Dawn breaks. I tell Rob I have to go. I hang up. I stand up.
I understand that this is the end of something. I don’t know what yet, but I know I’m leaving. Either I’m going to live in the woods with Bo for a few weeks until we go to school, or I’m going to find out that Ray is Dr Goodnight and I’m going to kill him. Quietly, of course. Maybe out hunting? I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. And then I’m taking Bo away from all of this so he can go to school. So he can be brilliant and kind and generous and bring something beautiful to the world. Either way, we’re leaving.
I’ll have to change my name, and that’s fine with me. I’ve never been tied to the name Magdalena. Everyone in town and back home calls me Magda, and I hate it. Reminds me of magpies. I’ve never liked that bird. They’re too clever, but not clever like an animal. They’re clever like humans in that they aren’t trying to simply survive. They’re trying to win. No one likes magpies.
I’ll be Lena, because that’s what Bo and his family call me. I’ll take Bo’s last name. What did Maeve say her last name was? Jacobson. I’ll be Lena Jacobson. Maybe I’ll even ask Bo to marry me to make it official.
I’m laughing as I throw a few things into my pack. This is crazy. Reckless. But it may be the most unselfish thing I’ve ever done. One way or another, I’m going to save Bo. I’m going to get him as far away from this place as I can. I’ll carry him, kicking and screaming if I have to. Maeve will help me.
Wait. I can’t find my journal.
I take everything out and lay it on the floor in a line. It’s not here. I go into the closet where I threw the stained blanket from this afternoon, thinking maybe my journal got trapped in a corner of it while Bo was rolling it up.
I see the pile of hidden clothes just under the blanket and hesitate. How many times have I come out of the woods covered in gore?
I count shirts and shorts. Three times? That seems like a lot. I hold up a T-shirt and recognize it as the one I was wearing that day when I met Bo – when he and the doe fell on me, rather. Then there was the fawn that I shot in the bush without ever seeing it. Yes. These shorts were ruined while I was trying to track it. There was blood all over those leaves. And the freshest outfit to be destroyed was from when I shot and butchered the buck.
I don’t have time for this. I open up the blanket, ignoring the rusty scent and deep wine stain of my blood. My journal isn’t here. I must have left it in the woods. I can’t believe I’d have done something like that, but I must have. Bo came and left empty-handed – I’m sure of that. I can still picture him leaving. He wasn’t carrying anything. My journal has to be there.
I stuff everything with blood on it back in the closet and put everything I’m going to take with me back into my pack in a rush. I only take what I need, just like Bo taught me, but this time what I need has to last me forever. My ID, definitely, so I can burn it later, and lots of underwear and socks. I tie off no loose ends. I clean up no messes. I write no note.
Maybe they’ll think I was another victim.
I’m sad about that for my grandparents’ sake. They’ll feel terrible for a while, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s their ability to move on. They moved on just fine after they committed my mother to the same institution she committed me to.
I set out while the dew is thick and the sky is barely blushing dawn.
I get to our spot far too early for Bo to have come, but I’m disappointed anyway.
I use the time to look for my journal. I scour the area. I kick through leaf litter and overturn rocks. I look places I know it won’t be.
I find a piece of paper under a rock with my writing on it. It takes me a second to put all the pieces together, to think back to when my memory was a porous thing, and I remember. This was the note I left Bo when I thought I wasn’t going to meet him, and he’d wait here for me until he gave up.
I can’t tomorrow. The day after?
I see that he’s written a reply on the other side.
And the day after that, and after that, and after that . . .
I stare at his handwriting. Heavy and thick and a little smudged, like most lefties. I’m soft and smiling while I stuff it into a pocket of my jeans. I miss him so terribly and it’s only been a few hours. In the past, I’d feared other people’s absences, wondering how my status in the group had changed, but I’d never missed anyone before. It’s exquisitely awful.
I sit down on the ground, hoping my journal just manifests itself. When that doesn’t happen, I decide I can’t stand being away from Bo any longer. I know the way to his camp. I’ll head in that direction and hope we cross paths before I get there. I want us to be alone when I ask if I can live with him in the woods until we leave for school. Just in case he says no.
2 AUGUST (BEFORE) AND 3 AUGUST (AFTER)
There really is no better feeling than knowing you’re going to be with the person you love.
To be clear, nothing feels better than being with the person you love. That’s not a feeling, though. It’s a state of being; one that’s apart from the real world. Like entering fairyland. That’s when you become a we.
But on your way to see the person you love, you’re still you. In fact, you’re probably more you than you’ll ever be again. The quintessence of you. You’re the you who’s been granted the love of the person you think the most highly of. You – exactly as you are – are worthy of the most precious thing in the world.
And there’s no better feeling than that.
I should want to prolong this moment, but instead I’m running the steep trail up to Bo’s camp. Running feels good. It feels pure. I’m so much stronger now that it’s a pleasure to push myself like this. To know that I can ask, and my body will say yes. Excitement makes me run, and running makes me more excited.
Thrill feeds thrill.
Until . . .