coast? Finn had listened to her echoes and it had gotten them this far. Maybe it was Zadie who was supposed to finish it.

The flock disappeared once again into the trees; this time, they didn’t reemerge. Zadie pulled over to the side of the road, listening for their chatter, but didn’t hear a single squawk. The road was clear, so she made a U-turn and headed back in the direction from which she’d come.

Zadie drove up and down the quarter-mile stretch of road twomore times before she saw it peeking through the trees: a weathered Victorian-style cottage with yellow gingerbreading, cathedral windows, and a Juliet balcony dripping with ivy. And covering the lawn, the sagging porch, and the steep slate gables were hundreds of starlings.

The driveway was so overgrown it was no wonder it had taken Zadie several passes to see it. As her car rumbled over the weeds and grasses, she felt a stab of fear in her gut. If she knocked on that door and her mom answered, what would she say? Which stage of grief would choose to speak on her behalf? Anger? Depression? Acceptance? Would she accept her mother as she is, or would she dredge up the past? Could they rebuild their relationship or—overwhelmed by the amount of work ahead of them—let the foundation sink and the walls crumble around them?

Worse yet, what if it wasn’t her mom who answered, but a stranger whose breakfast she’d rudely interrupted? She suspected the grief cycle would begin all over again, starting with denial.Mom is here. She has to be.

Zadie climbed the steps to the porch, nudging birds out of the way with her toes as she went. Her right hand formed a fist and hovered over the front door for several seconds before she finally knocked. Moments later, she saw a shadow pass over the window and the doorknob turn.

“Hi. Can I help you?” For a split second, Zadie thought she was looking at her mom. The woman was older than her mother, early fifties, with the same long, wavy hair only dyed strawberry blond instead of auburn. But this woman had no freckles, no crimp in her left ear. Her nails were longer, unchewed.

“Hi, uhh… I’m looking for Nora Wilder.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know any Wilders.”

Zadie’s heart plummeted. “Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you.”

She turned and started hurrying toward the car when she heard the woman say, “Idohave a sister named Nora, though.”

The sound of her mother’s name made Zadie’s breath catch. Sheturned back around to face the woman, pulse thrumming in her ears.

“But her last name isn’t Wilder. It’s Vogel. How do you know this person?”

“She’s my mom.”

A veil of uncertainty crossed the woman’s face. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t. It’s Zadie.”

“Zadie, I’m Jenna. Hold on a minute.” Jenna disappeared back into the house, closing the door behind her.

Jenna was gone for longer than a minute. As the seconds ticked by, Zadie grew more and more anxious. Could Nora have changed her last name—“Wilder” sounded like a name her mom would have picked for herself—or was it all just coincidence? For a fleeting moment, Zadie’s nerves got the better of her, and she almost got in her car and drove away.

The door opened. “Hi. Sorry about that,” Jenna apologized. “Your mom… when was the last time you saw her?”

“Five years ago.”

The woman smiled nervously. “Why don’t you come inside?”

In that moment, Zadie felt like she was leaving her body. She watched herself say “Okay,” then follow Jenna into the foyer with its cherrywood staircase and Turkish runner.

“This was our parents’ house before they retired and moved to Florida,” Jenna said. The house was tidy, but its age was showing in the cracked plaster walls and missing banister spindles. Several black-and-white family photos hung on the wall. One gentleman in a pinch cap had a bird of prey perched on his forearm. Jenna noticed Zadie looking at it. “Our grandfather. He was a falconer,” she said, then moved toward the hallway. “Nora’s in the conservatory. This way.”

Zadie wordlessly drifted behind the stranger down the dimly lit hallway with its brass sconces and antique mirrors and teal wallpaper depicting open-mouthed birds perched on flowering branches.She could almost hear them singing; almost see their ruby throats wobble under their tangerine beaks. If this was in fact her mother’s childhood home, then these birds probably knew more about Nora’s life than she did. Something about their beady stares made Zadie more aware of her own quickening heartbeat.

The conservatory was bursting with plants, from long-necked dracaenas to parlor palms and ivy creeping up wooden trellises. The glass walls were cloudy and spotted with mildew, and the tile floors had broken in enough places that weeds had sprouted in the cracks. The room was so dense with greenery that it took Zadie a moment to see her, but there, seated on a garden chair, gazing up through the glass roof, was her mother.

Any doubts Zadie had as to whether she could ever forgive Nora were gone. All she felt was a profound sense of relief.

“Mom!” Zadie rushed over and buried her face in Nora’s shoulder.

Nora did not hug her daughter back. In fact, she seemed barely aware that there was anyone else in the room with her.

Zadie pulled back and looked her mom in the eye. Now up close, she could clearly see the blank space where her mom used to be. It was like looking out the window of an airplane on a cloudy day. All she saw was white.

“Mom, it’s me, Zadie.” Nora gave no indication that she understood. She simply blinked and returned her gaze to the glass roof on which several starlings were now perched.


Tags: Ruth Emmie Lang Fantasy